Tyrant of the Mind

Chapter Thirty-One

Bright dots of red splotched Sir Geoffrey’s cheeks, a macabre contrast to the almost luminous pallor of the rest of his face. Sitting next to his bed on a stool was Isabelle. Juliana stood just behind her stepmother, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder. Behind the baron was Anne. Eleanor stood to one side of her father. They all faced the knight.

“I know how you love your grandson, Adam, but the boy lies.” Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed in anger as he looked at his old friend.

Adam now flushed an angry color. “After all these years, you must surely know that indulgence in blind emotion has never been one of my flaws. Nor have I become such an old fool that I cannot see the flaws in those I love. It was I who assumed Robert’s guilt in your attack.”

“It was I who said he could not have done it. I have always believed in your son’s innocence, but your grandson is a child with a child’s imagination. Perhaps he did not mean to lie. Perhaps he believes he saw something he only made up. Or perhaps he saw someone he did not know and thought he had seen me.”

“I will not argue with you, my friend. Let us go on to what is most important here. Who did this deed to you?”

“I do not know.”

“You were stabbed in the chest, not from behind. You must have seen who did it.”

“It happened so quickly, Adam! I was walking behind the stables where I could find some solitude, deep in thought about the plight of your good son, when I heard a sound. I looked up. I saw something move toward me from the shadows. There was little light, as surely you noted yourself. Before I could react, I felt the pain and remember nothing more. If my son had enemies, they were not mine. Why should I fear an attack on me at Wynethorpe Castle? I was surprised, ambushed as we would have said in the old days when we were comrades-in-arms.” Sir Geoffrey smiled weakly but with fondness at Adam. “I never saw the face or even the figure of the man who did it.”

There was a knock at the wooden door. Sister Anne went to open it and Thomas entered the room. He whispered something in her ear and she beckoned to Eleanor.

Adam turned and looked angrily at the three. “What is it? I will have no whispering here!”

Eleanor’s hand fluttered to her heart. “My lord, perhaps we have good reason…” Her voice was as tremulous as her gesture.

“Silence, child! This is my domain, and, as I breathe, I am the lord and master here. What means this mumbling?”

Eleanor bowed her head in meek obedience. “My lord, Father Anselm has just awakened. It seems he has recovered wits, speech, and his memory.”

“That is good news!” Adam said, looking down at Geoffrey. “Perhaps he can give us a clue to the monster who is attacking good people at Wynethorpe.”

Eleanor nodded to Thomas, who stepped forward. “That he can, my lord,” he said.

Geoffrey looked quickly at his wife, his dark eyes widening.

“He saw who pushed him?” Adam asked.

“More than that.” Thomas shifted nervously and looked down at his feet.

“Out with it, man! This is no time for monkish meekness. Who?” Adam shouted.

Thomas coughed and looked sheepishly at Eleanor.

“Speak, brother. You have my permission,” she replied, her lips set in a grim line.

“He did not see who pushed him, but he did see who murdered Henry.”

Adam strode over to Thomas, put his hands on the monk’s shoulders and shook him. “Who, monk? Who killed Henry?”

“My lord, I hesitate to say.”

“Must I lock you up? Perhaps a few days in the dark of the keep will speed your decision to speak…”

“Father!”

Thomas paled. “There is no need, my lord. Father Anselm was at the chamber door of the murderer when he was attacked. The person who killed Henry was the Lady Isabelle.”

***

Isabelle’s scream rent the air.

Sir Geoffrey, his mouth open in silent horror, reached out to grasp his wife’s hand, then fell back, groaning in agony from his wound.

The Lady Isabelle stood, one hand shaking as she extended it in supplication. With the other, she clutched the fabric of her dress over her heart. “My lords…” she began in a whisper, looking in terror first at her husband, then at Adam, and then at Eleanor.

Juliana stepped forward. As she did so, she turned and caressed her stepmother’s face, tucking a loose strand of fair hair back under her wimple. “Hush, my lady,” she said in a soft voice. “You have nothing to fear.” She looked around at the staring eyes of the assembled group. “Innocent people must no longer suffer from the terrors of this mystery. I had hoped Robert would be found innocent of Henry’s murder. After the attack on Father Anselm, I thought he would be released for he could not have done such a thing from his prison cell. Then I hoped the attack on my father would gain the good man’s freedom at last. Indeed, Robert should not have suffered but for the accident of finding my brother’s corpse, and I never would have allowed him to die for something he did not do.”

Sir Geoffrey, coughing in pain, turned to stare at his daughter. “You could not know who did these deeds, my daughter. Be careful whom you accuse in your ignorance.” His voice was weak, his words hesitant.

“I speak from knowledge, my lord,” she replied. There was a calm confidence in her voice and countenance.

Time seemed to slow as Eleanor found herself thinking that the woman she was watching had the serenity of a saint and could not be the mortal Juliana she had known years ago. “Who did it?” she asked at last, her own voice rough with tension.

“It was I.”