Anselm shrugged. “There was more merriment when Sir Geoffrey’s first wife was alive and in good health. More frivolity and a joy in earthly things. I must say that I thought the change to a more restrained manner after her death was a good one at first for it surely pleases God when men jest less and pray more.” He looked at Thomas and frowned. “Do not misunderstand me, brother. There is no sin in happiness. Our Lord was known to smile himself and we have the marriage feast at Cana as evidence for that.”
“Of course, brother. Men must be joyful in the Lord for therein they find their heart’s peace.” For a moment, Thomas wondered where he might have previously heard such thoughts. They surely were not of his own making.
“Well said, brother! So you see, I soon realized that the new solemnity came, not from a turn to a greater pleasure in godly things, but from lack of all joy. Peace deserted the family after the marriage of Sir Geoffrey with the Lady Isabelle.”
“The marriage was a matter of discord in the family?” Thomas leaned back against the edge of the window.
“I could not say.” Anselm sniffed a little sanctimoniously, then fell silent.
“Do not think I was asking for secrets from the confessional,” Thomas quickly added, then waited until the priest recovered from his fit of self-righteousness. “Rather I do not know the families involved so did wonder what had been the origin of such discord between Robert and Henry that murder could be the result.”
Anselm shook his head. “I was quite surprised myself that such did happen. Lord Henry had always been a willful boy, thoughtless and selfish often, but not cruel as I recall. Lord Robert has never been close to him, but I thought that was due most to the difference in their ages. Henry was the elder and looked with contempt, as children often do, on the antics of younger siblings. He treated Robert and his own brother and sister with an equal disdain.”
Thomas smiled. “I hear the voice of experience in your words. You must come from a large family yourself?”
Anselm blushed and lowered his head. “You have read my words well. My elder brother and two sisters were much older than I, my parents having lost several children to a kinder world between our births, but my father and mother had further offspring after me. I fear I followed my elder brother in his sinful pride with regard to those younger brothers.”
“Yet you were wise and learned it was a practice well put behind you along with other games of childhood.”
Anselm actually beamed. “Nonetheless, my younger brothers never fail to remind me of my past sins against them, albeit in good grace, when they visit here. Their words prompt me to strive for greater humility.”
“Henry did not learn as you did?”
“Perhaps it is sinful for me to judge so, but Henry did not gain in restraint as he grew older. He wanted his way and he tried everything he could to get it.”
“What could Henry have possibly done to so provoke Robert that he would kill him, a man he’d grown up with and a man who would soon be his brother-in-law?”
“This I find as strange as you, my friend. The two may not have been close in youth, but they were not enemies. They maintained a correct, however stiff courtesy when together. It was not until recently that I saw anger between them.”
“What changed?”
“I do not know. I first saw the change when the two families came together to discuss the marital union.”
“Do you think Henry resented the loss of lands?” Thomas then shook his head in disagreement with his own notion. “Nay, I do indeed think that too petty, for he would have known that any man who married his sister would receive something as her marriage portion. At least the lands would not go to a stranger if Robert were her husband.”
“I cannot say, brother, for I have heard nothing about the cause for conflict. I would agree that such a reaction would be excessive even for Henry. Despite his selfish and fleshly nature, he would more likely prefer the lands go to the amenable Robert. I do believe he knew this brother-in-law would be more generous than most in providing additional funds should the Lord Henry find himself in difficulties from worldly excesses.”
Thomas was quite surprised at the priest’s observations. For all his austerity, Anselm was no innocent.
“Henry was in debt?” Here was a new idea. Perhaps the murderer was a man to whom he owed money.
“I fear he had not yet learned that price of sin, although he was well on the way. He refused to burn long with any worldly desire even to save his own soul from a hotter, eternal fire. I have seen him rampant as Pan with a milkmaid against the cowshed wall, and the soldiers of Wynethorpe Castle greeted his arrival with joy because he fattened their purses when he joined them in games of chance. His own priest has told me that the man had long ceased to listen to his admonitions. I, too, was mocked for my efforts.”
“Now with the fires of Hell lapping at his feet, he must rue his failure to listen to wiser counsel.” Thomas moved away from the icy stone, put his hands into his sleeves to warm them, and winced at his own hypocrisy. Had he, after all, ever listened any more in his days before imprisonment than Henry had? Would he care what anyone advised if Giles appeared before him now, arms open and eyes shining with love?
“I include him in my prayers.”
Thomas was touched by the sincerity he heard in Anselm’s voice. The priest would no doubt do the same for him, he thought, no matter how foul he believed his sins to be. He smiled at him with more fondness than he had ever shown before. “You say Henry broke many a maidenhead against the wall and in the straw. Were you not surprised when, at dinner and in public, his father mocked his son’s manhood?”
“Nay. I did not think Sir Geoffrey meant to mock his son’s virility, monk. Rather, I believe his father meant only to shame him back into a more Christian manhood, one in which the young man would marry and, with due and devoted solemnity, produce proper heirs.”
Thomas would not have equated Sir Geoffrey’s gesture of tossing the boar’s testicles into his son’s lap with a Christian hope that Henry might stop swyving milkmaids.
“Enough of idle gossip,” Anselm said with a tug at Thomas’ sleeve. “I thought to look in on the boy, Richard. I have heard he loves good stories and have quite a modest store of instructional parables to share. Then I was going to the chapel to pray. Will you join me, brother?”
Thomas was moved by the priest’s wish to do something for the lad. Unless dragons played a strong role, however, he rather doubted Richard would care much for tales of saints. “Nay, I fear my fast has gone on too long, priest, and I am feeling weaker than even God would deem prudent. I will join you soon, but first I must seek a bit of bread from the kitchen.”
Anselm scowled. “I know that look, brother. You seek meat. Avoid temptation! Fall on your knees with me and beg God to give you the strength your frail body lacks!”
Thomas managed not to laugh. “It is not meat I seek, priest. It is a kitchen wench who is lusty with desire…”
Anselm’s face paled in horror.
“…to warm my stomach with a bit of ale so I may better kneel in prayer. Or a cook willing to feed my body with a bit of cheese so I may raise my voice with more vigor to heaven. Go. I am sure you will still be in the chapel when I join you.”
As the men parted, Thomas turned and looked back at Anselm as the man began the slow climb toward the living quarters. For all his teasing of the priest and for all his disdain of the man’s less than pleasant traits, he realized that Anselm had a generous heart. Thomas was surprised to realize that he was growing rather fond of him.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Don’t play the innocent, daughter!” Adam slammed his hand against the tapestry on his chamber wall. “He was standing over the body with the bloody dagger in his hand. What more would any judge need to know to hang my son?”