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

by Suzanne Barclay

  Aiken frowned. “An hour or so ago. I was weighing peppercorns for a customer. Why?”

  “Did he leave of his own accord?”

  “Well.” Aiken scratched at the few hairs on his chin. “Bardolf walked by, and then the beggar left.”

  “Excellent.” Hamel obviously believed them dead. “Where are the men-at-arms?”

  “In the kitchen, we were just sitting down to sup,” Aiken added. “Shall I fetch them for ye?”

  “Nay.” He’d speak with them later and make plans for the watch this evening. “If you would tell Drusa we have returned and ask if she could attend her mistress. We’ve had a—”

  “I can see to myself,” Linnet muttered as the lad hurried through to the kitchens.

  “You have had a shock. You need rest and quiet.”

  “Please, say nothing to them of…of what happened at the river. I do not want to alarm Aiken and Drusa.”

  Simon scowled. “I will not lie to them on two accounts. I hate lies.” And with good reason, for his whole life had been one. “And if the bandit’s attack was planned, we need to take precautions against his trying again.”

  “I thought he was a footpad.”

  Drusa bustled into the entryway. “Aiken says ye need my help. Has something happened?” Her sharp eyes searched each of their faces in turn.

  “She fell in the river,” Simon said bluntly.

  “And he jumped in after me.”

  Drusa gasped. “Ye could both have drowned.”

  “Sir Simon is a strong swimmer,” Linnet said, cleverly downplaying the incident without lying. “And we are fine, as you can see. The almoner took us in. That is where we have been so long. He insisted on drying us out.”

  “My poor lamb.” Drusa enfolded Linnet in her ample bosom. “Come upstairs straight away, and I’ll warm the bed for—”

  “I am not tired.” Linnet gently disengaged herself from the maid’s arms. “But some food would be most welcome.”

  “Of course. Aiken stepped over to the inn and brought back a mutton pie. But it is not fitting that ye should eat in the kitchen with those rough soldiers,” Drusa said. “I’ll have Aiken bring a tray up to yer room.”

  “And something for Sir Simon, as well,” Linnet said.

  Drusa gave him a measuring glance, then hurried away.

  “Linnet. It is not proper for us to be alone in your chamber.” It was damned dangerous, in fact.

  “We need to speak of what we have learned today and what we will do next. I would prefer discussing it in private.”

  Simon sighed. She was right. Drusa could be counted on to keep silent about anything she heard, but Aiken was young and flighty. And the soldiers did not owe any particular allegiance to Simon. “Lead on,” he muttered grudgingly.

  Linnet’s smile teased. “I will behave myself.”

  Simon wished he could promise the same with some certainty. He trooped up the stairs after her. To keep his hands busy, he bent to rebuild the fire in the hearth. As a precaution, he kept his sword on when he was done. Difficult to seduce a woman with a broadsword in the way. “Where shall we begin?”

  “You could start by not glowering at me.” She had shed her borrowed cloak and draped it over the bed. “Sweet Mary, but it seems a hundred years ago I left this room.”

  “Aye. Much has happened in a short time.” He felt raw, as though he’d been turned inside out and stood before her, totally defenseless. At her mercy.

  “Too much.” She joined him at the hearth and stood looking into the flames. “My whole world has been turned inside out. Thurstan’s death, your return, the threat to us…”

  Simon nodded and glanced sidelong at her profile. It was not the bishop’s death or even the current danger that caused his turmoil. His father had been dead to him for years and danger a constant companion for the past four. It was Linnet who disturbed the inner peace Simon had struggled to create for himself. He stared at her features, gilded by the firelight, the wide, intelligent eyes, the high cheekbones and the soft mouth.

  Aiken clomped up the stairs. His eyes alive with curiosity, he set down the covered tray. “Drusa said ye saved Linnet’s life, Sir Simon. We’re grateful.”

  Simon shrugged. “It was nothing.”

  “Not to me.” Linnet smiled ruefully at him.

  “What happened?” Aiken asked avidly.

