“Only if he did not know it was you doing the asking,” Gaspare replied.
“Alas, we are short of men at the moment,” Piers added. “Four knights and fifty men-at-arms accompanied Lord Edmund to London. Yesterday Lady Isabella took a company of twenty men when she and a Sir Guy set out after her father.”
Simon sighed. Guy’s message had said that he and Lord Edmund’s stepdaughter were bound for London. There was no calling Guy back, but he heartily wished Nicholas would finish dallying with his current paramour and return to the inn.
“I could loan you my two men-at-arms.” Piers indicated the pair at a table by the door. “They are strong and quickwitted.”
They looked to be seasoned fighters, broad of shoulder with weathered faces and watchful eyes. “I thank you, my friend. I will feed them, of course, and pay them two pennies each per day for the few days I should need them.”
As he left the inn with his two new guards, Simon looked up and saw a face at Jevan le Coyte’s window. He nearly waved at his randy cousin. Cousin. Did Jevan and Odeline know they were related to him? Surely not, Simon thought. Thurstan would have kept the sin from his family.
Linnet stood in her workroom, scowling through the open doorway at the two soldiers. Jasper and Miles sat at her kitchen table wolfing down mutton stew. “This is ridiculous.”
“I agree. I should never have offered them two pennies plus the food,” Simon quipped.
“I meant having them here. Where will they sleep?”
“On the floor, one across the back door, the other at the front. Warin loaned them sleeping pallets.”
“They will be underfoot all day.”
“One will patrol the front, the other the garden.”
“They will frighten off my customers.”
Simon cocked his head and grinned. “I’d say they are more likely to attract a few new ones…young women, for instance.”
“You are as bad as Bishop Thurstan,” Linnet snapped. “Always ordering folk around.”
Simon stiffened. “I am nothing like him.”
Oh, aye, you are. In all her years of studying Simon, why had she not noticed that his eyes, though more green than gray, were the same shape as Thurstan’s? And his chin was as square and arrogant. And he had that same annoying air of command.
“Now that I have Jasper and Miles to look after you, I will go alone to meet with Brother Anselme,” Simon said.
Wretch. He had Thurstan’s compulsion for protecting those he saw as weaker. Well, she was not weak. “I will go, either with you or by myself.” To reinforce her point, Linnet grabbed up her cloak, called out to Aiken to lock the door behind them, and headed for the front door with Simon muttering behind her.
The beggar was still across the street. His head came up abruptly as they exited her shop. She caught a brief glimpse of burning eyes set in a dirt-streaked face.
Looking away, she whispered, “I have seen him with Hamel.”
Simon nodded grimly, but his touch was gentle as he took her arm to guide her down the street.
The feel of his wide palm on her elbow sent gooseflesh rippling across her skin. Her mouth went dry, her heart galloped. She settled it with the reminder he was only being courteous. Still, as she watched other couples stroll by arm in arm in the gathering dusk, it was impossible not to wish that she and Simon were sweethearts.
“Come, this way, quickly.” Simon tugged her down a lane just past the ironworks. The air was thick with the tang of hot metal and smoke from the fires used to bend it to men’s will. “Damn,” he muttered. “I thought this lane went through to Castle Gate.”
“It did. Durleigh has grown so that many of what used to be empty yards behind the buildings have filled with homes and small shops. I think there is a way through.” She led him past a bakeshop to an alleyway. “Here.”
Simon looked over his shoulder, then followed. “What a noisome place,” he grumbled. The alley was muddy from the recent rains, bounded on either side by flimsy wooden homes that leaned wearily against each other. Babies’ cries, raised voices and the smells of rotten food seeped out through the cracks.
Linnet pressed a hand to her nose and hurried along. She did not breathe again until they stepped out onto Spurrier Gate. The spur makers had closed their shops for the night, but several had removed to the tavern on the corner. Grimy, barrel-chested men, they sat on benches in the yard, some still m their thick leather aprons, sipping ale and exchanging stories.
