Tyrant of the Mind

Chapter Eleven

Thomas could not sleep. Eating with Father Anselm was distasteful enough but sharing quarters with the man was more than Thomas could take, now that he need not spend his nights in Richard’s chambers. Indeed, he had grown accustomed to some seclusion at Tyndal, where each monk had a small but separate place to sleep, but such lack of privacy here was the least of his problems. Father Anselm was not only foul-smelling, he snored, and, to make Thomas feel further cursed, the priest was a light sleeper.

“Going to the chapel to pray, brother?” Anselm’s head popped up the instant Thomas’ feet touched the rush-covered floor. “I’ll join you.”

Thomas rubbed his hand across his aching eyes in frustration. “Sleep on, good priest. My eyes will not close and I hoped to walk by myself in quiet contemplation until they became heavy again.”

Anselm was already standing and adjusting the cowl of his robe around his neck. “Lonely contemplation for a meat-eating man is dangerous. It might lead to sinful thoughts and…” he gestured in the direction of Thomas’ crotch, “solitary abuse. You need the discipline of company.” The minor adjustment of his attire completed, he reached over and grabbed Thomas by the arm with greater strength than such a spare frame would suggest he possessed. “Together, let us go to the chapel and pray!”

Thomas was too tired to argue further nor did he care to explain to Anselm the reasons he rarely suffered from the sin of Onan. “Very well,” he sighed and wearily headed for the door.

At least the priest chose not to speak on the way down the dimly lit passage to the stairs that led to the inner ward. Foul though it might be, only his breath whitened the darkness as they rounded the outside wall of the great hall to the chapel entrance. For this lack of talkativeness, Thomas raised his eyes heavenward in silent gratitude.

Later, after they had each slid to their knees, Thomas found himself admiring Anselm’s ability to ignore the freezing stone floor. He might find the body of his companion thoroughly repellent, but, as the castle priest plunged into a prayer as lengthy and ardent as a lover’s plea, he felt a brief twinge of jealousy. This man might actually have had a calling to his vocation. Thomas had not come willingly to the priesthood.

As he felt the chill of the floor seep through his woolen robe to numb his knees, he looked up at the carving of the twisted body of Jesus on the cross. The moving shadows from the flickering candles blackened the hollows between the jagged ribs but hid whatever expression the artist had carved upon the face. Thomas knew that there would be no individuality of features. They were irrelevant. The artist’s sole focus would be the message of the Crucifixion. Indeed, Thomas did not need to see the face. Both agony and hope would be there. That he knew. The pain was understandable, the hope expected, but surely there would have been a hint of gratitude as well, indeed a joy that it would all soon be over? He thought so. After all, hadn’t Thomas once looked upon death with some sense of eager anticipation?

He shivered, but the cause was not the icy floor. In a flash of memory, he was back in prison. He stifled a cry as he once again felt powerless, bound and naked, while the jailer, grunting like a pig in rut, clawed his buttocks apart and raped him on the rotting filth of that jail floor. Thomas bit into his lip to chase the image away, but the metallic taste only reminded him of the blood trickling between his legs after the jailer had left him.

Heresy or not, Thomas found himself wondering if the jailers had raped Jesus too. The Gospels had said naught of such a thing, recording only the beating and the crown of thorns. Indeed, had a rape occurred, he knew no one would have spoken of it.

When one man raped another, it might be the ultimate humiliation for the victim, yet it tainted the rapist as well. Such feats were not bragged about in taverns or even confessed in secret, except on a deathbed with the red maw of Hell opening before a man’s failing eyes. Nevertheless, Jesus might have been raped. After all, such an act of degradation could well have been deemed proper for a man who preached love in a time when others were fomenting rebellion and war.

Thomas shook the thought from his mind. Heresy indeed! He looked upward. No bolt of lightning had struck him for the thought, however, nor could he feel any honest guilt at his wondering. In the icy silence of that chapel, the only thing Thomas could feel was a kinship with the man on the cross. If he could not offer God a true calling to the priesthood, he could bring compassion born of torment for those who suffered. Perhaps God would be willing to tolerate that until a deeper faith took its place?

The rough stone was cutting into his knees and he shifted backward to sit on his heels. Father Anselm was so deep in prayer he did not notice. Thomas admired the man’s ability to concentrate so. When Thomas had first arrived at Tyndal, he had been unable to pray at all. Even now, he could not approach God with the submissive speech of a good vassal to his liege lord. Instead, he had begun talking to God as if He had been a boon companion, a respected one, and spoke of his day, his doubts and his problems. No burst of flame had shattered the East Anglian sky to fry his body and hurl his soul into Hell. If such presumption was another instance of heresy, God was being quite tolerant of him, Thomas thought, but he did feel some envy over the pure faith of men like Anselm.

Or women like the one he now noticed in the shadows some distance from him. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. Or were there two figures in the darkness, one an indistinct double of the other? He blinked and one seemed to fade. Surely his tired eyes were playing a game with him, he decided.

