Uncomfortably reminded of the collapsing walls at Jericho, he shut his eyes and tried to imagine a more pleasing event. The Play of Daniel, a liturgical drama recently performed at Tyndal, came to mind. That memory of sweet singing distracted him briefly.
Then the road inclined upward again, and the ground beneath him felt more solid. Closer now, he soon made out the castle itself. The outer curtain walls were as circular as the rocky terrain would allow. The keep within, black with damp, soared into the high mist.
He shivered.
The place was fearsome. Some, he had heard say, called the fortress le château doux et dur. Perhaps it was sweet in the softer seasons when breezes caressed men with the warm scent of wildflowers. Now, the castle loomed like Satan’s shadow: gloomy, impenetrable, threatening.
As the party approached the open gate, Thomas saw the lowered drawbridge that spanned the void between mainland and island. “The sea has won one battle here,” he muttered and squeezed his eyes shut.
When his horse walked onto the wooden planking of the drawbridge, her hooves made a hollow sound. To keep from thinking about the abyss beneath, Thomas opened his eyes and stared at the high walls of the keep which rested on the firm earth inside. He looked up at the higher windows and concluded that was where Baron Herbert’s family must live.
Then he saw a dark figure leaning out of one of them.
Thomas instinctively tensed with apprehension.
The figure bent forward, spread his arms like wings, then slid, headfirst, from the window.
Crying out, Thomas covered his eyes with a hand.
The man’s scream cut like a knife through the roar of the sea and wailing wind.
Chapter Two
Prioress Eleanor clutched her mazer of sweet mulled wine closer to her chest. If only her hands would stop shaking from the cold, she thought and bent her head forward to sip.
Standing on the other side of the Great Hall hearth, Sir Hugh stared into the leaping flames, lost in thought as if pondering the nature of fire. A burning log cracked, scattering bright sparks around his feet. The prioress’ brother did not flinch.
A grey-bearded servant scuffled toward them, paused at a respectful distance, and bowed.
Eleanor glanced at Hugh but he seemed oblivious to the man’s presence. “We desire nothing more,” she said.
The servant’s eyes brightened as if grateful for the dismissal. Bowing again, he departed. The bottom of his shoes grazed the rushes as if he did not have the strength to step higher.
Slowly, the fire’s warmth began to penetrate into her bones. Eleanor relaxed her tight grip on the mazer and studied the profile of her silent brother. Hugh had changed since he sailed for Outremer with Lord Edward. Although he bore few observable battle scars, the once pink-faced lad, possessed of irrepressible enthusiasm, was now a hollow-cheeked man with changeable moods.
She shut her eyes. When he first retuned, she heard him tell entertaining stories about his journey home from Acre, tales that provoked much laughter and not a little awe at table. Then she had looked into his eyes and saw a soul draped in mourning.
Footsteps from the outer corridor shattered the musings of both brother and sister.
A lean young man strode through the doorway.
Sir Hugh blinked, then offered a fleeting smile.
There is less warmth and more caution in that look, Eleanor noted, before turning to greet the arrival.
“I came to beg forgiveness for our rude greeting.” The youth bowed to the prioress and ignored the knight. “I am Raoul, youngest son of Baron Herbert.” He shrugged. “Or perhaps I should say youngest but advancing in rank with unseemly speed.”
“The Prioress of Tyndal.” Hugh gestured with courtesy toward his sister, and then hesitated with evident confusion. “I am Hugh of Wynethorpe, a friend of your father. He and I were close companions in Outremer.”
Raoul responded with a barely civil nod before turning his attention back to Eleanor. “I speak for all my family in welcoming you here. Your prayers on our behalf are sorely needed.”
“We are much grieved by the unfortunate accident. The man who fell…” Hugh spread his hands.
“Gervase? He had become the heir to our father’s fortune, the second son of five. To his parents’ grief, he learned today that God did not intend for him to fly.” Raoul scratched at some faint bristles on his chin. His expression shifted between amusement and unease. “The current heir, Umfrey, has now locked himself in the family chapel. I think he would have been happy enough to become the family’s oblate to the Church. To his grief, that role falls to me while my prayerful brother shall be obliged to learn how to wield a sword.” His tone was jesting, his look impudent. “Perhaps your timely arrival means I am destined to find a monk’s cell at Tyndal Priory.”
Eleanor swallowed a sharp retort. “I shall bring God’s comfort to your father and mother as well as prayers,” she replied, choosing to respond only to the request for her pleas to God. The youth’s demeanor was somewhat impertinent, but grief and shock often produced strange, inappropriate reactions. Some wept at the news of a loved one’s death, others might laugh, but this was the first time she had met a man who considered a brother’s horrible death as little more than an inconvenient change in his own vocation.
“I’m told my father is with the corpse. My mother is in her chamber with our cousin, Leonel.” Raoul pointed upward. “The dead one may have been her favorite, or so I have heard. I am amazed that you cannot hear her wailing.” He shrugged. “Leonel will have found a way to comfort her. He could soothe a soul on the way to Hell.”
Raoul might be the Benjamin of this family, so young that his beard was more promise than fact, but his words suggested that this youth was never anyone’s favored child. Eleanor felt her annoyance dissipate, and her heart softened a little.
“I remember that Baron Herbert had five sons. You claim that only two remain?” Turning his back on the youngest one, Hugh poured himself some wine from a pottery jug and failed to offer Raoul any of it. “’Tis a pity that your mother did not bear a worthy son soon after your father left England.”
The baron’s son flushed. “You said you were close by my lord father’s side, yet you did not hear of his eldest son’s death? I am surprised.”
Eleanor set down her mazer on a nearby table, slipped her hands into her sleeves, and waited for her brother’s response. Raoul may have spoken with mockery, but Hugh had goaded with stinging words.
“Baron Herbert left for home soon after he heard. I stayed longer with King Edward and had little opportunity to offer comfort.”
“Ah, yes!” Raoul’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Until after the assassination attempt against our king. That I had heard.”
Eleanor grew uneasy. What quarrel lay between these two?
Hugh stiffened. He said nothing, but his expression betrayed a fury that matched the intensity of the wind outside.
As if suddenly aware that he was gravely offending his father’s guest, Raoul stepped back with a sheepish look and continued in a softer voice. “Then you could not have learned that the third eldest brother recently drowned. He was called Roger.” His tone was painstakingly courteous.
Hugh’s was not. “I received word.”
“Which accounts for the honor of your visit?”
“If you were not told of any particular reason why your father may have desired our company, then the fact that he simply wished it should be sufficient for you.”