“I do not go through those back alleys often, but when I do, I give thanks for being born who and what I am.”
Simon nodded and kept them moving down the street. “I saw worse in the East—poverty, sickness, hopelessness—but seeing it here at home is somehow worse.” His grip on her arm tightened fractionally. “You should not enter such places. The folk who live there would kill you and sell your clothes for food.”
“If they want food, they have only to go to the almshouse. Soup and bread are always available there. Free.”
“Whose largess is that?”
She glanced sidelong at him, wanting to see his reaction. “Bishop Thurstan convinced the merchants to pay for renovating the building and keeping it supplied with foodstuffs.”
“How did Thurstan manage that?” Simon asked. Was that admiration in his voice?
“I do not know. There was some grumbling at first, I understand, for some of the merchants are close with a penny.”
“Might any of them have held that against the bishop?”
“Perhaps, but the almshouse has been open for two years.”
“Hmm.” Simon suddenly herded her out of the street, tucked her into the doorway of a shut-up shop and blocked her in. His back was to her, his hand on his sword.
“Does the beggar still follow us?” she whispered.
“Nay, we have lost him, I think, but we will wait here a moment to be certain before going on.”
“All right.” Linnet studied his big body, the width of his shoulders, the muscles bulging beneath the sleeves of his tunic. Like a rock, he appeared, strong, invincible. But she knew that his warrior’s facade hid a lonely, wounded soul. He had grown up without the warmth and affection all creatures crave. The longing to wrap her arms around his lean waist and offer the healing balm of her love rose inside her, sharp and poignant. She could almost remember what it felt like to be held by him, to feel this cool, self-contained man surrender to passion. To her.
“Linnet?” He glanced over his shoulder. Some of her turbulent emotions must have showed, for the expression in his eyes shifted suddenly. They filled with a dark, powerful hunger that made her mouth go dry and her heart roll into her throat. Her whole body warmed as a familiar, syrupy heat spilled through it, and with it the memory of how right it had felt to lie in his arms, to join with him as intimately as two people can be.
“We had best go,” Simon whispered.
Slowly, regretfully, she nodded and followed him.
The gates to the cathedral enclave were closed, but the porter on duty opened them promptly. “Brother Prior said he was expecting you and bid me direct you to the herbarium.”
“I know the way.” Grateful they would not need to enter the infirmary, Linnet led Simon around behind the building to the stone hut in the herb garden. The stillness, the familiar scent of herbs washed over her, soothing her tattered nerves.
“It is so peaceful here it makes one forget there is evil in the world,” Simon murmured.
“How nearly your thoughts mirror mine.”
The hard planes of his face softened briefly. “That seems to happen with increasing regularity.”
“Aye, it does.” Linnet grinned, pleased by his answering smile. They both sobered when Brother Anselme opened the door.
“Ah, you have come at last.”
“I regret we have kept you waiting,” Simon said as they were ushered into the hut. At first glance the small room seemed cluttered, with shelves lining the walls and herbs hanging from the open
rafters. But all was scrupulously neat, including the worktable that occupied the center of the room.
“Nay, you are prompt. It is just we are all a bit tense.” Anselme glanced toward the small corner hearth where Brother Oliver sat hunched on a stool. “Brother, they are here.”
Brother Oliver turned, his smooth cheeks wet with tears. “I cannot believe he is gone.”
“Aye, I know.” Anselme laid a gentle hand on the cleric’s shoulder. “It is our duty to catch his murderer. Have you brought the list of those who saw him that day?”
Oliver nodded and reached inside his sleeve for a rolledup parchment. “I’ve also brought his notes on the visits.”
Anselme carried it to the worktable, unfurled the two sheaves and anchored the corners with small pots. Everyone gathered round to examine the lists.
“He saw all these people in one day?” Simon asked
“Aye,” said Oliver. “His days were always full.”
“My name and that of Mistress Linnet are not on here.”
