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

by Suzanne Barclay

  “Oliver thought he’d fallen and hit the desk.”

  “It is possible, but the cut is deep. More likely he was pushed so he struck with greater force.”

  “And that killed him?” Linnet asked, relieved.

  “It might have. But there is one other bit of evidence. The belladonna that had been forced down his throat.”

  “Forced?” Linnet shuddered.

  “Why not more monkshood?” asked Simon.

  “Exactly.” Anselme steepled his hands, brow furrowed.

  “You can see why the manner of his death is so much a mystery.”

  Simon nodded. “Any of these three things could have killed him. Though the monkshood would have taken more time.”

  “We have someone who wished Bishop Thurstan to die a slow and painful death,” Anselme said grimly. “Then along comes someone who strikes the bishop down. Perhaps in a fit of rage.”

  Had Simon been angry enough to strike out at his father? Linnet glanced at Simon through her lashes.

  He gazed out over her garden, his brow creased in concentration. There was no hint of the man who had stood in her kitchen a few moments ago, his face suffused with anger, his eyes blazing hatred for the man who had sired him. Nor of the knight who had kissed her so passionately last night.

  Simon cocked his head at the monk. “And the belladonna?”

  “A complex riddle. It could be that the monkshood poisoner became impatient and resorted to belladonna.”

  “Or the two could be unrelated,” said Linnet.

  “What does the archdeacon think?” Simon asked.

  “I have not told him about the monkshood. Only we three and the prior know thus far.”

  Linnet twisted her hands in her lap. Her shop records showed the sale of monkshood to Thurstan. One look at them and she’d be judged guilty. Should she alter the record?

  “I could not have given him the monkshood,” Simon protested. “I only arrived yesterday.”

  “True.” Anselme sighed. “I fear the archdeacon is already bandying about the theory that you and Linnet acted together.”

  Linnet just gaped at him, horror-struck at how close Crispin had come to guessing part of the truth. If it came out that she and Simon had been lovers, that she’d borne a child and that Thurstan had found a home for it….

  “That is a lie,” Simon exclaimed.

  “Easy, my son. The prior and I do not share this belief. The archdeacon is anxious to prove himself worthy of assuming the bishop’s cap by solving this case quickly. You make handy suspects. You two were the last to see the bishop alive.”

  “What of Lady Odeline?” Simon asked harshly.

  “She says he was already down when she found him,” the monk replied. “And she had more reason to want him alive. Linnet is an apothecary with knowledge of herbs and poisons. You are a warrior, Simon, a man trained to use violence to settle your problems, and you are the son he never acknowledged.”

  “Does Crispin know that?” Simon demanded.

  “Nay, but if he should find out—”

  “We will be arrested and hanged forthwith.” Simon sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “A man like Thurstan must have had enemies.”

  “Not everyone appreciated him,” Anselme murmured. “But neither did he quarrel openly with many.”

  “Brother Oliver said Thurstan had had a trying day,” Linnet murmured. “Suppose he had argued with someone earlier and that person came back to confront him.”

  “An excellent notion,” said Anselme. “Prior Walter is going to question all those who live within the cathedral walls to learn if they saw or heard anything. If Allan Turnebull were still with us, he could talk with the townsfolk who visited the bishop. But I fear Hamel Roxby would make a hash of things with his arrogant rudeness.”

  “If he made the effort at all.” Simon grimaced. “Hamel would love to see me hang for this or any other crime.”

  Linnet’s blood ran cold thinking of the archdeacon’s virulent hatred and Hamel’s ruthlessness. “What can we do?”

  Surprisingly, Simon stepped up beside her. “We can help find the murderer. Get me a list of those who held a grudge against the bishop, and I will flush out his killer.”

  “I believe you would, but the archdeacon would not like it.” Anselme paced to the bed of sweet basil and back. “I will ask Prior Walter’s advice. With his permission, I will get from Brother Oliver a list of those who visited Thurstan yesterday.”

  “Thank you, Brother,” Simon replied.

  “I will get word to you on the morrow. A word of caution, Sir Simon. To the folk of Durleigh, you are an outsider. They may speak more freely if Linnet is with you. And I would feel better if she was not left alone till this matter is settled.”

