“Thank you, Dame Nelda.” Simon reached into his pouch and handed her a silver penny.
“Guard yer back, Simon of Blackstone. I’ve a feeling a few folk will be displeased to find Bishop Thurstan had a son.”
A bastard. Simon’s belly filled with that old, sick feeling that had tainted his youth. He shoved it away, older now, and stronger than he’d been. “They can ignore me. Just as he did.”
“Ignored ye? That he did not. Aware of everything ye did.” Nelda barked out a laugh. “Wealthy man like him, I’m betting he left ye something in his will.” She ducked inside her hut and left him standing there, wondering.
Chapter Thirteen
The moment Simon walked in through the back door, Linnet leaped up from the stool where she had been sitting vigil for hours. “You toad!” she cried.
“Toad?” He stopped on the threshold, one brow rising.
“How dare you go off by yourself?”
“I—I thought you needed sleep—” he stammered.
“Sleep?” Ignoring the soldiers and servants lurking in the kitchen, she glared at Simon. “How could I sleep when I was worried sick that…that fiend had attacked you again?”
“I—” His gaze moved past her, doubtless hoping for rescue from the avid onlookers.
Linnet had had her fill of them, too, with their clumsy attempts to excuse Simon’s absence. “Out!” she cried, whirling to point an imperious finger toward the shop door. Not waiting to watch them slink away, she spun on Simon. “Lout! You think because you are big and strong that you are invincible.”
“I think no such thing,” Simon said carefully.
“Aye, you do.” She advanced and poked a finger into his rock-hard chest. “You worry about protecting others and give not a thought to your own safety.”
“Linnet, you are being foolish. I can—”
“You are the one who is foolish, dammit. And I am so furious with you I could…could…” Her lower lip wobbled. “I could quash you over the head.” She hugged him about the waist.
A chuckle rumbled through his chest, and his hand gently stroked her back. “I am sorry you were worried, but I am fine.”
He felt fine, more than fine, the heat from his strong body seeping through the layers of clothing to drive out the chill that had lodged inside her. “I lost you once, I could not bear—”
“Shh.” His arms went tight around her. His breath was warm on her temple, ruffling the fine hairs and making her senses tingle with possibilities.
Soon. If I do not have him soon, I will die of longing, she thought as she melted into his embrace.
“It is the same for me,” he whispered, making her aware that she’d spoken her deepest desire aloud.
Linnet tipped her head back and studied his face. Fire from the hearth sent shadows dancing over his features. The gloom could not hide the tenderness in his expression. His eyes were soft and dark with a yearning she understood, for it filled her, body and soul. I love you. Even more than I did four years ago. The words sang in her heart and hovered just behind her lips, but an inbred caution kept them prisoner.
Despite all they had been through these past few days, despite the desire that sizzled between them, Linnet feared he was not ready to accept her love. And might never be. The signs were there, in the slight stiffness of his chin, as though braced to take a punch, and in the coolness that eddied beneath the smoky passion hazing his eyes. He was not a man who trusted easily.
He wanted, but could he love? Could he love her?
Linnet lowered her gaze lest he read her thoughts. She was not deserving of his love or his trust.
A sigh rippled through Simon, and his grasp on her eased. “I could stand here all day,” he whispered. “But we’d best go up to the cathedral. Loath as I am to see him, I want to be the first to let the archdeacon know we are alive.”
Actually, the thought of confronting Crispin was preferable to the thought of eVer telling Simon about their babe. Anything, even death, was preferable to that. Aching inside, Linnet forced herself to step free of Simon’s embrace.
“Is aught wrong?” he asked softly.
Linnet shook her head, marshaled every ounce of self-will she possessed and met his gaze with one she hoped hid her tattered soul. “I am none too anxious to see him, either, and listen to more accusations.”
“Stay here, then.”
That put the steel back into her spine. “You’ll not be leaving me behind.” Whirling, she took her cloak from the peg by the door and tied it on. The flurry of leave-taking, Simon’s orders to Miles and Jasper, her own instructions for Aiken, gave Linnet time to settle her nerves. By the time they stepped outside, she had herself under control.
