The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491)

by Suzanne Barclay

  As Simon stared at the narrow face with its sly eyes and grim mouth, a memory stirred. “I have seen you before….”

  The villain shot up from the ground as though launched from a catapult and dashed into the trees with Simon in swift pursuit. But he was not quick enough, and the brigand obviously knew these woods, for he disappeared as though swallowed up.

  Simon gave up and stalked back to the battlefield.

  “Find him?” Nicholas asked.

  “Nay.” Simon kicked at a clump of dirt. “Bernard?”

  “Gervase thinks his leg is broken,” said Hugh. “He knows of an abbey close by and wants to take him there. I will go, too.”

  Simon nodded and stared at the woods. “I have seen that man before. At Durleigh Cathedral.”

  “Simon, do not leap to conclusions,” Nicholas said. “The bishop could not have sent this thug to kill you. He did not know we were alive, much less likely to come this way.”

  “Perhaps, but it makes me wonder what evils I will find in Durleigh,” Simon murmured.

  Rob FitzHugh kept running until he reached the little hut where he and his band had sheltered. Panting, one hand pressed to the burning wound in his shoulder, he pushed open the flimsy door and halted. “What are you doing here?”

  Jevan le Coyte rose from the stool by the hearth. The coarse clerical robe he wore emphasized his lean, lanky frame. “I need money.” His handsome features twisted with distaste. “Though from the looks of you, the raid did not prosper.”

  “Prosper!” Rob cried. Kicking the door shut, he stumbled to the hearth and drank from the flagon beside it. The sour ale eased his parched throat but did not wash away the taste of defeat. “We were routed. Everyone’s dead but me!”

  “You took no coin, then?” Jevan asked coolly.

  “Nay, what we took was steel.” Rob moved his bloody hand to display the nasty wound, but the youth who was the mastermind behind their little scheme merely shrugged. “They were knights, dammit, five of them, not helpless merchants.”

  “Five against your ten.” Jevan snorted derisively.

  “Five Knights of the Black Rose. Led by Simon of Blackstone.”

  Jevan’s jaw dropped. “He is dead.”

  “It was him…no mistaking. And he recognized me.”

  “Nay!” The usually cool Jevan shoved both hands into his silky black hair and screamed, “Not now! Not when Thurstan’s fortune is within my grasp. I will not lose. I will not.” His eyes were as wild as a mad dog’s.

  Rob backed toward the door. “What will you do?”

  “I will not lose.” Teeth set in a furious grimace, Jevan pushed past Rob and out of the hut. “Come, we’ve work to do.”

  Chapter One

  Durleigh Cathedral, May 10, 1222

  He was dying.

  The malaise of spirit he could attribute to the loss of his son. But the weakness in his limbs that grew steadily worse, the pain that had built from a grinding ache this winter to a sharp burning, these he could no longer ignore. Impossible as it seemed, given his wealth, his power and his divine connections, he, Thurstan de Lyndhurst, Bishop of Durleigh, was dying.

  “Nay.” His anguished cry of anger and denial echoed the length of his withdrawing room. It bounced off the intricately carved wooden beams, slid down the wall hangings embroidered with scenes from the Bible and was swallowed up by the thick carpet covering the floor of his second-story sanctuary.

  Fear drove him to clutch the edge of his writing table so hard the knuckles of his long, soft hands turned white. It was an emotion he had felt only once before in his one and fifty years, on the day he’d realized that the love he and the lady Rosalynd had shared would bear fruit.

  Simon. A son he could never claim. Dead now, was Simon, a bright, promising light extinguished before it had had a chance to shine. And soon Thurstan would follow the son he’d loved but had never even been allowed to hold.

  Thurstan sighed. Little as he wanted to quit this life, at least when he and Simon were reunited in the Promised Land, he could explain why he had done what he had.

  A wry smile lifted Thurstan’s lips. That was supposing he went to heaven, which was by no means a sure thing, given the sins he had committed—some in the name of profit, others in retribution. Sins nonetheless, he thought as he slowly stood and crossed to the window. The richly embroidered tunic he had donned in honor of tonight’s dinner weighed down his body as surely as Simon’s death preyed on his conscience.

