Hywel’s friendship with the Wynethorpe heir, that Thomas knew nothing about. Perhaps Hywel had become a favored riding attendant over the years whenever Sir Geoffrey visited Wynethorpe Castle and that is why he had reacted with such fury. But to curse his son so, then kick him in the balls?
The monk shook his head. Even if the Welshman had been a special companion of the knight and his death had been caused by some petty act by Henry, surely that would not have been enough to generate such a curse nor such a strange scene between father and son. Nay, there must be some grave rift between Sir Geoffrey and Lord Henry, something that cut deeper than the understandable irritation felt by a father when an elder son showed defiance. Indeed, most fathers would not kick their sons in the balls just because the son was being churlish, any more than most sons would choose to assault their stepmothers to show their independence of a father.
Even the seemingly good Robert had countenanced Sir Geoffrey’s act, however, and that disturbed Thomas. What about the raw display of animosity that Robert had shown toward Henry? What had the man done to Robert that he would smile so on his pain and humiliation? Of course, the dead Welshman had been a valued servant to the Baron Adam as well as a companion to Robert’s elder brother. Had this been sufficient reason or was there a deeper cause? Surely, if this had been an accident, no matter how careless the act that produced it, it would have given birth to grief, but not such venom.
Nor did his prioress’ brother seem the sort to take petty childhood quarrels into manhood. Indeed, he had expressed a desire to be fair about his dislike of Henry. Had something else occurred more recently between the two, or did Robert have reason to believe Hywel’s death had not been an accident?
Thomas shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered, “I am but a guest here and none of this is my concern.” Although his curiosity was kindled, he decided that whatever lay behind the events of the morning was best left to those involved as he was not.
Thus he dismissed the incident as he approached the young Richard’s sick room and turned his wandering thoughts back to happier things. He could hardly wait to tell the boy about the hobbyhorse he was going to make him. So eager was Thomas to the task that he did not notice the rising color on the cheeks of the nurse as he brushed past her at the door.
***
“Uncle Thomas!” Richard cried out in joy when the monk entered the room.
Thomas felt tears of relief sting his eyes as he looked down at the boy’s broad smile, but he willed himself to frown with reasonable solemnity. “Not
Uncle
, but
Brother
,” he corrected, sitting with care on the thick, feather-stuffed mattress and taking the small hand in his. Richard’s face might be thin, but his cheeks had already regained a healthier shade of pink and his blue eyes sparkled with returning energy.
“You are not my brother, are you?” the boy asked with the most perplexed frown a six-year-old could muster.
“No, but…”
“Then
uncle
you are.” Sister Anne put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder and squeezed gently. He took the hint and fell silent. “When fathers are off to war,” she continued, “uncles must set their nephews tests of bravery such as the drinking of bitter draughts. Brothers do not have the age or authority.” She moved toward the bed and stroked Richard’s dark blond hair, a gesture that made the boy blush with embarrassment.
“Aye, that we do,” Thomas said, knowing that he was soon going to lose the battle to keep his expression stern. “Have you followed Sir Gawain’s example and taken the bitter drink like a good and faithful knight?”
Richard nodded enthusiastically.
Thomas glanced sideways at Sister Anne, who nodded ever so slightly in concurrence. “Then you shall be rewarded,” he said, pretending to then fall into deep thought for an appropriate length of time.
The monk shook his head. Even if the Welshman had been a special companion of the knight and his death had been caused by some petty act by Henry, surely that would not have been enough to generate such a curse nor such a strange scene between father and son. Nay, there must be some grave rift between Sir Geoffrey and Lord Henry, something that cut deeper than the understandable irritation felt by a father when an elder son showed defiance. Indeed, most fathers would not kick their sons in the balls just because the son was being churlish, any more than most sons would choose to assault their stepmothers to show their independence of a father.
Even the seemingly good Robert had countenanced Sir Geoffrey’s act, however, and that disturbed Thomas. What about the raw display of animosity that Robert had shown toward Henry? What had the man done to Robert that he would smile so on his pain and humiliation? Of course, the dead Welshman had been a valued servant to the Baron Adam as well as a companion to Robert’s elder brother. Had this been sufficient reason or was there a deeper cause? Surely, if this had been an accident, no matter how careless the act that produced it, it would have given birth to grief, but not such venom.
Nor did his prioress’ brother seem the sort to take petty childhood quarrels into manhood. Indeed, he had expressed a desire to be fair about his dislike of Henry. Had something else occurred more recently between the two, or did Robert have reason to believe Hywel’s death had not been an accident?
Thomas shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered, “I am but a guest here and none of this is my concern.” Although his curiosity was kindled, he decided that whatever lay behind the events of the morning was best left to those involved as he was not.
Thus he dismissed the incident as he approached the young Richard’s sick room and turned his wandering thoughts back to happier things. He could hardly wait to tell the boy about the hobbyhorse he was going to make him. So eager was Thomas to the task that he did not notice the rising color on the cheeks of the nurse as he brushed past her at the door.
***
“Uncle Thomas!” Richard cried out in joy when the monk entered the room.
Thomas felt tears of relief sting his eyes as he looked down at the boy’s broad smile, but he willed himself to frown with reasonable solemnity. “Not
Uncle
, but
Brother
,” he corrected, sitting with care on the thick, feather-stuffed mattress and taking the small hand in his. Richard’s face might be thin, but his cheeks had already regained a healthier shade of pink and his blue eyes sparkled with returning energy.
“You are not my brother, are you?” the boy asked with the most perplexed frown a six-year-old could muster.
“No, but…”
“Then
uncle
you are.” Sister Anne put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder and squeezed gently. He took the hint and fell silent. “When fathers are off to war,” she continued, “uncles must set their nephews tests of bravery such as the drinking of bitter draughts. Brothers do not have the age or authority.” She moved toward the bed and stroked Richard’s dark blond hair, a gesture that made the boy blush with embarrassment.
“Aye, that we do,” Thomas said, knowing that he was soon going to lose the battle to keep his expression stern. “Have you followed Sir Gawain’s example and taken the bitter drink like a good and faithful knight?”
Richard nodded enthusiastically.
Thomas glanced sideways at Sister Anne, who nodded ever so slightly in concurrence. “Then you shall be rewarded,” he said, pretending to then fall into deep thought for an appropriate length of time.
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