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

by Suzanne Barclay

  “She is a spicier. She has access to these poisons,” Crispin exclaimed.

  “So, likely, does every other apothecary in Durleigh.” Gerard shook his head. “It is not enough.”

  “She was his mistress,” Crispin hissed.

  Odeline’s lip curled. Thurstan had been quick to censure her for her affairs yet he, a priest, had had a mistress.

  “There is no proof of that, either, though I listened at the door whenever she came to visit,” Gerard muttered. “And even if there were, we need more.” His glittering eyes narrowed. “If we searched her shop, we might find something.”

  “Proof of what?” Odeline asked.

  The two priests started and turned as though they’d forgotten she was there.

  Gerard looked down his nose at her. “Brother Anselme believes the bishop was being poisoned with monkshood.”

  Odeline gasped. Jevan had some small knowledge of poisons learned from her mother. Had he been desperate enough to murder for the estate? She thought about the way Thurstan had looked when she returned with the priests. His body had been twisted, his face contorted in pain. “H-how?”

  “Our brother infirmarer believes it was being administered in small doses over several months,” said Gerard.

  “Several months,” Odeline repeated, somewhat reassured. Jevan would not have the skill or patience for that.

  “Brother Anselme thinks—”

  “That will do, Brother Gerard,” Crispin snapped. “You are upsetting the lady with such talk,” he added, though his own face had gone pasty white.

  Far from being upset, Odeline was relieved. ‘Twas not her puny shove that had killed Thurstan but the monkshood. “Mistress Linnet was fond of my brother. Why would she kill him?”

  “So that she could be with Sir Simon,” Crispin replied. His lip curled. “They were lovers of long standing.”

  “Ah.” Odeline’s agile mind darted through this reasoning and found it full of holes. “So she knew Simon had not died on Crusades and was on his way home?”

  Gerard nodded. “I saw Sir Simon leave the palace that night, wait for Mistress Linnet and follow after her.”

  That did not explain why Linnet would have slowly poisoned Thurstan. Bah, what did it matter so long as someone else was charged with her brother’s murder? Odeline thought. And better still if that someone was Simon. “Might not the knight have discovered Linnet’s affair with the bishop and killed him?”

  “I fear not,” Crispin said with a hint of regret. “Brother Oliver spoke with the bishop after the knight left And Sir Simon had only just returned to Durleigh.”

  Odeline sighed. She would have to find another way to be rid of Simon. Which brought them back to the matter of Linnet. “Might the sheriff be able to find proof of her guilt?”

  “This is a church matter,” Crispin grumbled. “Brother Gerard will search her shop.”

  Men, Odeline thought, even men of God, guarded their territory as fiercely as wild dogs. “But what would the good folk of Durleigh think if they saw their priests ransacking a merchant’s shop?” She let that sink in, pleased by their shocked expressions. “On the other hand, the sheriff is paid to capture and punish wrongdoers…by whatever means necessary.” And it would give Hamel license to look for the charter.

  “That is true,” Crispin said. “But the sheriff would have to be willing to turn over his evidence to me.”

  “Oh, I am sure he would be,” Odeline murmured.

  A dozen questions gnawed at Simon as they left the bishop’s residence, chief among them having nothing to do with finding Thurstan’s murderer.

  Had he and Linnet been together during the farewell for the Crusaders? He remembered little of the latter part of the evening, when speeches and prayers had given way to drinking and merrymaking. Sometime in the heart of the night he had awakened in a stable near the Red Tower Gate, a foul taste in his mouth, his mind still muzzy from drink. What he did recall was the dream he had had. The dream of perfect love.

  What if it had not been a dream? What if he had not been alone in the stable?

  Simon glanced at Linnet’s profile, so pure in the soft spring light. Nay, he could not imagine her lying with a man she did not know. And yet she had admitted watching him on the practice field. Drusa said she had loved one of the Crusaders. Could it have been him? The question hovered on his tongue. Knowing it must wait until they were alone, he trailed Linnet and the priests along the path that wound through the rose garden.

  “I love these gardens,” Linnet said softly, wistfully.

