“Nay, Hamel’s mistress.” He gasped hoarsely. His eyes widened then fluttered shut, and his head lolled to one side.
“Damn,” Simon whispered. “I needed him alive.”
Linnet crossed herself. “Do you think he meant Tilly?”
“Odeline, I’d guess. Nelda said she was Hamel’s mistress.”
“Odeline and Hamel?” Linnet gaped at him.
“An unlikely pair.” Simon rocked back on his heels and looked over at Rob FitzHugh. “It makes me wonder what was in this charter and why Odeline was so eager to have it.”
Linnet gasped softly. “Anselme’s theory that there might have been two murderers.”
“And her chambers are just above Thurstan’s.”
“She would have had access to the brandy,” Linnet added, her eyes bright with hope.
“I do not think she was responsible for that.” Keeping his voice low, Simon told her what he’d found in Crispin’s trunk. “I did not dig it up myself lest it be said I’d fabricated the story. Prior Walter said he’d see to it as soon as he could.”
“Oh, Simon…” Tears of relief and gratitude glistened in her eyes. “Thank you for all you’ve done to aid me.”
“It is not over yet,” he cautioned. “Our proof is by no means ironclad.” He prayed it was enough to frighten Crispin into making a confession.
“What of this business with the charter?”
Simon raked a hand through his hair. “I do not know. We have only the word of this scum that it even exists.” He shuddered, still trembling from the shock of finding Linnet in mortal danger. “Dieu, if I had not returned when I did…”
“You came in time.” She smiled cheekily. “You always do.”
Simon grunted, but she could see the guilt in his eyes.
Little did he know that her guilt outweighed any he could amass. She thought about the journal upstairs on her tableas potentially dangerous as Pandora’s box—and wondered what she was going to do with it.
Someone had been searching his things.
Crispin knew it the moment he opened his chest, for the scrolls on top were not precisely as he’d left them.
“Curse you, Walter de Folke,” Crispin muttered as he burrowed through his clothes to the bottom of the chest. There, gleaming ominously in the candlelight, lay a tiny pile of monkshood that had spilled from the crock. He had meant to steal Olf’s garden gloves and clean it up. Now it was too late.
Air hissing between his teeth, Crispin sat back. Walter knew. Walter knew. The words rang over and over in his brain like the tolling of a bell. What would Walter do?
Tell the archbishop.
Crispin groaned, seeing a lifetime of devotion to God and good shattered because of the prior’s snooping. Nay, he could not lose all now. If he cleaned the chest, it would be his word against Walter’s. He could make it seem the prior defamed him in hopes of advancing himself. But what of the crock?
What if Walter had followed him to the garden? Nearly gagging on his fear, Crispin dashed from his cell. Once outside, he checked his headlong flight. It was still dark, but the brothers were up and busy preparing for the funeral. Haste would attract undo attention.
Feigning a calm that mocked his panic, Crispin forced himself to stroll into the garden. A few interminable minutes brought him to the crock’s resting place. It appeared undisturbed. Under cover of examining the roses, he unearthed the crock with the edge of his sandal, bent and retrieved it. Tucking it into the sleeve of his robe, he retraced his steps. When he reached the deep shadows around the palace, he looked over his shoulder and spied Walter entering the garden from the other side.
Crispin watched as Walter approached the spot where the crock had been and bent to dig. It was God’s will that I arrived first, Crispin thought. Just as surely it was God’s will that Walter be kept from reporting his suspicions to the archbishop.
Chapter Sixteen
Durleigh Cathedral was a stone monument to the power Bishop Thurstan had amassed on earth, Simon thought as the funeral commenced. The giant columns of the nave and choir speared skyward to the soaring vaults high above, giving the impression of uncompromising strength and authority. Torches on the walls, candles at the altar, cast subdued light over the somber gathering while the air ripened with incense and the sound of heartfelt weeping.
In the choir, the canons chanted while Archdeacon Cnspin and Prior Walter mounted the high altar. Below them, the townsfolk in their feast day best packed the nave like herring in a barrel, sitting cheek by jowl with farmers from the outlying crofts and mailed knights from the castle.
