She exhaled. “Forgive me,” she said cautiously. “Mama used to say I had an unfortunate habit of blurting out things better left unsaid.” Picking up her cup, she extended it to him. “Peace?” she asked, smiling faintly.
“Peace.” Simon turned the word over as he stared at her mouth, the full lower lip, the tilted corners. It was a mouth made for smiling…and for passion. She was a woman who felt keenly and showed her emotions openly. He envied her that, the ease with which she lived in her own skin, for his had never fit quite right. Always he strove to be better, to prove himself. Somehow, despite all his accomplishments, it was never enough.
“I would have us be friends, Simon,” she said.
The huskiness in her voice slid down his spine like warm honey, igniting possibilities he dared not explore. But he wanted to. Dieu, he dreamed about her—even when he was awake—of kissing her, of exploring the tempting curves beneath her plain gown. Lust, he thought. It was understandable, given the fact he had lived like a monk since leaving Acre. And yet, she was different from other women he’d met. That terrified him. He did not want to need her. “There are reasons why we cannot afford to become involved.”
“You are right. More right than you can know.”
Simon wanted to ask what she had meant, then decided to let well enough alone. “Best eat. We’ve much to do before evening.”
They ate in silence. Every time Simon looked up, her head was bent over her plate. He regretted the loss of the easy camaraderie they’d enjoyed earlier. But better to make things plain from the start. He liked her and did not want to hurt her when it came time for him to leave Durleigh. He did not yet know where he would go. Perhaps he would go home with Nicholas and from there visit the other knights to see how they fared.
Linnet sighed and pushed her plate away. “I am done.” In truth, it appeared she had eaten little.
Simon stood and fished a few pennies from his pouch.
“I can pay my way.” She stood also.
“Nay, I owe you for supper last night.” He was troubled by her slumped shoulders. “I will take you home and then go up to the cathedral and speak with Brother Anselme.”
That brought her head up. “About the archdeacon?”
“Linnet, Crispin is a priest,” Simon reminded her as he escorted her to the door.
“Perhaps he thought to save the church from Thurstan.”
“The same might be said of Prior Walter,” Simon muttered. “He, too, covets Durleigh. And being the archbishop’s man, might stand a better chance of being named to the post.”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “It does not fit.”
“Because you like Walter and do not like Crispin.”
“Crispin is guilty. I feel it,” she taunted.
“Shh.” He took hold of her shoulders, sighed and leaned his forehead against hers. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Help me find Thurstan’s killer.”
“I thought that was what I was doing.”
“Aye.” She reached up and stroked his cheek. Her touch crackled across his skin like heat lightning. “I do not know what I would have done without you today.”
Her soft gaze made him uncomfortable because he wanted to offer more yet knew he could not afford to. “Well, we’d best be getting back to the shop before dark,” he muttered.
She smiled knowingly. “All right.”
Feeling as though he had lost an important battle, Simon peered outside. The gloom had deepened, lengthening the shadows cast over the river walk by the buildings. Foot traffic was sparse. The two boats tied up alongside the walk had been emptied of their cargo and now bobbed forlornly on the choppy water. Of Bardolf, there was no sign.
“The way is clear.” He took Linnet’s arm as they started south toward the Dur Bridge.
“Did you see the new bridge?”
Simon moved to the edge of the walk and looked upstream. The river was high this time of year, swollen by heavy spring rains. A fine stone bridge had replaced the old timber one. “It is indeed a grand structure.”
“Tolls from the river bar paid for it. Normally they go into the bishopric’s coffers, but Thurstan remitted one half of his rents toward the building, and the town matched the amount.”
“A good and just arrangement.” Simon half turned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone move up behind them.
The man had wild, angry eyes. His cheeks were stubbled with a brown beard, but Simon recognized him instantly.
The bandit who’d ambushed him and his companions near York.
“What the hell!” Simon spun, but even as he reached for his sword, the bandit lunged with a knife.
“Nay!” Linnet grabbed the assailant’s arm. The fiend shook her off with a shouted curse and shoved her back.
Simon watched in horror as she went over the low stone wall and into the swiftly moving river.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
Crispin Norville scarcely felt the cold that seeped from the chapel’s stone floor and through his coarse robe to chill his bony body. His heart was already an icy lump, weighing down his soul.
“I did not mean for him to die.” Crispin clutched his rosary beads so hard his knuckles ached. He welcomed the pain.
“But you know that,” Crispin murmured. “For I told you that Brother Thurstan was not pure, and you did put in my path the foreign brandy and the monkshood. You did show me the way to save Durleigh from the bishop’s evil ministrations.”
He worried the plain wooden beads with his fingers. “I did not kill him,” Crispin whispered. But was it his fault that Thurstan had been too weak to fight off his attacker?
Crispin shuddered and closed his eyes, wracked by the memory of Thurstan’s pain-twisted features. Even an enemy did not deserve such a death. “The woman is to blame.” He would prove Linnet guilty and see her punished. Her death was the only thing that could clear the stain from his own immortal soul.