Oliver sniffed. “You did not have appointments.”
“Did anyone else intrude upon his day?”
“Lady Odeline came at noon and ate with him.”
“Hmm,” was all Simon said.
Oliver pursed his lips. “She did not follow the good example of our bishop and Abbess Catherine. The lady has been embroiled in one scandal after another. An elopement with a drunken wastrel who gambled away her inheritance and died when Jevan was young, affairs with married men.”
He rolled his eyes. “Her last paramour was the king’s own uncle, and that got her sent from court in disgrace. Had Bishop Thurstan not taken pity on her, she and the boy would have starved to death.”
Simon nodded. “She seemed worried about her future.”
“Well she should,” Oliver grumbled. “The new bishop will not let her stay at the palace, nor pay for Jevan’s schooling.”
“She had little reason to wish Thurstan dead, then,”
Simon said. “Did he see anyone else who is not on the list?”
Oliver frowned. “He spent an hour in the garden with Olf.”
“I understand the gardener has disappeared,” Simon said.
“He is simpleminded and was disturbed by Brother Crispin’s sharp questions,” said Anselme. “He would never harm Thurstan.”
Simon looked at the prior. “I heard his mother rant against the bishop. She could have used Olf as a tool to kill him.”
Oliver sniffed. “Olf has never been allowed inside the palace. The porter on duty would have stopped him.”
“I see.” But to Simon, Nelda was still a suspect. He moved through Oliver’s list, asking about each person’s business with the bishop. He borrowed quill and ink from Anselme and made notes next to some of the names.
So cool and efficient, Linnet thought, admiring his quick, logical mind yet disturbed by his lack of emotion. She very much wanted to make Simon see how wrong he was about his father. Why that should be, she did not know, except perhaps because she knew Thurstan had loved the son he had not acknowledged.
“My thanks, Brothers.” Simon tucked the list away. “What luck have you had with the brothers, students and laymen?”
“I have learned nothing,” Walter replied.
Simon studied Walter, trying to see beneath his shuttered gaze. “Someone living inside the cathedral walls would have had easy access to the bishop’s brandy. Perhaps there was some priest who had a grudge against him or coveted his post.” Like Crispin. Or even the prior himself. A chilling thought.
“I cannot imagine a priest committing murder,” Walter said. “Most everyone was at supper at the time of the attack.”
Simon regarded him coolly, letting no hint of his suspicions show in features long schooled to hide all emotion. “If you learn anything, send word to me at the Royal Oak. On the morrow, I will visit the townfolk who saw the bishop.”
“We will visit them,” Linnet said, lifting her chin.
A pox on independent females, Simon thought. And yet, was that not part of what set her above other women? Staring into her proud gaze, he was struck by the lethal combination of beauty, strength and honor that was Linnet Especer.
His heart cartwheeled in his chest. He fought the sensation as fiercely as he ever had an armed opponent, for her weapons were more deadly than drawn steel. He would not like her, Simon vowed, for that way lay madness.
Chapter Eight
“I have not been able to find the journal,” Odeline said.
Jevan looked at her, aghast. “You promised.”
“I know. I did go down and look the moment the prior’s guards were gone.” Odeline paced before the fire in her chamber on the palace’s third floor. It was not so fine as the one she had occupied at court. But then she had been the mistress of the king’s uncle. Here she was only the sister of a bishop. A nuisance, tolerated by Thurstan. Dieu, how she had hated that.
It is over, done. He can never make you feel small or unworthy, she thought staring into the embers. They glowed and twisted, like figures writhing in pain. Souls condemned to hell. Her soul, paying for the sin of murder.
Nay, it had been an accident. She had not killed him. Thurstan had been alive when she left him. A seizure had—
“Perhaps the prior has it.”
“What?” Jerked from her anguished thoughts, she turned, absorbing Jevan’s words. “I watched from the top of the stairs. His men took only Thurstan’s flagons, cups and such,” she said quickly, not wanting him to run afoul of the quickwitted prior.