  “Aye.” Putting aside his personal mystery, Simon scanned the neat beds, laid out in the form of a wheel with a round stone bench in the center and hedged at the outer edge by thick yews. The roses’ sweet scent hung rich and vibrant in the warm air. “It was one of the things I missed most while I was away.”

  “Visitors to Durleigh claim they are the finest roses in all England,” she said, looking at the garden.

  Simon gave up on this personal mystery. “Can we enter the garden shed without being seen from the residence?”

  Anselme nodded and led them off the path, around behind the infirmary to a small shed at the back of the grounds set along the wall. The wooden door creaked as he opened it. The scent of dirt and sweat wafted out. The inside was surprisingly tidy. Shelves held pots, thick leather gloves and tools. Larger tools hung on the walls alongside a worn tunic, likely Olf’s. In one corner lay his straw pallet and a blanket neatly folded at the end.

  Simon poked at a sack of seed.

  “Careful with that,” Anselme warned. “I helped Olf mix a bit of monkshood into that as bait for the vermin.”

  “The monkshood came from your shop?” Simon asked.

  Linnet nodded. “I gave the bishop a small jar of ground herb. It was well-stoppered, labeled with the word Monkshood and a large black X.” She turned, scanning the shelves.

  Anselme joined in the search. “The crock was half-full, and I bade Olf store it high up, out of the way.”

  Simon upended a crate used to store tools and stood on it to search the highest shelf, but did not find the crock of monkshood.

  “Someone must have taken it away,” Walter said at last.

  “Aye, but I think he left something behind.” Simon pointed to the bit of cloth caught on the edge of the rough shelf.

  “Could it be Olf’s?” Walter asked, craning to see.

  “This cloth is gray. That tunic by the door is russet wool, as was the garment Olf was wearing today.” Simon plucked the fabric from the splinter and climbed down. While the others examined it, he explained about his visit to Old Nelda.

  “Perhaps Bishop Thurstan took the monkshood away with him,” Linnet said.

  “My assistant and I searched his rooms thoroughly after he died,” Walter said slowly. “We took three flagons containing wine and all the cups to test them for the poison. Of the crock, there was no sign.”

  “This bit of cloth is coarse, such as a laborer might wear,” Simon said. “Or a priest “

  “It is too rough for a pnest,” Walter commented. His own robes were of finely woven wool bleached the color of new cream.

  “The lads at the cathedral school wear brown,” Anselme said. “As do myself and most of the brothers. But this—” he fingered the swatch again “—is the sort of thing the arch-

  deacon favors.” He looked up at Simon. “I recall Thurstan saying Crispin’s robes were a near cousin to a hair shirt.”

  “That is what I thought,” Simon murmured.

  “But how can we accuse the archdeacon of murder based on this?” Walter asked, shaking his head. “Though I find his sanctimonious nature grating, Crispin is a goodly man.”

  Which was why he detested Thurstan so, because the bishop had been flexible in upholding church tenets. “You are right,” Simon replied. “We must have more proof.”

  “Where will you find it?” Walter asked.

  “I do not know, but find it I will.” He had to,
Simon thought, gazing at Linnet’s pale face. Not only because it went against the grain to let the murderer of his sire go unpunished, but because Linnet’s whole life hung in the balance.

  Somehow, in the span of a few short days, protecting her had become vital to him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Simon of Blackstone is alive!” Odeline shouted at Hamel.

  “Alive?” he repeated.

  “Aye.” Teeth bared, she glared at him across the cozy first-floor chamber of his little house. She had waited all day for nightfall so she might come here and confront him.

  “But they were swept downstream by the river. No one could have survived in that swift, icy water.”

  “Well, Simon of Blackstone did.”

  “Pity.” Hamel rubbed at his sleepy eyes, poured two cups of wine and handed one to Odeline.

  She hissed a most unladylike curse and hurled the cup to the floor. “You promised to get rid of him.”

  Hamel frowned and bent to mop up the stain rapidly spreading across the carpet. “I will.”