Outside, rain beat a mournful tattoo against the rare window of painted glass bought with Thurstan’s bridge tolls. It was as though heaven, too, cried at his passing, said more than one red-eyed parishioner.
Simon was only concerned with the feelings of one.
Linnet knelt beside him, her body shaking inside a modest gown of cream-colored wool covered by a sleeveless tunic of rich dark-green. Her hair had been drawn back in a single braid, coiled atop her head and covered by a veil that fell to her shoulders. The fabric was so fine he could see through it to the tears on her cheeks.
A few days ago, her outpouring of grief for the man who had sired him would have angered Simon. Now, though his own reaction was tempered by all they had not shared as father and son, Simon’s heart was heavy. It had struck him as the monks carried Thurstan’s silk-draped coffin into the cathedral that he would never have a chance to ask all the questions that ate at him. He would never learn whether lust or love had caused Thurstan to cast aside his priestly vows. Never know why he had failed to acknowledge Simon, or who his mother was or if she yet lived.
“Repent your sins!” Crispin’s voice rang off the stone. He had been ranting on in much the same vein for some time. Though he did not vilify the bishop, he took the occasion to deliver a diatribe on sin in all its guises. He waxed especially virulent on the subject of man’s greatest weakness: women. And when he spoke, his searing, almost maniacal gaze fell on Linnet.
Instinctively, Simon moved closer to her, a wealth of emotion welling from deep inside him. She was his, and he would protect her with his last breath. Last night she had opened herself to him, body and soul. Their joining had linked them. Forever. He felt it to the marrow of his bones, to the depths of his being. He did not know what the future might hold, but he would not let Crispin or anyone harm this precious woman.
Simon glared at the archdeacon, letting all he felt burn in his eyes. Hypocrite. Murdering hypocrite. Hatred rose to drown his sorrow. I know you killed Thurstan, and I’ll see you pay!
Crispin stumbled over his words, flushed and looked away, his voice a little less steady as he rambled on.
Satisfied, Simon sought out Prior Walter and Brother Anselme in the crowd. But they were consumed by their prayers for Thurstan and did not look his way. Still, he had to believe that they had succeeded in getting the crock and establishing that it contained monkshood. This afternoon, when Crispin held his inquest, they’d confront him, accuse him of murder.
Walter had been less confident. “Even if he had the monkshood, it is not proof positive he poisoned Thurstan.”
“And there is the matter of who struck the bishop over the head and doused him with the belladonna,” Anselme had added.
“Crispin could not have done it,” said Walter. “He and I were in the hall together at the time the foul deed was done.”
Thanks in part to Rob, Simon had an idea who might have been responsible for that second attack. But he had even less proof against Odeline than he had against Crispin. He could hardly accuse Thurstan’s sister of murder based on a thief’s tale about a missing charter. Perhaps if he could search her rooms he might find some reference to the charter. Or, if he was very lucky, the vial of belladonna. But he was being closely watched. When he and Linnet left the apothecary, Bardolf and another thug had followed them all the way to the cathedral.
Damn, if ever there was a tim
e when he needed the help of his comrades, it was now. He could not fault Guy for having dashed off after Lord Edmund, but Nicholas…
Under his breath, Simon cursed Nick’s lack of restraint. Barely a week back in England and the charming rogue had returned to his lustful ways. Doubtless he was too caught up in savoring his latest paramour to consider that Simon might need his help or be worried about his absence.
Simon stopped a moment, wondering if he should be concerned. While Nick had often spoken about the wild philandering that had enraged his sire, Simon had not known him to be gone for so long. Dieu, it had been four days. Simon’s gut knotted. When the mass was over, he’d ask Warin about sending someone to look for Nicholas.
“Amen,” the crowd chorused as they surged gratefully to their feet. Many grimaced, stretching stiff muscles and rubbing at benumbed knees as they tottered from the cathedral.