The sun was high above the town wall, and traffic on the streets was brisk. She glanced sidelong at Simon. His eyes darted about in the shadows cast by his cowl, appraising each person they passed as though he or she might be about to attack.
“What is it?” he growled, taking his eyes off the street just long enough to rake them over her face.
“Where did you go this mom?”
“To speak with Old Nelda.”
“Did you learn anything from her?” she exclaimed.
“Aye.” He returned his attention to the crowd.
Linnet ground her teeth over an oath. “What?”
“Nothing of import.”
Lout! Let me decide that. Linnet opened her mouth to chide him, then shut it again. She was no better. She should at least have told him they had lain together his last night in Durleigh. But she had not for fear that once begun, she would spill the whole tale and tell him they had created a life. Simon would hate her if he learned she had given up their child. He would not see she had been trying to give the babe a chance at an untainted life. He would see it as a betrayal. Another betrayal.
What was she to do? Linnet wondered, torn between the need to tell the truth and the certain knowledge that to do so would doom whatever future they might have together.
“Well, here we are,” Simon muttered.
Linnet shoved her dark thoughts aside and gazed up at the gates to the cathedral grounds.
“Ready to beard Crispin in his den?” he asked.
“He will doubtless be disappointed to see us again.”
“I hope so.” Simon’s lips quirked up, his eyes sparkling with wry good humor.
Linnet tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and grinned, feeling a sort of special magic move between them.
“Stay close by me in case there is trouble.”
“I will, if you will be careful.”
“I am used to looking after myself.”
So strong, yet so vulnerable. “I worry because I care about you,” she murmured.
His eyes widened, his features softened. “Linnet, I—”
Brother Anselme came around the corner of the bishop’s palace, his face tense. “You are prompt. All is well?”
“As well as can be,” Simon replied. “I went this morn to visit Nelda. I do not think either she or Olf is guilty. The boy did say that someone had been in his shed, and the monkshood had stopped killing off the vermin in the garden.”
Linnet frowned, annoyed that Simon would confide in Anselme but not her. Men stuck too much together.
“Do you think someone took the poison?” the monk asked.
Simon nodded. “We must search the shed.”
“To what purpose if it is gone?” Anselme asked.
“To see if the monkshood has been returned,” Simon said. “If it is not there, I want to search the archdeacon’s room.”
“Ah,” Linnet exclaimed.
Simon frowned at her. “You must say nothing of this till we have proof in hand. Is that understood?”
“I am capable of keeping a secret.” Too capable.
Simon looked back at Anselme. “Does Crispin have rooms in the bishop’s palace?”
“Aye, a small cell in the lower level.”
“Where is Crispin now?”
“He and Prior Walter are in the hall composing a letter to the archbishop.”
“You told Walter we were alive?” Simon asked.
“As you asked He was most glad and vowed to say nothing. But he thought it a good idea to keep an eye on Crispin.”
As they stepped into the entryway, they were met by Brother Oliver coming down the stairs. “You are alive!” He rushed to them. Tears slid down his wrinkled cheeks as he listened to their tale of being rescued by Brother John. “‘Tis a miracle.”
“I doubt the archdeacon will think so,” Simon said wryly.
“Indeed not” Oliver wiped his cheeks. “He is in the great hall composing a missive to the archbishop crowing over his success in solving the murder. He barely hides his relief that our bishop is dead. ‘Tis a sad day indeed for Durleigh.”
Linnet looked at Simon, expecting his customary snort of disdain, but he merely appeared thoughtful.
“Did the bishop keep a journal?” Simon asked.
“Aye, he did. My confessional, he called it.”
“Where is it now?”
Oliver frowned. “I do not know. He usually kept it locked in the chest beside his bed, but when Brother Prior opened the chest, I did not see the journal within.”
“His will was there?” Anselme asked.