  If only things could have been different.

  But it was too late to make reparation, had been since that grim day last autumn when a messenger arrived with news that Simon and the other Crusaders of Durleigh had perished.

  The sharp pain in Thurstan’s chest was not borne of his illness, but of an anguish too deep for words. He and Rosalynd had been denied a life together, but he had taken solace in providing the best for their child. Though he could never claim Simon, Thurstan had cleverly schemed to have him fostered with Lord Edmund and raised here in Durleigh at Wolfsmount Castle so he could watch Simon grow. His chest had swelled with pride when he’d officiated at Simon’s knighting ceremony, for the boy had become a man of unswerving loyalty, courage and honor.

  Heartsick, Thurstan unlatched the shutters and opened the two sections of the oiled parchment windows. Fresh damp air poured in, momentarily chasing the scent of death from his chamber. Below him lay the green bailey that surrounded the cathedral, and beyond it, the rooftops of the bustling, prosperous town of Durleigh, all of it lorded over by Wolfsmount Castle on its rocky hillside. Durleigh had been a small town when he’d come here five and twenty years ago. Now it was a center of commerce and trade to rival the great city of York to the south. Much of Durleigh’s growth had come as a result of Thurstan’s scheming and his family’s connections at court. As Durleigh had swelled with tradesmen and laborers, so had Thurstan’s coffers.

  All that gold was small comfort now. His love was lost to him, his son was dead, and he was dying.

  Thurstan sighed, his thoughts growing more morose as his gaze skimmed the roof of the apothecary. Ah, he would miss his golden-haired Linnet with her quicksilver wit and boundless zest for life. He had had plans for the young apothecary, but with Simon dead, they would never come to fruition.

  A sharp pain cramped his gut, doubling him over. When the wave of agony passed, Thurstan grabbed hold of the windowsill and straightened. What was this sickness that tormented him so? Over the years of bringing absolution to the stricken, he had seen death in many guises, but never one that weakened the victim yet brought no fever, no wasting of the flesh. Even Brother Anselme, the infirmarer, was at a loss to identify this ague, nor did any of the tonics Anselme and Linnet had concocted bring Thurstan any relief.

  This disease was like a poison invading his--

  ”Poison…” The word slipped from Thurstan’s lips with a hiss. He recalled with dawning horror the insidiousness with which this illness had crept up upon him.

  Could it be that someone was poisoning him?

  Who? And why?

  Thurstan’s narrowed gaze swept over the town he’d ruled for so long. Ruled it like a despot, his detractors whispered. But they spoke softly and behind his back, for Bishop Thurstan’s wealth and power exceeded even the dreams of the manipulative sire who had bought for him the Bishopric of Durleigh so many years ago. Was there one among his flock who chafed under a heavy penance? Or did the culprit lay closer at hand?

  Crispin Norville, Durleigh Cathedral’s archdeacon, had made no secret of the fact that he heartily disapproved of Thurstan’s methods. The cold and grimly pious archdeacon coveted the bishopric. He made a great show of contrasting his behavior with Thurstan’s, spending more time on his knees in the chapel than he did in the administration of his duties. Crispin wore coarse robes and styled himself after St. Benedictine, while Thurstan wore embroidered silk and superfine wool.

  But murder…?

  Though Crispin’s hatred was plain
to see, Thurstan had trouble casting the archdeacon in the role of murderer. Why, the man was known to flog himself every Saturday for those sins he might inadvertently have committed. Nay, not Crispin.

  Prior Walter, then? He had been a frequent visitor this winter and had, in fact, arrived this very day, ostensibly to bring greetings from His Grace, the Archbishop of York, and to inquire into Thurstan’s health. Walter de Folke was a sly, slippery man whose rise to power within the church had been swift and unexpected, given his humble origins.

  Thurstan tried to think if his illness had been worse after Walter visited. But his mind was bogged by shock. Shuddering, he turned from the window, his eyes darting wildly about the richly appointed chamber. How had it been done? Food? Drink?