Chapter Ten
The icy water closed over Linnet’s head with terrible finality, clogging her nose and mouth, blinding her in murky gloom. For an instant, she lay passive as the current sucked her along. Then the burning in her lungs penetrated her shock.
Struggling against the force of rushing water, she fought her way toward the light above. She popped free, gasping for breath, clawing to keep her head above water. Already the riverbank lay twenty yards or so away, and the gap was widening. Her papa had taught her the rudiments of swimming, but her gown and cloak weighed her down. She would never make it so far.
“Linnet! Hang on!”
She turned and saw Simon cutting toward her through the choppy water. “Go back!” she cried, fearing he would drown, too. The words ended in a gurgle as her head slipped under again. Something snagged her hair and pulled her up. She surfaced, choking and wheezing for air.
“Easy, I have you.” He had an arm around her waist, his thick muscles straining as he fought the tumultuous river.
“My clothes…pull us down….” she rasped. “Let me go.” But her fingers instinctively clutched at his tunic. She could feel his heart thudding, his legs milling to keep them afloat.
“I’ll get you out. Stay calm.” Still treading water, he ripped the broach that held her cloak on. The river immediately claimed the heavy garment. Only Simon’s grip kept her from being sucked after it. “We’ll be frozen stiff if we don’t get out soon. Hang on to the back of my tunic, kick if you can.” He shifted her to his back and struck out toward the bank.
She ordered her legs to move, but they were numb and unresponsive. It seemed to take hours. The water was so cold, the current so strong it carried them farther and farther downstream. She could sense him tiring, feel the strain as he called on his body’s last reserves to carry them to safety.
We will not make it, she thought. I am slowing him down. Everything inside her rebelled at that. She would not be the death of him. Shuddering, she loosened her hold on his tunic.
&n
bsp; “Nay.” He cursed and reached back, catching her arm with one hand in the instant she let go. “We will make it.” He clamped an arm around her waist and stroked toward shore, his long legs scissoring out behind them.
“Grab the rope!” a voice called, and something struck the water in front of them.
Simon lunged for it, wrapping the thick hemp around his forearm. “Pull!” he shouted.
Linnet lifted her eyes to the shore, to the ragged line of figures bent to the task of wresting them from the river’s icy maw. She could see their faces, men, women and even children hauling them in.
Hands reached for her, hauling her up on the bank. She lay there on her belly, coughing and gasping like a beached fish.
“Linnet.” Simon turned her over and crushed her to him. “Dieu, I thought I’d lost you. Why did you let go?”
Because I love you. Too shocked and weary for words, Linnet lay passive in his arms.
“Linnet. Are you all right?” Simon moved back so he could see her. His hand trembled as he stroked her wet hair from her face. Her eyes stood out black against her ashen skin, haunted by the fear that still knotted in his own belly. But she was alive. Alive. How much more precious she seemed, more delicate and more vulnerable. “Why did you do it?”
“So I would not pull you down.”
“Linnet,” he whispered, eyes squeezing shut. “I could have lost you.”
“But you did not. You saved me.” She raised one hand to stroke his cheek. “I owe you my life.”
His eyes opened slowly, filled with emotions so raw and tangled they stole her breath anew. “Linnet, I never thought—”
“Come,” interrupted a new voice. “Let us get you inside and dry before you both catch the ague.” A priest hovered over them.
Simon looked up, but did not release her, his expression neutral once again. “Our thanks for the timely rescue, Brother…”
“Brother John Gibson, the almoner.”
Linnet could cheerfully have kicked the almoner for his untimely interruption. What had Simon been about to tell her? That he loved her? Ah, well, she did not deserve his love, even if he had been willing to bestow it. Sighing, she managed a watery chuckle. “I had intended to show Simon the almshouse, but this was not the way I’d hoped to arrive.”
“Quickly, Brother, we must get her inside and out of these wet things ere she catches the ague.” Simon’s scowl as he scooped her off the ground was darker than the water that had nearly claimed them both.
“Of course.” Brother John hustled them toward the brightly lit almshouse.
Linnet huddled into Simon’s embrace. Thinking she had never felt safer or more secure, she stared up at his stark profile. Once she might have mistaken his expression for anger. Now she saw the fear he sought to hide and a concern that warmed her despite the icy wool clinging to her. It was almost worth the dunking to discover he was not immune to her, after all.
“Dead, are you certain?” Jevan demanded.
Rob FitzHugh nodded. “She fell into the river, and he jumped in to save her.”
“Idiot.” Jevan cuffed him in the head. “You were supposed to take him prisoner, get the journal and bring it to me.”
Rob fell back against the wall, both arms upraised to ward off the next blow. “It weren’t my fault. I came at him, ye see, thinking I could take him prisoner. That fool woman grabbed my arm. Look here.” He pulled back his sleeve, displaying the long scratches where her nails had raked him. “I pushed…she fell.”
Jevan sneered and turned away to pace the tiny garret atop the inn. He’d sneaked away from class to wait for Rob. The chancellor of the school had already warned Jevan he’d be whipped if he missed any more lessons, but things were in an uproar over the bishop’s death, and he’d likely not be missed. Any more than he’d been missed from supper two nights ago.
