Tyrant of the Mind (11 page)

As Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal reached out and squeezed his hand, gently and in silence, Thomas might have thought that her eyes shone with love had he not known better.

Chapter Seventeen

Eleanor rapped once on the door. No servant came to open it. She hesitated, sure she had heard muffled words. She knocked twice.

“If you be not Satan’s imp, enter and cease the din!”

Eleanor opened the door.

The bereaved stepmother sat lolling on a stool, legs spread, her robe pulled up around her knees and her back braced against the bed. Her sole companions in the room were a large pitcher and a mazer cup perched on the wooden chest next to her. Indeed, the wife of Sir Geoffrey was quite drunk.

“I came to offer comfort,” Eleanor said. “I could return later.”

Trying to rise in greeting, Isabelle grabbed at the chest. Her hand slipped and knocked the empty wooden cup onto the floor. It bounced and rolled under her stool.

“It’s you,” the woman announced with conviction. She swung down to swipe up the errant cup, missed, then snagged it on the second try. “Wine?” she asked hospitably.

Eleanor shook her head.

“Another vow, I suppose.”

Eleanor shrugged noncommittally. “The air is bitter cold. Wine warms both body and spirit on such a day.” As well as loosening your tongue, she thought. You will more likely tell me things after another cup or two than you would say with a more sober mind.

“Vows make no sense.”

“Have you never taken a vow, Isabelle?” the prioress asked as she studied the woman in front of her. Her playfellow of more innocent times might now have difficulty focusing her eyes, but Eleanor could see the sober glitter of hostility behind the unclear gaze. Could this be the same person she once knew or was the person sitting in front of her a demon in the likeness of Isabelle? The change was that dramatic.

The woman leaned back, waving Eleanor to another stool. “
Have you never taken a vow, Isabelle?
” Sir Geoffrey’s wife twittered in malicious imitation. “Oh, aren’t we ever so arrogant with that proud tone of voice. Have I never taken a vow, you ask? Doesn’t marriage count?” Isabelle wobbled her head back and forth, pursing her lips as she did. “Perhaps not to you. Marriage reeks of lust, does it not, and you have surely taken a vow against that. How you have changed since we all made merry together that last summer before you returned to Amesbury, Eleanor.”

“We have all changed since then.” Eleanor kept her voice even. She could almost smell the bitter enmity well mixed with the woman’s wine-infused sweat.

“Some more. Some less.” Isabelle waggled her finger at the prioress. “Now you are given in marriage to God’s Son, but did your bridegroom know before your vows that you were less than chaste when you came to him?”

Eleanor knew that silence was the wisest response.

“I know your secret!” Isabelle said in a loud whisper. “Did I not see how you and George played with each other the summer before you took your vows? Do you think I have forgotten?” Her expression darkened as she leaned forward. “Did you not give him your paps to suck by midsummer’s eve as if he were a hungry babe, and did he not wiggle his fingers like eager minnows in your private places?”

Eleanor paled with anger. “Did George tell you such tales?”

“Nay, he is too much the courteous knight to brag of your secret times together in the forest glade, but I know the ways of men and women. He may not have broken you and taken you for a proper ride, but most surely you did buck under his hand ’til calmed.” She poured wine from the pitcher and gulped the cup dry. “Are you certain you won’t take a cup of wine to ease the day’s chill?”

Eleanor sat back and closed her eyes for a moment to regain her calm. Showing anger would mean taking the path Isabelle wanted her to follow and away from the real reason the woman had gone on this attack.

“Games played in the heat of youth are only games,” Eleanor said at last. “You attracted enough bees to your honey as I recall, but no ill came of that. Where then was the sin in what we all did that summer?”

A drifting fog born of wine fumes veiled Isabelle’s eyes as she tried to pour unwatered wine into her cup and missed by half. A rivulet of red meandered across the wooden chest and dripped down to the rushes beneath. “In the fall that came after, perhaps, but what would you know of that, my lady? You went off to Amesbury and sent not a word to any of us.”

Not quite true, the prioress thought as she struggled to find a clue to Isabelle’s bitter confrontation. Surely it could not be concern over George’s broken heart after all these years. Isabelle’s account of what had passed between George and Eleanor was more colorful than the reality of it, but George had loved her. If Eleanor had written him, he would have harbored hope when there was no possibility of any consummation. She had therefore chosen the lesser cruelty of silence. Nonetheless, she had written to Juliana on occasion and had certainly included Isabelle as well, but the correspondence had become sporadic as often happens between friends whose lives take different routes. The last letter she had written was on the death of Juliana’s mother. The reply had been proper but no more. Isabelle had never sent her any message at all.

