surrounding gloom.
“We must tell the lord baron about this!” Anselm continued, now clutching Thomas’ arm so tightly it hurt.
“Who shall we say they were, priest? Did you know their voices?”
Anselm hesitated. “No. I could not say for cert. I fear I was lost in thought when we heard them.”
“Most likely they were two drunken soldiers who will forget their mutual grievances sooner than they will their aching heads on the morrow. The baron would pay no heed to such a trivial matter.”
“But a man of God must…”
“Pray, priest. We must pray for their souls that they will see their folly in the light of God’s good day.”
“You speak well, brother.”
Thomas hoped he had, for he was quite sure he had recognized the voices of both Robert and Henry in the shadows below him.
Chapter Twelve
Thomas jolted straight up from a deep sleep. Despite the cold air, sweat broke out on his body. He would have sworn a loud noise had awakened him, but, when he looked over at the sleeping priest, Anselm was snoring gutturally, his breath filling the chamber like the stench of a dead Welsh dragon. Perhaps the sound had been from a dream.
“Will I ever leave night terrors behind me?” he mouthed silently as he rubbed his forehead with his fingers. If only he were at Tyndal, he could walk away his pounding heart and aching head in the peace of the cloisters, but Anselm would wake the minute he put foot to ground. Indeed, assuming he could escape there alone, even the chapel was no place for serene thoughts as the tortured image on the cross came to mind. Perhaps a tranquil spot could not exist anywhere in a place of war and blood. As soon as that thought took form, Thomas shook his head in amazement that he would even have such an idea. Was he turning into a bloodless priest?
A woman screamed.
Thomas was on his feet. This time he knew the sound was real, not his overheated imagination. He ignored a muffled question from the noisome priest and hurried to the door. As he rushed into the hall, others were crowding into it as well.
Baron Adam was immediately ahead of him, fully dressed, sword in hand.
Prioress Eleanor, with Sister Anne behind, emerged from Richard’s chambers to join Adam.
Thomas glanced over at her door just as the Lady Juliana opened it and looked out. Her eyes were large with unspoken questions, but she stood in the partially open doorway and did not join the crowd in the passageway.
In front of him, he could see a few rumpled, sleepy-eyed servants staggering out of the stairwell.
“Please, God, no!” the prioress cried out as she came to an abrupt stop behind her father. Her voice was sharp with alarm. One hand rested on her father’s back for support, the other at her mouth.
Thomas stared with equal horror at the scene over the baron’s shoulder, just as unwilling to believe what he saw before them.
Standing at her chamber door was the Lady Isabelle, a fur blanket wrapped tightly around her body, her face as pale as a corpse.
On the stone floor in front of her, lying in a pool of darkened blood, was the body of Henry, heir to Lavenham. Kneeling beside that body, glistening dagger in hand, was Robert of Wynethorpe.
Chapter Thirteen
Adam and Geoffrey stood facing each other in the dining hall, just feet apart in front of the blazing fireplace. Years of friendship forged first in childhood, later in battle, and after in the companionship of shared interests and views now warred with grief and anger over the fates and actions of their respective sons.
Eleanor and Sister Anne sat in chairs at the high table and watched the men’s eyes shifting back and forth under hooded lids, their mouths working almost imperceptibly as they struggled to find words that each could say to the other. Eleanor longed to break the silence and comfort both her father and Sir Geoffrey, but resisted. They had been raised to scorn the comforting touch as weak and womanish, thus each alone must weigh the
“We must tell the lord baron about this!” Anselm continued, now clutching Thomas’ arm so tightly it hurt.
“Who shall we say they were, priest? Did you know their voices?”
Anselm hesitated. “No. I could not say for cert. I fear I was lost in thought when we heard them.”
“Most likely they were two drunken soldiers who will forget their mutual grievances sooner than they will their aching heads on the morrow. The baron would pay no heed to such a trivial matter.”
“But a man of God must…”
“Pray, priest. We must pray for their souls that they will see their folly in the light of God’s good day.”
“You speak well, brother.”
Thomas hoped he had, for he was quite sure he had recognized the voices of both Robert and Henry in the shadows below him.
Chapter Twelve
Thomas jolted straight up from a deep sleep. Despite the cold air, sweat broke out on his body. He would have sworn a loud noise had awakened him, but, when he looked over at the sleeping priest, Anselm was snoring gutturally, his breath filling the chamber like the stench of a dead Welsh dragon. Perhaps the sound had been from a dream.
“Will I ever leave night terrors behind me?” he mouthed silently as he rubbed his forehead with his fingers. If only he were at Tyndal, he could walk away his pounding heart and aching head in the peace of the cloisters, but Anselm would wake the minute he put foot to ground. Indeed, assuming he could escape there alone, even the chapel was no place for serene thoughts as the tortured image on the cross came to mind. Perhaps a tranquil spot could not exist anywhere in a place of war and blood. As soon as that thought took form, Thomas shook his head in amazement that he would even have such an idea. Was he turning into a bloodless priest?
A woman screamed.
Thomas was on his feet. This time he knew the sound was real, not his overheated imagination. He ignored a muffled question from the noisome priest and hurried to the door. As he rushed into the hall, others were crowding into it as well.
Baron Adam was immediately ahead of him, fully dressed, sword in hand.
Prioress Eleanor, with Sister Anne behind, emerged from Richard’s chambers to join Adam.
Thomas glanced over at her door just as the Lady Juliana opened it and looked out. Her eyes were large with unspoken questions, but she stood in the partially open doorway and did not join the crowd in the passageway.
In front of him, he could see a few rumpled, sleepy-eyed servants staggering out of the stairwell.
“Please, God, no!” the prioress cried out as she came to an abrupt stop behind her father. Her voice was sharp with alarm. One hand rested on her father’s back for support, the other at her mouth.
Thomas stared with equal horror at the scene over the baron’s shoulder, just as unwilling to believe what he saw before them.
Standing at her chamber door was the Lady Isabelle, a fur blanket wrapped tightly around her body, her face as pale as a corpse.
On the stone floor in front of her, lying in a pool of darkened blood, was the body of Henry, heir to Lavenham. Kneeling beside that body, glistening dagger in hand, was Robert of Wynethorpe.
Chapter Thirteen
Adam and Geoffrey stood facing each other in the dining hall, just feet apart in front of the blazing fireplace. Years of friendship forged first in childhood, later in battle, and after in the companionship of shared interests and views now warred with grief and anger over the fates and actions of their respective sons.
Eleanor and Sister Anne sat in chairs at the high table and watched the men’s eyes shifting back and forth under hooded lids, their mouths working almost imperceptibly as they struggled to find words that each could say to the other. Eleanor longed to break the silence and comfort both her father and Sir Geoffrey, but resisted. They had been raised to scorn the comforting touch as weak and womanish, thus each alone must weigh the
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