“Aye.” Anselme halted across the street from the cathedral enclave and stared at the walls, his eyes sad. “But murder…” He shook his head again. “I cannot credit it.”
Nor would anyone else, Simon thought grimly. Not without solid proof. “If I could search his things, I might find—”
Anselme stared at him aghast. “Brother Crispin would never give permission for such a thing.”
“Nor would I ask…for fear of alerting him. It is possible he has already gotten rid of the poisons.”
Anselme scowled. “Crispin could not have hit him on the head or doused him with the belladonna. He was in the great hall with Prior Walter, waiting to dine with Thurstan.”
“I know. Perhaps Crispin was in league with someone.”
“Lady Odeline?” Anselme asked, voicing Simon’s thoughts.
“Perhaps,” Simon said carefully. “You did say they were sitting together a short time ago. Is that not odd?”
“Aye. And she found Thurstan,” the monk murmured. “Though she said he was alive, and she did look most genuinely horrified when we reached his chamber and discovered him dead.”
“Perhaps she is a skilled mummer.”
“Holy Mary.” Anselme wiped a hand over his face. “I do not know which is worse, accusing a priest or Thurstan’s blood kin. In any event, the crime was a vile one indeed and would have taken some strength. I have learned Thurstan was alive when the belladonna was forced on him.”
“Forced?” Simon felt his own throat close.
Anselme explained that had Thurstan been dead, he’d not have been able to swallow, and a large dose of the poison had lain in Thurstan’s stomach. “There were bruises on his jaw where it was pried open.”
“Would he have been in pain?” Simon whispered.
“Some.” Anselme’s mouth worked. “Belladonna paralyzes before it kills, but they say the mind remains clear.”
“Damn.” Simon closed his eyes against the horror. It was one thing to wish dead the man who had ignored him, quite another to think of him dying by degrees, unable to call out, aware his life was ebbing away. Bile rose in his throat, bitter and edged with guilt. If he had not torn away in such a blind, hate-filled hurry, he might have seen something. He might have been there to thwart the murderer.
“It was over quickly. A few moments at most.”
A few moments of sheer hell. Simon wondered if Lady Odeline had knowledge of herbs.
“It was the belladonna that distorted his features and made us think he’d had a seizure.”
“I would prefer that Linnet not learn of this,” Simon said.
“I plan to tell few people besides yourself and the prior. As you can see, Thurstan’s death was so heinous I am loath to believe either Crispin or Odeline responsible.”
Simon looked up, gut churning, and found the sky filled with stars. He had a brief, dizzying image of Thurstan gazing down, waiting for justice. Who killed you? There was no answer except the whisper of the night wind. Snorting, Simon shook the bit of whimsy aside. “But someone was, and I must find out who, lest Linnet and I are framed for the crime. Could the monkshood and belladonna have come from your infirmary stock?”
“I thought of that. Our noxious medicines are kept in a locked cupboard, and I have the only key. I took a thorough inventory last night. Everything is as it should be. Not so much as a grain or drop is missing.”
Simon studied the monk’s open, honest face and believed him. “All of the containers hold what they should? Nothing has been substituted?”
“I checked that, of course,” Anselme said sharply.
Simon held up a hand. “I know you think I am grasping at straws, Brother, but I am desperate to free Linnet.”
“I know.” The monk laid a hand on Simon’s arm. “Thank you for saving her from the river.”
Simon shrugged, uncomfortable with the light shining in the monk’s eyes, but in his heart he knew he had never been more grateful than when he pulled her out of the water. Alive.
“What will you do next?”
“Next?” Simon swallowed hard. Shoving the latent guilt aside was tougher, but he was used to pushing unwanted bits of life into a corner of his mind and ignoring them. “Tomorrow we will come to the palace and show the archdeacon we are very much alive.” His mouth twitched. “I want to watch his face.”
The compline bell rang out over the city, its solemn notes echoing off old stone.
