“I should not be the one, Eleanor. He is the accused and he is my son. Any confession to me would be suspect in the eyes of the law.”
“Nevertheless, might he tell you the truth of it? It could give us the means to present the real murderer…”
“Robert must believe that some honor demands his silence or he would have spoken before. I cannot force him to betray that, and no son of mine would chose life over honor.”
Were the circumstances less dire, Eleanor thought, she might find a wry amusement in how obstinate with pride the Wynethorpe men could be, father and son. The circumstances, however, were dire. “Since he will not speak to me of it,” she said aloud, “perhaps Brother Thomas could…”
“The value of your monk’s testimony is also questionable. Brother Thomas could be accused of breaking the sanctity of the confessional if Robert did tell him the truth. No, this would not help my son’s cause.”
“You do believe that your son is as innocent of murder as you or I, don’t you, father?”
“Aye, lass, in my heart I do, but God must help us prove the right of that.”
***
Eleanor gathered her cloak closely about her as she knelt in a corner of the chapel. Even here the cold was bitter and her lungs hurt just to breathe in the sharp air. Her father had invited her to break bread with him and share a simple dinner, but she refused and had left him at the entrance to the dining hall while she went on to pray. The day had been long and her head ached with tension. As much as she loved her father and even though they had made something of a peace between them, she yearned for the familiar.
Castle Wynethorpe had not been home to her for most of her life. If she could not be in Amesbury with her aunt or at Tyndal in her own quarters, she preferred to retreat to a quiet supper with Sister Anne, a woman in whose company and friendship she found a deep comfort. First, however, she needed solitude and prayer to help soothe her weary spirit.
Eleanor heard steps and opened her eyes. In the shadowy gloom barely penetrated by a smoky candlelight, she saw a figure enter the chapel and kneel in front of the altar. With her somber dress and short stature, he must not have seen her kneeling further back in the darkness.
A loud moan came from the kneeling man. It was Sir Geoffrey. As he raised his eyes to heaven, she heard more groans, then harsh sobs, and knew that he was weeping uncontrollably. She grieved to see this man in such agony over the loss of his son, and her heart longed to offer him solace. Her comfort, however, would not be welcome. A man might shed tears without shame before God, but he would never show such weakness in front of the woman whose brother lay accused of killing the son he mourned.
Briefly she wondered how deeply he must now regret the scene at dinner where he had so humiliated Henry. Indeed, considering what she knew about the circumstances of his remarriage and the strained relationships with his adult offspring, he might well have much more to regret and other sins buried in his soul for which now to beg forgiveness.
As she listened to the man’s sobs and mumbled prayers, Eleanor looked for a way to leave without disclosing her presence and thus embarrassing the knight. There was only one entrance to the chapel, but the chill draft she felt on her back meant he had probably left the door ajar. She decided that his groans of anguish were loud enough that she could try slipping behind him and out the door without his hearing her light footsteps. Later she might return to the chapel, perhaps with Sister Anne and Brother Thomas, to honor the next Office of prayer. For now she would leave this man alone with his God and his pain.
She was fortunate. She slid soundlessly through the small opening of the chapel door, and Sir Geoffrey would never know she had been witness to his tears. For once, she was glad she was so tiny and light of foot.
As soon as she entered the dark courtyard, the raw wind struck her with a knife’s sharpness, slashing at her face with frozen pellets. During the day, the temperature had warmed just enough to melt some of the snow, but now the temperature had dropped once more to freeze the slush into sheets of treacherous ice. Although the cold bit deep into her bones, she was grateful for it. No one could travel to summon the sheriff. The prolonged storm gave them more time to prove her brother’s innocence. She bent her head to the wind, but it continued to lash at her cheeks.
Just as she approached the entrance to the stairs leading to the chambers above the dining hall, she looked up. No more servants or tradesmen were leaving from the hall. Apparently, all questioning was finally done. Would anything of use be discovered? Might someone, out of fear or shame, have confessed to the deed?
Distracted, Eleanor stumbled. She reached out to catch herself as she fell, and her hands landed on something soft and warm.
It was a man’s body, just dusted with snow.
“Someone bring a light,” she shouted into the wind.
A young soldier with a burning torch in hand emerged through the curtain of thickly falling snow. “Are you hurt, my lady?” he cried out.
When the torchlight illuminated the ground where she had fallen, Eleanor gasped. The body was that of her family priest, Anselm. In the weak and flickering light, she could see his dark blood turning to ice under him. As she looked closer, she saw that some did still flow sluggishly from a wound in his head.
“Get Sister Anne and some men to carry him inside. Quickly!” Eleanor ordered.
As the soldier disappeared into the white night, Eleanor brushed the snow off the body, then bent and listened carefully. The priest was still breathing, albeit very, very shallowly.
“Surely God will understand this,” she said to the darkness, then she hunched over and gently put her arms around the priest, hugging him close so the warmth from her own body would keep him from freezing.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Richard lay huddled under the covers, his pale face turned to the wall.
Thomas sat on the edge of the bed and put his hand gently on the thin little shoulder. “Lad, what’s wrong?”
The boy’s body quivered as if with a fever, but the monk could feel no unusual heat. The boy said nothing.
Thomas looked over at Sister Anne and asked his question silently with a slight movement of his head toward the mute child.
She stood up and pointed toward the door. Thomas gave Richard’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, then followed after the nun.
As soon as they were in the privacy of the corridor, she shook her head. “He has no fever but refuses to speak, brother. I had hoped he would say something to you but even that has failed.”
“What happened? Has he fallen ill again?”
“I am at a loss to know what has happened. After his encounter with you in the chapel, he was in fine spirits. He broke his fast with good appetite and even took my advice about a nap, especially after I told him that Gringolet must rest as well. While he was sleeping, his nurse came and begged to sit with him. She was quite grieved about the incident when he escaped her care and wanted to make amends, but I left him in good health. The baron had told me of a Welsh herbal some of the villagers used and said I might find it of interest. I left Richard and fear I lost track of time studying it where it is kept near the barracks.”
“So he sickened while you were gone?”
“As his nurse told the tale, Father Anselm came to visit the boy and assured her that he would stay and tell him tales while she fetched some supper from the dining hall. Richard was quite lively when she left, but, when she returned, Father Anselm was gone and Richard was back in bed. She thought he was asleep, but then he began to cry.”
“Cry?”
“She ran to his bed, but he screamed when she touched him. His face was red and she thought he was delirious from a returned fever.”