And Odeline’s request gave him an excuse to go after Simon. Even now, Bardolf and two of his best men were combing the streets, with orders to arrest the knight for questioning.
There were not many men who survived his questioning, Hamel mused. Smiling, he headed away from the tavern.
Chapter Nine
Clouds rolled in to obscure the sun as they left the home of the cloth merchant. Appropriate, Simon thought, glancing sidelong at Linnet. Her expression was as glum as the weather. His own spirits were not much better. More than half the day they had spent speaking with those who had seen the bishop yesterday and they were no closer to solving his murder.
Oh, several of the townspeople had freely admitted that Bishop Thurstan was a man who liked power. A few had even told tales of how the bishop had maneuvered them into doing something against their nature. But none had displayed either fear or animosity. The reason each had given for having seen Thurstan jibed with the information Oliver had provided. The only bit of dissension had occurred during the visit of the four-man delegation who had come to discuss plans for the chapel being built by the town’s leading merchants to honor Thurstan.
“He refused to approve the drawings I’d brought of the statue of himself,” the master stonemason had grumbled. “He thought it was too grand. Said he wanted something plainer, but the bishop ain’t a plain sort of man.”
“What was decided?” Simon had asked offhandedly, all the while staring at the man’s strong hands and bulging muscles.
“Oh, I’ll be taking off some of the decorative touches,” the mason had muttered. “I’d not want to offend the bishop—in case he’s at God’s feet”
Yesterday, Simon would have curled his lip at such a suggestion, but that was before he had spent a day listening to the tales of Thurstan’s good deeds. Not that he was a saint. Far from it, for he had often bent the rules to suit himself. And yet, countless folk in Durleigh were the better for what Thurstan had done. Women saved from abuse. Poor people given food, shelter, work and, most important, a future.
Simon had never believed that the end justified the means, but he had to admit that Thurstan had accomplished more with his unorthodox methods than he could have by adhering to stricture. Did that make it right? Nay, but am I any better? he wondered, thinking of the fortune in ransoms he’d brought back from the East. Bah, it was not as though he had sought out men of wealth to capture, as had some of his fellow Crusaders. In battle, it was kill or be killed. Through a combination of luck and skill, Simon had prevailed. When his opponents had laid down their arms and cried quarter, he had granted it.
He was not like the bishop. He was not. But the blood that pounded against his temples mocked him. Thurstan’s blood.
“We are done, then,” Linnet murmured.
Simon nodded and shook off his dark thoughts. Done except for Old Nelda. But he would speak with her alone, not wanting to expose Linnet to more of the woman’s nasty remarks.
The streets were more crowded now with servants out to fetch the day’s foodstuffs, vendors crying their wares, clerks in their long brown gowns and laborers grimy with sweat. He took Linnet’s arm and drew her closer. At the entrance to the Shambles, the street of the butchers, he paused.
Even from here, he could smell the blood. They did not kill the animals in the Shambles, except for the chickens and ducks, nonetheless the pall of death hung over the place, thick as the black flies buzzing about overhead.
Simon turned away.
“Where are we going?” Linnet asked. “The shortest way home is through here.”
“We will go another way.”
She looked down the street of open-air stalls adorned with bloody carcasses and winced. As they continued on, she added, “Thank you. It was kind of you to think of my sensibilities when you do not particularly like me.”
“What?”
“You do not believe Thurstan was only my friend.”
“I believe you…now.”
“What has changed?” she asked, hope soaring.
“I know you, where before I did not.” He brushed against her as they squeezed by a cart laden with charcoal.
The scent that was uniquely Simon filled her senses, bringing back a flood of memories from that long-ago night. Oh, you know me very well, she thought, her blood warming.
“You have too much honor to behave so shamefully.”
Guilt swamped her. She stumbled and would have fallen had Simon not caught her arm. She looked back over her shoulder into his ruggedly handsome face and anxious eyes.
“Are you all right?”