No, Eleanor was sure that Isabelle was not harboring such hot anger on behalf of George’s thwarted dreams. Had she resented the greater friendship Eleanor had had with Juliana? Nay, she doubted that. The woman in front of her, drinking yet another mazer of wine, had never sought such closeness with Eleanor. Whatever was troubling her so?

“Perhaps some important message was not delivered to me, Isabelle, or a letter I sent you all was lost? I did write on the death of the Lady…”

“We received it.”

“I did not hear the news of your marriage to Sir Geoffrey…”

Isabelle snorted. “Marriage?”

Eleanor heart skipped a beat. Had she hit on it?

Isabelle put her head back and roared with laughter. “You call what I have a marriage? Aye, maybe a nun in holy wedlock would call it such. Yet when I took my vows, I swore to honor the marriage bed, not undertake chastity. What strange things vows are. In truth, I am as much a nun as you, Eleanor.”

“I do not quite understand…”

Isabelle splashed more wine into her cup. “Don’t play the innocent with me. Or are you really that dull of wit?”

Now was the time for a display of temper, Eleanor decided. “Indeed, I may have taken other vows, but I did not take one of stupidity. If you have something to say, out with it, but I have no desire to pry into things you might not wish to tell me.”

Isabelle slapped her belly. “What is there to hide? Have I quickened with child since I became a wife?” She bent forward, her reddened eyes trying to focus. Her breath smelled like soured milk. “I am a young woman and was with child on my marriage day, but I have not quickened since. What does that tell you? The world would say that Sir Geoffrey may warm the bed with his body but his lust cannot warm his wife’s seed. Many would advise him to set me aside for a woman who could conceive.”

“If he got you with child before…”

“Got me with child, you say?” Isabelle’s laugh stung the prioress’ ears. “In truth, his member has withered with one of those vows you hold so precious, Eleanor. He promised God he would remain chaste if He saved the dying mother of his children. Although God did not hold to His part of the bargain, my husband apparently decided to keep to his, despite a new wife, until the Judgment Day.”

“Then how…?”

Isabelle reached out, lifted the pitcher of wine over her head, and shattered it at her feet. Bits of pottery flew, one large piece rocking to rest at Eleanor’s foot. Red wine splattered their robes, then slowly began to seep into the rushes between them.

The two women stared at each other. Isabelle’s face changed from red to white and back again. Eleanor remained silent in the face of so much anger, so much grief, and too much drink.

“One night, Sir Geoffrey came to my chambers,” Isabelle began, her voice low but each word spoken with an abrasive clarity. “I poured him much rich wine and soon he was quite drunk. As we lay dressed upon my bed, I let him kiss and play with me. Then, when he had passed out, I stripped him of his braes. Poor man! Despite all our merry games, his member was still as tiny as a babe’s! On the morrow, he awoke with me naked beside him. I pointed to the blood on the sheet and wept, saying he had taken my maidenhead. A little chicken blood, the oldest trick in the world, but he believed it. Of course he did not remember the act, but such proof that he was no longer impotent gave him so much joy.” She put her head in her hands and swayed with mirthless laughter.

“If not he, then who did get you with…?”

“In truth? ” Isabelle sneered, bending so close to Eleanor that she could feel the heat of her breath. “It was Henry. He was the father of that child. He had raped me….”

Chapter Eighteen

After Eleanor had entered the Lady Isabelle’s chambers, Thomas went back to his own. He wished he had not given his word about examining Henry’s body. With great cheer he would pass the duty on to almost anyone else, but give his word he had and there was naught he could do to take it back. Nonetheless he would delay the task for an hour. The corpse might wait just a bit longer. After all, the living should take some precedence over the dead. Children most of all.

Walking through the door to his chambers, he smiled, then picked an object up from the corner where he had propped it. He tucked it under his arm and gave a boyish skip of joy before walking back down the hall with a gait more seemly in a man.

***

“You are recovered,” Thomas exclaimed as he walked into Richard’s sick room and found him standing beside the bed.

Sister Anne was carefully tucking the hood of the boy’s cloak around his neck for warmth. “If not fully so, well enough that I would have to tie him to the bed to keep him in it.”

