Simon inclined his head curtly, hackles already rising. Though short and slender, Abbess Catherine was a female replica of Bishop Thurstan, right to the tightly controlled mouth and cool gray eyes.
He disliked her on sight.
“Simon!” The abbess bustled forward, tears trickling down her cheeks. “This is wonderful.”
Simon grunted and looked away, ignoring the abbess’s hurt expression. She had presided at his birth…and that of countless other bastards. She had sent him into the world to be raised alone, in shame, without love. Aye, and did he hate her for it! “Some other place must be found to confine Linnet.”
“Confine? Why is she being confined?” Catherine demanded.
Crispin, Hamel and Odeline angrily vied to retell their version of the bishop’s murder. When Linnet tried to counter, they shouted her down.
Simon waited until the story ground to a halt. “There’s not a shred of truth to it. On the morrow, Sheriff Hamel and I meet in battle. God will decide.”
“Till that time, she’ll be held in my custody,” said Hamel.
Linnet whimpered softly, the sound cutting into Simon.
“I do not agree,” Simon growled.
Crispin snapped, “You have no say.”
“It is not fitting she be housed there, amongst men,” said Catherine in that clipped, authoritative voice of hers.
“She is no innocent,” Hamel replied stonily.
“That is for God to decide…on the morrow,” the abbess said. “She will remain here, watched over by my nuns.”
Hamel, Crispin and Odeline all objected, saying that Linnet and Simon would flee if not locked up. The abbess stood firm. Short of throttling her—which Hamel looked tempted to try—there was no swaying her from her decision.
“You have no authority here,” Crispin grumbled.
“Nor do you, but I understand you have buried my brother without waiting either for myself or the archbishop.”
Crispin flushed. “I—”
“No excuse would be a good one in my eyes.” The abbess turned her back on him, ordered the hall cleared of gawkers, summoned her nuns and began making arrangements to house them in the guest chambers.
“Thank you, Reverend Mother,” Linnet murmured. “Simon and I are grateful for your intervention.”
Simon grunted. Words of gratitude stuck in his throat, and he would not utter them. Even for Linnet.
Chapter Eighteen
“Simon hates me,” murmured Catherine de Lyndhurst. “I know it must have come as a shock to learn he is Thurstan’s son, but his bitterness is unexpected. And hurtful.”
Linnet sighed and joined the abbess at the window. Several hours had passed since the confrontation in the hall. The palace inhabitants had more or less settled into their rooms. Her nerves had yet to settle. Her thoughts were on Simon, housed in the bishop’s rooms below. She wished she could go to him, but Hamel’s men stood guard in the corridors with orders to keep her in this room until tomorrow.
The guest chamber to which Linnet had been consigned was on the upper story of the palace, affording a view of the gardens. As she looked down and weighed her words, she spied the roses Thurstan had lavished with the love he could not show his son. “If Simon is angry, it is because he felt abandoned and abused.”
“Was he beaten by the couple Thurstan hired to care for him when he was young? Or by Lord Edmund of Wolfsmount?”
“Nay, he says not.” Linnet struggled to put feelings into words. “But for all Simon seems aloof and independent, I think he missed being part of a family. Being loved.”
“Men are such stoic creatures, we do not realize their needs are not so different from our own.” Catherine glanced at Linnet and smiled. “He is most protective of you.”
“Aye. We…we have grown close these past few days.” A yearning rose inside Linnet, sharp, sweet and oddly painful. “I love him, Mother Catherine, and I think he cares for me. If only it were not for—for—” She choked on the words.
“For the babe?” Catherine asked softly.
Linnet nodded, tears crowding her throat and spilling down her cheeks. “I should tell him, but I cannot.”
“Surely he would understand you sought to give the child a home and a life free from the taint that burdened him.”
“Nay, he would not.” Linnet caught back a sob. “He was angry when he learned Thurstan had sent Hana Billeter to you.”
The abbess smiled softly. “I do not think Hana will be with us for long. Young Alain sent word he will come for her as soon as he can sit in a saddle.” She glanced at Linnet. “Simon would have come for you, too, had he not been away on Crusade.”
“Simon did not remember our…our time together.”
“Thurstan would have set things to rights.”
This Linnet could not dispute. “I wonder if Thurstan placed the babe nearby, as he did Simon, so he could watch over it.”
“My dear.” Catherine laid a hand on her arm.
“It—it is just that I have wondered where she is and how she fares.” Tears prickled. Linnet fought them back. “I know I vowed I would never seek her out myself, but did Thurstan not at least tell you where he had placed her?”
“Nay, but he did say she would be raised by loving hands and dowered as befitted the daughter of a noble house.”
“I should tell Simon,” Linnet whispered.
“I do not think that is wise.”
“But how can I live with the lie between us?” Linnet asked, the agony cutting deep inside her.
Catherine sighed and stroked Linnet’s hair. “In the few months you lived at the abbey, you became as dear to me as the daughter I will never have. I would see you happy, and Simon, too. If the price of that happiness is one small omission—”
“Small omission!”
“Would Simon be happier if he knew that he had a daughter who had, for the babe’s good, been adopted by another?”
“Nay. He would be furious and frustrated and—”
“There you have it, then,” Catherine said with her usual brisk efficiency. “He should not be told.”
“But it is dishonest. Surely he has a right to know.”
“It would only bring him greater anguish, and, perhaps, endanger the child. What if he sought to reclaim her?”
“Aye, that could be disastrous,” Linnet said miserably. She felt as though her heart were being torn in two. She desperately wanted Simon’s love, yet she did not deserve it. And on the morrow, he would risk his life to save her.
How could she let him do that?
Linnet left the window and groped her way back to the hearth. There, on the stool, lay the journal. She had requested Aiken fetch it along with a change of clothes for tomorrow.
