“Yet Brother Gerard saw you follow her from the palace.”
Simon shrugged. “Coincidence. We were here at about the same time, and the Deangate is the quickest route into town.”
“You appeared to wait till she left, then pursued her.” Brother Gerard had the sharp features of a ferret and the fawning, smug manner of a toady.
Simon despised him on principle. “I lingered in the gardens a moment after leaving the bishop. Which I would not have done were I guilty of murder.” A reminder of his service to God could not go amiss, either. “The roses drew me, for I missed their sweet smell while on Crusade in the dry, desolate East.”
The archdeacon’s scowl eased a bit.
“Bishop Thurstan’s death is my fault,” whispered Brother Oliver. “If I had been with him when he was stricken, he would not have fallen and struck his head.”
“Be at ease, Brother,” said the prior. “Whatever happened, it was God’s will.”
Brother Oliver sighed and bent his head.
Crispin nodded. “Thank you for reminding us of that, Brother Prior. Bishop Thurstan’s passing was indeed God’s will.”
Simon released the breath he had been holding and silently gave thanks for the prior’s level head. “I may go, then?”
“For the moment, but do not try to leave Durleigh till this matter is settled. And I would say the same to you, Mistress Linnet.” Crispin pinned her with a searing glance.
“I have nothing to hide.” Her eyes were haunted, but she held her head up as she turned and walked regally from the room.
The archdeacon stared after her, but his lean face was twisted with loathing. Simon almost pitied her, for she had incurred the enmity of the man who would, if only temporarily, wield much power m Durleigh. It was a fact he would do well to remember if he wanted to remain a free man.
“Come, Brothers, we must go to the chapel and pray for the bishop’s soul.” Crispin gathered his robes in one hand and swept from the room, followed by the other priests.
Prior Walter remained behind, as did two muscular men Simon had marked as soldiers. When the priests had gone, Walter posted the guards in the hallway, one at the bedchamber door, the other outside the withdrawing room, with orders to let none pass. Then he turned to Simon. “You must have been close to Bishop Thurstan if your first act in Durleigh was to visit him.”
Simon hesitated, wondering what to make of this bald little prelate with his sharp eyes and even sharper wit. “We barely knew one another.” True enough. “But many of the men in the Black Rose took the cross in response to a penance levied by the bishop. I thought he should know a few of us had survived.”
“A noble gesture.”
“The archdeacon does not seem to think so.”
“Aye, well.” Walter shrugged. “Crispin disapproved of everything Bishop Thurstan did and said.”
“He covets the bishopric, then?” Simon asked.
“Only because he feels he is better suited to the task.”
“What of you?” Simon asked archly.
Walter grinned. “I am not as critical of Thurstan as Crispin, but every man aspires to better himself.”
“A clever answer.”
“A truthful one. I admired what Thurstan accomplished here, though his methods are not mine. As to taking his place…” Walter shrugged again. “I doubt few men could. I would welcome a chance to try, but I would not kill to get it.”
A shrill voice sounded outside in the hallway.
“You have no right to keep me out!” A woman burst into the room. She was not young, but still beautiful. Despite the early hour, her blond hair had been sleeked neatly back, coiled at her nape and encased in a gold wire net. Her fashionable green gown was close-fitting, showing off a slender body.
Close on her heels came the guard. “My lord prior. .”
“It is all right.” Walter’s manner stiffened. “Lady Odeline, is something amiss?”
The lady sniffed and advanced on the prior, followed by a well-dressed youth in his early twenties. “Why have we been refused admittance to Thurstan’s chambers?” she demanded.
Her easy use of Thurstan’s name piqued Simon’s interest. Could this be his mother? If so, she must have been a mere child when she bore him.
“It was by my order, Lady Odeline. We are investigating the circumstances of the bishop’s death.”
“Surely it was an accident.” Tears magnified the eyes she raised to the pnest. “Oh, cruel fate to take my brother from me. He was the only one who loved me. The only one who sympathized with my trials.”