“I must go,” Anselme said. “Again my thanks for saving Linnet. She was as dear to Thurstan as a daughter. He would be pleased to see you together.”
“We are not together,” Simon snapped.
“Indeed.” Anselme’s brows rose, his eyes dancing. “You know best what is in your heart, my son.” With that, he left.
Nay, Simon did not know what was m his heart. He had sworn it was as empty and cold as the grave…until he’d met Linnet.
“To you, my lady.” Hamel lifted his cup and touched it lightly to Odeline’s. They were seated in the bedchamber of his little house off the market square.
Odeline sipped and gauged how best to bend him to her will. Perhaps with a bit of the truth, for Hamel was a greedy man. “Oh, Hamel, with Thurstan gone, I fear Jevan and I will be tossed into the streets.”
“Nay, I will take care of you.” Hamel set down the cup and took her hands in his great paw. “And Jevan has a place at the cathedral school.”
“Only because Thurstan paid his way.” The thought of living in this tiny house, in this remote town, with only the dullard Hamel for company, made tears well. “Thurstan did intend for us to have a small estate when he died. He showed me the charter, but now it is missing. Stolen by Simon.” Stupid. Stupid that she had not asked Thurstan for it days ago.
“An estate?” Hamel’s eyes brightened.
“Small, but prosperous.” A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of that rich estate with its beautiful manor going to the church. She could have sold it for a tidy sum and returned to London to live in style. “The charter is m the journal I had asked you to find.”
“Do not cry.” Hamel patted her hands. “I will get it.”
“How?” Odeline sobbed. “Jevan searched Simon’s room and could not find Thurstan’s book.”
“I will search again. Now that he is dead, I can take his possessions, slit open his mattress, shred his clothes—”
“It could be he had it on his person when he drowned.”
“Hmm. My men have had no luck m finding the body, but when they do, I swear I will tear it limb from—”
“Spare me the details,” Odeline murmured.
“I am sorry, my dear. I forget you are so delicate.” He patted her arm. “Could the bishop have entrusted another copy of this charter to someone else? The archdeacon, mayhap?”
Odeline rolled her eyes. “Thurstan would dance with the devil before he entrusted anything to Crispin Norville.” It was her fondest hope her brother was dancing with the devil. It would serve him right for having looked down upon her and for teasing her with that charter.
If you avoid scandal while you are here, I will gift Blackstone Heath to Jevan when he completes his studies, Thurstan had promised.
She had lived like a nun. Or at least she had until Thurstan was taken ill, then she had done as she pleased…with Hamel.
“Besides,” Odeline added. “There is only one copy. Now it is missing. I suppose I should have told the archdeacon about this, but he does not approve of me. I fear he might try to seize the estate for the church.”
Hamel snorted. “That pious prig would insist it go to the church. Nay, it is better if we find it.”
Oh, far better. Odeline smiled up at Hamel through her lashes. Men were such stupid, predictable beasts. She let her gaze wander over his muscular body and wide hands, thinking how strong and ruthless a lover he was. She looked up to find him watching her through lowered lids, eyes glittering with sensual heat. “Promise to say nothing of the charter,” she purred.
His wicked lips parted in a smug smile. “Nothing.”
Odeline let the tension crackle between them for a moment, gauging his lust by the rasp of his breathing. Just as he leaned forward to take her mouth, she stood. “It is possible that Simon left it in the apothecary shop for safekeeping.” She walked to the window, knowing he would follow. Like a trained dog.
“I will search there, too, then.”
“How? On what pretext?”
Hamel spun her around. “I’ll find an excuse.” He took her lips in a bruising kiss. “Just trust me.”
Odeline trusted no man. Jevan was the only one she could count on to support her. And she him. “All right, but we must have the charter before Thurstan’s funeral.”
“It will be done.” He carried her to the bed and fell on her like a starving animal. His passion fired her own, and they rolled across the coverlet, tearing and scratching in their haste to satisfy their urgent craving.
Wherever you are now, Thurstan, I hope you can see me, she thought as Hamel mounted her and drove her up the final peak.
