Perhaps this northern cold also blackened souls like it did flesh? That might explain the scene between Henry and Sir Geoffrey. Yes, the son had been churlish, but the father’s response had been malicious in the extreme. Although Thomas’ own father had been remiss in displays of affection and easily distracted from his children, he had never been vicious. Yell he might have done on occasion, but never once, to Thomas’ knowledge, had the earl struck any of his offspring whatever their legitimacy. On the other hand, neither he nor his half-brothers had ever tried to assault one of his father’s wives.
Why had Henry attacked his stepmother? Thomas’ first thought was that the Lady Isabelle might have played some part in the death of the Welshman. Henry had, after all, claimed the death was not his fault, that the attendant’s horse had moved in front of his. Perhaps she had caused the Welshman’s horse to charge forward, then allowed blame to be cast at her stepson’s feet when he reacted by striking the beast. Could he have done nothing else? Was he innocent of thoughtlessness and unable to prove it?
Or had the lady perhaps taunted him during the ride, mocking his manhood because he had chosen feminine company instead of going out hunting with Robert? From what Robert had suggested and Thomas had witnessed himself, the lady enjoyed enticing hunters in an amorous chase. Perchance she had taken such a game too far with her stepson this morning?
Then there was the father’s reaction. Thomas’ first impression of Sir Geoffrey had been that of a temperate man with a gentle voice to the groom and a soft caress for his horse. Yet this moderate knight had quickly shown another side, one dark with rank malice. He recalled Sir Geoffrey’s remark expressing a wish that his son would share a place in Hell with the Welshman. What father would wish such a thing on a son? Of course there might be details, like Hywel’s friendship with the Wynethorpe heir, that Thomas knew nothing about. Perhaps Hywel had become a favored riding attendant over the years whenever Sir Geoffrey visited Wynethorpe Castle and that is why he had reacted with such fury. But to curse his son so, then kick him in the balls?
The monk shook his head. Even if the Welshman had been a special companion of the knight and his death had been caused by some petty act by Henry, surely that would not have been enough to generate such a curse nor such a strange scene between father and son. Nay, there must be some grave rift between Sir Geoffrey and Lord Henry, something that cut deeper than the understandable irritation felt by a father when an elder son showed defiance. Indeed, most fathers would not kick their sons in the balls just because the son was being churlish, any more than most sons would choose to assault their stepmothers to show their independence of a father.
Even the seemingly good Robert had countenanced Sir Geoffrey’s act, however, and that disturbed Thomas. What about the raw display of animosity that Robert had shown toward Henry? What had the man done to Robert that he would smile so on his pain and humiliation? Of course, the dead Welshman had been a valued servant to the Baron Adam as well as a companion to Robert’s elder brother. Had this been sufficient reason or was there a deeper cause? Surely, if this had been an accident, no matter how careless the act that produced it, it would have given birth to grief, but not such venom.
Nor did his prioress’ brother seem the sort to take petty childhood quarrels into manhood. Indeed, he had expressed a desire to be fair about his dislike of Henry. Had something else occurred more recently between the two, or did Robert have reason to believe Hywel’s death had not been an accident?
Thomas shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered, “I am but a guest here and none of this is my concern.” Although his curiosity was kindled, he decided that whatever lay behind the events of the morning was best left to those involved as he was not.
Thus he dismissed the incident as he approached the young Richard’s sick room and turned his wandering thoughts back to happier things. He could hardly wait to tell the boy about the hobbyhorse he was going to make him. So eager was Thomas to the task that he did not notice the rising color on the cheeks of the nurse as he brushed past her at the door.
***
“Uncle Thomas!” Richard cried out in joy when the monk entered the room.
Thomas felt tears of relief sting his eyes as he looked down at the boy’s broad smile, but he willed himself to frown with reasonable solemnity. “Not Uncle, but Brother,” he corrected, sitting with care on the thick, feather-stuffed mattress and taking the small hand in his. Richard’s face might be thin, but his cheeks had already regained a healthier shade of pink and his blue eyes sparkled with returning energy.
“You are not my brother, are you?” the boy asked with the most perplexed frown a six-year-old could muster.
“No, but…”
“Then uncle you are.” Sister Anne put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder and squeezed gently. He took the hint and fell silent. “When fathers are off to war,” she continued, “uncles must set their nephews tests of bravery such as the drinking of bitter draughts. Brothers do not have the age or authority.” She moved toward the bed and stroked Richard’s dark blond hair, a gesture that made the boy blush with embarrassment.
“Aye, that we do,” Thomas said, knowing that he was soon going to lose the battle to keep his expression stern. “Have you followed Sir Gawain’s example and taken the bitter drink like a good and faithful knight?”
Richard nodded enthusiastically.
Thomas glanced sideways at Sister Anne, who nodded ever so slightly in concurrence. “Then you shall be rewarded,” he said, pretending to then fall into deep thought for an appropriate length of time. “What would you say to having a noble hobbyhorse of your own? Might that be fitting recompense for your bravery, a hobbyhorse to ride through the corridors and on the ramparts when you are better and no longer need to take the foul draughts? Will that suit, do you think?”
The boy grabbed Thomas’ hand in both of his and, with surprising strength, pulled himself into a sitting position. “When, Uncle? When? When?” Despite being weakened by the just broken fever, Richard began to bounce.
Thomas put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and settled him down. “Patience! The steed must first be trained so he will be worthy of such a valiant knight as you. I promise you will have him soon.”
“Will he be black as night?”
“I think that can be arranged.”
“Will he have fiery red eyes?”
Thomas paused. “Well, now, would Sir Gawain have a horse with red eyes or great brown ones like your Uncle Robert’s hunter?”
The boy thought for a moment. “Perhaps brown would be better.”
“And white mane?”
“Yes! And leather…”
Anne put her hand on Richard’s head. “Wouldn’t you like to have some surprises left, my son? Surely this will be a fine horse, whatever his trappings, and well worth the waiting.”
The boy wrinkled his forehead, trying as hard as he could to look older than his years. Failing that, he beamed with all the dazzling joy of youth. “I will wait, Uncle. It is right that I do so.” He hesitated but a second. “Will you tell me a story now?”
Thomas rose and gestured to Anne to follow him. “That I will, but first I must discuss some very dull matters with this good sister which would be of no interest to such a knight as you. Will you rest a moment while we step outside?”
“I will, Uncle, but hurry. Please?”
As they closed the door to the boy’s room, Thomas turned to Anne and grinned. “How am I doing as a new uncle?”