“Brother?” Simon whispered. He felt his mouth fall open in astonishment and closed it with a snap This was Thurstan’s sister? His own aunt?
“Whatever will we do?” She clutched at the boy who now stood beside her. “Where will my son and I go? We have nothing. No home, no money. Nothing.”
Simon’s compassion for her faltered. Clearly she cared more for her welfare than the loss of her brother. But then, her selfishness should not be surprising. Thurstan had cared more for satisfying his pleasures than for his holy vows or for the fate of any child he might sire.
“I am certain the bishop provided for you,” said Walter.
“Nay.” Lady Odeline was sobbing now. “He always said his money would go to build a chapel for his remains. And to the abbey. We will have nothing.”
Walter sighed. “Jevan, take your mother above stairs to her chambers that she may rest.”
“Nay, I would remain here and pray for my brother,” Lady Odeline said.
“Tomorrow, when the matter of his passing has been settled, you may sit vigil here,” said the prior.
Rage dried her eyes, and her cheeks went red as fire. “You would deny me this?” she demanded.
Walter met her glare with coolness. “Regrettably. Nothing must be disturbed till we know what happened.”
Simon looked to see how Jevan was taking this and found the boy staring at him. He was a head shorter than Simon with the lean build of a whippet, glossy black hair and pale skin. His eyes were narrowed to angry slits, glinting with blatant hatred. He knows I am Thurstan’s son. Simon felt the shame burn up his neck to his cheeks.
“Jevan!” the lady cned. “We will take this up with the archdeacon.” She swept from the room, her son at her heels.
Walter sighed. “Spoiled and willful. The lady is Thurstan’s youngest half sister. Doted on by her mother and always in trouble. A scandal led to her exile from court. Had Thurstan not agreed to let her stay here while Jevan studied at the cathedral school, they would both have been homeless.”
“Jevan is studying to be a priest?”
“A clerk. Thurstan feared that without discipline and a trade, he’d turn out like his father.” Walter paused. “The man was a drunkard, killed in a back alley brawl. Come,” he added. “Let us see if Brother Anselme has learned anything.”
“Do you think Thurstan was killed?”
“I do not want to believe it possible, but he had a look of such horror on his face.” Walter shuddered. “And Brother Anselme was most insistent upon examining the body.”
Simon followed Walter to the door, then turned to scan the room. All was as it had been last night, except for the blood on the corner of the writing table and the dark stain on the carpet before it. What had happened here after he left?
Simon was surprised to find that he cared. For more than three years he had burned with the desire to see Thurstan de Lyndhurst suffer for his crimes, but now…
Regret mingled with the thirst for revenge. Now he would never have the answers he sought. His mother’s name. The reason why Thurstan had ignored him.
But if he was not very careful to hide his parentage, he might find himself framed for the bishop’s murder.
Chapter Five
Linnet stole silently into the infirmary, a long, gloomy room whose ceiling was supported by huge columns of stone. “Brother Anselme? Are you here?” she called.
The heali
ng brother emerged from behind the screen set up at the far end of his infirmary. “Linnet!” He hurried past the rows of empty cots. “You should not be here.”
“I know.” Linnet wanted to throw herself at him, but wrapped her arms around herself instead. “Oh, Brother Anselme, the archdeacon thinks I killed Bishop Thurstan.”
“Here. Here.” Anselme put an arm around her, led her to a bench and sat beside her. “Why would he say such a thing?”
“Because he hates me and would have someone to blame, I suppose.” She wiped her face, then looked up into the cherubic face of the healing brother who had become a dear friend. “Is it true? Is Thurstan really gone?”
“Aye.” Tears swam in his large brown eyes
“I hoped it was wishful thinking on the archdeacon’s part. He so disapproved of Thurstan’s ways.”
Anselme nodded. “Did Crispin send for you to arrest you?”
“Nay. Oh, Brother, I came to bring the bishop good news. Simon of Blackstone is alive.”
Brother Anselme was one of the few who knew the truth about Simon’s parentage. “According to Brother Oliver, Simon visited Thurstan last night. So at least before he departed this life Thurstan had the satisfaction of knowing Simon lived.”
