Eleanor pulled the woman into her arms and rocked her like a child until the crying subsided. Then she drew back and wiped the tears from her friend’s eyes. “Juliana, I am wed to Our Lord and have never been a wife in the earthly sense. Perhaps you need to talk to an older woman who has had joy in her husband…”
“You! It is you to whom I must speak!”
“Then I will listen,” Eleanor said, as the deluge of hot tears began again and her friend buried her head into the prioress’ shoulder.
“I do not wish to marry at all!” The voice was muffled, but there was no mistaking the determination in it.
“I know the dangers, if those cause you worry. My own mother died in childbed, and I would be false if I did not tell you that you would suffer pain in becoming any man’s wife. Nonetheless, Robert is a kind man and will be gentle in taking your maidenhead. Pain is a part of our lives as children of sin, but God gives joy too. There is no reason not to believe He would give you both as much happiness as anyone can expect on earth. You and my brother are as well matched in your manners and wit as you are in your estate. I do believe you could be very happy together, and Robert would provide good stewardship of the land you brought to the marriage…”
“My lady, I do not dread bedding with a man nor is it childbirth that I fear.” Juliana laughed, but the sound was brittle. “There is greater pain than the loss of a maidenhead or the hard labor of birthing an heir. Indeed I will confess to you that I am unwomanly and do not long for either a man or a babe in my arms, but that would be insufficient reason to refuse marriage with your brother. As you have said, he and I would be well-matched and deep affection would surely grow in our hearts for each other. We are both quite sensible about our prospects and responsibilities in this world, and we are each wise enough to be kind one to the other.”
Eleanor stepped back and looked at the white-faced woman at arm’s length, then she pushed back the cowl that had covered her friend’s head and ran her hand across the rough stubble of blond hair. “Then tell me why you have cut your hair thus, Juliana?”
“As I said, my lady, there is greater pain than the loss of a maidenhead. I speak of what the soul feels, stinking with mortal frailties and standing at the fiery pit of Hell, longing to know, aye, even to understand the perfect and all-forgiving love of God.”
“Are you telling me that you wish to enter a convent?”
“Not just any convent. I have a harsh calling.” She quickly put a finger against Eleanor’s lips as the prioress began to speak. “Nay, I care not for the degrees of strictness in enclosure between, say, a Benedictine house and one of the Cistercian Order. Such distinctions are but petty. My longing is for a life far harder than that. I desire a hermit’s cell apart from other mortals where I may spend my life as an anchoress and ponder the complexity of God’s love. Whatever wisdom He grants me, I will pass on to others who, like me, beg for such understanding.”
Eleanor watched as Juliana’s brown eyes turned almost black. She shivered, but knew the cause was something other than a gust of cutting wind. “How may I help, my child?”
Juliana threw herself on her knees and raised her hands in supplication. “I beg you to support my plea before the bishop. I want to be entombed as an anchoress. At Tyndal, Eleanor. Will you have me?”
Chapter Eight
Thomas had just finished gathering most of the items he needed to make the hobbyhorse. The tree limb for the body was straight and sturdy enough to survive almost anything an energetic boy would do to it. The rough cloth for the head would take a good dye for the requested dark color, and he could make the eyes and ears from small bits of cloth or leather. Surely someone would give him a few old but clean rags for stuffing the head.
One of the maids had gladly donated some ragged yarn for the mane, blushing quite prettily as she brushed her hand against his. His flesh had remained quiescent despite the feathery touch, and he had blessed her as thanks, knowing full well that she would have preferred his hand had done something else for her besides making the sign of the cross. He decided he’d ask Robert for those last bits he lacked. He had no wish to encourage the willing maid.
Now that the boy was on the mend and he had time to himself, Thomas felt a profound fatigue from his nights with little rest. Giving up sleep for the care of the little lad he had done with joy, but, when he did retreat to his bed, any deep slumber had been shattered by his all too frequent and terrifying dreams. In the months just after he had arrived at Tyndal, he had feared falling asleep because of them. When he did slip into unconsciousness, he’d soon find himself sitting bolt upright, sweating and whimpering like a child from the horrors they brought.
He did not remember feeling fear quite this strong when he was actually in prison and believed he might face death by burning because some zealous bishop had decided to make an example of him. Yet, in his dreams, the anticipation of the jailer’s rape and the fires flicking out to lick at his feet were more than he could bear. Those dreams came less often now, but Giles would still appear in them, on occasion, to mock the love Thomas had borne him. In ways, those were the worst dreams of all.
He set his materials down on a stair and leaned against the stone wall. The cold felt good against his throbbing forehead. He knew he should go back to the room he shared with Father Anselm and sleep. No one needed his services and it would be good to rest, if he could. He sighed and looked out the narrow window of the stairwell into the inner ward. The sunlight was becoming weaker as the day went on. Snow was coming. Thomas wondered how soon it would be before this fragile light shattered into a myriad of white flakes.
Down in the ward, he noticed two women and a man walking. From her colorful clothes that stood out even in the misty light below, he knew one of the women was Sir Geoffrey’s wife. She was walking at a discreet distance behind the couple. Thomas squinted to sharpen his sight. Surely the second woman was the Lady Juliana. Besides Lady Isabelle, she was the only woman of rank he knew to be in residence who did not wear a habit. If it was, then the man beside Juliana must be Robert.
Aye, he decided as he focused on him, that black hair and short stature would suggest that the man was his prioress’ brother. As he watched Robert woo his lady, the monk chuckled with gentle amusement. A man of honor, Robert was. Even though they were out walking in public, he made sure they were properly attended.
Suddenly, the threesome stopped and looked back. Thomas was too far away to distinguish words, but he did hear shouting and watched the party below wait as another man ran up to them.
It was the Lord Henry, Thomas concluded, or at least the man had the same round face and was dressed as Henry had been after the hunt. Considering the encounter between stepson and stepmother earlier, this could not be a happy meeting. Perhaps the stepson now wished to beg pardon for his recent behavior? Thomas rather doubted it.
The monk watched Henry walk over to the Lady Isabelle, put his arm around her waist and, once again, pull her to him. As Thomas bent forward into the window opening, he saw Juliana quickly bend down to pick something up from the ground, then start toward them. Robert pulled her back, leaning over to say a word in her ear. Then he pointed at Henry, his voice raising enough for the monk to hear the anger if not his words.
Isabelle twisted in Henry’s arms and pushed at him. Instead of releasing her, the young man rubbed his cheek against hers. She drew back and pushed again. He laughed, the sound of his harsh merriment rising easily in the cold air to the window where Thomas stood.
Robert abruptly left Juliana’s side. Henry continued to laugh as Robert walked toward him, one hand on his dagger hilt.
Henry pushed his stepmother away and drew a knife. Robert pulled his dagger from its sheath, and the two men began to circle each other.