  Simon nodded and glanced down at her. “I guess, then, that we are partners in this dreadful enterprise.”

  God help us both, she thought.

  “Damn, what are they saying?” Jevan demanded.

  Rob FitzHugh shielded his eyes from the sun and looked out the upstairs window of the Royal Oak at the trio in the apothecary garden. “Hard to tell from here.” The especer’s shop was a good hundred yards away across a large, weed-choked field. Even from this vantage point, he could see only the tops of their heads over the stone wall that enclosed the garden.

  “I have to know what he’s doing.”

  How the hell should I know? Rob took one look at Jevan’s dark scowl and bit back the words. No one threw a fit to equal Jevan’s. He raged like a mad dog, all flashing eyes and gnashing teeth. “Why don’t I just creep over there when it gets dark and slip my knife between his ribs?” Rob offered.

  Jevan’s smile was nearly as deadly as his scowl. “A tempting thought, but it needs to be done with delicacy and timing. Aye, the timing’s the thing. I want you to keep track of Simon’s comings and goings.”

  “Hamel’s got Ellis watching out front.”

  “How clever.”

  Rob shrugged, grimacing as the movement pulled on the stitches Old Nelda had set in his shoulder. “I owe him. Old Nelda says my arm won’t work right for a long spell. If ever.”

  “He will pay, but it will be done my way, understand?”

  Rob sighed. “I’ll watch him close, never fear.”

  Chapter Seven

  Someone was watching them.

  The feeling skittered up Simon’s spine. Looking away from Linnet and Anselme, he scanned the garden. Even the taller herbs would provide scant hiding for anything larger than a cat.

  “I will ask Brother Oliver to bring the list of Thurstan’s visitors,” Anselme said. “Just after None at the infirmary.”

  Midafternoon. “Thank you, Brother.” Simon gazed across the weeded lot to the tavern. He studied each blank window in turn. There, in the tiny garret under the eaves, he detected movement. A face, pale in the dark square. It vanished quickly, furtively, as though the person had seen Simon looking and moved back.

  Tilly, fetching something from an attic storeroom? Or had Hamel set a watch on them?

  “Let us see you to the door.” Simon motioned for Linnet and the monk to precede him from the garden. They reached the kitchen door ahead of him and entered. Simon turned back.

  There it was again. A face in the attic window.

  Simon entered the kitchen, barred the door and hurried through to the front just as Linnet was bidding Anselme goodbye. Traffic on the street was light, a pair of women with laden baskets, a pie man crying his wares, a cart pulled by a donkey. Across the way, a beggar sat cross-legged in front of a rival pepper’s shop. At least, he was supposed to be a beggar.

  “Thank you for bringing us news. I hope you do not incur the archdeacon’s wrath on our account,” Linnet said.

  “He is busy setting the bishopric to rights,” Anselme said unhappily before looking at Simon. “Keep safe, both of you.”

  “We will.” Simon shut the door and set the bar.

  “What is wrong?” Her face was ashen in t
he gloomy entry.

  Simon hesitated. It was not his way to frighten women, but Linnet had pluck. Too much, in fact, and was likely to venture out alone and stumble into danger. “We are being watched.”

  Her eyes widened. “Hamel?”

  “I would guess the beggar is Hamel’s man. His face is not gaunt enough for a beggar’s, and his boots have no holes in the soles.” About the tavern, he said nothing, not until he had checked it out. “I need to go to the castle. There is someone I must see there.” It felt odd not to have Nicholas, Guy and the others ready to stand beside him in this. He hoped Wolfsmount Castle’s captain could spare him a few men to help guard the apothecary in case Hamel tried to force his way inside.

  What to do with Linnet? Immediately he thought of Warin Selwyne. They had shared a cup of ale last night, and Simon had found the innkeeper as honest and open as he remembered. Warin would not give the sheriff a room from which to spy on Linnet. It must have been Tilly hoping to pick up a bit of gossip. “I want you to wait for me at the inn with Elinore.”

  Linnet bristled. “I will be fine here.”