Linnet clenched her fists. “Crispin wanted Thurstan gone so he could run Durleigh as he sees fit.”
“Shh, daughter, mind what you say.” Anselme stood to pace.
“His death was not an accident, then?”
“Nay, it was not”
“What have you found?” she asked shakily.
The good brother paused and looked at her. “It is not a fit subject for you to think on.”
Linnet’s throat tightened, but she had learned when her parents died, when Simon was reported dead, that grief would not bring back her loved ones. “I must know how this happened.”
Brother Anselme nodded grimly, looked skyward, as though for divine guidance, then crossed himself. “There is evidence of foul play.” He glanced about the empty chamber, then drew closer to her, lowering his voice as he spoke. “I have only had a short time to examine him, for I first had to master my grief and offer prayers for his soul. There is a wound to the head, which came from striking his table, but that did not kill him. I have also found evidence he was poisoned.”
Linnet groaned, his words like a knife to her heart. “Oh, sweet Mary, I hoped I was wrong.”
“You knew of this?”
Linnet swallowed, but the lump in her throat did not budge. Even the cup of wine the brother hastily fetched did not ease her dry mouth or her conscience. “These last few days he seemed so much weaker that I got out greatgrandfather’s herbals, searching frantically for some tonic, some potion.” She took another sip of the wine. “I came across an entry Grandpapa had made about a man wasting away from a mysterious illness. He was an older man, wealthy and wed to a young wife. The sons by his first marriage suspected foul play and called upon Grandpapa to examine him ere he was laid out. Grandpapa found evidence the man was being poisoned over time with monkshood. The wife was accused and did confess. Thurstan’s symptoms seemed similar.”
“Monkshood.” Anselme sank down beside her. “It sounds a slow and painful death, yet it would explain his long illness.”
Linnet bit her lip. She hated lying to Anselme but could not tell him she believed Thurstan had grown despondent and poisoned himself. Suicide was a mortal sin, one that would bar Thurstan from burial in holy ground. “I came here last night to tell Thurstan what I suspected, but he was agitated and sent me on my way. Now he is dead.”
Anselme sighed. “Aye, and we will miss him sorely. But it was not monkshood I found in—”
“Brother Anselme, what have you learned?” Walter called, walking into the infirmary with Simon beside him.
Anselme surged to his feet. “I have discovered a few things, Brother Prior.” He looked questioningly at Simon.
“You may speak freely before him,” said Walter as they drew nearer. “This is Sir Simon of Blackstone.”
“Ah.” Anselme inclined his head. “Linnet said you had miraculously returned. I am glad you had a few moments at least with the bishop. He was greatly troubled by news of your death.”
Simon grunted. “How did he die?”
Anselme stiffened. “I assume you mean our beloved bishop.”
Simon grunted again. “Forgive my brusqueness, Brother, but I find myself suspected of murdering a man I scarcely knew and am anxious to clear my name so I may be on my way.”
He was leaving? Linnet suppressed a moan.
“You have only just returned to your home,” said Anselme.
“It was a mistake to come back. There is nothing here for me.” Simon glared at Linnet as he spoke.
She shuddered. Thurstan was my friend, nothing more. But perhaps it was better for this to end before it went further If Simon so easily believed her capable of murder, how great would be his loathing if he learned about the babe.
“I understand Brother Crispin gave instructions that the bishop be prepared for immediate burial,” said Walter. “I have convinced him that we must first learn how Thurstan died.”
Anselme nodded. “I am glad, for in addition to the blow to the head, I found signs that Thurstan had ingested poison.”
“Poison!” exclaimed Walter and Simon in unison.
Linnet groaned and ducked her head to hide her fear.
“Belladonna,” said Brother Anselme.
“Belladonna?” Linnet exclaimed in surprise.
“How was it administered, and how long would it take to do its deadly work?” asked Walter.
“I cannot be certain till I have examined the bishop more thoroughly,” Anselme said. “Along with the wine, brandy and water kept in his chambers.”
