Page 60 of Wolfehound
“You mentioned that she could speak a little,” he said. “Was it Welsh?”
“It was not.”
Tyrus looked at the woman as if she’d just said something quite puzzling, because to him, she had. A Welsh child speaking, but not speaking in her native tongue?
The mystery deepened.
“Bring her to me,” he said quietly. “Let me assess her condition for myself.”
That wasn’t an unusual request when it came to Wentliane. There had been men sent from the king in the past to see to her welfare because of who she was, but this was the first time the Archbishop of Canterbury had sent someone. The mother prioress stood up from the table and went to the door again, the one she’d used before. After a few moments, she called to someone outside and waved them over.
Wentliane returned.
She came back in again, both concerned and reluctant, once again wiping her hands on her dirty apron. It was covered with dirt, clear evidence that the woman had been working in the gardens, and she sat down across from Tyrus when the mother prioress told her to.
Anxiously, she faced him.
“I am Sir Tyrus,” he began calmly. “I have been sent by the Archbishop of Canterbury. His grace wishes to ensure you are in good health and require nothing to make your stay here more comfortable.”
Wentliane was confused, uncomfortable. She looked to the mother prioress as if unwilling to answer a simple question. The mother prioress had to encourage her with a nod of the head, and even then, Wentliane didn’t seem to quite understand what was required of her, as if the mere presence of the knight, aman, was turning her world on its end. It was clear that she’d not been educated in the art of social graces, of any kind, because she looked like a cornered animal.
“Why… why should the archbishop ask about me?” she said, her voice trembling. “I do not know him.”
Tyrus sat forward, his forearms on the tabletop. “Because of your heritage,” he said. “You are the Welsh princess and he is concerned for your well-being.”
That seemed to startle her. She looked at the mother prioress again, distressed, but the old woman put a hand on her shoulder to ease her.
“All is well, Wentliane,” she said quietly. “You may answer his questions.”
Wentliane’s breathing began to grow more rapid as fear set in. “I am well,” she said. “I work and I pray and I do as God wishes.”
Tyrus nodded. “That is good,” he said. “But you do know that you are different from the other nuns because of your background.”
Wentliane blinked at him. That was her response. She was so frightened that she could hardly do anything else. Tyrus could see that, but rather than show compassion, which he could not, he had to try a tactic to calm the woman down purely because he would get nothing out of her if she didn’t.
And he had questions.
“Wentliane,” he said, softening his speech. “May I call you Wentliane? Or should I address you as sister?”
“Wentliane will do,” the mother prioress said.
Tyrus nodded his thanks and continued. “Youdounderstand where you were born, do you not?”
Wentliane just sat there, looking at him fearfully. “May I return to my duties, please?” she said, the trembling in her voice worsening. “I am preparing vegetables for tonight’s meal. I must return.”
“And you shall,” Tyrus said. “But there are questions I must ask you before I go. The sooner you answer them, the sooner youmay return. Crying and distress will not force me to relent, so you would do better to obey me. Do you understand?”
That only made her more afraid, but she nodded quickly, her eyes wide. “I… I understand,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand and smearing dirt on her cheek. “But I do not understand why you are here.”
“I am here to see to your welfare,” Tyrus said, although he’d already told her that. “You are a woman of royal blood, a cousin to the king, and there is concern for your health.”
Wentliane took a couple of deep breaths, struggling to calm herself. If she answered his questions, she could go. He’d said so.
“What do you want to know?” she asked. “I am well. I have been well.”
“Good,” Tyrus said. “Tell me what you remember from the time when you came to Sempringham. What is your earliest memory?”
He shifted the subject, but he’d done it for a reason. This woman didn’t match the description he’d been given, so he wanted to know what she remembered, if she could even possibly remember, given how young she was. Realizing that, he shifted his attention to the mother prioress.
