Thomas bent down and loudly whispered, “Your sister is my prioress.”
Robert laughed, then grew silent as he stroked the horse’s neck and glanced at Eleanor, who sat easily on her gray donkey, apart from the rest of them, in close conversation with their father.
Thomas waited for him to say more but realized that any secrets this man had been willing to die to keep would not be willingly spoken now. Finally, he put his hand on Robert’s shoulder and quietly asked: “It is of no moment, my friend, but humor me and explain why you thought your betrothed had killed her brother?”
“Why do you think I did?”
Thomas smiled as he patted Robert’ shoulder, then withdrew his hand. “You were protecting someone. The story of the voices did not ring true. You first said that you thought they might have belonged to two lovers, then claimed you did not know if one voice was that of a woman. Or, indeed, whether you had heard any voices at all. The failure to see anyone in the corridor, although you may have just heard the voices was a little strange, especially for a man who is sharp enough of sight to be out safely hunting when the sun is but a promise in the sky. Still, the most telling sign to me was your failure to look either of us in the eye when you told untruths. You are not a practiced liar, Robert.”
“Clever, you are, Thomas, and quite right. After I got to the top of the stairs, I saw Juliana further down in the passageway. As you remembered, my eyes are keener than most in the dark. I saw the body on the floor. I did not stumble, as I told you, but got blood on my hands from touching Henry’s corpse to see if he was alive. And the dagger I found was not a man’s weapon. It was small, a woman’s knife.”
“The Lady Isabelle…”
“…came out as I said, with candle in hand. By then, Juliana had disappeared. At the time, I did not think it strange that the Lady Isabelle was so calm as she let me light the rushes, only to scream when she saw me bend over the body and pick up the knife. My only concern was to protect Juliana. George had told me how Henry had tormented her in recent months. Indeed, he had made crude remarks to me about her as well.” Robert shrugged. “The precise reason I know not. Perhaps he was jealous. I do think their father had greater love for Juliana, and you heard yourself how he spoke to Henry. Whatever the cause, I thought Henry had met his sister in the dark hall, attacked her, and perhaps she had stabbed him in the struggle.”
“And allowed her stepmother to call forth witnesses while you held the dagger with your hands stained with Henry’s blood? Did you not wonder why she did not quickly come to your defense?”
Robert shrugged. “I did doubt my conclusions for a time, then wondered if perhaps her stepmother had heard their argument and had done the deed to save her. Not knowing what had happened, I still felt honor bound to stay silent for the protection of both women.” His face flushed with embarrassment. “In truth, Thomas, I do not always understand the minds of women. I deal better with oxen, sheep, and the occasional goat.”
Thomas smiled. “Juliana did claim she had killed her brother later, but it was Isabelle who seemed to deflect the evidence of guilt on to you in the beginning.” He nodded toward where Isabelle stood. “You could hate her for that.”
“Why, brother? Are we not to forgive those who trespass against us? I am not swinging with cracked neck from a hangman’s noose, and the Lady Isabelle has lost a good husband. I think she will suffer greater pain than I and has certainly lost far more.”
Indeed, Thomas thought, Robert would have made a fine monk, had the man chosen such a calling. Such he had not, however, and the monastic life did not tempt him. Briefly Thomas wondered if Robert had been in the hall the night of Henry’s murder on his way to seek his father’s counsel, as he claimed, or had succumbed to the temptation of Isabelle’s bed. Just as quickly he dismissed the question. The answer no longer mattered. “You are a better man than I,” he said aloud, “and one who deserves a fine wife. Will you now grieve over your lost love?”
“As I said to you some days ago,” Robert said, his voice sad, “Juliana and I were suited, but neither of us, it seems, felt any passion for the union. I told her she was free to pursue her vocation and wished her well in it. My father agreed.” Robert laughed. “Although he did grind his teeth over the loss of lands.”
“I will miss your wit.”
“And I yours. I have not forgotten, however, that you owe me for your insults against my former betrothed. Do not think that you will escape the payment in wine and good tales of your past that you promised as amends.”
“I promise you wine and to tell you tales, Robert,” Thomas said, choosing his words with care.
“Until then, fare thee well, brother, and keep my sister safe. Violence seems to have more fondness for her company than is proper for anyone of either sex.” Robert reached up and briefly took Thomas’ hand, his grasp gentle but his hand rough to the touch.
Robert was a countryman, Thomas thought, hard on the outside but loyal and loving in his heart. Perhaps he was himself finally growing more tolerant of the country himself, as well as becoming a more docile priest. He looked up at the high, gray sky. Docile indeed. Had he not, after all, gone along with the lie his prioress wished him to tell to bring forth the truth of the murder? Had he not remained silent when he suspected the baron of…? Nay, he said to himself, now was not the time to ponder all that. He’d save such thoughts for the long ride back to Tyndal.
Thomas looked back down at the brother of his prioress and grinned. “I promise to do so to the best of my ability, Robert, but she does follow her own mind about what she does and where she goes.”
***
As Robert walked away, Sister Anne, not quite as comfortably settled on her donkey as Thomas was on his horse, looked up at the monk. “You look sad, brother,” she said, nodding at the retreating figure. “Will you miss his company so much?”
He smiled, but his eyes now glistened with imminent tears. “I will miss Robert as a friend, sister, but the one I shall regret leaving most is Richard.”
Anne reached over and patted Thomas’ horse, which was the closest thing to the monk she could touch with any ease. “And he shall miss you, your fine tales, and your great skills in the breeding of hobbyhorses. But grieve not. I have heard our prioress invite the boy to Tyndal for a visit after the weather warms.”
“I look forward to seeing him chase monsters down the halls of the priory.” Thomas looked over at the boy, who was standing with his hobbyhorse and talking to a tall soldier who stood next to him. Richard and Thomas had already said their good-byes, and the monk had felt as much reluctance on the boy’s part as his to end the hug. “Indeed, it may seem strange for a monk to say this, but I quite love the lad as if he were my own son.”
“Not strange at all, brother. His nature is sweet and he has quite won my heart too.” For a moment a deep and inexplicable sadness slipped across her face, then she brightened as she continued. “As to exercising his dragon hunting prowess in the halls of Tyndal,” she smiled as she pointed to Thomas’ head, “he may find you make a fine dragon with all that red hair of yours, although your skills at making hobbyhorses may save your life. The boy will not be parted from the one you gave him, and I am sure he will bring Gringolet with him on his visit. By then, the boy should have many tales of their brave exploits together in the hunting of fantastical beasts.”
“Richard is hero enough at Wynethorpe Castle. His fame for exposing a murderer and saving his Uncle Robert has spread from stone wall to wooden gate. He needn’t tell tales, only the truth.”
“You do sound like a proud father! Nay, blush not, brother. Such a feeling is nothing to feel shame over.”
Thomas smiled down at the nun. “I am only a doting uncle, but I have heard how the Lord Hugh does love him and how he brought his son into his family with joy; therefore, I know his real father will feel much pride in his son when he hears of his deeds this winter.”