“ ’Tis good to see you,” Geoffrey said, pounding Jamie on the back.
Geoffrey was a big, barrel-chested young man who would have been mistaken for a warrior, save for his tonsured hair and habit.
“What shall I call you now?” Jamie asked. “Brother Geoffrey?”
“That will do,” Geoffrey said with a broad smile. “I have my prior’s permission to accompany you to your uncle’s, since he is an important benefactor of our abbey. But first, I thought you would want to see where your father spent much of his life.”
“Do not call him my father,” Jamie said.
“Brother Richard, then,” Geoffrey said, ever the peace maker.
“Visitors are not permitted in the dormitory or the chapter house, but I can show you the church and grounds.”
The abbey was situated in a lovely spot next to a river bordered by giant yew trees. Despite its beauty, impatience tugged at Jamie as Geoffrey led him behind the kitchens to show him the gardens.
Geoffrey stopped before a desolate piece of ground no more than twenty feet by ten. “Brother Richard spent most of his time tending this herb garden, when he was not in prayer.”
Jamie stared at the small plot tucked between the kitchen block and the ditch that carried water from the river into the abbey.
After a long silence, Geoffrey said, “There is not much growing now, but you should see it in high summer.”
“This is where he spent his days? For more than twenty years?” Jamie was appalled. In the name of heaven, the man was once a knight.
“I understand he took care of the goats during his first years here,” Geoffrey said. “But their unpredictability distressed him.”
“Goats? Goats distressed him?” He would have accused Geoffrey of jesting, but the sympathy in his friend’s eyes stopped him short.
“I believe Brother Richard was content here,” Geoffrey said in a quiet voice.
Jamie’s gaze roved over the brown stubble of the miserable patch. Content? More like, half dead.
“Come, his brother lives a short distance from the abbey.” Geoffrey put a hand on his shoulder. “We must leave now if I’m to be back before compline.”
A tall, strongly built man with a warrior’s stance met them at the gate. “I am Charles Wheaton, lord of this castle,” the man said. “And your uncle.”
“That is yet to be seen,” Jamie said.
“You would call your mother a liar?” Wheaton said. “I’d heard better of you.”
If Geoffrey had not been so quick to grab him, Jamie would have planted his fist in the man’s face. “Take care how you speak of my mother.”
Wheaton did not turn a hair. “Calm yourself, laddie; I was not the one who called her a liar.”
“I never said she lied,” Jamie said, temper prickling at his skin. “But she could be mistaken.”
“I wanted to see you to be sure myself,” Wheaton said. “You’re a right bit more handsome, but the likeness between us is there for any fool to see.”
From the first moment, Jamie had been trying to ignore that Wheaton had the same unusual shade of blue eyes that he did. Wheaton’s hair was streaked with gray, but it must once have been as black as his.
“If you’ve forgotten what you look like, son, I can have a mirror brought out for you.”
Jamie was not amused. “I have fought in France since I was fifteen. Do not call me son. Or laddie.”
Jamie flinched as the older man put a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Since the only two people who could know the truth said it was so, you may as well accept it.”
“I do not see where it is any business of yours what I believe.”
“Come, Jamie, give the man a chance to explain,” Geoffrey said. “Let us go inside and talk over a cup of ale.”
