“Yet they were not putting the cuckold’s horns on your head.” Adam’s voice was gentle.
“Indeed I know that now, yet my reason had fled for some time, along with my manhood. When you claimed your courses had come, wife, I wondered whether they might have come earlier than usual…”
“In that you were right, my lord,” Isabelle replied, her voice barely audible.
Her husband smiled weakly. “I assumed you wanted me out of our bed so you could invite my son into it. I waited outside your room, in the shadows just down the corridor that leads to the tower, where I could hear but not be seen. Finally, I did see a man come to your, our, chambers and knock. You opened the door and I rushed forward to find you in Henry’s arms, his back to me…” Geoffrey hesitated as he looked at his wife and back at Adam. “…and I was blinded with rage at the thought he had come to share her bed. I stabbed him.”
Isabelle looked at them all, then put her face into her hands. “Please hear me on this, good people. Henry did not come at my invitation. I swear it!” She raised her face, tears streaming down her cheeks as she turned to her husband. “I only opened my door because he claimed, in a voice much like yours, that he was you. You must believe me!”
“Silence, woman. This is my tale to tell.” Geoffrey looked up at Adam. “My wife tells the truth. We have talked, she and I, since that horrible night. She has explained that my son was besotted with her and did much threaten her when he knew I was not there to protect her. She did not tell me the full tale of his actions out of love for him as my son. Aye, the demons of jealousy have ceased to possess my heart and soul, but too late.”
“And Father Anselm?” Eleanor asked after a long silence.
“I pushed him. I did not see Richard but did hear the priest cry out at my chamber door that he had seen my deeds and wanted to hear more of them. I assumed that he had seen me kill my son. I waited until he had turned away from me, then I came from behind, grabbed his habit and tossed him against the stone wall of the stairs, head first.” He looked down at his scared stump and shook his head. “My strength is not what it was when I had the use of both hands so I saw I had not killed him. When I bent over him, he was motionless but I could hear him breathing, so I tossed him from the window. If not the fall, I knew that surely the cold would do the final deed.”
“The priest claims he saw your wife kill your son.”
“A dream. A fantasy.” He looked sternly at Isabelle. She neither moved nor spoke. “Monks are often like women. They imagine things that never happened.”
“Nor is it uncommon to have such strange thoughts with such a severe head wound,” Anne added.
“Your grandson did not lie, Adam. He must have seen me although I did not see him.”
Once again the two men stared at each other in silence.
“Adam, I would not have harmed a hair on Richard’s head even if I thought he had seen me killing Henry or the priest.”
“Why should I believe you?” Adam said, his voice unnaturally low.
“Because I fell on my own dagger to force suspicion away from your son. No one attacked me. I found a place apart from the rest of the castle and stabbed myself, hoping to die and, in so doing, provide proof that Robert was innocent. He could not do both deeds and I thought no one else could ever be accused. Henry’s death and mine would remain unsolved crimes.”
“It is a sin to take your own life,” Adam said.
“I had already murdered my own son and tried to kill a priest. Would the taking of my own life have made my soul’s fate any worse? It had already won quite enough land in Hell.”
“I must tell the sheriff of your confession,” Adam said.
“You needn’t put too many guards at my door, Adam, for I am too weak to run,” Geoffrey replied, gesturing at his chest.
“Why not just confess? Why try to kill yourself instead?” the baron asked, taking his friend’s whole hand in his.
“I am bred for battle, Adam, not the rope. Surely you understand this. Had you and I been in the Holy Land and surrounded by the enemy with no chance for escape, I would have killed you first so you would not have had to suffer whatever humiliations the enemy would delight in inflicting. Then I would have fallen on my own sword. Do you doubt that either of us would have flinched from such acts? Such are honorable deaths for a soldier. Thus I did indeed want to die before the hangman took me. I had sinned so much that one more rotting spot in my soul would mean nothing.”
“Facing a hangman for the crime of killing your son is not the same as dying in war.”
“I did not want to face the humiliation of the rope, Adam. I have seen men hanged. They kick their feet, their bowels loosen, and their pricks rise while those who witness the event jest at their shame and disgrace. It is no death for a knight who has, until now, tried to lead his life with honor.”
Adam nodded. “You have the right in that.”
The corners of the knight’s mouth quivered.
In silence and in sorrow, Adam and Geoffrey looked at each other for a very long time. The baron stood, wincing with the pain of his old wound. “You are weary. Perhaps it would be best if we all departed and Brother Thomas sat with you. You might find some peace in giving him your confession and seeking the solace a man of God can bring you, Geoffrey. Will you give permission, my lady?” He glanced at Eleanor and she nodded. “While he hears your confession and gives you counsel, I will release my son, bring guards for your room, and send for the sheriff.”
Geoffrey nodded. “As is only right, my friend.”
Adam turned to Thomas. “When you are done with your priestly duties and he has rested, come for me. I must explain further to Sir Geoffrey what he can and cannot expect from his imprisonment here.” The baron closed his eyes. Whether from fatigue or grief no one could tell. “You are my dearest and oldest comrade, Geoffrey. I owe you no less courtesy than I owed my son.”
“As you will it, my lord,” Thomas replied.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The light of the following morning brought no joy. Thomas’ face was drained of color. He was the most reluctant of messengers.
“Be assured, my lady, that Sir Geoffrey died peacefully,” the monk said, quickly tucking his hands out of sight as if they were stained with blood he wished to hide from the widow’s sight.
Isabelle’s wail would have sent tears down the cheeks of the most hardened of men.
Juliana drew her friend into her arms with the tenderness of a mother, resting her cheek on the top of Isabelle’s head. “Then he was not in pain last night when he died, brother?” she asked, her eyes as dark and inscrutable as they had been when she and Thomas stood together on that snow-swept parapet.
“Bleeding to death is a gentle passing. Moreover, your father’s soul was at peace. As Baron Adam asked, I remained with your father for his confession, after which he said I could leave for I had given him all the consolation he needed. In that you may find comfort.”
“Was my lord father able to see him after the confession as he wished or was Sir Geoffrey too weak?” Eleanor’s look was sympathetic. She poured a mazer cup of wine and handed it to Thomas. “Drink, brother. You need this.”
Thomas gratefully took the offered wine and swallowed with more enthusiasm than thirst. “He was weary but begged to see your father. I waited outside the door in case either of them needed me. When the baron left Sir Geoffrey, he said the knight had fallen into a calm sleep and that no one, not even Sister Anne, should disturb his friend’s rest. Indeed, he said, Sir Geoffrey would have little enough peace in the days to come. At least your father was able to see him before he died.” He took another long draught of the wine. “I cannot help wondering if there was something I could have…”