Nay, she was not. She was a hoax, a fraud. “Simon, I—”
“Damn! ‘Tis Bardolf!” Simon exclaimed softly.
Linnet swiveled her head and spotted the under-sheriff some distance off on the opposite side of the street. He walked slowly, glancing into each shop, looking hard at each passerby. “He seems to be searching for something or someone.”
“Us.” Simon let her go. His hand fell to his sword.
Terrified he’d be arrested or killed, Linnet spun, looking for a route of escape. “In here.” She tugged Simon through an open doorway into a dim, low-ceilinged room.
Simon paused on the threshold, looking for a place he could leave Linnet while he dealt with Bardolf. The narrow room stank worse than the Shambles. It contained four large wooden troughs. The women standing in them gasped and gawked. They were young, their skirts tied up to leave their legs bare from the knees down while they trod about on the cloth soaking in the troughs.
“This is the fuller’s shop I was telling you about,” Linnet said brightly. “They produce the finest cloth in the district.”
Simon blinked, his mind whirling. Fight had been his first reaction, but alone, with Linnet to guard, flight might better serve. And yet, to run through this shop would be to attract undo attention. “I see.”
“I prayed you might.” Her eyes eloquent, she drew him farther into the cramped, smelly room. “The raw wool fabric is rubbed with fuller’s earth—a noxious mix of sand and urine—then soaked and walked to cleanse and soften it.”
“Fascinating,” Simon murmured.
“Hardly that.”
He leaned down and whispered, “I meant your quick wits.”
“I was afraid Bardolf would attack you.”
Her protectiveness might have pricked his pride if it had not touched his heart. “Likely I could have bested him.”
“I know you are very good with a sword. I used to watch you train on the practice field, but if he had men with him—”
“You used to watch me?” Simon asked, recalling what Drusa had said. “Or all of the soldiers?”
Her cheeks turned bright red. “I—”
A middle-aged man bustled in through the back door. “Mistress Linnet. What brings you here? Is someone ailing?”
“Nay, Master Fuller,” she said quickly, grateful for the timely interruption. “I have brought Sir Simon to see your goods. He is one of our Knights of the Black Rose.”
“Indeed.” The fuller’s fleshy face lifted in a joyous smile. “Welcome home.”
Simon nodded. “Your shop is as fine as Linnet promised.” He glanced about, but Linnet saw him studying the door.
If Bardolf came by and glanced in, he’d see them. She had to get them out into the back.
“I’ve done well.” The fuller patted his expansive belly. “Though who knows if these prosperous times will continue,” he added, sobering. “Bishop Thurstan contracted favorable trade agreements. The next bishop may not do the same.”
“He will be sorely missed,” Linnet murmured.
“Aye, that he will. Bishop Thurstan was not originally destined for the church, ye know,” said the fuller. “Trained to be a courtier, was Thurstan de Lyndhurst, God rest his soul. ‘Twas his older brother for whom their sire bought the bishopric of Durleigh, only Richard died and Thurstan took his place. Thurstan would have done right well at court.”
It wa
s news to Simon that Thurstan hadn’t had a true calling for the church, but it didn’t surprise him. Nor did it excuse his fathering a child and abandoning it. “I am sure the archdeacon wished Thurstan had gone to court.”
The fuller nodded. “Different as day from night, they were. The bishop was flexible in his views of right and wrong. To him, the end result was what mattered. The archdeacon, on the other hand, is rigid as a pike staff. To Crispin, things are either black or white. I’ve heard they didn’t get along at all.”
“Hmm.” Simon glanced anxiously at the street door.
“Could you show Sir Simon the finished cloth goods?” Linnet asked brightly.
“Happily.” The fuller led the way out the back door to a cobbled courtyard enclosed on three sides by high stone walls. Rows of upright wooden frames filled the yard. “We hang the cloth to dry on the tenters here, stretching it to size with tenterhooks.” He waved a fat hand at the frames. “And when the cloth is dry, the nap is cut smooth.” He beckoned them past the maze of frames to long tables spread with cloth. A half dozen women bent over the fabric, clipping away with huge shears.