“What now?” Simon asked, taking Linnet’s arm and guarding her from the press of people.
“There will be food and drink at the Guildhall and in the market square,” she replied in a wooden whisper.
Simon nodded, sensing she was as loath to go as he. Though it was the custom to drink to the departed, his concern was for the living. Specifically with protecting Linnet. “I think we should return to your shop and talk about what has happened.”
“You mean the stolen ledger?” she asked anxiously.
He had meant to discuss all he’d learned from Old Nelda and his discovery-of the monkshood in Crispin’s chest. Between seeing to her wounded servants and preparing to attend the funeral, there had been little time. “Have you thought of some reason why the thieves would take it?”
“N-nay,” she said quickly. Too quickly.
Simon stared into her pale face, troubled by her lack of curiosity over the incident. Though they had been together only a few short days, he knew she was as tenacious as a fox when it came to solving a riddle, yet she had seemed not to care why it had been taken. Or perhaps she knew why.
Had she lied to him about that?
Simon’s hackles rose. There was nothing he hated more, and to think that Linnet, whom he had come to trust, could lie to him burned like acid in his gut. But now was not the time or place to press her. “We must plan what we will say to Crispin.”
She stopped in the aisle, shut her eyes. When she opened them again, the fear had become panic. “Will he question us?”
“He will.”
“I see.” She glanced at Thurstan’s bier. The priests, monks and clerical students had surrounded it to say a final prayer before he was interred in the vault below. “Archdeacon Crispin has already made up his mind I am guilty.”
“It does not matter, for he has no proof against you.”
One of the men around the coffin lifted his head. It was Jevan le Coyte, his stare nearly as piercing as Crispin’s had been. He looked not at Linnet but at Simon. The boy caught Simon looking back, but instead of lowering his gaze, he curled his lip. His face filled with such malevolence it sent a chill down Simon’s spine.
Life had forced Simon to inure himself to what others thought about him, but Jevan’s hatred went beyond anything he’d felt before. Curious that a youth who had only met him once should so despise him. Unless…
What if Jevan knew Simon was Thurstan’s son? What if Nelda was right and Thurstan had bequeathed something to Simon? Something that was mentioned in this charter. Where the hell was the charter? Odeline did not have it. And it must not be in Thurstan’s chamber, for she’d have searched there before asking Hamel’s men to look for it at Linnet’s shop.
“When a man is as determined as the archdeacon, he may be willing to bend the truth to accomplish his ends,” Linnet said.
Simon jerked his gaze back to Linnet. He would have to deal with the charter and Jevan later. Linnet’s safety took priority. “Do not fret. Prior Walter and Brother Anselme will stand firm in your defense. And I will not let any harm come to you, that I vow.” He put his arm around her waist and led her into the open.
The storm had passed while Crispin vented his fury, and now the sun peered through the scattering clouds.
“How fresh everything smells and looks,” Linnet murmured as they walked toward the gate. “If only the rain could wash away all our problems and give us a fresh beginning.” The poignancy in her tone struck him even more forcefully than her words.
“I think we have already made a new beginning,” he said softly, thinking of last night.
She smiled for the first time that day, and it was almost as miraculous as the sun’s reappearance. “I, too.” But beneath the smile there was vulnerability.
Simon slipped his arm around her waist. “It occurs to me that Drusa and her patients will be waiting for us at the shop.” Still shaky from the attack, the maid had offered to stay and tend to the injured men. “I still have my room at the inn. Let us go there. We can talk in private of—”
“Talk?” Her brow arched, her smile deepened.
For the first time in many a year, Simon felt his face heat. “Talk,” he said firmly.
“I would like that,” she murmured.
An hour alone with Simon.
Linnet clung to that like a lost soul spotting the light at the end of a dark tunnel. He had been her anchor all during the long, hideous funeral. When Archdeacon Crispin’s hate-filled rampage had chilled her to the bone, she had leaned on Simon, drawing strength from his solid, muscular body, letting its heat seep in to warm her icy flesh as surely as his loving had restored the hope in her heart.