“I am fine, Uncle!” Richard hopped like a rabbit toward the monk, then stood grinning up at him. Had all men ever looked so innocent as lads, Thomas wondered as he smiled down at the boy. Then he shook his head. If the boy had not burrowed into his heart before like a puppy seeking warmth, he would surely have done so now.

“Sister Anne, would you say our young knight was well enough for a short ride on his brave new steed?”

“The hobbyhorse?” Richard’s eyes grew large. “Oh, yes! Please, Aunt Anne, please say I may?”

Thomas grinned at Anne and silently mouthed, “Say yes,
Aunt!”

Anne struggled to keep her expression stern. She had, however, utterly failed to banish the twinkle from her eye. “Very well,” she said, “but only a short ride around the room. Then you must get rest and take your medicine.”

Thomas whisked the hobbyhorse from behind his back where he had been hiding it. “One short ride then,” he said, kneeling to the child’s level to give him the toy.

The boy squealed with joy, hugged the horse to him, then held it out at arm’s length and studied it with a gravity that had the stamp of his grandfather’s face. “I name you Gringolet,” he said at last, “and we shall have many adventures together.”

“Aye, lad. There are dragons to slay and damsels to save,” said Thomas.

Richard wrinkled his nose. “More dragons to slay, Uncle, and fewer damsels to save, methinks.”

“What do you say to your uncle for bringing you such a fine horse, Richard?”

Without letting go of the toy, Richard threw his arms around Thomas and hugged him. “Thank you, Uncle! I love him, I do. Gringolet is the finest horse in my grandfather’s castle!”

As Thomas hugged the boy back, he hoped Sister Anne did not see the tears of happiness in his own eyes. “Well,” he said as he cleared his throat and stood up, “I had better show you how to hold those reins. Gringolet is a very spirited horse.”

Soon the boy was trotting around the chambers on his fine wooden steed and Anne bent to Thomas’ ear. “I have yet to meet a man who is not still a boy,” she whispered.

As Thomas turned to smile at her, he felt the heat of a blush spread across his face.

Chapter Nineteen

“Henry raped you?” Eleanor stared at the woman in front of her. A torrent of feelings, horror and sorrow mixed, flooded her heart.

Isabelle nodded her head once. The fire of her anger banked, she sat hunched and wizened on her stool.

With gentleness, the prioress reached over and took her companion’s hand. “Was there no one you could have told?”

Isabelle shook her head.

“Would you care to tell me more of the story?”

Isabelle said nothing.

“You may find some peace in the telling.”

Sir Geoffrey’s wife shook off the prioress’ hand, then began to draw lines with one finger across the puddle of wine on the chest. “I had long known of Henry’s wish to marry me,” she began in a hushed tone. “The family hoped to retain the income from my lands, of course, but he lusted after me as well.” She hesitated. “Many told me how fortunate I was that he longed for the woman as well as what wealth the woman would bring to him, and I would nod in agreement. Indeed, he is handsome enough to the eyes of other women. Or so some have said. Nonetheless, I dreaded the very thought of his touch, and I sickened at what I must endure on the wedding night.”

“He knew this?”

“How could I tell him? And what difference would it have made? I knew that I had little choice in this marriage so prayed that I would come to feel…
nothing
instead of loathing when his fat fingers groped me.” Isabelle grabbed Eleanor’s arm with a ferocious strength. “Can you understand this at all. At
all
, Prioress? Bedding with Henry was like bedding with my natural brother! It was as unnatural and sinful to me as incest.”

That Eleanor could indeed understand, yet she knew there was more to come. She nodded in silence. She did not want to stop the flow of the story.

“At first, his attentions were almost charming, childlike and innocent, but, as time went on, he began to plague me with incessant demands. I allowed the occasional kiss, but I could not bear his hand on my breast. My flesh froze at his touch, and I began to push him away when he fumbled with my clothes. I hoped he would take my hesitancy for maidenly modesty, but he became angry at my refusals. One day, he found me alone in the garden and would not stop with a kiss. He covered my mouth so I could not cry for help. Swearing I would now spread my legs for him whether I wished to or not, he pulled me to the ground and raped me.”

“You could have told your priest.”

“What an innocent you are, Prioress,” Isabelle sneered. “Are you so removed from the world that you are ignorant of the assumption that any woman who quickens with child from sexual contact must have found pleasure in the act and thus may not cry rape? If you are, let me assure you that many of your cherished monastics accept that theory even more than those who remain in the world. Now tell me how could I claim rape when my courses ceased and I began to vomit every morning?”