  “My rashness landed me in trouble as usual,” Linnet said.

  Simon glowered at her. “Run along and have your supper, lad, while I speak with your mistress about her…rashness.”

  The boy left, feet scuffing.

  “You know the man who attacked us?” Linnet asked.

  “What makes you think I do?”

  She just stared at him.

  Simon refused to be intimidated. “Let us eat.” He stalked to the table, pulled out the two stools and sat on one.

  She folded her arms and waited. Just waited.

  “Oh, very well,” Simon grumbled. “Come here.”

  There was no smugness in her expression as she took the other stool. Merely patient curiosity.

  Loath as he was to speak of this and worry her, he could not lie. “He was the leader of the group of bandits who ambushed us on the road from York.”

  “Ah.” Linnet slid into her stool. “The one who escaped?”

  “Aye. God rot him.” Simon took his eating knife, cut the mutton pie into pieces and put the choicest slice into her bowl before filling his own. He picked up a spoon and began to eat, more for something to do than out of hunger. His belly was still too tight for that. “I could swear I’d seen him in Durleigh. At the cathedral. Did he look familiar to you?”

  “Nay, but then my eyes were on his knife.”

  Simon shuddered. He had come so close to losing her.

  “Curious he should search you out.”

  Simon raised his head. She was not eating, but staring at him with that level gaze. Why had he admired her cleverness? “Likely he spotted me and thought to avenge his cohorts.”

  “Why did he not wait till you were alone?”

  “Obviously he was not very wise.”

  “Yet you said he led this band of brigands, and I do assure you they must have been clever, for they eluded both Sheriff Turnebull and then Hamel when he became temporary sheriff.”

  Simon blinked. “In truth, my mind was so filled with reaching Durleigh—” and confronting Thurstan “—I had not given the bandits another thought. Likely they were in league with someone, a corrupt baron, perhaps, who gave them protection in exchange for a share of their plunder.”

  “Then why come all the way to Durleigh?”

  “Perhaps he feared the baron would punish him.”

  “Or he needed to have his wound tended and had heard that Old Nelda would see to him with no questions asked.”

  Simon frowned. “My wits must be scattered, for I’d not thought of that, either. I will question her and see if she knows where he is.”

  “She is not one to answer questions.”

  “A piece of silver may loosen her tongue.”

  “I am sure it would.” Linnet picked up her spoon and toyed with the pie. “Do you think I am wrong to suspect Crispin?”

  “I do not like him. But murder…” Simon shook his head.

  “What of the tale Brother John told. If Crispin could leave a novice outside to freeze for running away, might he not be capable of punishing Thurstan for his transgressions?”

  “I suppose. One hears tales every day of priests who have sinned to gain what they wanted, be it wealth, power or a woman.” He thought of his mother and wondered if she had lain willingly with Thurstan or if he had taken a fancy to her and forced her into his bed.

  “I fear we will never solve this.” Linnet stood abruptly and walked away, but not before he saw her anguished expression.

  “Do not lose heart.” Simon followed her to the hearth.

  A slight tremor shook her, and she wrapped her arms about her waist as thou
gh to still it. “I had not realized till this afternoon how close is the margin between life and death.”

  Simon shuddered himself, thinking how nearly he had lost her. “Ah, Linnet.” He opened his arms to her. She came to him, and it seemed as natural as breathing to clasp her close.

  Never had he been as conscious of the contrast between his maleness and a woman’s soft fragility as he was now. Perhaps because he had never spent this much time with any one woman. Parents kept their marriageable daughters well away from penniless bastard knights like himself, and he had never been tempted to linger with the whores he had sought out to ease his lust.

  He had no ties other than the oath of fealty he’d sworn to Lord Edmund and few friendships, except those he’d formed with the other five knights of the Black Rose. But Linnet was different. Lively and compassionate, strong yet vulnerable, she awakened something in him he had not known existed. He tried to will it away. She was not for him. No woman was. Long ago he had vowed that he would not wed nor sire a child. And now that he knew whose blood flowed in his veins, he was more determined than ever.

