Wide-eyed and gasping for air, Thomas summoned will and strength enough to grab Hugh around the neck, immobilize him, and strike again at his groin. This time he succeeded.
Howling with pain, the knight fell to the floor.
The monk collapsed as well. Crouching on all fours, Thomas struggled to pull air back into his lungs.
Hugh cupped his genitals and moaned.
The smell of hate filled the hall like acrid smoke.
It was Hugh who first staggered to his feet.
Thomas sat back on his heels and looked up at his adversary, fully aware that he would lose any further fight. He was weak, his position vulnerable. Should the knight press his advantage, however, the monk swore he would not leave the man unscarred. After the cruel lies Hugh had flung at him, Thomas would not face defeat without making sure that the knight had permanent mementos of the monk he had attacked.
But Hugh stepped away. “Grovel to God, cokenay,” he jeered, “and thank Him that I did not cut off your balls. For the good service you have rendered my family, I shall leave you in peace unless you ever fail my sister or address one word to my son. Should you do either, remember this fair warning: I shall find you, tie you to a tree, and slowly peel your genitals as if they were apples until you beg Satan to take you home to Hell.”
Biting his tongue to keep silent, Thomas nodded. His temper cooled. Reason returned. No matter how Hugh treated him, the monk repeated to himself, the knight was still Prioress Eleanor’s brother. Owing her fealty, he must also honor her kin, even when the sibling was this man who hated him for a horrible crime Thomas had never committed.
Bowing his head, the monk hoped he could hide his agonized grief. From Hugh’s tale, profound anguish had festered in Giles, unbalancing his humors with even greater severity than Thomas endured. Were he to insist on telling the truth of what happened, his boyhood friend would suffer still greater humiliation and far more than his fragile spirit could ever bear.
Thomas had loved Giles too much and too long to cause him further distress. He had little choice but to remain silent and accept full blame. Tears, bitter with loss and outrage, stung his eyes.
Hugh strode down the corridor.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The prioress’ offer of solace to Lady Margaret was rejected without a word. Not one utterance, even of polite greeting, had the mother spoken, nor were any tears shed. The woman’s grief had passed beyond mortal expression. Lying on her bed, arms limply crossed on her chest, the lady stared without blinking at the ceiling.
Eleanor sat next to her and watched, grateful when the potion Sister Anne administered finally let the bereaved mother fall into deep sleep. As the prioress left the chambers of the baron’s wife, she prayed that God would chase away dreams as well.
All I have brought with my stratagem is unconscionable anguish, she thought. Her guilt over keeping Umfrey’s survival hidden grew bitter.
She turned around, longing to return and tell Lady Margaret that she still had two sons living. Instead, she dug her nails into her palms and forced herself back to the open windows of the corridor. The mother was sleeping, and the death of so many sons already was hard enough to bear.
The wind screeched through the opening, buffeting Eleanor as if enraged at her despicable abuse of nature. “Whatever imperfections mortals have, we were also made in God’s image,” she whispered into the grey storm. “A mother’s love for her children is part of that more perfect heritage. I know this for the Queen of Heaven exemplified it.”
She leaned forward and let the rain whip her. In the distance, she could hear the sea lash the coast and knew that the suffering she had caused Lady Margaret was no less profound that the beating the earth endured with the battering of merciless waves.
“My lady?”
The prioress stepped back and looked over her shoulder. A girl stood behind her, eyes round with terror and hands tucked into her armpits. She trembled.
Cringing at this further proof of her lack of charity, Eleanor swore penance for forgetting that she had required a young servant, in the absence of Sister Anne, to accompany her on this chilly walk through the corridors of the keep.
“You are white with the cold, child. Let us walk on.” It was one thing for her to amble along this icy corridor, protected by a long woolen cloak, but this servant, little more than a babe, was not so thankfully dressed.
“Come.” Eleanor stretched out her arm and pulled the girl close to her. “We shall leave this place and find a warm fire.”
The child tensed, fearing surrender to such ease might suggest disrespect to a religious of such high rank, but then she snuggled into the prioress, sensing that the warmth offered was padded with honest compassion.
As they walked toward the doorway leading to the Great Hall, Eleanor saw Brother Thomas leaning against the wall and staring down into the bailey below. She hesitated, wondering if she should speak with him about his meeting with the baron. Quickly deciding that her curiosity was not idle, she called out to the monk.
He started, then turned to face her. There was a deep cut under his cheekbone, and the skin beneath his left eye was swollen.
“That must hurt,” Eleanor said, glad that her evident alarm was appropriate for any prioress to express over an injury suffered by one of her charges. “Have you spoken with Sister Anne?”
“I slipped on the wet floor and fell against the stone wall. The cut is minor and does not pain me, my lady.”
His grin was sheepish enough to almost convince her that the tale was true, but she knew he was lying. When she last left them, the tension between her brother and this monk had been too evident. If blows had been exchanged, she would find a way to learn more of it.
She looked down at the burrowed child and decided she took precedence over minor quarrels between honorable men, even if neither had the right to strike the other. “Brother Thomas and I shall follow close by, child, but you must hurry to the Great Hall,” she said. “Make sure that the servants have built a fire adequate enough to warm us all. Once you have done that, we shall need some hot cider to chase away the chill. Take a cup for yourself as well.”
The girl looked up at her, blinking with uncertainty at the last remark.
“That is my command.”
Appreciation flashed across the girl’s face, and she raced off to do the bidding.
Sadness stung her heart. No child should be so grateful over such a small kindness, she thought. Eleanor shook her head and gestured for Thomas to follow her. “Can you tell me what is troubling the baron?” Her voice was soft.
He shook his head with evident reluctance.
She nodded. There were some conversations she had no right to hear.
They hurried through the hall in silence. The cold from the outside storm chased after them with fiendish zeal.
“Not all of my conversation with the baron was confided in confession, my lady,” he murmured, “but I hesitate to say much else until Master Gamel has spoken with our sub-infirmarian.”
“You may speak in confidence, Brother, and perhaps that would be the wisest choice. When you and the physician returned from Baron Herbert, and Master Gamel asked to speak with Sister Anne, I suspected that the baron might suffer an illness so severe that even an eminent medical man required a second opinion. Then and now your eyes express a rare gravity.”
“What I might say remains conjecture until Master Gamel and Sister Anne reach their conclusions.”
“Lack of knowledge has never stopped mortals from forming opinions. God hopes that some are wise enough to wait until they are taught the truth, but we are impatient creatures.” She gave Thomas a brief smile. “I confess I am one. Mindful of my ignorance, I shall treat what you can tell me with caution.”