Belladonna, not monkshood. Linnet felt weak with relief. Thurstan hadn’t been poisoning himself after all.
“God save me,” Walter whispered, clutching his throat. “I drank wine.with him yesterday.”
“If it contained belladonna, you would already know it, Brother Prior,” Anselme quickly replied.
Walter swallowed convulsively. “I will go myself and gather the flagons for you to examine.”
Anselme sighed. “I cannot believe anyone would kill him.”
“Men such as him make enemies,” Simon muttered. “I’d not speak ill of the dead, Brother, but the whole town bore the print of Thurstan’s heavy hand. Nothing was done but by his leave. He ruled like a king, and grew rich into the bargain.”
“He used his power for good,” Linnet cried, heartsick that Simon should so revile the man who was his sire. And her dearest friend. If not for the bishop, she would have been ruined, and her babe branded a bastard.
Simon turned on her. “Your staunch defense of him does not surprise me, mistress.”
His hatred wounded her so deeply she could not reply. And she knew that his would not be the only voice raised against her. Heartsick, she longed to return to her shop, crawl into bed and hide until this was over. “I had best leave.”
The door to the infirmary rattled open, and two men hurried in, their spurs grating on the stone floor.
“Brother Anselme, are you within?” called a familiar voice.
Hamel Roxby.
Just when she thought the day could not get any worse. Linnet whimpered and prayed she would sink into the floor.
Hamel Roxby.
Simon’s hand fell instinctively to his sword hilt as he watched the man approach.
Hamel had been under-sheriff when Simon left on Crusade, a mean and clever man who subtly abused the power of his position. Pity someone had not ended his career. In appearance, Hamel had changed little, his lean features and long nose giving him a hawkish look. He had yet to notice Simon, hidden behind a stone pillar, but there, running from Hamel’s right temple to the edge of his eyebrow, was the pale scar where Simon’s blade had nicked him when they’d crossed swords years ago as youths of six and ten. The rivalry between them w
as old and bitter. Simon could not abide a bully, and Hamel hated anyone who stood up to him.
“I hear the bishop is dead,” Hamel called cheerfully.
Simon’s hackles rose. It was one thing for him to decry the man who’d sired him, another for Hamel to find joy in his death.
“Mistress Linnet.” Hamel’s face lit with the unholy glee of a hunter spying easy prey. “Is it true? Is your bishop dead?”
She shivered. “Aye.”
“Well, well.” Ignoring the priests, Hamel strolled toward her through the gloom with the easy swagger of a born bully.
Simon stepped into Roxby’s path. “Hamel.”
Hamel’s black eyes widened with surprise, then narrowed. “Simon of Blackstone. I’d heard you were back from the dead.”
Simon grinned. “Aye, alive and returned to Durleigh.”
“Alive for the moment.” Hamel reached for his sword.
Brother Anselme dashed between them. “Hold. We’ll have none of that in God’s house. Why have you come, Sheriff?”
Hamel was now sheriff? That boded ill, Simon thought.
“I went out late last night hunting wolves and returned to news the bishop had been murdered. I’ve come to investigate.”
“Thank you for your concern, Sheriff,” said Prior Walter. “But Brother Anselme will examine the bishop.”
Hamel glared at the plump priest. “Who are you?”
“Walter de Folke, Prior of York, come to Durleigh on the archbishop’s business. I will investigate this matter and take a full accounting to His Grace.”
“If a murder’s been committed, it is my duty to—”
“Bishop Thurstan was a priest who died on church lands. His death is church business,” Walter said sternly.
Hamel’s eyes narrowed. “Not if the culprit was someone from Durleigh. There’s some who resented having the bishop’s nose in their affairs,” he sneered. “Bringing such a person to justice would be my business, so see you keep me informed.”
“You have not yet been confirmed as sheriff of Durleigh, have you?” Prior Walter asked smoothly.
Hamel grunted, but the heat left his eyes. “I will be. Sheriff Turnebull trained me himself, and my da was his under-sheriff. Archdeacon Crispin has found my work satisfactory.”
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 7
