Tyrant of the Mind

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.”

“She sent for you?”

“No. Richard calmed, and, when she felt his brow, it was cool to the touch. She concluded he had awakened from bad dreams and sang him soothing songs. By the time she began to wonder why he had neither moved nor spoken, I had been fetched to see how Father Anselm fared. When she heard my voice in the corridor, she begged me to examine Richard as well.”

“Are you saying that a plague of some sort has invaded Wynethorpe Castle? Is Anselm ill too? We had met in the stairwell just before he came to see Richard. He told me that he was going to the chapel afterward.” Thomas chuckled nervously. “Tell me instead that he did catch a mild chill from too much kneeling on the chapel floor.”

“Laugh not, brother. Father Anselm is unconscious and I fear for his life. There is no strange sickness here, unless Death may be called such. As our prioress was returning from the chapel, she found him lying in the snow near the entrance to the stairwell leading to this corridor. Perhaps he slipped on the narrow stairs and fell, but, whatever the cause, he has suffered a grievous head wound. Had it not been for our prioress, he would surely have frozen to death. He may yet die of the wound.”

“May God forgive me! The man may be an odorous pest, but he is a good man at heart and I wish no evil on him.” Thomas fell silent for a moment. “You say he was found outside the stairwell. In the ward?”

Anne nodded.

“There were no witnesses?”

“None that we know about.”

“After I left him, I went to the dining hall for some supper. Not long after I got there, the baron arrived. We spoke of plans for the morrow to go over the statements made. Now that I think on it, I did see the nurse. She came into the hall and skulked along the wall so Baron Adam would not see her. His back was to her and I said nothing about her appearance. Our prioress must have been in the chapel.” Thomas was counting people off on his fingers. “That would leave Anselm and Richard in the living quarters. Do we know where Sir Geoffrey and his wife were?”

“Our lady did mention seeing Sir Geoffrey in the chapel. His wife may have been in her chambers, although I fear she might not have heard much. It seems she has been spending much time with a pitcher of good wine for company.”

“A strange way to grieve over a man who had raped her.”

“Unless it is no grief at all but the violent act of murder which has so unsettled her humors.”

“We’d be wise to leave the questioning of that lady to our prioress for she knows her better than we.” Thomas frowned. “I do find the accident strange, however. The stairwell is a narrow one.” He looked up at Anne. “Has anyone found the reason for his fall? Was there something on the stairs to cause him to slip or trip?”

“No one has said so, nor, do I believe, has anyone yet looked. What are you thinking, brother?”

“If he slipped, he might well have hit his head, but he would not have fallen far. The stairwell is too narrow and the twists too sharp. If the accident happened just at the first curve, he might have fallen to the stairwell entrance but not into the open ward. If he fell further up toward the living quarters, he would have been found still in the stairwell or quite dead from the fall to the stones below. Either way, it would have been impossible for him to have fallen into the ward.”

“Nor could he have crawled with the wound I saw.”

“Has he been conscious? Did he speak at all of this accident?”

“Despite my best efforts, he has been unconscious from the moment of his discovery. As to details, there are few. Considering the amount and freshness of the blood flowing from his head, I would say that our prioress must have stumbled upon him not long after he fell. Those are the details.”

“You say you fear for his life? What is the nature of his head wound?”

“I fear that his skull has been fractured. We have treated the external injuries as best we can, but a binding of yarrow with a wine cleansing has its limitations. I am not skilled at surgery, brother, but I know how difficult it is to determine the extent of such a wound. I looked for fragments of broken skull but found none. At least the cold did help keep the swelling down, but I cannot judge whether there is pressure on his brain from the injury. I fear this could be fatal, but we must leave it to God’s mercy. Father Anselm requires our prayers.”

Thomas nodded and turned his head away from Sister Anne. As close as he had become to the sub-infirmarian of Tyndal, there were some things he could not speak to her about. One of those things was his inability to pray. “Was the head wound in front or in back?” he finally asked.

“In front. As if he had fallen forward.”

“Surely, he would have put out his hands to break his fall even before he hit his head on the stairs. Has anyone found where he injured his head? There must be blood.”

“It was dark when he was found and carried back up the stairs. As I said, I doubt anyone has looked.”

“Then perhaps we should, sister,” Thomas said as he grabbed a torch from the wall and hurried to the flight of stairs.

The stairwell was too narrow for more than one person to walk through at a time with any ease. Thomas handed Anne the torch, and she followed the monk as he slowly descended, studying the stones of the stairs and wall as he went. It did not take them long.

“Here it was. See?” Thomas had just reached the fullness of the first curve below the living quarters and pointed to the wall.

Anne turned and looked behind her. “He must have slipped at the top then, but I noted no impediment, nothing that should have caused him to fall.”

“A mouse running across his path? A rat might have startled him.” Thomas knelt, looked at the bloodstain on the wall, then studied the stairs just above and below it. “You say he lost much blood?”

“Indeed he had,” she said, kneeling to look as he moved down a step to give her room. “I believe I see where your thoughts are leading. With such a blood loss, there should be more blood here, or perhaps stains all the way down the stairs if he slipped further on after the injury.”

Thomas stood and gestured for Anne to bring the torch closer. “Look here. What do you think this is on the stones of the window?”

“Blood.”

The monk leaned over the stones and looked down into the open ward. “God must surely love this priest. Had the winds not driven the snow into a good drift against this tower, Father Anselm would have suffered more than a cracked skull.”

“You think…”

“I suspect he was pushed out of this window, sister. After he was shoved down the stairs.”