  Stubborn. “Unless Hamel is waiting for me to leave so he can come and question you.”

  She shivered, and her shoulders slumped. “Very well.”

  Nay, it was not. The sharp longing to hold her, to comfort her, swept through him. Simon battled it back and escorted her outside. “Are you certain you will feel safe with the Selwynes?”

  “Of course.” Linnet stopped. “Will you be all right alone?”

  Simon bit back a smile at her concern. “I will.”

  Elinore was in the kitchen, chatting with Drusa and chopping onions. She dropped her knife. “What is wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Simon ushered Linnet in and closed the door. “I am going up to Wolfsmount to tell some of my old comrades that I have risen from the dead. And thought it best Linnet wait here.”

  Elinore’s smile faded. “There has been more trouble.”

  “Nay.” Linnet shot Simon a worried look then sighed. “We think Hamel has someone watching the shop.”

  “You did well to bring her here,” Elmore said. “Hamel will not try anything with my Warin about, not if he wants to be confirmed as sheriff. Warin is an alderman “

  “So he told me last eve.” Simon smiled at Linnet. “I will be back within the hour. But before I go, I will step through and tell Warin you are here.”

  “It is not necessary,” Linnet said gently.

  “To me, it is.” Their eyes held for a moment, the emotions swirling in hers painful to behold. No matter how he felt about Thurstan, she had lost a friend and stood suspected of murder. The awareness of how alone and frightened she must be knotted his belly. Dimly he realized that for once it was not just his inbred need to protect that made him afraid. He cared about her.

  Dieu, but he was a fool.

  Turning away in self-disgust, Simon stepped to the door that led into the tavern room, then recalled another matter and turned back. “Elinore. I would like to keep a closer watch on the apothecary. Could I move from my room to the chamber under the eaves? That one has a better view of the back.”

  “Oh, I fear it is occupied.”

  “Who has it?”

  “Jevan le Coyte, the bishop’s nephew. He is studying to be a clerk, but says he needs to get away from the priests and their strict rules.” Elinore winked. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Indeed.” Simon was not surprised that Thurstan’s nephew would, like his uncle, bend church rules to suit himself. “A handsome lad like that must be a favorite with the ladies.”

  “His mother keeps him close by,” Linnet said. “I’ve heard they often take walks by the river together of an evening.”

  “Have you heard Olf’s run off?” Elinore asked.

  “He is Old Nelda’s son,” Linnet explained. “Thurstan employed him to tend the rose gardens.”

  “Why would he hire the son of a woman who hated him?”

  “Out of pity,” Linnet said. “He could not turn a blind eye to the abortions Old Nelda performed in the back room of her shop. Especially after one of her patients nearly died. Archdeacon Crispin wanted Nelda hanged. Thurstan spared her life, but said she could not live within the city.”

  Simon frowned. Such charity did not fit with the image he had of the bishop as a ruthless, grasping man. “I will be back quick as I can.” Nodding to Linnet, he stepped into the short, dimly lit passageway that led from the kitchen to the tavern room. It took up the entire front of the building.

  Midway down the hallway was a door leading to the outside. Opposite it were the stairs up to the sleeping rooms. When he’d taken a room, Elinore had warned him that the outside door was locked from dusk to dawn for the guests’ security. Simon considered going up to see if Jevan was in his room, but he did not yet want to tip his hand and so continued on.

  The tavern’s common room was twenty by forty feet, with whitewashed walls and a worn stone floor. Light streamed in from the four windows that faced the street and a fire crackled cheerily in the huge hearth along the wall it shared with the kitchen. It was not crowded at this time of day. Three of the dozen tables were occupied. A pair of men stood at the bar across the room, chatting with Warin.

  “There he is now,” Warm exclaimed.

  The two men turned. Simon’s hand fell to his sword, then relaxed, smiling as he recognized them. “Gaspare. Piers.”

  Gaspare le Vnse launched himself across the room and engulfed Simon in a rib-cracking hug. “‘Tis good to see you alive, mon ami!”

  “I’ll not be for long,” Simon wheezed, winking at Piers.

