“Nonetheless,” he muttered, “the lack of such a private entrance does eliminate any other possible escape routes.”
At least the Lady Isabelle seemed to have been in bed, as they all should have been, and asleep when the murder occurred. When he saw her, she was standing in the corridor with her fur blanket thrown around her body for warmth and to hide her own nakedness. It was her scream that had roused them all. Still, it was curious that she had been calm enough to hand Robert a candle to light the rushes yet had screamed when he picked up the dagger. Had Robert been correct about the timing of those events? What had awakened her? Had she seen or heard anything outside her room…
Suddenly Thomas remembered how the lady had played with Robert under the tablecloth at dinner. “Could Robert have been in bed with the Lady Isabelle last night?” he exclaimed in shock at the realization. “Could it be her honor he is protecting?”
Thomas rubbed his eyes again. The ache did not diminish. Indeed, this new question added even more complications to an already murky situation. He understood from Robert that Sir Geoffrey, being a husband who found a woman’s monthly courses distasteful, had chosen to spend his last nights in the barracks rather than with his wife. A woman who did not expect a husband in her bed usually had her maid for warmth or company, yet Thomas had seen no maid with the Lady Isabelle. Perhaps the maid had not come to the door. Perhaps her mistress had kept the maid back so she would not see the horror of the corpse? Or had the maid been sent away so Robert could come to Isabelle that night? The baron’s manservant had appeared, for it was he that arranged to take the corpse away. Perhaps Thomas had just failed to see the lady’s attendant in the confusion of the moment.
At least he had been able to confirm that Hywel’s wife had slept from early evening through late morning with the old woman in attendance. That was the only question that had been resolved, however, and too many others gnawed at him, not the least of which involved his fondness for the man accused of Henry’s murder. Could this man, to whom he had taken such a liking, be a killer? Or was he an honorable man who would die before he would betray someone he believed should be protected? His instincts told him Robert was innocent of murder, although he was surely guilty of something. If nothing else, he was lying, even if the cause was a matter of honor.
An examination of the corpse would either raise more questions or settle some. Baron Adam had ordered the body removed to the chapel and had locked away the dagger found in Robert’s hand as evidence for the sheriff to collect when he could be summoned. Thomas thought it interesting that Sir Geoffrey had trusted Robert’s father to keep the dagger, considering it was his own son who was accused of killing Sir Geoffrey’s.
“On second thought, maybe it is not so odd,” Thomas muttered. “When the servants brought Sir Geoffrey from the barracks, he seemed as distraught over the idea that Robert had killed Henry as he was over the death of his own son.”
Perhaps the years of friendship between the two men allowed each to feel the grief of the other as much as they felt their own loss. It touched Thomas that such might be so.
Suddenly he heard a soft rustle behind him and he spun around. The tiny outline of his prioress was barely visible in the gray shadows at the top of the stairs. He wondered how long she had been watching him and what she had heard him mutter to himself.
“My lady?” He bowed.
“I was on my way to visit with the Lady Isabelle, Brother Thomas, but I am glad to have first found you alone. I must briefly speak with you in confidence, and I beg that you will answer me with forthrightness when I ask you two important questions.”
He hesitated, suspecting what she wanted to ask. He struggled with his reply to one of her questions, then quickly made his decision less on logic than on what his heart told him. “On my hope of Heaven, I will keep your words in confidence and will answer you with honesty, my lady.”
“In addition, I must also ask of you a favor.”
“To do you any favor would bring me both pleasure and honor.”
“For all of this, you have my deepest gratitude.” She stepped into the pale light and looked up at him. “As you may know, I love my brother as much as any sister could and believe I know him well, what he could and could not do. I am, however, still a sister, a weak mortal, and my judgment may be clouded.” She gestured at the stains on the floor. “There is nothing here that acquits Robert. I’m sure you have found the same. I fear that a court will look at the evidence we now have and hang him.”
Thomas nodded sadly. “Aye, my lady.” Eleanor’s eyes were the color of storm clouds, rimmed in red from tears he was sure she was too proud to let anyone see her shed.
“Then my first question to you is this: Do you think my brother has told us the whole truth?”
This was the question he dreaded most and, when he replied, he lowered his head for he could not look her in the eyes. “No, my lady,” he said, his voice barely audible. “I do not.”
“My second question is: Do you believe he is innocent?”
“Without question, I do,” he said, the answer undoubted in his heart as he raised his eyes to meet hers, “and we must discover who did this terrible act. Quickly.”
“Then you will carry out the next task I request?”
Thomas nodded.
“You must examine Henry’s corpse with due care and bring me your observations as well as conclusions.”
“My lady, I will do so as I promised, but my skills are poor and I could miss a crucial lead. Surely Sister Anne is a far better…”
“Sister Anne has been forbidden to do so. Your name, however, was not raised, and, since no one has said yea or nay to your examination, I see nothing to stop you from performing the task. To ease your mind about this, Sister Anne will be with me when you report what you have seen.”
Thomas looked down into the gray eyes of his prioress and wondered whether those who thought they had thwarted her knew just how thoroughly they had been bested. Not for the first time, he found himself most grateful that he would never have to face this woman as an opponent in battle. “I will do as you ask, my lady.”
As Prioress Eleanor of Tyndal reached out and squeezed his hand, gently and in silence, Thomas might have thought that her eyes shone with love had he not known better.
Chapter Seventeen
Eleanor rapped once on the door. No servant came to open it. She hesitated, sure she had heard muffled words. She knocked twice.
“If you be not Satan’s imp, enter and cease the din!”
Eleanor opened the door.
The bereaved stepmother sat lolling on a stool, legs spread, her robe pulled up around her knees and her back braced against the bed. Her sole companions in the room were a large pitcher and a mazer cup perched on the wooden chest next to her. Indeed, the wife of Sir Geoffrey was quite drunk.
“I came to offer comfort,” Eleanor said. “I could return later.”
Trying to rise in greeting, Isabelle grabbed at the chest. Her hand slipped and knocked the empty wooden cup onto the floor. It bounced and rolled under her stool.
“It’s you,” the woman announced with conviction. She swung down to swipe up the errant cup, missed, then snagged it on the second try. “Wine?” she asked hospitably.
Eleanor shook her head.
“Another vow, I suppose.”
Eleanor shrugged noncommittally. “The air is bitter cold. Wine warms both body and spirit on such a day.” As well as loosening your tongue, she thought. You will more likely tell me things after another cup or two than you would say with a more sober mind.
“Vows make no sense.”
“Have you never taken a vow, Isabelle?” the prioress asked as she studied the woman in front of her. Her playfellow of more innocent times might now have difficulty focusing her eyes, but Eleanor could see the sober glitter of hostility behind the unclear gaze. Could this be the same person she once knew or was the person sitting in front of her a demon in the likeness of Isabelle? The change was that dramatic.