The figure he could see with more clarity was slight and the length of the robe, sufficient to drape over the feet, suggested a feminine style. It must be a woman. Perhaps it was the Lady Isabelle, or more likely the Lady Juliana. The former seemed a woman more attached to the delights of the here and now, the latter more likely to long for the joys of the hereafter. Thomas shook his head. Robert’s designated beloved was indeed a somber one.

He knew it could not be either Sister Anne or his prioress. The former was too tall, the latter was too short, and he was sure either or both were with Richard. The boy might be improving, but they had each told him they planned to split the watch over the lad that night when the air was more malevolent.

Ah, the lad! The thought of Richard brought some warmth back into Thomas’ soul. Marriage and any legitimate issue had always been out of the question for Thomas. As a by-blow, albeit of an earl, he had had a comfortable enough home as a child but no hope of title, and, since he had not been his father’s only son born on the wrong side of the blanket, he had had little chance of land. His father might have provided him with a good horse and armor if he had asked, but the life of a mercenary or landless knight, pillaging and jousting for his dinner, had never appealed. At the time he had doubted his father’s wisdom, but now he knew that his best hope of a comfortable future had been that of a clerk in minor orders.

Like most of his fellow clerks, Thomas had enjoyed the favors of many women before he fell into the priesthood, but he had never desired to father a child, especially one out of wedlock. With no family to whom he could have taken such progeny for proper care, he had tried to avoid joining his seed with a woman’s. Still, there had never been even a hint of any issue of his own even though he had not always been sober enough to remember to withdraw in time.

Despite all that, he had taken one look at the sick little child of his prioress’ eldest brother and immediately loved him as if he had sprung from his own loins. He might not understand why, but love the boy as a son he did and he warmed with the thought of how the lad’s eyes would brighten when he saw the hobbyhorse.

Tomorrow I will get the remaining leather, cloth, and rags to finish the horse’s head, he thought. Richard must have his toy soon or he will be reluctant to take that bitter medicine. He quite understood. He’d hate taking the vile stuff too.

“God is gracious!”

The words startled Thomas and he shot back to his knees.

“You are smiling,” the priest said with an explosion of rotting breath. “God must have given you the peace you prayed for.”

“Aye, that He did, priest. Now we may return in tranquility to our beds.” Thomas wasn’t sure his eyes would stay closed even now, but perhaps his companion would fall into the deep sleep that avoided him and he could eventually slip away in peace from their shared room.

Anselm rose from his knees as quickly as a youth. Thomas took a little longer. His legs were numb. As he rubbed his shins and calves to bring some feeling back, he glanced in the direction of the shadowy woman he had seen before. She was no longer there. Either she had moved deeper into a more private gloom when she heard Anselm’s voice or she had left the chapel entirely. He shook his head. Perhaps he had only imagined her just as he had imagined her twin. Then he nodded to the patiently waiting priest and the two men walked in silence out of the chapel.

***

The air was sharp but heavy with snow. Anselm was as silent as he had been on the journey to the chapel, but Thomas was sure he saw a smile on the man’s lips. He shut his eyes briefly. They burned with fatigue. By the time they got back to their shared room, it would almost be time for the Night Office, something he was sure this priest would observe. Would he never get the sleep he longed for?

They had just begun the torturous climb up the stairs to the private quarters above the great hall when they heard angry voices below them in the castle ward.

“You are a murderous, lying knave!”

“Fool! Have you buried your head so long in oxen dung that your wits have rotted?”

Thomas gestured to the priest to remain where he was and slipped quietly to a narrow window. He peered down into the darkness. Just below him he could distinguish moving shadows but could see little else, even against the lighter mounds of freezing slush. Two men must be there, or so he guessed from the noise they made, but surely no more than two.

Father Anselm was at Thomas’ side in an instant, tugging fiercely at his sleeve. “We must stop them, brother,” he said. “Or else they will be killing each other!”

“Hush!” Thomas ordered, but it was too late.

“’S blood, man! Someone’s near,” one voice called out.

“Then you’ll live this hour, but more I cannot promise,” the other said. In an instant both shadows had faded into the surrounding gloom.

“We must tell the lord baron about this!” Anselm continued, now clutching Thomas’ arm so tightly it hurt.

“Who shall we say they were, priest? Did you know their voices?”

Anselm hesitated. “No. I could not say for cert. I fear I was lost in thought when we heard them.”

“Most likely they were two drunken soldiers who will forget their mutual grievances sooner than they will their aching heads on the morrow. The baron would pay no heed to such a trivial matter.”

“But a man of God must…”

“Pray, priest. We must pray for their souls that they will see their folly in the light of God’s good day.”

“You speak well, brother.”

Thomas hoped he had, for he was quite sure he had recognized the voices of both Robert and Henry in the shadows below him.