Simon grunted, busy scanning the walled courtyard, looking for a way out. He craned his neck to see over the tenter frames. There must be a way out, but where? Had Bardolf come to arrest them, or merely to follow them? Either way, they must escape.
“We are in your debt, Master Fuller.” Linnet smiled archly at Simon. “We should be off to look for the gloves you wanted.”
“Gloves?” Simon exclaimed. “What we need is to get—”
“Does the Glover’s Gil lie just behind here?” Linnet asked.
“Indeed. If you go through my rear gate, it will save you going all the way round.” Motioning for them to follow, the fuller waddled around the end row of tenters to an oak-plank door, took a key from the ring at his belt and opened the door.
Simon walked through first, looked around the vacant, weed-choked field to make sure the way was clear, then motioned for Linnet to follow. “My thanks, Master Fuller.”
The fuller bowed, shut the door and locked it.
“Sweet Mary.” Linnet swayed where she stood.
Simon caught her close, moved by how delicate she felt, how frantically her heart beat against his side. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to hold her, but the familiar urge to protect something small and vulnerable was overlaid with the memory of how sweet her mouth had tasted. The wanting shivered through him, and it took all his control to remember where they were and why. “That was a masterful piece of playacting.”
“I—I wanted to run, but I thought if we did the fuller would think us thieves and raise a cry.”
“Bringing Bardolf.” Simon held her tighter, burying his nose in the crown of her head. The faint scent of roses washed over him. His heart lurched, and his whole body quickened. He struggled against the longing to shift her so they met more fully. “You are canny and brave,” he said hoarsely.
“I do not feel very brave.” The hitch in her voice quelled his hunger in an instant. “Do you think Bardolf has orders to arrest us?”
“Perhaps Hamel would make certain we do not evade justice.”
“Justice.” She trembled again. “Neither of us would get justice from Hamel.”
“Or, I think, from Archdeacon Crispin Norville.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I think he is the murderer.”
“Nay.” Simon glanced around the deserted field.
“You are as afraid of Crispin as everyone else.” She jerked her arm free, stomped across the field and into the street past stalls hung with belts and leather pouches.
Simon caught up with her at the boot maker’s and tugged her out of the street. “Have you forgotten about Bardolf?”
Her eyes widened. “But Crispin is—”
“Later.” He had his own suspicions about the archdeacon, but if he admitted that, God alone knew what she would do.
“You do not believe me?”
“I am concerned with saving your neck. We have no proof against Crispin, and if you go about accusing him, you could find yourself in worse trouble than you already are.”
“I am right,” she said fiercely.
“Not another word till we are private.” He gave her the quelling look that had kept many a hardened soldier in line.
She lifted her chin and met his glare without flinching. “I am going to prove he is guilty, with or without your help.”
Fear clenched deep in his gut. She would do it. Or try. Simon gripped her shoulders a little tighter, wanting to haul her into his arms and keep her safe. “You are going to keep your mouth shut, or I will gag and bind you,” he said, exasperated. She flinched then, and the tiny movement cut straight through him. Growling a curse, he dragged her against his chest and held her there with both hands.
“Simon, what are you doing?” she mumbled into his tunic.
“I wish I knew.” She turned him inside out, brought all his carefully guarded feelings too close to the surface for comfort. He felt raw, yet curiously alive when he was with her. He was not certain he liked that, but he could not seem to ignore her, either. Like a man addicted to drink, he kept going back for another sip. One day soon, he’d need the whole bottle.
As though sensing his precarious mood, she put her arms around his waist and squeezed. “I am sorry I made you angry.”
“I am not angry,” he said softly. “I am afraid for you.”
“Oh, Simon.” She lifted her face, lips already parting for the kiss they both craved.
Simon groaned. Desire ripped through him, a fierce, hungry beast straining on its leash. Because he didn’t think he could control it, he reined it in. “Not here,” he murmured while his body ached in protest. “We must leave.”