“Aye. ‘Twill be read after Reverend Mother Catherine of Blackstone Abbey arrives. ‘Tis well-known the abbey will receive a large bequest, including the manor of Blackstone Heath.”
“Poor lady,” Linnet whispered, recalling how kind the abbess had been to her. “She was very close to the bishop.”
“Aye, she was,” Oliver said.
“Could you bring us to the archdeacon, and then look for that journal of the bishop’s?” Simon asked.
“Indeed.” Oliver led them down a short corridor lit by torches. He paused before a set of double doors made of carved oak. “In here.” He eased the doors open.
The great hall was a long, magnificent room, illuminated by torches set in wall brackets, the whitewashed walls enlivened by tapestries, the floor covered by mats of woven rushes. A fire crackled in the hearth at the far end. Around a table set before it were Prior Walter and the archdeacon. Crispin’s plain robes contrasted mightily with the richly carved bishop’s chair.
Behind the seat of power lurked Brother Gerard. He looked toward the door. His sly, ferret’s eyes widened. “God save us!”
Crispin turned, then lunged to his feet, wide-eyed, mouth agape like a beached fish’s.
Simon smiled. “I am sorry for the intrusion, Archdeacon. I feared you might be overset by rumors of our demise.”
“Rumors?” Crispin fell back into the chair, his face the same gray-white as the walls.
“Rumors.” Simon took Linnet’s hand and drew her into the room beside him. “As you can see, we are both whole and hale.”
Linnet ducked her head to hide the smile she could not quite contain. It was almost worth a dunking in the river to see the stern archdeacon so discomforted.
“But…but the sheriff assured me you had drowned.”
“As you can see, he was mistaken,” Simon said lightly as he drew Linnet across the hall to the hearth.
She peered up through her lashes and caught the fury that invaded Crispin’s face. The hatred glittering in the dark glance he sent her way made her belly tighten.
“How did you survive?” Crispin demanded.
“I am a strong swimmer. I managed to reach Mistress Linnet and pull us both from the water, though it was far downstream from where we went in.” Simon paused. “Doubtless that is what gave rise to the fear we had drowned.”
Crispin’s face was so red he looked ready to explode.
“Let us give thanks for this miracle, then.” Prior Walter rose and came around the table. Speaking in Latin, he touched first Linnet’s shoulder, then Simon’s. His tone was somber, his face, hidden from the view of Crispin and Gerard, held a smug, conspiratorial grin. It vanished as he turned back to the archdeacon. “We should hold a special mass of thanks—”
“What we will hold is an inquiry,” Crispin snapped.
“Oh, there is no need,” Simon said smoothly. “I am sure the man who jostled Mistress Linnet did not mean for her to fall—”
“An inquiry into the bishop’s death,” Crispin said through bared teeth. “She killed him, and I mean to prove it.”
Linnet shivered.
Simon’s hand clasped her arm a little tighter. “It could not have been either of us. Brother Oliver spoke with the bishop after we were seen leaving the palace.”
“She was poisoning him,” Crispin said. “After you left, the bishop collapsed and died of the poison.”
“She had no reason to want him dead.”
An ugly smile lifted the corners of Crispin’s mouth. “I think she had a good reason to kill him. She wanted to be rid of the bishop because her lover had returned from the Crusades.”
“Me?” Simon exclaimed. “I assure you I have never—”
“The two of you were seen together the night before the Crusaders left Durleigh. By the sheriff,” Crispin added.
Linnet felt the tremor that shook Simon and knew that if he hadn’t had a strong grip on her arm she would have fled. Do not let it all come out here and now, she prayed.
The answer to her prayers came swiftly and unexpectedly.
“A word, Archdeacon,” called an imperious female voice. Lady Odeline advanced in a flurry of dark, rich skirts. Midway into the room, she stopped and cried out, “Demons! Ghosts!”
“I assure you, we are quite real,” Simon called.