  Taller and slimmer than his bosom companion, Piers du Bonheur’s swarthy face was wreathed in smiles. “It is good to see you again, my friend.”

  Simon disentangled himself from Gaspare’s beefy arms and grinned at the two knights who had served with him as part of Wolfsmount Castle’s guard. “It is good to be back.”

  “Who else returned?” asked Piers.

  “None who served with us at the castle,” Simon said sadly. “You might have met Hugh of Halewell or Nicholas of Hendry.” Of Guy, he said nothing. He did not know what Lord Edmund would make of the son he had not known he’d fathered.

  “Come.” Gaspare clapped him on the back. “Let us buy you an ale. We would hear what befell you in the Holy Land.”

  “And I would gladly share the tales, though there was little glory in the dismal mission. But I am pressed for time.”

  “What has happened?” asked Piers.

  Simon looked around, then led his friends to the most isolated table. When Warin bustled up with three cups of ale, he asked the man to join them. A tavern keeper was usually aware of everything that went on in town.

  “Has trouble followed you from the East?” Gaspare asked.

  Simon shook his head. “You know that the bishop is dead?” The men nodded glumly. He noted that all three, men whom he respected, looked genuinely sorrowful.

  “William FitzAllen has sent a messenger after Lord Edmund to tell him of the tragedy,” Piers said. “But his lordship may not return for the funeral. He has pressing business in Calais.”

  A handy excuse, Simon mused. Given the friction that had always existed between the two stern, powerful men, he wondered if Lord Edmund would truly mourn the bishop’s passing. “Is William FitzAllen still master of horse at Wolfsmount?”

  “Nay, he is captain of the guard now.” Gaspare made a rude sound. “He swaggers about like a king.”

  Simon sighed. “I had hoped to borrow a few men from the castle’s garrison, but William will not be disposed to aid me.”

  “He still decries the fact you bested him at swordplay during the Christmas tourney five years ago,” Gaspare replied.

  “For what do you need the men?” asked Piers.

  “Guard duty.” Simon glanced around, saw no one near but leaned closer to his companions. After swearing them to secrecy, he quickly told them that Thurstan had likel
y been murdered, but none of the particulars. “Brother Anselme does not yet know how he was killed, but Crispin Norville’s suspicion has fallen on myself and Linnet Especer, the apothecary, since we were the last to see the bishop alive.”

  Gaspare frowned. “But that is ridiculous. Why would either of you have wished the bishop dead?”

  “We did not,” Simon murmured, glad no one here was privy to his personal turmoil. “But the archdeacon is apparently anxious to prove himself by solving the crime quickly.”

  “That one.” Gaspare made an even ruder sound. “Sanctimonious idiot. To him, everything but prayer is a sin. If he becomes bishop, there will be much grumbling.”

  “But Thurstan ruled the diocese like a tyrant,” said Simon. “Even Lord Edmund grumbled that Thurstan overstepped himself.”

  “Granted, the bishop had strong ideas, God grant him peace.” Warin crossed himself. “But a cannier man I never met. And most of the burghers, at least, would agree. It was thanks to his strength and foresight that the town has grown so. And, of course, to Lord Edmund’s capable garrison.”

  “Lord Edmund would agree, I am sure,” Piers said. “He did complain about the bishop’s methods. Called him highhanded, meddlesome and worse, but between them, my lord and the bishop made Durleigh prosperous.”

  That even Simon could not dispute. The town had grown in the four years he had been gone. “Well, whether the archdeacon becomes the next bishop or not, my immediate problem is to clear my name. Prior Walter is overseeing the investigation for the church, but Hamel Roxby is also casting about for clues.”

  “Was there not bad blood between you two?” asked Piers.

  Simon nodded. “He was not best pleased to see me return.”

  “And he has been sniffing about Linnet,” said Warin.

  “I heard she was the bishop’s leman,” muttered Simon.

  “Groundless rumors spread by the archdeacon.” Warin scowled. “She has been a good friend to my wife, and I can tell you there was only friendship between Linnet and the bishop.”

  Simon wished he were as certain as Warin. He wanted to believe Linnet, but sensed she was lying to him. “Do you think FitzAllen would be willing to lend me a few men?”