poor man with his own frailties. And hadn’t the man’s sweet songs and skillful lute playing given Thomas as much pleasure as the music at Tyndal Priory? The stableman was right when he said the steward’s younger son had the voice of an angel. How could such a creature be wicked?
But his next thought chilled. Was he confusing pleasure in sacred things with some shallow and lewd semblance? “Dare I trust myself to know the difference?” he muttered.
As he stroked the donkey’s neck, Thomas concluded he must not be taken in by Huet’s clever manner and engaging talents. Nightmares born in his prison days might have effectively unmanned him, but he had cause enough to fear the aching sweetness he found in Huet’s arms. Since the day he had lost Giles, his heart had never ceased to weep with loneliness, although he had become more skilled at deafening the sound. Nevertheless, he knew how liable he was to grasp at false suggestions of ease.
“I cannot think more on this,” he whispered, swallowing bitter-tasting tears. Then he forced his thoughts to another purpose, looked around, and discovered that he was quite alone.
Kneeling in the straw, Thomas retrieved the blood-stained knife he had hidden in a corner of the donkey’s stall, just before Master Stevyn and his son entered the stable, and wished he had been wrong in suspecting the sheriff’s men had failed to look for it.
Chapter Seventeen
Although the usual merriment was well-muted that night, the manor hall was filled for supper. Even if a murder had taken place in the nearby stable, Master Stevyn was determined to honor his guests.
A blazing fire and the stifling warmth from so many bodies weighed down on Eleanor. Her eyes grew heavy. Might she close them for just a moment? But her head dropped, and she started awake. Fortunately, her companions on either side had turned to speak with others. Her discourtesy had gone unnoticed.
A servant bent to pour more wine into her cup, then noted it was still full. In truth, the prioress had drunk but little, nor did she have much appetite.
“Does the meal displease, my lady?” The man beside her turned around, his brow etched with concern as he gestured at her trencher.
“Envy is a sin, Master Stevyn, and I am jealous that you possess such an excellent cook. Her talents are remarkable.” Eleanor’s smile was gracious. “If my appetite seems dulled, the cause lies in my need to do penance for covetous thoughts, nothing more.”
The sound of his rumbling laugh was deep and pleasing, but the frown quickly returned. “I regret that violence has tainted your stay here, my lady.”
“I grieve that this house should suffer it,” she replied, trying to read the expression in his deep-set eyes.
He turned his face away.
“Sir Reimund has provided both protection and his assurance that the guilty one will soon be found. Fear does not disquiet us.”
“Had our sheriff not done so, I would have guaranteed your safety, but he is a very dutiful servant of the king’s justice. His diligence and concern do not surprise me.” The steward studied his folded hands and still did not look the prioress in the eye.
Should she be troubled by an answer that suggested he agreed with Sir Reimund’s methods, ways she found questionable because of their self-serving motivation? Or were his words nothing but the conventional phrases spoken to one who did not reside in the shire? Of course she dared not forget that this steward might be Tobye’s killer and thus his motive in saying anything relative to the crime must be examined.
Caution was due, but she also found Master Stevyn likeable, although she had certainly heard enough about him to suggest he could be a hard man. Yet he reminded her of her father, brusque in manner but equally capable of easy humor, sincere courtesy, and kind acts. The comparison softened her heart further, and she pitied the steward even more for the horns his wife had bestowed upon him.
“Are
But his next thought chilled. Was he confusing pleasure in sacred things with some shallow and lewd semblance? “Dare I trust myself to know the difference?” he muttered.
As he stroked the donkey’s neck, Thomas concluded he must not be taken in by Huet’s clever manner and engaging talents. Nightmares born in his prison days might have effectively unmanned him, but he had cause enough to fear the aching sweetness he found in Huet’s arms. Since the day he had lost Giles, his heart had never ceased to weep with loneliness, although he had become more skilled at deafening the sound. Nevertheless, he knew how liable he was to grasp at false suggestions of ease.
“I cannot think more on this,” he whispered, swallowing bitter-tasting tears. Then he forced his thoughts to another purpose, looked around, and discovered that he was quite alone.
Kneeling in the straw, Thomas retrieved the blood-stained knife he had hidden in a corner of the donkey’s stall, just before Master Stevyn and his son entered the stable, and wished he had been wrong in suspecting the sheriff’s men had failed to look for it.
Chapter Seventeen
Although the usual merriment was well-muted that night, the manor hall was filled for supper. Even if a murder had taken place in the nearby stable, Master Stevyn was determined to honor his guests.
A blazing fire and the stifling warmth from so many bodies weighed down on Eleanor. Her eyes grew heavy. Might she close them for just a moment? But her head dropped, and she started awake. Fortunately, her companions on either side had turned to speak with others. Her discourtesy had gone unnoticed.
A servant bent to pour more wine into her cup, then noted it was still full. In truth, the prioress had drunk but little, nor did she have much appetite.
“Does the meal displease, my lady?” The man beside her turned around, his brow etched with concern as he gestured at her trencher.
“Envy is a sin, Master Stevyn, and I am jealous that you possess such an excellent cook. Her talents are remarkable.” Eleanor’s smile was gracious. “If my appetite seems dulled, the cause lies in my need to do penance for covetous thoughts, nothing more.”
The sound of his rumbling laugh was deep and pleasing, but the frown quickly returned. “I regret that violence has tainted your stay here, my lady.”
“I grieve that this house should suffer it,” she replied, trying to read the expression in his deep-set eyes.
He turned his face away.
“Sir Reimund has provided both protection and his assurance that the guilty one will soon be found. Fear does not disquiet us.”
“Had our sheriff not done so, I would have guaranteed your safety, but he is a very dutiful servant of the king’s justice. His diligence and concern do not surprise me.” The steward studied his folded hands and still did not look the prioress in the eye.
Should she be troubled by an answer that suggested he agreed with Sir Reimund’s methods, ways she found questionable because of their self-serving motivation? Or were his words nothing but the conventional phrases spoken to one who did not reside in the shire? Of course she dared not forget that this steward might be Tobye’s killer and thus his motive in saying anything relative to the crime must be examined.
Caution was due, but she also found Master Stevyn likeable, although she had certainly heard enough about him to suggest he could be a hard man. Yet he reminded her of her father, brusque in manner but equally capable of easy humor, sincere courtesy, and kind acts. The comparison softened her heart further, and she pitied the steward even more for the horns his wife had bestowed upon him.
“Are
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