The important thing was finding the charter. It was an amendment to Thurstan’s will. In it the bishop granted Blackstone Heath to Simon, but he had changed the charter after Simon’s death, leaving the manor to Jevan instead. Dieu, what if Simon had had the journal on his person when he went into the river? “Have the bodies been found?” Jevan asked, turning on Rob.
“Nay.” Rob straightened, eager to please as a cur. “The sheriff’s men are searching along the river. But the current is so swift, who knows where they’ll end up. Want I should go and help them look?”
“All right, but this time do not make a hash of it. Find Simon’s body and search it for the journal.”
“Ye can count on me.” Rob dashed off.
Jevan waited until Rob’s footsteps had died away, then went down to search Simon’s room for himself.
Night was fast approaching by the time Simon and Linnet left the almshouse. It had rained during the time they were inside recovering from their ordeal. The dusky sky was cloudless now, the air filled with dewy freshness. Appropriate, Simon thought, for in a sense, he felt reborn.
“Thank you for all you did, Brother,” Simon said.
“That is why we are here,” replied the almoner. “To help those in need.”
Brother John had done more than that. He and the tenants of the poorhouse had saved their lives. John was a round little man whose soft eyes belied his boundless energy. He had insisted they remove their wet clothes and wrap up in thick blankets while the garments were dried before a cheery fire in the common room. The cook had offered hot soup to warm their insides. The women, many of them widows with small children, had pitched in, chafing Simon and Linnet’s numb feet.
Simon had been glad of the crowd and their distracting activity, for they kept him from dwelling on what had happened. Near brushes with death were not a novelty to him. But his reaction to Linnet’s involvement was. He kept reliving the moment when he’d felt her fingers slipping away.
She had courted death to save him.
It was not unheard of in the heat of battle for a soldier to risk his life to aid a comrade. But that was a matter of training and of honor, and few expected to die. They expected to prevail. Linnet could have had no such hope.
She had been willing to die to save him.
The realization was both moving and humbling. It changed things in ways he feared to examine.
“Thank you again, Brother John,” Linnet said. Her voice was still hoarse, and she trembled as she spoke.
That little tremor cut through a lifetime of defenses like a dagger through cheese. Simon put an arm around her slender waist and drew her closer. The feel of staunchly independent Linnet leaning into his embrace made his heart roll over in his chest. She needed him. He was used to that, had committed himself to helping people in need. The fact that he needed her was novel and unsettling.
Simon shrugged the feeling aside. “I am much impressed with your almshouse.” When he could send to London, Simon meant to donate a large share of his fortune to the almshouse.
“The credit goes to God and to Bishop Thurstan.” John crossed himself. “Pray we will be allowed to continue our work.”
“Who would stop you?” Simon demanded.
Brother John sighed. “I fear the archdeacon does not approve of the way this house was conceived and may close it.”
“But the poor would starve,” cried Linnet.
“True.” Brother John’s lips thinned. “Brother Crispin is one who believes in following each stricture to the letter. I first met him at Wells, where he was a canon and I a young novice. A fellow novice sneaked away without permission to visit his ill father. A storm came up, forcing the boy back to the cathedral after the gates were closed for the night. Crispin decreed that according to our rules the gates could not be opened again till the morn. By then, the boy had frozen to death.”
“He let him die?” Linnet exclaimed.
“Crispin believed it was God’s will, a punishment for disobedience, and the dean of Wells did not dispute him.”
Linnet inhaled sharply. “But—”
Simon gave her a quick warning squeeze. App
alling as this was, much as it added to their suspicions about Crispin, silence was essential. “Come. Drusa and Aiken will be worried.”
“I will send two of the lay brothers along to make certain you reach home safely.”
“Thank you,” Simon murmured. Already dusk was deepening the shadows that hugged the buildings. By the time they reached the apothecary it would be full dark. And somewhere out in the dark, the brigand waited. If he’d had only himself to think of, Simon might have chanced it. Nay, he would certainly have gone alone, hoping the man would give him another chance to finish this. But he had Linnet’s welfare to consider.
Simon set out with one hand on his sword and the other around Linnet, the two strapping lay brothers close behind. The journey through the center of Durleigh to the apothecary was tense and silent, but uneventful. Most folk were home supping, and many of the shops were closed.
As they turned down Spicier’s Lane, Simon noted that the beggar was not at his post across the street from the apothecary. Was he out looking for them? If so, they might get inside without the sheriffs man being any the wiser.
Simon turned to the brothers and pressed two coins into the older one’s hand. “I noticed a bakeshop near the almshouse. On your way back, perhaps you would buy cakes for the children.”
“It is kind of you to think of them, sir. Coin for treats is scarce.”
“I know.” The folk who had raised Simon had not been nearly as loving as Brother John.
“Thank Brother John again for us,” Linnet said.
Aiken answered the door at the first knock. “Mistress, Sir Simon. We were beginning to worry.”
“No need.” Simon rushed Linnet inside, closed the door and set the bar across it. “We were buying clothes and lost track of time. Did you notice when the beggar left his post?”
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 14