A short time later, Odeline washed, tidied her clothes and slipped out of the room, leaving Hamel snoring.
Jevan roused from his post by the back gate. “Well?”
“He will look for the charter.”
“Good. Though I little like him, the sheriff can search with impunity in places where I cannot. I will not lose Blackstone Heath after all I’ve gone through to get it.”
Odeline nodded, pulled up the hood of her cloak and the two of them walked slowly toward Petergate and the cathedral.
“I should have made him give me the charter first,” Jevan grumbled, kicking stones from his path.
A shiver of-unease skittered down her spine. “What do you mean, first?”
Jevan glanced sidelong at her and shrugged. “Before I agreed to stay here.” He curled his lower lip. “I cannot abide this school a day longer Me, a clerk.” He made a rude noise. “I would rather die.”
“So your uncle said when our brother, Richard, died and father informed Thurstan he was to take poor Richard’s place as bishop, but that worked out right well for him.” She looked ahead to the bishop’s palace, the gray stone bleached white by the torches rimming it.
Power. Wealth. Prestige.
Aye, her half brother had done well, the ruthless bastard.
Until the end, that is.
Odeline smiled into the darkness.
Simon circled the apothecary once to make certain no one was lurking about, then rapped at the back door.
Miles opened it at once. “Any trouble, Sir Simon?”
“Nay, all is quiet.”
Drusa rose from the kitchen table. Her gray braids were down and she wore a thick bed robe, but her expression was troubled. “She would not lie down till you returned.”
Nightmares, Simon thought, certain he’d have them himself. He would have given anything to go to her, to hold her through the night, but it was not only comfort he wanted to offer. “What if you were to sleep in the room?”
“I offered. She said she wants to be alone.” Drusa wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “She just sits there, holding the prayer book and rocking.”
“Prayer book?”
“Aye. The bishop gave it to her—” Drusa’s mouth trembled “—that last night.”
Simon felt his gut tighten. It was irrational to be jealous of a dead man, but where she was concerned, he did not seem to be rational at all. “I will go up and speak with her.”
He found Linnet sitting in a chair before the dying fire, her eyes glazed but dry, a small, leather-bound book clasped to her breast like a beloved child. “Linnet, you will make yourself sick with this.”
“I should have stayed,” she whispered. “I was angry with him, and I left. If I had stayed, whoever killed him might—”
“Stop.” Simon knelt down and took hold of her shoulders. Frustration made him want to shake her, but she needed all the gentleness he could muster. “I was there, too. Do you think I have not flayed myself with that same whip?” he asked softly.
“But…but you do not care that he is dead.”
“A few days ago, that was true, but now…?” He sighed and kneaded her shoulders, marveling that such a slender body could contain such strength. “He was no father to me, but I have come to see that he was a good man in many other ways. A capable, caring shepherd to his flock.”
Linnet smiled faintly. “Aye, he was that. I am glad you have come to care for him, at least a little. But I keep thinking that if I had not left him alone…”
“Shh. You might have put the murderer off that night, but he would have found another time.”
“I suppose.” She hugged the book a little tighter, her grief-ravaged gaze searching his for answers.
Simon hesitated. He’d seen such anguish in others, fellow knights who had lost a friend in battle, innocent peasants whose whole lives had been destroyed by war. There were no answers to such deep pain, but he wanted desperately to ease her suffering. “Shall I read to you from the prayer book?”
She thought that over for a moment, then shook her head. “My heart is not yet ready to accept the healing words.”
Simon nodded. “Let Drusa come up and sleep on a pallet.”
“Nay, but I would like it if you stayed.”
His blood heated. His heart raced. “You are tired, distraught, you cannot know what you are saying.”
“But I do.” Her eyes were softer now, filled with a longing he understood only too well.
Simon trembled, poised on the brink of giving in to the desire that had raged between them from that first moment in the garden. He wanted her, and Linnet wanted him. Her skin was flushed, her eyes were hazed with passion, but beneath the fire lurked a vulnerability that tempered his needs as nothing else could have. “I will stay,” he whispered, lifting a hand to stroke her cheek.