  He stumbled across the room to the massive writing table. The tray on one corner held a silver flagon filled with his favorite Bordeaux wine. Nay, it could not be that, for he served the wine to guests, to his sister, Odeline, to whom he’d given temporary rooms upstairs, and even to Walter. Aye, Walter had drunk a cup only this noon.

  Thurstan relaxed until he looked through the open door to his bedchamber. On the bedside table stood the bottle of herbal brandy. He sipped a wee dram of the strongly flavored liquor each night while he wrote in his journal. Could it be poisoned?

  Thurstan stared at the little bottle, too weak to walk so far. And smelling it would tell him nothing, for he’d been drinking it with ease these past months. How could he judge when he knew not what had been used? Belladonna? Hemlock? Monkshood?

  Monkshood.

  The air caught in Thurstan’s throat, along with a sob. He had gotten some of that poisonous herb from Linnet to kill off the voles that had been eating the roots of his prized roses. Had he touched the powder? Nay, he had handed the small jar to Olf, the gardener, who had mixed the powder with the grain to be set out in the garden. If anyone was poisoned by contact with the monkshood, it should be Olf.

  What then, was killing him? And who?

  Thurstan glanced down at the slender black ledger lying on the table. The first three pages contained his favorite prayers, the rest his personal journal, an accounting of how he spent his days. But recorded there, also, were the sins of Durleigh’s citizens as told to him in the confessional. And next to each name, the penance Thurstan had extracted for that slip.

  For the poor, the price had been a prayer or a good deed. From the wealthy, he had taken coins to fill the church’s coffers. And sometimes his own. For those whose crimes were evil or cruel, the penalties had been stiffer. Had one of them decided to exact his own form of revenge?

  The horn sounded, heralding the dinner hour.

  Thurstan grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was break bread with his nag of a sister and two men he found tedious, and, possibly, murderous. He wanted to seek out Brother Anselme, discuss these suspicions and see if the good brother could find an antidote before it was too late. If it was not already. He wanted to study the journal and see if he could determine who-The door from the hallway suddenly flew open.

  A man paused on the threshold. He was clad in a faded gray tabard. And on the left shoulder was embroidered a black rose.

  The emblem of Durleigh’s Crusaders. But they were dead.

  Thurstan gaped at the intruder, a tall, broad-chested man with shoulder-length black hair. His face was partially hidden in the shadows, but Thurstan knew that face.

  Simon. Dieu!

  Now he was hallucinating. Thurstan sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands. “Go away, specter,” he pleaded.

  “Not till I know the truth. Are you my sire?” growled the apparition. The floor seemed to shake as he advanced.

  I must be dead, Thurstan thought. Dead and gone straight to hell. “Aye. I did sire you,” he muttered.

  “Why did you never tell me what I was to you?”

  “I had no choice,” Thurstan whispered.

  “Was my mother so foul a creature?”

  “Nay. Never that.” Thurstan looked up and found the creature standing across the table from him. He looked so real, the stubble on his cheeks, the anguish in his eyes. They were green, like Rosalynd’s, but with a hint of his own gray, and ablaze with emotions too painful to endure. Thurstan looked away. “She was an angel, your mother.”

  “Then why?” A fist struck the table, rattling writing implements and making the candlelight dance.

  Gasping, Thurstan sat bolt upright. “What manner of visitation is this?” he asked brokenly.

  “A long overdue one, I should say.” The eyes went cold and hard. “Brother Martin contracted a fever and died in Damietta. I sat with him during his last hours, and he did confess to me that you were my sire.” He leaned closer, his breath warming Thurstan’s icy flesh. “Why was the truth kept from me?”

  Thurstan blinked. “You are alive.”

  “Aye. A fact that no doubt displeases you. Were you hoping that your mistake would be lost in the Holy Land?”

  “It is a miracle “ Thurstan had never put much faith in them. Nor in prayers either, for his own had gone unanswered until now, but this was surely a miracle.

  “A strong sword arm saved me, not divine intervention.” Simon’s lip curled. “I survived with but one thought, to return here and accuse you of these crimes to your face. Perhaps you sent Brother Martin to make certain I did not return.”

  “Why would I want you dead?” Thurstan cried.