“Here we are,” Simon muttered.
Linnet looked up, surprised to realize she had no memory of having walked through Durleigh to the inn. It was closed and shuttered. Elinore, Warin and the staff were most likely at the wake.
Simon stepped to the side door, rattled the latch and cursed. “I should have realized it would be locked.”
Linnet reached into the scrip at her belt and produced a key. “Elinore entrusted me with this after Papa died in case I had need of her.” She felt tense, slipping into the dark, quiet inn and up the stairs. Even the warmth of Simon’s hand riding protectively on her waist as he followed did not ease the knots in her muscles. Like strands in a rope, they coiled and tightened. Partly it was weariness, the strain of the past few days, the uncertainty of the next few hours. Partly it was dread over the questions he was bound to ask. She had seen his skepticism when she’d claimed not to know why Hamel would want the ledger. Should she lie to him, or trust him with her suspicions about Thurstan?
Simon stopped halfway down the gloomy corridor. “Wait here a moment,” he whispered. His feet made scarcely any noise as he moved to the next door. One hand on his sword, he unlocked the oak door, pushed it open and stepped inside. He was gone only a moment, yet it seemed an eternity until he reappeared and motioned for her to join him.
“You thought someone might be in here?” The possibility of another assault terrified her.
“I’ve learned a man cannot be too careful.” In his eyes flickered the ghosts of dozens of dangerous events. Battles and sorties that had shaped him into the sort of man who watched out for himself and for those he’d taken under his wing.
Linnet went to him, wrapped her arms around his lean waist and buried her face in his chest.
He started. “Linnet…we have much we need to talk—”
“I need this,” she murmured, touched by the way his heart leaped beneath her ear. He needed this, too, a moment’s respite before they took up the struggle again.
“We must talk. There are things you are keeping from me.”
The babe, was her first thought. Her soul contracted painfully. She could not tell him about the child. It was over and done. The babe had a happy home, free from all taint. Even if she could somehow make him understand why she had given the child up, there were other dangers. Years ago she had admired Simon from afar, not knowing what sort of person he was beyond the courteousness and honor with which he comported hims
elf. Now she knew how drastically his bastardy had scarred him. If he knew he had a daughter, he might try to claim her.
Pain twisted deep inside Linnet, like ripping open a wound that had never healed. She could still remember the stormy night when her labors had brought forth a daughter. The agony of childbirth was nothing to the soul-rending anguish of giving up the life that had dwelt beneath her heart for nine months. The child created of her love for Simon. That she’d believed him dead had made the decision all the harder, for the wee babe was all she’d ever have of Simon.
Putting the child’s welfare, her future, above her own wants was the hardest thing Linnet had ever done. Until now…Keeping that life a secret from Simon nearly drove her mad. But she would do anything, even endanger her own soul, to safeguard the only gift she had given her daughter. Legitimacy.
“I would know about the ledger,” Simon muttered.
The ledger. She nearly wept with relief. “In a moment.” She wriggled closer, needing his warmth and support.
“Linnet, we’ve no time for this.” But his body had other ideas. It quickened, hard and insistent against her belly.
She felt an answering heat kindle deep inside her. It ran like fire through her veins, making her breasts tingle, her womanhood weep with longing. Their time together seemed so short, measured out in precious drops. If something happened this afternoon and Crispin prevailed, these few hours might be all they had left. “Simon, please…” She ran her hands up his chest, glorying in the moan that rumbled through him.
“Linnet. You are overwrought. You need—”
“You. I need you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged his head down for a blistering kiss. Like a flame set to dry tinder, the magic flared between them. Mouths fused together, they tore at each other’s clothes. Naked, they tumbled onto the narrow cot.
His breathing was harsh in the silent chamber. His eyes glittered with a hunger that bordered on the violent, but his hands were gentle as he swept them up her rib cage and filled the palms with her breasts. “And I need you, Linnet.” He lowered his head and suckled her nipples until she was blind and deaf to everything except the passion he roused in her.
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 22