Odeline started screaming. “Spirits! Evil spirits risen from the dead!” Her high-pitched shrieks rolled through the hall, echoing off the timbered ceiling.
“My lady!” Prior Walter hurried over, grabbed her shoulders and gave them a little shake, which stifled her cries.
“Mistress Linnet and Sir Simon are not demons.”
“That remains to be seen,” Archdeacon Crispin muttered.
Walter supported Odeline over to the chair he had vacated and offered her his cup of wine.
“You are supposed to be dead.” Odeline glared at Simon over the rim of the cup.
Linnet glanced surreptitiously at Simon. If he found the lady’s behavior odd, it did not show in his face as he repeated the abbreviated tale of their rescue.
“It is a miracle, is it not?” Walter remarked.
Odeline kept her hate-filled glance on Simon. “I will have Hamel arrest you for my brother’s murder,” she snapped.
“This is church business, my lady,” Walter said. “It will be tried before the canon court.”
“I assure you, we are even more anxious than you are to learn who so foully killed Bishop Thurstan,” Simon said stiffly.
Linnet thought that Crispin flinched.
“I have decided that Bishop Thurstan’s funeral will take place on the morrow, at first light,” Crispin said. “When he has been decently sped on his way we will conduct an inquest into—”
He was cut off by a chorus of protests.
“That is scarcely enough time to inform the townsfolk and arrange a suitable ceremony,” Brother Oliver exclaimed.
“I must agree this haste is unseemly,” said the prior. “The archbishop will surely want to attend.”
“And Reverend Mother Catherine must be here. What if she has not arrived by then?” Linnet cried.
Crispin held up a hand for silence. “The decision is mine, and I say that if we delay further, the bishop will become—” he sniffed significantly “—offensive.”
“What say you, Lady Odeline?” asked Pnior Walter. “As the bishop’s blood kin, your wishes should be considered.”
Lady Odeline said nothing, just continued to stare at Simon through narrowed eyes.
“But—” Linnet began, only to be silenced by Simon’s firm grip on her arm.
“When will you hold the funeral?” Simon asked.
“At terce, I think. Eight in the morn is not too early nor too late.” Crispin turned to Gerard. “Fetch me fresh parchment. We must compose a new message for the archbishop.”
Thus dismissed, Linnet left with the three men. It was not until they were in the corridor with the door firmly shut behind them that Brother Oliver spoke. “This is an outrage!” he protested.
“Calm yourself,” whispered the prior.
“But how dare he bury our bishop with so little thought and no ceremony? The archbishop himself should be here.”
Prior Walter nodded, his face a mask of controlled anger. “I am sure His Grace will not be pleased by this unseemly haste, but I do not even know if my message found him at York. It may be he is traveling and could not get here in any case.”
“Why?” Oliver muttered. “Why is he doing this?”
Guilt, Linnet thought.
“It is not our place to question, Brother Oliver,” said Anselme stiffly. “Why do you not send word to the mayor and the guilds that the funeral will be tomorrow? Let them ready delegations to attend.” As Brother Oliver glumly walked away, the monk turned to Linnet. “Have a care what you say. Brother Oliver’s heart is good, but he speaks before he thinks.”
“As do I.” Linnet sighed and looked up at Simon, drawing strength from his solid presence. “What can we do?”
“Work to prove your innocence,” Simon said quietly.
Fear shivered down her spine. She had been too busy being angry at Crispin over the funeral to recall her own danger.
Anselme frowned. “He thinks to bury the evidence with Thurstan. I must finish my notes.”
“Come with us first, if you will,” said Simon. “I mean to search Olf’s potting shed and could use a pair of eyes expert in herbs and such.”
Simon of Blackstone was alive.
Long after he had left the room, Odeline continued to stare at the door, her mind in turmoil, her heart filled with rage.
Life was so unfair. They did not have the charter, and Simon was still alive. What was she going to do?
Gradually she became aware of the two clerics arguing over their next course of action. It was clear they thought Linnet Especer was the murderess but lacked proof.
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 18
