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face from the window where I stood. For an instant, he was joyful, then understood he was falling to his death. He screamed for help. I reached out. Leonel dragged me back, fearing I would leap after my boy. The last thing I remember is Gervase’s horrible shriek…”
    Margaret grasped the prioress’ hands with a painful grip.
    Pulling the woman into her arms, Eleanor whispered words of comfort she knew were not heard. Perhaps it mattered not what she said as long as the sound of her voice silenced the memory of the son’s howl as he plummeted downward, knowing his body must shatter on the unyielding earth below.
    “He did not mean it! He did not,” Margaret cried out.
    Surely Gervase did not intend to kill himself, Eleanor thought, but there was something wrong about what had happened. If the young man did not make a habit of drinking too much, why had he chosen this time to get drunk? She knew that mothers were often willfully unaware of their sons’ vices. Perhaps the lady suffered this loving blindness. It was a question best answered by someone else who knew the habits of these family members and owned a clearer eye.
    In any case, too much wine might cause men to do foolish things, but rarely did it make a man believe he had been gifted with impossible flight. And what oath had the son sworn? Was that pertinent to his actions or were his words meaningless babble? There were too many oddities for her to set aside. Eleanor grew increasingly puzzled.
    For now, her duty lay in giving what comfort she could. Later she would speak with her brother. Perhaps he knew more that would settle her uneasy questions. Barring that, the baron’s plea for help might contain a detail that would explain why this family had been so burdened with this much tragedy.

Chapter Six
    Thomas walked out of the corridor’s grey light and down a step into the small family chapel located on the floor above the Great Hall.
    As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, shapes slowly formed. He sought the one owned by a frightened son but saw no one at all. The only sound came from the wind whistling through the tiny barred window high in the stone wall.
    How odd, he thought, looking around this place dedicated to God’s worship. The baron’s family had been long graced by God with wealth, yet the altar was made of grey stones, little different from those forming the walls of the castle and not even more finely chiseled. The thick beams in the low ceiling lacked any carving or painted images. The floor was laid with wood, roughly hewn. Only the cross on the altar suggested a donor who wished to share his worldly fortune with God. The bright gold glittered in the thin shaft of dim light.
    This austerity seemed at odds with a man whose actions suggested a rigorous faith. Baron Herbert had not only felt compelled to take the cross but unlike many of his rank, also promptly honored the vow and spent several years in Outremer. Yet this chapel resembled a monk’s cell in its plainness. Men of fewer means or even less faith filled God’s house with greater riches than he had done.
    Thomas frowned, then reminded himself that he had not come to find fault with decoration but to seek the baron’s son. Peering around again at the chapel, he saw no alcoves or hidden corners. There seemed no place for a man to hide. Perhaps the heir had recovered his courage and rejoined the family in their quarters.
    Someone sneezed.
    Thomas saw movement in a small gap between altar and wall. “I accompanied Sir Hugh of Wynethorpe, a friend of Baron Herbert,” he said, “and reside at Tyndal Priory where I serve Prioress Eleanor and God.”
    There was no response.
    Thomas waited.
    “Prove you are no imp.”
    The monk brushed back his hood and raised both hands, his open palms facing the cross. “If you can see me, you will observe that I own neither horns nor hooves.” That he could honestly claim. In his opinion, there were men with tonsures and soft hands who served