“Indeed, Isabelle, not all believe that pregnancy equates to pleasure in the act. My Aunt Beatrice thought such a conclusion odd for she knew women who begat many yet remembered feeling no pleasure in the begetting, while others who had felt great joy in the act never had children.”

“Your aunt was not in residence at Sir Geoffrey’s estate.”

“I might then understand why you hesitated to say anything after your courses had ceased, but surely you could have spoken before…”

“It is well that you did escape the world, Eleanor. You are too innocent to have long survived outside your convent walls.”

“Not all in the world are without compassion, Isabelle.”

Isabelle ignored her, then looked around, her mouth twisting with anger. “How can you breathe in here, Prioress? The air cuts like ice crystals.” She looked over at Eleanor. “But then Wynethorpe Castle has always been a bitter place, especially when the winds howl and bring snow to this horrible land.” Great beads of sweat began to break out on Isabelle’s forehead and her face turned a pallid green. “Have you never had a dream that haunted you?” she abruptly asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as if she feared someone might overhear her words. “I have.”

Eleanor blinked at the suddenness of the question, then quickly said, “Tell me about it.”

“It came to me after the rape.” Her eyes glazed over as the memory of the dream took hold of her. “I was in a meadow, naked, and the sun’s gentle warmth flowed over me. A breeze, soft as baby’s breath, caressed my body. As I glanced down, I saw that the silkiness under my feet was a tapestry of wildflowers: flecks of white, dots of lavender, bits of yellow hiding under green leaves as if shy of any notice. With a sigh, I bent my knees, extended my arms, and slid into the petals as if I were slipping ever so slowly into a tranquil pond. The flowers were as soft as angel feathers against my breasts.”

Eleanor watched with fascination as Isabelle became bound with the spell of her dream.

“As I breathed in the comforting fragrance from the undergrowth, I remember thinking how foolish I had been to suffer so when the solution to all my problems was right before me. Indeed, I realized, the problem was no problem at all. Then a feeling of great peace coarsed through me. I closed my eyes and just lay there, listening to the sweet twittering of the birds in counterpoint to the delicate hum of insects.

“Then a gentle voice began to sing. The song was ancient, the voice long unheard but so dear I ached to hear it. Nay, I remember thinking, there was no need to feel the old pain. The singer’s arms were open at last, and I could seek the refuge I had longed to find these many, many years. With a cry of welcoming joy, I turned on my back, stretched out my arms, and…” Isabelle closed her eyes. Her face glistened with sweat.

“The body that fell upon me was hard as castle stone. The man’s jagged nails scratched my breasts like dull knives.” She curled one hand between her legs as if protecting herself. “His rough hand bruised me here when he forced my legs apart.” She opened her eyes wide, her gaze shimmering with horror.

“All I could see was black hair, hair heavy with encrusted knots that stung my face like nettles. The man cursed, then grunted as he rammed his sex into me and began to rasp away as if he would cut my body in half.”

Eleanor reached out a hand to comfort her.

Isabelle swatted it away. “I tried to scream but no voice came forth, only a hot liquid flowed from my mouth, metallic and bitter on my tongue. It was blood, blood coming from my mouth. Once again I tried to scream for help. Once again there was only the mockery of silence.” Her voice began to rise in pitch like a woman screaming in her sleep.

“Isabelle…”

“The man jerked, then collapsed on me and was still. I lay without moving. He did not move. I pushed at his body, then tentatively pushed again. He was motionless, his weight heavy as lead and his flesh cold as river ice.” She took a deep breath. “Finally I was able to push him away, and I turned to see his face.” The sweat was now dripping like water onto her robe. “The blood in my mouth was not mine.”

Eleanor turned cold, suspecting what would come next.

“The man’s skull was crushed, you see. The hair I had thought was black was dyed dark with his blood. It was his blood that had flowed from that grisly wound, over my face, and into my mouth.”

Eleanor felt bile rise in her throat. She swallowed hard.

Isabelle closed her eyes again, then bit her lips. “I knew I was cursed. I knew that everyone would blame me for what had happened. And I knew they would hang me for it. Hang me until my tongue turned black as that man’s blood. Hang me until my neck cracked, ever so slowly, in two.”