Ignoring her hurt expression, he took her arm and hurried her down High Dur Gate. The tension between them was palpable as they crossed the bridge to the other side of the river that separated Durleigh into two parts. She walked meekly at his side. Too meekly, but Simon kept going until they came to the narrow street dotted with shops and taverns that ran along the river. By then Linnet’s steps were flagging. Concerned, Simon stopped at the first clean-looking tavern. He scanned the room quickly, spotted a side door and led Linnet to a table near it. If Bardolf did come in, they would have a means of escape.
He seated her on a stool and took the one that put his back to the wall, giving him a clear view of the main door. The noon meal had already been served, but the maid, a plump, comely girl, promised them bread, cheese and cold meat.
“I am sorry I accused you of fearing Crispin Norville,” Linnet muttered as soon as the serving wench had bustled away.
Simon groaned, but knew he’d not delay this longer. “In a way, I am afraid—afraid of what he might do to you.”
“He can do nothing. I am innocent. He is guilty.”
“You have no proof.”
“True, but I have—”
“A feeling?” he challenged.
“Slightly more than that.” She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “I recalled something about the herbal brandy.”
“Crispin gave it to Thurstan?” Simon asked eagerly.
“Nay, Thurstan bought it himself from an Italian merchant. Thurstan first broached the cask while I was visiting. We shared a cup in his chamber.” She hesitated, a dull flush staining her cheeks. “Crispin burst in and accused us of improper behavior.” She reached a hand to Simon. “But I swear we were just sitting and talking.”
“I have said I believe you.”
A look of pure anguish flitted across her face. Or was it a shadow cast by torches along the wall? “Crispin said that the brandy was a witch’s brew. He said that I was trying to enslave Thurstan’s soul with it.”
“And then the brew turns out to be poisoned.”
“Exactly. Too much of a coincidence, I’d say.”
Simon sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Slim evidence on which to accuse a priest of murder.�
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Inside Linnet something snapped. “How can you be so cool and calm about this?”
Simon leaned back, his expression remote. “It is my way, or so I have been told. Some men say I have ice in my veins.”
Linnet glanced at him through her lashes. “Having kissed you, I’d say your blood runs as hot as fire.”
“Linnet!” he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing.
Intrigued, Linnet arched one brow. “Of course, your men have doubtless not seen that side of you.”
“Nay.” His grin eased the years and the cares from his face. This was the man he should have been had he been raised with the nurturing love all things crave.
“Simon—” She broke off as the maid returned to set down a platter of food, two cups and an ale pitcher. By the time the woman left, Linnet’s thoughts had traveled further down that road. “You owe it to Thurstan to find his killer.”
The light in his eyes went out. “I owe him nothing, but I do admit,” he said grudgingly, “that speaking with these folk today has shown me things I did not know about Thurstan.”
Linnet sighed. So much pain, and seemingly no way to ease it. “Good thing, I think. If only Thurstan had lived long enough to explain—”
“There is no excusing what he did,” Simon muttered, his gaze carefully blank. It was as though shutters had been drawn to shield his gaze from hers. “We’d best eat and be on our way.” He bent to the task of demolishing bread and cheese.
Linnet stared at the top of his glossy black head and cursed her hasty tongue. A few ill-chosen words had shattered the closeness they had built up over the past few days. Damn. How could she have been so careless?
Thurstan himself had told her that Simon’s reserved air hid deep scars. I thought I’d done well to have him trained to be a knight like my older brothers. Too late I realized he had his mother’s loving nature and was hurt by that cold, tough life.
Aye, his upbringing had forced him to become self-reliant, to count on no one but himself. Discovering that the life he had so painstakingly built for himself was a lie had made Simon even more wary of trusting others. But he had come to trust her and to care for her. She had seen the tenderness mingled with the desire that flared in his eyes. She had felt the quickening of his body when he held her. Bad enough she did not truly deserve the respect he had accorded her, but to rip at his wounds…
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 13
