Free Tyrant of the Mind by Priscilla Royal Page B

She would even take Sir Geoffrey’s opinions into account with as little partiality as she was able, but she had also heard the ring of true coin in Juliana’s plea, and that she would honor as well.
    As to the other things she had just heard, she had been amused as her father so firmly expressed approval of the marriage between his friend and ward, an approval she knew he most certainly did not feel. Nor was Sir Geoffrey’s current marriage the joyous one he tried to portray just now, at least according to the baron. Her father must have choked to hear the Lady Isabelle described as a woman of generous heart and softness, yet she had not seen even the barest flicker of an eyelid to betray his thoughts. From his days in the king’s court, her father had indeed become quite skilled in diplomatic thrust and parry. She could learn much from him if he were willing to teach her.
    Eleanor glanced up. Her father and Sir Geoffrey were now bending over the table, drawing imaginary maps with their fingers on the wood and lost in tales of old battles. Both seemed to have regained their youth in the telling, and the love born of much shared pain and joy over the years was so evident between them.
    She looked at Sir Geoffrey and now saw remnants of the person she had known many years ago before his first wife died. She could not forget that he had once been a kinder man, one who would never speak with the harshness she had heard today. Nor would she ever forget that it was he who had saved her father’s life after the Montfortians had pulled the baron, weakened from a deep thigh wound, from his horse. Had Sir Geoffrey not risked his own life to do so, she would be praying at her father’s tomb this day, not arguing with him, a man she honored and loved, stubborn mule that he often was.
    She took a deep breath and rose quietly to leave the old friends alone. Even if Juliana had convinced her beyond any doubt of the sincerity of her calling, Eleanor would win no arguments on her behalf this day.

Chapter Ten
    Thomas’ midday dining companions were less than congenial. On one side was the sulky and silent Lord Henry. On the other was Father Anselm, a priest of middling intellect but much higher odor. The company of a fellow religious was to be expected, of course. To be seated next to the Lavenham heir-apparent was intended as a compliment, and Thomas had mentally marked the honor with due gratitude. After five minutes between the two, however, Thomas was tempted to renounce both his vocation and the honor to seek a bench well below the salt.
    “You eat meat, do you?” the good priest asked. His breath, heavily scented with a rotting sweetness from decomposed teeth, was even more fetid than the sour stench of his unwashed underlinen that enveloped flanking diners every time the priest shifted position.
    Thomas looked at the dark slices of roasted boar meat on the platter in front of him. Due to Tyndal’s reduced revenues during this first winter after his arrival, meat at any meal had been such a rarity that Thomas had almost lost the taste for it. Out of courtesy to his host, however, he had allowed the servant to put some ginger, wine, and garlic sauce on his trencher and had then accepted a small portion of the meat. What little desire he might have had for more had been destroyed by sitting next to the aromatic priest.
    As he looked into the priest’s tiny, close-set eyes, an irresistible impishness suddenly overtook Thomas. He reached out with his knife to stab a thick portion of the boar and, with an exaggerated grunt of pleasure, plopped the bloody slab onto his trencher, then turned and smiled at the priest.
    The priest pursed his lips but was otherwise unfazed. “Heats the blood, you know,” he said, nodding at the fragrant meat in front of Thomas.
    Thomas was not to be outdone. He gestured at the goblet Father Anselm clutched to his narrow chest. “So does wine, I’m told.”
    The priest sniffed in contempt. “Our