Raising her eyes heavenward, Margaret began to wail.
Eleanor wished she could have taken back what she had just said. Walking to the weeping mother, she laid a comforting arm on hers. “My words were thoughtless but not meant to be unkind. There is no child’s death that does not cut away part of a mother’s heart.”
“Our former priest said I must forget the dead ones.” Margaret spat out this advice as if the words were made of wormwood. “My firstborn had time to confess before he died, but the soul of my Roger may be in Hell. He drowned without making peace with God. Had that priest been alive yesterday, he would have claimed the same fate for my Gervase, blaming him for his own death.”
“In Hell? Surely not with a priest in residence to urge him to frequent confession!” The full meaning of Margaret’s words about Gervase now struck Eleanor. She stepped back in shock. “Do you believe your son’s death yesterday was a deliberate act of self-murder?” She looked at Margaret’s face.
The lady turned away.
Eleanor shivered and reached down to retrieve her drink. The warmth of the Ypocras had dissipated, and she set the cup back on the table. “What has led you to think that the fall was no accident?” she whispered.
Beginning to shake uncontrollably, the baron’s wife said, “Your priest may have rescued my son’s soul. He tried.”
Eleanor urged Margaret to sit, then gestured for the servant to reheat the wine with the poker near the fire.
The earthy smell of cloves mixed with sweet cinnamon filled the air.
Taking the cup herself, the prioress put it into the lady’s hands and braced them so the mother could sip. “Drink a bit more,” Eleanor said and waited until natural color had returned to Margaret’s face.
“I was there,” the lady whispered.
Eleanor ached with compassion.
“My husband’s nephew was with me. Leonel and I stood in the corridor just outside this room, looking out the window. Since we knew your party was expected to arrive before nightfall, we wished to greet you below as soon as you rode up.”
And why was the baron not with his wife, waiting for their guests to arrive? The question flashed in her mind, despite the tension of this moment, and Eleanor was perplexed. It was a strange discourtesy from a man who had asked such a great favor from them all.
“My son called to us from the stairwell. We watched him approach.” Margaret put a hand over her heart, her widened eyes signifying she was reliving the event. “He staggered, laughed and shouted nonsense, as if he had drunk too deeply of wine.”
“Was this common with your son?”
“Boys, learning to be men, often do, but my son was neither very temperate nor too fond of unwatered wine. To see him drunk that early in the day was a surprise. Leonel was as shocked as I and whispered that he would take his cousin off to bed before he disgraced himself. He swore he would discover the cause for this behavior.”
“Your nephew is close to his cousins?”
“He has lived with us for many years. He was like an elder brother to my sons and was well-loved by them before he left for Outremer with my lord. If anyone could have persuaded my son to sleep off his indulgence before exposing himself to ridicule, it was Leonel. His heart is as kind as his manner is firm.”
“So your nephew went to your son…”
“He called out, telling Gervase that he must show manliness, that even angels would be angered if he failed to do so. My son replied that he had sworn an oath and would honor it, then slid onto the bench of the window seat. Leonel turned to ask me if I knew what his cousin meant, thinking my son had promised me something. When he did, my son leaned out of the window. He spread his arms and shouted that God had made men masters over birds. He would fly with the mews. Leonel and I stared at him in confusion, then my boy went head first out of the window. I screamed.”
Eleanor knelt by Margaret and took the forgotten cup from her hands.
“As my son fell, I saw his face from the window where I stood. For an instant, he was joyful, then understood he was falling to his death. He screamed for help. I reached out. Leonel dragged me back, fearing I would leap after my boy. The last thing I remember is Gervase’s horrible shriek…”
Margaret grasped the prioress’ hands with a painful grip.
Pulling the woman into her arms, Eleanor whispered words of comfort she knew were not heard. Perhaps it mattered not what she said as long as the sound of her voice silenced the memory of the son’s howl as he plummeted downward, knowing his body must shatter on the unyielding earth below.
“He did not mean it! He did not,” Margaret cried out.
Surely Gervase did not intend to kill himself, Eleanor thought, but there was something wrong about what had happened. If the young man did not make a habit of drinking too much, why had he chosen this time to get drunk? She knew that mothers were often willfully unaware of their sons’ vices. Perhaps the lady suffered this loving blindness. It was a question best answered by someone else who knew the habits of these family members and owned a clearer eye.
In any case, too much wine might cause men to do foolish things, but rarely did it make a man believe he had been gifted with impossible flight. And what oath had the son sworn? Was that pertinent to his actions or were his words meaningless babble? There were too many oddities for her to set aside. Eleanor grew increasingly puzzled.
For now, her duty lay in giving what comfort she could. Later she would speak with her brother. Perhaps he knew more that would settle her uneasy questions. Barring that, the baron’s plea for help might contain a detail that would explain why this family had been so burdened with this much tragedy.
Chapter Six
Thomas walked out of the corridor’s grey light and down a step into the small family chapel located on the floor above the Great Hall.
As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, shapes slowly formed. He sought the one owned by a frightened son but saw no one at all. The only sound came from the wind whistling through the tiny barred window high in the stone wall.
How odd, he thought, looking around this place dedicated to God’s worship. The baron’s family had been long graced by God with wealth, yet the altar was made of grey stones, little different from those forming the walls of the castle and not even more finely chiseled. The thick beams in the low ceiling lacked any carving or painted images. The floor was laid with wood, roughly hewn. Only the cross on the altar suggested a donor who wished to share his worldly fortune with God. The bright gold glittered in the thin shaft of dim light.
This austerity seemed at odds with a man whose actions suggested a rigorous faith. Baron Herbert had not only felt compelled to take the cross but unlike many of his rank, also promptly honored the vow and spent several years in Outremer. Yet this chapel resembled a monk’s cell in its plainness. Men of fewer means or even less faith filled God’s house with greater riches than he had done.
Thomas frowned, then reminded himself that he had not come to find fault with decoration but to seek the baron’s son. Peering around again at the chapel, he saw no alcoves or hidden corners. There seemed no place for a man to hide. Perhaps the heir had recovered his courage and rejoined the family in their quarters.
Someone sneezed.
Thomas saw movement in a small gap between altar and wall. “I accompanied Sir Hugh of Wynethorpe, a friend of Baron Herbert,” he said, “and reside at Tyndal Priory where I serve Prioress Eleanor and God.”
There was no response.
Thomas waited.
“Prove you are no imp.”
The monk brushed back his hood and raised both hands, his open palms facing the cross. “If you can see me, you will observe that I own neither horns nor hooves.” That he could honestly claim. In his opinion, there were men with tonsures and soft hands who served Satan better than any imp. Thomas did try not to be one of them.