Jevan’s eyes widened. “Why? What do they suspect?”
An icy trickle ran down her spine. “There is some question whether Thurstan was attacked or fell and hit his head.”
“They think he was killed?” Jevan exclaimed.
“It is not certain it was murder,” she said quickly, not daring to confide her secret even to Jevan. “But Mistress Linnet was the last one to see Thurstan alive. If suspicion falls on anyone, it is her.” Not me. No one had questioned her. She was, after all, the bereaved sister.
Jevan nodded, but his eyes remained hard. He had worn that pinched, desperate look since their dismissal from court. It was her fault they had been cast out from the life of excitement and privilege they both loved. And if a blot on her soul was the cost of putting things right for him, so be it.
“I know he hid the charter in his journal,” Jevan growled. “If we do not find it before Thurstan’s will is read, Blackstone Heath will go to the church.”
“Keep your voice down. We do not want anyone to know that we might profit from Thurstan’s death,” she whispered, grabbing him by the shoulders. It surprised her to feel muscles fleshing out his bony shoulders, saddened her to think that her little boy was nearly a man in some ways. “We will find it.”
“What if we cannot?” Jevan wrenched free and glared at her, nostrils flared with rage. “What if he gave it to Simon?”
Odeline gasped. “I had not thought of that.” She frowned, thinking back. Thurstan had been shocked by Simon’s arrival. She had heard his shout of surprise as she was coming down the stairs from her room and recognized Simon through the partially open door. The charter had not been mentioned while she stood there, frozen with horror to see Simon risen from the dead. Oliver’s sudden appearance at the other end of the corridor had forced her to hide in the stairwell so as not to be caught spying. Had Thurstan given Simon the charter after she left?
“Simon must have taken a room somewhere in town.”
“We cannot search his room. I will ask Hamel to find it.”
“Hamel.” Jevan turned away from her in disgust. “I do not see how you can associate with that crude ruffian.”
“Because he is a man of power in these parts.” And because Hamel desired her. It salved her ego to control someone when she was nothing, less than nothing, in Thurstan’s household. And too, the passionate blood of the de Lyndhursts ran hot in her veins. Hamel satisfied her needs very nice
ly and very discreetly…for now. When she was installed as chatelaine of Blackstone Heath she would sever her association with Hamel and find another. A man of wealth and power. She would have clothes and jewels and, most important, a home in her own name. Never would she be forced to beg for charity.
Her temper heated as she thought about how Thurstan had looked down his nose at her as he granted her a few crumbs from his bountiful table. Cretin, that he should scorn her so when he had sinned against God by fathering a bastard son.
But Thurstan was dead now.
Odeline’s rage drained away as she thought of the way he had looked sprawled on the carpet at her feet.
And the mighty shall be brought low.
“We must find the charter,” Jevan growled. “Blackstone Heath is mine, and I want it. I deserve it.”
“Aye, you do. You will have it, my son.” She had paid too heavy a price to lose all now.
Her skin was as soft and fragrant as rose petals. Her lips tasted of sweet wine and even headier desire as they parted beneath Simon’s.
So warm, so welcoming. He let her kisses sweep him away, lowering his normal reserve. With her, there was no need for caution, no need to guard himself against betrayal. She loved him totally, unconditionally. She would never leave him, never hurt him. “I love you, I love you,” he whispered, opening his eyes even though he knew it was too dark to see her.
Linnet’s face stared up at him.
Simon jerked awake and lay there, his heart stumbling, his breathing raspy in the silent chamber. He was alone. It was only a dream. For a moment, he could not remember where he was. Then he recognized the rough walls of his room at the tavern.
Dieu, was it not bad enough that Linnet plagued his waking hours, did she have to invade his dreams, as well? He threw an arm over his eyes, but it did not block out the image of her face and eyes that seemed to see clear through to his soul. But it was her natural warmth that drew him. She glowed like a lantern, lit from within. And he was so cold.
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 11
