Thomas had just finished gathering most of the items he needed to make the hobbyhorse. The tree limb for the body was straight and sturdy enough to survive almost anything an energetic boy would do to it. The rough cloth for the head would take a good dye for the requested dark color, and he could make the eyes and ears from small bits of cloth or leather. Surely someone would give him a few old but clean rags for stuffing the head.
One of the maids had gladly donated some ragged yarn for the mane, blushing quite prettily as she brushed her hand against his. His flesh had remained quiescent despite the feathery touch, and he had blessed her as thanks, knowing full well that she would have preferred his hand had done something else for her besides making the sign of the cross. He decided he’d ask Robert for those last bits he lacked. He had no wish to encourage the willing maid.
Now that the boy was on the mend and he had time to himself, Thomas felt a profound fatigue from his nights with little rest. Giving up sleep for the care of the little lad he had done with joy, but, when he did retreat to his bed, any deep slumber had been shattered by his all too frequent and terrifying dreams. In the months just after he had arrived at Tyndal, he had feared falling asleep because of them. When he did slip into unconsciousness, he’d soon find himself sitting bolt upright, sweating and whimpering like a child from the horrors they brought.
He did not remember feeling fear quite this strong when he was actually in prison and believed he might face death by burning because some zealous bishop had decided to make an example of him. Yet, in his dreams, the anticipation of the jailer’s rape and the fires flicking out to lick at his feet were more than he could bear. Those dreams came less often now, but Giles would still appear in them, on occasion, to mock the love Thomas had borne him. In ways, those were the worst dreams of all.
He set his materials down on a stair and leaned against the stone wall. The cold felt good against his throbbing forehead. He knew he should go back to the room he shared with Father Anselm and sleep. No one needed his services and it would be good to rest, if he could. He sighed and looked out the narrow window of the stairwell into the inner ward. The sunlight was becoming weaker as the day went on. Snow was coming. Thomas wondered how soon it would be before this fragile light shattered into a myriad of white flakes.
Down in the ward, he noticed two women and a man walking. From her colorful clothes that stood out even in the misty light below, he knew one of the women was Sir Geoffrey’s wife. She was walking at a discreet distance behind the couple. Thomas squinted to sharpen his sight. Surely the second woman was the Lady Juliana. Besides Lady Isabelle, she was the only woman of rank he knew to be in residence who did not wear a habit. If it was, then the man beside Juliana must be Robert.
Aye, he decided as he focused on him, that black hair and short stature would suggest that the man was his prioress’ brother. As he watched Robert woo his lady, the monk chuckled with gentle amusement. A man of honor, Robert was. Even though they were out walking in public, he made sure they were properly attended.
Suddenly, the threesome stopped and looked back. Thomas was too far away to distinguish words, but he did hear shouting and watched the party below wait as another man ran up to them.
It was the Lord Henry, Thomas concluded, or at least the man had the same round face and was dressed as Henry had been after the hunt. Considering the encounter between stepson and stepmother earlier, this could not be a happy meeting. Perhaps the stepson now wished to beg pardon for his recent behavior? Thomas rather doubted it.
The monk watched Henry walk over to the Lady Isabelle, put his arm around her waist and, once again, pull her to him. As Thomas bent forward into the window opening, he saw Juliana quickly bend down to pick something up from the ground, then start toward them. Robert pulled her back, leaning over to say a word in her ear. Then he pointed at Henry, his voice raising enough for the monk to hear the anger if not his words.
Isabelle twisted in Henry’s arms and pushed at him. Instead of releasing her, the young man rubbed his cheek against hers. She drew back and pushed again. He laughed, the sound of his harsh merriment rising easily in the cold air to the window where Thomas stood.
Robert abruptly left Juliana’s side. Henry continued to laugh as Robert walked toward him, one hand on his dagger hilt.
Henry pushed his stepmother away and drew a knife. Robert pulled his dagger from its sheath, and the two men began to circle each other.
Juliana shouted as she ran to her stepmother’s side, gesturing at something behind them. The men both stopped and looked where she was pointing.
As Thomas looked in the direction Juliana was indicating, he saw Baron Adam striding toward them as quickly as his bad leg would allow. In his hand was a sword and just behind him were several soldiers.
“Drop those weapons or I will have both of you put in chains,” he shouted.
The baron was the only one whose words he could hear from that distance. Now that was a voice trained in battle, Thomas thought with admiration.
Both Robert and Henry sheathed their knives.
Henry bowed as he said something to the baron, then walked away.
When Robert turned to the Lady Isabelle, she reached out for his hand and pressed it to her breast. As he jerked his hand from her grasp, she laughed. The sound was so harsh that Thomas’ ears ached more from that than from the cold.