  A buzzing filled Odeline’s head. Idiot, did he not realize that time was of the essence? Nay, of course he did not. She wrapped her arms around her waist and struggled for calm, trying to think how much to tell him. Not the truth, surely. If he knew that Thurstan had intended to give Blackstone Heath to Simon, it might seem Jevan had reason to kill Thurstan. The charter must be found before Catherine arrived and the will was read.

  “Do not worry. I will take care of everything.” Hamel approached and put his arms around her.

  “Not now,” she grumbled, wriggling free to pace the shabby little room.

  “What would you have me do?” Hamel whined. “Much as I would like to, I can hardly arrest him for no reason and torture him till he gives over this journal.”

  “I must have it,” she added, growing desperate. “If we do not find the charter, Jevan will be cheated of his rightful inheritance.” She batted her lashes at Hamel. “I cannot think of our future till my son’s is settled.”

  Hamel smiled. “Ah, I see now why you were so anxious to have this book…so that we may wed.” He gave her a hard, wet kiss. “You are certain Simon has it? I searched his room myself and found not a single book.”

  And she had searched Thurstan’s chambers. As the youngest in a brood of greedy, ambitious children, she had learned how to ferret out hidden treasure. The journal was not there. “Perhaps Simon has given it to another…say Linnet Especer.”

  “Linnet?” His eyes narrowed. “Aye, he’s spent considerable time in her company. But I have no reason to search her shop.”

  So, he did have a care for the little spicier. Any sympathy Odeline had had for Linnet vanished in a wave of jealousy. Hamel was hers for as long as she wanted him. “Why do you need a reason? You are the sheriff.”

  “I’ve not been confirmed in the post, and I will not be if I am seen to abuse my authority,” Hamel said primly.

  “The archdeacon thinks she poisoned my brother.”

  “Poisoned? But I thought he’d been bludgeoned over the—”

  “She killed him with monkshood. Archdeacon Crispin wants the records from Linnet’s shop to prove it.”

  Hamel blinked. “But I do not think she would—”

  Odeline cursed and poked a finger in Hamel’s chest. “Do you want to be confirmed as sheriff of Durleigh? If so, you had best not run afoul of Crispin, who will likely be the next bishop.”

  “I just do not see why she would kill Thurstan.”

  “Perhaps she tired of having an older lover,” Odeline said harshly. “Or, perhaps she found out that Simon was alive and returning to Durleigh.”

  “I suppose that could be,” he said grudgingly.

  “We are agreed, then. Tonight your men and one that I have hired will enter the shop, take the ledger and search for the journal.” And Jevan’s man would kill Simon during the search.

  A sound jerked Linnet from a restless sleep. She opened her eyes to total darkness. The night candle on the bedside table had gone out. She judged it was still night, for the room was as black as the inside of a pocket.

  What had awakened her?

  She opened her ears, straining to hear. Memories of yesterday flooded back: the confrontation with Archdeacon Crispin, the search of Olf’s garden shed with its slim store of clues. Frustration clawed at her, the gut instinct that Crispin was guilty butting against reality. They simply did not have proof to accuse him. And Simon…

  Simon.

  Linnet shivered. She had managed to avoid being alone with Simon, except for their quick walk back to her shop, but all day she had seen the questions bubbling behind his sharp gaze. Questions about that long-ago night of the Crusaders’ fete.

  A moan broke the silence, scattering her thoughts.

  Fear pounding in her veins, she sat up and turned toward the sound. There, on the floor before the door, lay a body.

  Drusa.

  Tears of gratitude welled. The old woman had bedded down on the floor to be nearby in case Linnet had need of her.

  Drusa moaned again, thrashing about in her blanketed nest.

  Smiling fondly, Linnet tossed back the covers and crept across the cold floor. “Drusa, I…” Linnet gasped.

  It was not Drusa who lay there, but Simon, his sword on the floor beside him, the blankets in a tangle about his waist, leaving his chest bare. He had one arm thrown over his face. Below it, his jaw was dark with whiskers, his mouth drawn into a grim line. It parted on a sigh. “Linnet…” he whispered.