She murmured his name and turned to kiss his palm. The gesture tugged at his heart, yet made him more certain than ever of what he must do.
“Linnet.” Simon stood and lifted her from the chair, prayer book and all. With her eyes locked on his, filled with silent need, he carried her to the bed. As he laid her down, the scent of her skin filled his nostrils. Dieu, but it reminded him of his dream, teased him with the urge to see if she alone could match it. “Linnet,” he murmured again, releasing her and straightening before he gave in to insanity.
“Simon?” She frowned, clearly baffled by his withdrawal.
“Sleep. I will stay with you…in yon chair.”
“But I thought…” Her eyes filled with tears. “I wanted…”
“As do I.” He smiled gently, despite the war going on inside himself. “But not tonight when we are both weary from our struggles and worried over what tomorrow may bring.” He touched her hair briefly, then walked away before he could change his mind, snuffing out the candles on the mantel to cast the room in near darkness.
“Simon?”
He started, overwhelmed by a sense of having been here before. Her voice, coming out of the night, reminded him so forcefully of his dream. “What is it?”
“Thank you for staying. I feel safe with you near.”
Simon groaned. She should not, for his control was perilously close to shredding. “Sleep,” he murmured, doubting he would, for if he dreamed he might seek her out.
Chapter Twelve
Archdeacon Crispin hurried down the cathedral steps, barely conscious of the other brothers and students filing out behind him. He was weary, and he had much to do on the morrow, changes to make in the way Durleigh Cathedral was run. But it had occurred to him, as he listened to Gerard natter on about his efforts to determine where the residents of the cathedral had been when the bishop was assaulted, that there was something he’d neglected to do. One bit of evidence that could link him to Thurstan’s illness.
The crock of monkshood powder.
“God knows I did not mean for him to die,” Crispin whisper
ed. He had only wanted the bishop to sicken and be removed from his post so another, more worthy man might take his place. Someone like himself, though he would have accepted another had he been godly and pure of purpose.
“It was God’s will,” said Brother Gerard, appearing suddenly at Crispin’s side.
“What?” Crispin exclaimed, aghast he’d been overheard.
“It was God’s will that woman and the knight drowned for killing our bishop,” Brother Gerard said primly. “They were lovers before Simon of Blackstone took the cross.”
“Aye. Sheriff Hamel told me he caught them together on the night before the Crusaders left for the East.”
“Doubtless the knight was furious to discover that the bishop had been poaching in his territory.”
Crispin nodded, his heart jumping like a rabbit making good its escape from a trap. There would be no messy investigation, no need to fear that someone would discover what he had done. All that remained was to dispose of the monkshood, write to the archbishop and pray he’d be named bishop of Durleigh. “It was God’s will,” he said.
“Most assuredly. Will you need me this evening?”
“Nay,” Crispin replied, thinking of what must be done, then seeing Gerard’s shocked expression, he added, “I will pray in my cell tonight. On the morrow we will take up our work.”
Gerard nodded but kept pace with Crispin to the bishop’s residence. Crispin began to fear the cleric meant to follow him to his rooms. But at the steps, Gerard bade him good sleep and continued across the cloisters toward the chapter house.
Crispin let go the breath he’d been holding and scurried into the palace. The entryway was draped in shadows cast by a pair of torches set in rings on the wall. Out of the gloom a figure materialized, making Crispin gasp and retreat.
“‘Tis just me, Reverend Father,” said a youthful voice.
“Ah, good eve to you.” Nerves ajangle, Crispin nodded to the cleric serving as door porter this evening and headed into the stairwell to the right. Here, more torches cast meager light into the circular staircase. Out of habit, Crispin looked up toward the bishop’s chambers. They were far too grand for a man of God, he thought as he headed down into the cellar with its storage rooms and simple cells for visiting monks.
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 16