  “I needed this,” she whispered, burrowing into his embrace, ripping at his control. “All the while dear Brother John was trying to help, all I wanted was for you to hold me.”

  “I know.” God help him, he knew. Simon gritted his teeth and fought the urge to crush her to him, to rip away the layers of wool separating them and bury himself in her welcoming heat. “I was afraid I would not reach you in time.”

  “But you did.” She raised wet, shiny eyes to him. “You risked your life to save me.”

  “How could I not?” Tears magnified the size of her eyes. Reflected in them he saw his own dazed image. Drowning, he thought, he was drowning in her. It was his last conscious thought before he lowered his head and kissed her.

  A low sigh broke from her as she opened to him, her arms sliding around his neck, her body melting into his. Lush and pliant, she responded to him with an urgency that matched the fire in Simon’s belly. He had never wanted anyone this hotly, this desperately. He swept his hands down her supple back and lifted her, fitting them together.

  Perfect. The soft hills and valleys of her body fit the hard angles of his perfectly. Like a dream. His dream.

  Simon groaned and deepened the kiss, stunned by the overwhelming sense of rightness, the sense of belonging.

  “Sir Simon! Sir Simon!”

  Simon jerked his head up, looked into Linnet’s dazed, startled eyes, then realized the shout had come from below.

  The guards!

  “Stay here.” Simon set her from him and sprinted for the stairwell. Miles waited at the bottom. “What is it?”

  “There’s a man at the back door.”

  “At this time of night? Something must be amiss.” Simon started toward the kitchen, wondering what fresh ills had befallen them.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Simon!” Brother Anselme swayed in the doorway of the shop, one hand clutched to his heart.

  “Easy, Brother.” Simon took hold of the infirmarer and half carried him to the bench by the hearth.

  “You are alive!” Brother Anselme’s face was pale, his red-rimmed eyes filled with hope. “What of Linnet?”

  “She is above stairs, resting.” Simon glanced up to find them encircled by an audience: the worried Drusa, avid Aiken and two curious soldiers. “Drusa, I think the good brother is in need of a-drink.”

  “I will fetch some whiskey and assure the mistress all is well.” She departed in a flurry of russet skirts.

  Simon sent Miles and Jasper to search the garden and Aiken to look out the front, then sat beside the monk. “Who told you we were dead?” Simon asked. “And when?”

  “It was late afternoon, hours past None. I had gone to tell Brother Crispin of my findings. Sheriff Hamel and Lady Odeline were with him, celebrating the demise of Thurstan’s killers.”

  “Meaning Linnet and myself.” Simon stroked his chin.

  “Aye. Crispin is determined you two are guilty. But what happened? How came you to be reported dead?”

  “Later,” he murmured as Drusa rushed in bearing a flask.

  Linnet followed close behind. Rising, he gave way for Linnet to sit by the monk and stood back watching the tearful reunion. The closeness between Linnet and Anselme was as obvious as the hovering Drusa’s concern. The outpouring of genuine affection stirred something in Simon’s gut. Envy, he thought and tried, unsuccessfully, to will it away.

  A commotion at the rear door signaled the return of the soldiers just as Aiken clumped in through the workroom. All three reported nothing was amiss.

  Simon welcomed the interruption. Briskly he sent the soldiers back to their posts and considered how best to handle this. He had questions to ask of the monk and no desire to be overheard, even by Linnet. Especially by her. “Brother Anselme, I will walk you back to the cathedral.”

  Linnet whipped her head up. Shock and exhaustion had dulled the golden lights in her eyes, but they brightened briefly with suspicion. “I will come with you.”

  “Ye’ll do no such thing,” Drusa cried. “It’s off to bed with ye, miss, and I’ll be sitting with ye till ye sleep.”

  Linnet glared at Simon. He smiled benignly back. Careful to keep his smugness hidden, he borrowed a coarse cloak from Jasper and hustled Anselme from the shop. Once outside, with the door barred behind them, Simon heaved a sigh of relief.