  “I am here.” She knelt beside him, the chill seeping through her thin shift, and put a hand on his arm. Hard as stone, it was, and just as cold. Poor thing, no wonder he was restless. He should not be sleeping here on the icy floor, her champion, the man who had thrice saved her life. “Simon, come with me.” She took his hand and tugged gently. “Come…”

  Come. The voice shimmered through Simon’s dream, inviting, bewitching him, as it had so many, many times. Yet this time his lover’s voice seemed so near, so real. And the hand clasping his was warm where he was cold. So cold. He reached for her, sighing as her heat enveloped him.

  Blindly he searched for her mouth. She smelled of roses and tasted even sweeter, her lips parting eagerly. The groan that rumbled through him was answered by her moan of surrender as he deepened the kiss, exploring her with a hunger that grew with each touch, each sigh. The dream was different tonight, more urgent, more vivid. Tightening his embrace, he clung to her, afraid to open his eyes and find the bed empty beside him.

  Never had he wanted her this fiercely, his dream lover. He swore he could feel her breasts swelling beneath her clothing, the nipples hardening against his chest as she wriggled closer. Heat shuddered through him, and with it the primitive need to conquer. He dragged her head back, his mouth skimming down her slender neck.

  “Simon,” she whispered. “Oh, Simon…”

  Shock held him immobile. The vision never spoke. Slowly he opened his eyes. The room was not pitch-black, as it always was in his dream, but pale gray, the soft light caressing the face so close to his.

  “Linnet?” he gasped.

  “Aye.” She framed his face with her hands and smiled. “Come to bed with me. The floor is hard and cold.”

  Simon blinked, his mind grappling with the pieces of a puzzle. The dream. Nelda’s revelation that she had seen them together on his final night in Durleigh. Confirmed, it seemed, by Hamel Roxby. “My dream,” Simon murmured.

  “You were dreaming of me?” Her smile turned sweeter still.

  “It is an old dream—from the night before we left. Or at least I thought it was a dream. Now, I wonder…”

  She moaned softly and closed her eyes.

  “They were right. We were together all those years ago.”

  “Oh, Simon…” She tried to move away.

  Simon rolled, half trapping her beneath him, a dozen questions tangling in his mind. “Look at me.”

  The eyes she op
ened to him were drenched in tears.

  “Why did you not tell me?”

  “You did not remember me.” She blinked, dislodging one tear to slide down her cheek. It was more moving than a flood.

  He had been drunk that night. Blind, staggering drunk. But it hardly flattered either of them to admit it. “It was dark.”

  She nodded, looking more miserable. “And you were drunk.”

  He let that pass. “You were so young,” he whispered. “And you knew I was leaving. Why? Why did you lie with me?”

  “I was foolish.”

  “Nay, you were—” he shied away from one word and chose another, safer one “—taken with me.”

  She shivered and turned her head away.

  Simon caught her chin and gently brought it back so their gazes met, locked. “I know you. You would not have given yourself to me unless you cared, Linnet.”

  Her lower lip trembled, then firmed. “I loved you.”

  Inside Simon, something colder and harder than the floor beneath them seemed to ease. All these years, when he had been alone, so alone, she had loved him. “I wish I had known.”

  Her eyes widened, filled with hope. “You do?”

  “I would have given much to know someone cared.” But Simon wondered if he would have valued her enough back then. He had been young himself and full of bitterness. And he had no experience at loving or being loved. He still did not, but she was teaching him. Little by little, she was healing the scars.

  “I still care.” She slid her arms around his neck and drew his head down. The softness of her lips opening to his was like a healing balm.

  He basked m it, gorged on it. When he finally broke the kiss, they were both breathless. “Linnet.” With one finger, he touched her cheek, the shell of her ear. “I want you.”

  “And I you.” Her voice was shaky, her eyes skittish.

  An agonizing thought intruded. “Did I hurt you then?”

  “Only…only a little.”

  Dieu. Simon laid his forehead against hers. “I am sorry.”

  “It was only a little hurt, over quickly.”

  “Did I please you?”