Adam poured another cup of wine for his friend. “This madness is surely temporary, Geoffrey,” he said. “I remember far better days when your daughter delighted all of us with her quick wit and loving ways. Indeed, she shall marry Robert and, in good time, the foolish girl will make peace and be as a sister again with your wife. You speak the truth of it, I believe. A husband and babes of her own will, without doubt, put an end to such silly rivalry.”
Eleanor bowed her head. Little was quite as everyone wished it to seem, she thought. Of course she had known there was far more behind Juliana’s desire to enter Tyndal as an anchoress than she had expressed. Few women, even with genuine callings to the contemplative life, choose such a severe test of faith. Wisdom demanded that she look beyond a shaved head and eager words before accepting Juliana’s sincerity about her calling, and she would. She would even take Sir Geoffrey’s opinions into account with as little partiality as she was able, but she had also heard the ring of true coin in Juliana’s plea, and that she would honor as well.
As to the other things she had just heard, she had been amused as her father so firmly expressed approval of the marriage between his friend and ward, an approval she knew he most certainly did not feel. Nor was Sir Geoffrey’s current marriage the joyous one he tried to portray just now, at least according to the baron. Her father must have choked to hear the Lady Isabelle described as a woman of generous heart and softness, yet she had not seen even the barest flicker of an eyelid to betray his thoughts. From his days in the king’s court, her father had indeed become quite skilled in diplomatic thrust and parry. She could learn much from him if he were willing to teach her.
Eleanor glanced up. Her father and Sir Geoffrey were now bending over the table, drawing imaginary maps with their fingers on the wood and lost in tales of old battles. Both seemed to have regained their youth in the telling, and the love born of much shared pain and joy over the years was so evident between them.
She looked at Sir Geoffrey and now saw remnants of the person she had known many years ago before his first wife died. She could not forget that he had once been a kinder man, one who would never speak with the harshness she had heard today. Nor would she ever forget that it was he who had saved her father’s life after the Montfortians had pulled the baron, weakened from a deep thigh wound, from his horse. Had Sir Geoffrey not risked his own life to do so, she would be praying at her father’s tomb this day, not arguing with him, a man she honored and loved, stubborn mule that he often was.
She took a deep breath and rose quietly to leave the old friends alone. Even if Juliana had convinced her beyond any doubt of the sincerity of her calling, Eleanor would win no arguments on her behalf this day.
Chapter Ten
Thomas’ midday dining companions were less than congenial. On one side was the sulky and silent Lord Henry. On the other was Father Anselm, a priest of middling intellect but much higher odor. The company of a fellow religious was to be expected, of course. To be seated next to the Lavenham heir-apparent was intended as a compliment, and Thomas had mentally marked the honor with due gratitude. After five minutes between the two, however, Thomas was tempted to renounce both his vocation and the honor to seek a bench well below the salt.
“You eat meat, do you?” the good priest asked. His breath, heavily scented with a rotting sweetness from decomposed teeth, was even more fetid than the sour stench of his unwashed underlinen that enveloped flanking diners every time the priest shifted position.
Thomas looked at the dark slices of roasted boar meat on the platter in front of him. Due to Tyndal’s reduced revenues during this first winter after his arrival, meat at any meal had been such a rarity that Thomas had almost lost the taste for it. Out of courtesy to his host, however, he had allowed the servant to put some ginger, wine, and garlic sauce on his trencher and had then accepted a small portion of the meat. What little desire he might have had for more had been destroyed by sitting next to the aromatic priest.
As he looked into the priest’s tiny, close-set eyes, an irresistible impishness suddenly overtook Thomas. He reached out with his knife to stab a thick portion of the boar and, with an exaggerated grunt of pleasure, plopped the bloody slab onto his trencher, then turned and smiled at the priest.
The priest pursed his lips but was otherwise unfazed. “Heats the blood, you know,” he said, nodding at the fragrant meat in front of Thomas.
Thomas was not to be outdone. He gestured at the goblet Father Anselm clutched to his narrow chest. “So does wine, I’m told.”
The priest sniffed in contempt. “Our Lord drank wine.”
Thomas coughed from the puff of bad breath. “Might have eaten venison for all we know. Boar, I’ll concede, he did not.”
“Our Lord ate only fish.”
Thomas tried to remember what had been served at the marriage feast in Cana. Fatted calf came to mind as the popular choice in various scriptures he recalled. “How sad,” he said. “Maybe there weren’t any deer in Galilee. I’d wager Our Lord would have liked a good brisket.” He hesitated and then let an almost beatific look transform his face. “What do you think? Perhaps God gave England so many deer so we’d know what a blessed land we occupied, that we were given what even His beloved son could not have.” Thomas gave Father Anselm his most ingenuous look.
The priest blinked and Thomas could almost read what was going through the man’s mind. To argue that God had not granted any abundance, no matter how it heated the blood, seemed rather blasphemous. To argue that England wasn’t an especially blessed land to have it might cast doubt on his own loyalty to good King Henry and the Baron Adam who sustained him. Anselm resolved the entire dilemma by raising his cup in a vague toast to God and king, draining it thoroughly, and grabbing at the sleeve of a passing servant for a refill.
Having silenced one of his companions by driving him deep into a goblet of good wine, Thomas turned to Henry. The man was leaning over the table, a strange lapse in courteous behavior, and his hands were clasped so tightly his knuckles were white. His head was bowed as if in prayer. Thomas glanced at the man’s empty trencher. Henry had eaten nothing. The poor would get little nourishment from his leavings.
Thomas looked down the table at Juliana, then back at his silent companion. Brother and sister were much alike, he decided. Robert might be short like Prioress Eleanor, but he was also muscular. Henry, despite his round, fat face, was as slight in form as was his sister. A weakling son might not sit well with a battle-hardened father.
His curiosity still stirred over the morning events, and Thomas wondered if that was part of the trouble between them. Delicate or not, Henry had certainly shown no hesitancy in drawing a weapon against Robert earlier in the day. Was he trying to prove his manhood? Or did ill will truly exist between the future brothers-in-law?
A loud but pleasant laugh caught his attention and he looked down the high table once again. Next to Henry sat Sir Geoffrey and on the other side was the host, Baron Adam. Immediately to his left was the Lady Isabelle, who sat next to Robert, then the Prioress Eleanor and the Lady Juliana. Sister Anne had chosen to take her meal with the sick boy.