  “Obviously I am an embarrassment to you, else you would have acknowledged me years ago.”

  “There were reasons.”

  “So you say.”

  “It is the truth.”

  Simon waved the declaration away. “You would not know the truth if it bit you in your holy arse. For years I watched you manipulate others to your will. Half the men who went on Crusade did so because you blackmailed them into going so you could swell the ranks you sent in answer to the Pope’s cry for help. A stepping-stone on your way to becoming archbishop, perhaps. You walk in their blood,” Simon growled. “For that and for what you did to me, I despise you.”

  “You do not understand.”

  “I understand that I hate you, above all men.” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “You wanted to keep our relationship secret, and I agree. I have no wish for anyone to know that your blood flows in my veins. There is but one thing I want from you. I would know who my mother was.”

  “I cannot tell you,” Thurstan mumbled, bound by a vow that had been forced upon him long ago.

  “Then I will find out for myself.”

  “Nay.” Desperation propelled Thurstan to his feet. He swayed, gripped the desk as white-hot pain lanced through his belly. A reminder he was dying. Terror gripped him even as the pain receded. Whoever was killing him might transfer his hatred or greed or whatever drove him to Simon. Until he knew who the murderer was, Simon was not safe. Thurstan studied the dear face he had not expected to see again in this life. Dieu, he wanted to hold the boy, if only for a moment. Instead, he steeled himself for the task ahead. “You must leave, for I am expecting an important visitor.” The lie was a small smudge on his already blackened soul. What mattered was getting rid of Simon before someone saw him, or worse, overheard.

  Simon straightened. “I want her name. Doubtless you have left the poor woman destitute.”

  “She is dead,” Thurstan said quickly, desperately.

  “You lie. She lives, and I will know where.”

  “I cannot tell you. Go,” he cried. “We will speak of this another time.” He had much to do, a killer to unmask, an inheritance charter to amend, and little time remaining.

  Simon stiffened as though the words had been a sharp slap. “If I go, I will not return.”

  “That is your choice,” Thurstan said, his heart aching.

  Simon turned toward the door, his black woolen cape swirling softly. Then he paused and looked back. His rigid stance and unrelenting expression reminded Thurstan of his own father. Aye, there was much of Robert de Lyndhurst
in his grandson. Simon would not forget a slight or forgive an injury. “I am staying at the Royal Oak Inn. Send word to me there of my mother’s name and whereabouts. If I have not heard from you by this time tomorrow, I will investigate on my own.”

  The slamming of the door echoed through the room with dreadful finality.

  Thurstan sank into his chair, the ache in his heart sharper than the pain in his gut and limbs. Simon hated him. It was the final, cruel irony.

  Dimly Thurstan heard the horn sounding the second call to sup. Brother Oliver would come looking for him if he did not appear soon. Indeed, a slight creak signaled the opening of the door into his secretary’s small chamber.

  “Oh, Thurstan.”

  Thurstan opened his eyes to see Linnet rushing toward him across the room. “My dear.” He managed to sit forward, though it cost him dearly. “You should not be here.”

  “I know.” She knelt at his feet and took his cold hands in her warm ones. “I know it will cause you problems if the archdeacon finds I’ve been here.”

  “It is your reputation I fear for.” He squeezed her hands and looked into unusual whiskey-colored eyes. So warm, so filled with compassion a man could get lost in them.

  “Your color seems better this evening,” she said, smiling.

  Simon is alive. The words hovered on Thurstan’s tongue, but he held them back. It wasn’t safe. “The warmer weather helps.”

  Her smile faded; her grip on him tightened. “Thurstan, I fear this is no ordinary sickness. I think it is poison.”

  “Poison?” He forced a laugh. She must not suspect, must not voice her suspicions until he knew who the poisoner was.

  “Aconite. Monkshood—you will remember I gave you some for your rose gardens. I read about it in an old herbal, and the symptoms of monkshood poisoning are similar to yours.”

  So, at least he knew what was killing him. “I’ve heard it kills, not sickens.”

  “In small quantities, it would bring pain such as yours.”

  “No one is poisoning me, my dear. You must not think—”