“But…”

“No!” Isabelle shrieked. “Please, my lords, I did not do this!”

“It was but a dream!” Eleanor shouted, reaching out to grasp the woman’s arm.

At the prioress’ touch, Isabelle blinked as if suddenly awakened. “Don’t you see? I knew then that no one would ever understand. There would be no help, not for me.” Then she laughed with a sound so sharp it cut through the air like a sword. “I lay abed for days after that dream. All I could think about was the pain of my ruptured maidenhead and shattered honor. Soon I had a fever no one could diagnose. It was a taste of hellfire for my carnal sins, I suppose, yet I wanted to die, eternal damnation or not. When the fever left me and I finally did rise from my bed, the pain was supplanted by shame. I lost my will to speak. If this was the pleasure I was supposed to feel from the union of Henry’s seed with mine, then I could understand why many women like you chose the convent.”

Eleanor was still reeling from the shock of what she had just seen and heard. “Henry would have married you,” she said without thinking. “Had you been willing, a lawful union would have banished shame.” Instantly she regretted her words. She should have remained silent.

“And he would have, but do think on this, my lady prioress. Would you have married such a man?” She wiped the salty sweat from her eyes. “I think not. Even you could not spend enough time on your knees in prayer to avoid having to lie on your back when he commanded it.”

Eleanor struggled to regain her calm. “So you would not marry the man who had violated you, a man you had once found too much the brother to be a bed partner and now regarded with repugnance for what he had done to you. That, I can well understand.”

Isabelle shrugged. “How kind of you,” she said, but there was little sting in her retort.

“What I do not understand is why you decided to trick Sir Geoffrey into thinking the child was his. If you would not marry Henry because you thought of him as a brother, how could you bed a man who had reared you like a father?”

“In truth, Eleanor, I meant him no ill. You must believe me. Sir Geoffrey is a good man. He took me into his family as an orphan, and his first wife became the mother I had lost to that horrible fever. Indeed, I love this family, and the lands I brought with me could stay with the Lavenhams for all my caring.” Isabelle’s words were slow, hesitant. “Nor did I expect much bedding. I had overheard tales aplenty about his impotence and much jesting about his feeble rubbings against servant women after his lady wife had died. Whether grief or age withered his manhood, I do not know, but I hoped he would think the child his own and marry me out of gratitude for one night of renewed virility. After a few failures in bed thereafter, I did not think he would demand a husband’s marital rights, but I did hope the child would give him some happiness. Thus I could stay with the family I had grown up with but not have to endure Henry’s coarse assaults…”

“Yet you lost the babe…”

“…to the grief of both my lord and me. It may have been Henry’s child, but it was the only gift I had to give my husband in exchange for my protection. Odd as it sounds, even to my own ears, I loved the babe that grew inside me. Indeed, I had come to think it
my
child, not Henry’s.”

“You have gotten the chaste marriage you hoped for, however.”

“Indeed, Sir Geoffrey’s nights of tilling fields are quite finished.” Her eyes gazed without focus into the distance, then, turning to the prioress, she hit herself sharply in the breast with her fist. “The plowman’s plow has broken and this field of his must remain forever fallow, it seems.”

As true as that might be, she was a field that cried out for seeding and desperately at that. How tortured a mortal’s life could be with so many contradictory desires, Eleanor thought. She considered Isabelle’s lewd playing with her brother the day before compared to her expressed desire to marry an impotent man. She surely hated the rape, but she did not hate the child and resented her current barrenness. She had lied her way into a safe but loveless marriage yet wanted to give Sir Geoffrey some joy for marrying her. Eleanor shook her head. The world was not as black and white as we are taught it should be, nor are decisions so easy to make.

Suddenly one more twist to this already tangled tale came to mind. “Did you not realize that any such marriage with the father would be found void if it became known that you had had sexual relations with the son?” She waited for a reaction.

It came sooner than she expected. Isabelle rushed to the chamber pot and, with hacking gasps, vomited sour wine.

With a touch gentler than some of her words had been, Eleanor wiped the pale face of Sir Geoffrey’s wife with a dampened cloth that lay next to the bedside basin of water. Although she had asked nothing about the murder, she knew that Isabelle was no longer in any state to talk. Indeed, she had gotten all she probably could from the drunken woman for now, but she did wonder if Isabelle knew she had just made herself a suspect in Henry’s death. Had Isabelle’s nightmare come true?