  “What is going on?” Anselme hissed.

  “I will tell you while we walk.” Simon pulled the cowl up to shield his face and set out via the back streets. The night was nippy and there were few folks abroad, but he kept his voice low as he retold the day’s events.

  “Thanks be to God you are safe.” Anselme crossed himself. “But why would this brigand seek you out?”

  “I think our assailant is the sheriff’s man.”

  “The sheriff in league with outlaws?” Anselme shook his head. “I can scarcely credit it.”

  “That is because few people know what Hamel is really like,” Simon muttered. “He is greedy, ruthless and cunning.”

  “It would explain why the bandits have been so successful in avoiding capture.”

  “Aye, it would. The man looked familiar to me.” Simon described him as best he could. “Have you seen such a man in town or at the cathedral?”

  “Alas, I cannot tell. I am not often in town, and the cathedral is a busy place. Students, pilgrims and even brothers from other orders are constantly visiting us.”

  “Well, the important thing is that we are safe.”

  “Aye, but there is evil gossip abroad.” Anselme waited until they had crossed busy High Dur Street and entered another side street to explain. “The archdeacon put forth the theory that, unable to live with her guilt, Linnet threw herself into the river, and you died trying to save your lover.”

  “A neat, tidy package,” Simon muttered. The two people Crispin had accused of the crime were unable to defend themselves. It made Crispin seem more and more guilty. “Are the sheriff’s men still looking for us?”

  “As far as I know. The river is wild this time of year, and I gathered the search has moved out beyond the town walls.”

  “What of the prior? Was he in the hall, too?”

  “Nay, I’ve not seen Prior Walter all day.”

  Simon’s sixth sense prickled. He had first suspected Crispin because of things Walter had said. Was the prior trying to divert suspicion from himself? “He has not left Durleigh?”

  “Nay. I’ve been busy in the infirmary is all.”

  “Have you found out anything else?”

  Anselme’s sigh seemed to fill the night. “I have confirmed my earlier theory. Thurstan was being poisoned. Slowly.”

  “For how long?” Simon asked, stopping midstride.

  “He first took ill five months ago.”

  “December. Did anything unusual happen then?”

  “He collapsed in November, at the mass said for the souls
of our Crusaders.” Anselme smiled faintly. “Prayers that were answered by your return. But he had begun to recover by December and was well enough to conduct the Christmas services.”

  “When was Old Nelda exiled?”

  “The first complaint was lodged against her after the new year,” Anselme said. “By the archdeacon. But the hearing was not held for some weeks. Even after she had been found guilty, Thurstan refused to turn her out till the weather warmed.”

  Simon tucked the information about Nelda away. She might well be the murderer, but she did not have easy access to the bishop. “I would imagine he and Crispin argued about that.”

  “That they did.”

  “And then there was the matter of the bones.” Simon told Anselme about their visit with Digger.

  “I have heard no mention of this.”

  “Digger said that on the day Thurstan died, he was called to the cathedral by the archdeacon—to bear witness against the bishop. According to Digger, Crispin was furious with Thurstan.”

  “What do you mean?” Anselme’s troubled features were illuminated by light spilling from a tavern doorway.

  “Just that the archdeacon hated the bishop.”

  “What you suggest is impossible,” the monk exclaimed. “Unthinkable. Master Billeter hated Thurstan most fiercely.”

  “Aye, so I have heard.” Simon related Jean Billeter’s tale.

  Anselme smiled. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  “Aye, he got what he deserved.” Simon sighed. “But Clarence could not have attacked the bishop two nights past, nor does he seem the sort to patiently poison someone.”

  “Nay. But Brother Crispin?” Anselme crossed himself and shook his head. “He is the most pious among us.”

  “Zealously so.” Simon waited a moment, then told the monk about the novice who had been shut out of Wells Cathedral and froze to death. “Perhaps the archdeacon is another who believes that the end justifies the means.”

  Anselme bowed his head. “All you say is true, my son.”

  “And Crispin would have had easy access to the bishop’s rooms and his things.”