“Why, it is Thurstan’s prayer book,” Catherine said.
“It is far more than that.” Linnet hesitated only a moment before telling the abbess what she’d found within the pages. “I think I should burn it,” Linnet added at the end.
Catherine traced a finger over the cover. “He could have destroyed it. Instead he gave it to you. For some purpose.”
“What purpose?”
“I do not know. Perhaps the answer lies in the journal. Have you translated all the passages?”
“Nay, it would take days.”
“Perhaps there is something here he wished passed on. A section for Simon explaining…things.”
“His mother’s name,” Linnet said. “Do you know who she is?”
“I do, but I am bound by the same oath that prevented Thurstan from speaking of her. While he lived.”
Linnet picked up the book. “I could show it to Simon, but he may not read Latin.” If he did, her secret would be revealed.
“Why do you not look through it yourself? It would give your mind something to dwell on during this difficult night.”
“Aye,” Linnet said slowly. “I will not be able to sleep for thinking of what Simon must face on the morrow.”
“He will pr
evail,” said Catherine, catching Linnet close in a brief hug. “He will not fail you.”
“I know.” But was she failing him with her silence?
Restless as a caged cat, Simon paced the confines of his prison. Night was fast approaching and shadows gathered in the corners, but he had not bothered to light any candles. The darkness suited his mood. Ironic that they had shut him up in the bishop’s suite of rooms.
Crispin had been outraged, but Abbess Catherine had stood firm. For all she barely topped five feet, the abbess flattened opposition faster than a rock rolling downhill. It was by her will that Linnet was safe from Hamel. For one more night. And after that…if he did not prevail…
Simon cursed and shoved the fear aside. If he let it take root, he’d not best Hamel on the morrow. Instead, he turned his energies to the coming battle. Warin had promised to bring his chain mail from the apothecary and watch over his horse to make certain it was not tampered with by Hamel’s minions.
A knock on the door scattered his thoughts. “Enter,” he called, hoping it was Warin with news of Nicholas.
The door opened and Brother Anselme stuck his balding head inside. “Simon, are you here?”
“Brother, you are well come.” Simon rushed to light a candle as the monk stepped within. “Walter?” he asked as the door closed, shutting out the hard-faced guards.
Anselme sighed, his face grayer than his robes. “He lives, but he is still unconscious.”
“Was it monkshood?” Simon fetched two cups of ale.
“Aye.” Anselme collapsed into one of the chairs by the hearth, downed the ale and sighed again.
Simon took the stool at his feet. “Crispin, do you think?”
“It seems likely. Perhaps he thought Walter had evidence against him, had perhaps seen him bury the crock in the garden. That is why he dug it up again and poisoned the prior.”
“Or Crispin wanted to eliminate another rival for the bishopric,” Simon muttered.
“I can scarcely believe he would do such a thing To murder two fellow brothers and attempt to blame Linnet for the crimes…” Anselme shook his head. “If not for Abbess Catherine, things could have been far worse for you and Linnet.”
“Aye,” Simon grumbled, not pleased to be in her debt. “Do you know if Linnet is all right? Have you seen her?”
“She is lodged above, Brother Oliver tells me, with the abbess and her flock of nuns for company. Linnet will be at ease with them, for she lived half a year at the abbey.”
“I had forgotten.” Something niggled at Simon’s brain. “It is odd she studied with them when her mother and father were both master apothecaries.”
“A healer benefits from diverse opinions.”
Simon shrugged and returned to the business at hand. “I wonder what Crispin has done with the crock?”
“Do you want me to poke about?”
“Nay. I already have Walter’s well-being on my conscience.”
“Crispin must be mad indeed to do such a thing.”
“And desperate. Be careful what you eat or drink.”
“And you, also, my son,” Anselme said. “But Crispin cannot have given Thurstan the belladonna.”
“I think I know who did.” Simon quickly outlined his theory regarding Odeline and Jevan.
“Mon Dieu.” Anselme crossed himself. “First the archdeacon, now Thurstan’s own kin. Is there no end to this evil?”
“The thirst for wealth and power brought out the worst in all three. I need to search Odeline’s and Jevan’s belongings.”
“Jevan was at supper when Thurstan died.”
“Are you certain? Could you question those who saw him that evening? I’ll search Odeline’s things.”
“How will you get into—?”
A commotion at the door interrupted. “See here, ye can’t be going in there,” growled one of the guards.
“We’ve brought his battle gear,” Warin replied.
Simon bounded to the door, threw it open and gaped at the disheveled figure with Warin. “Nick?” he asked hesitantly.
“Aye.” Nicholas’s clothes were rumpled, his hair greasy and disordered. His scowl was as dark as the stubble growing thick on his cheeks, and his usually merry eyes were bloodshot.
“You look like hell,” Simon growled.
“‘Tis exactly where I’ve been.” Nicholas clumped in and dropped his swordbelt onto the nearest chair. “Dieu, but I need a drink, a bath and a long sleep.”
“But not a woman, I’d wager,” Simon snapped.
“Nay, I’ve sworn off them…for good.” Nicholas headed for the ale flagon on the table.
“Low, the prodigal returns.” Grinning, Warin entered with Simon’s belongings and kicked the door shut after him.
“The least you could have done is sent word where you were so I would not worry,” Simon grumbled.
“Send word! I’ve been a bloody prisoner. Be there still if Master Warin’s man hadn’t insisted on speaking with me.” Nicholas upended the flagon of ale and drank greedily.
“Locked in Widow Marietta’s bedchamber, he was,” Warin said, eyes twinkling. “Naked as the day he was born.”
“She took my clothes. Even stripped the linens and hangings off the bed to thwart escape,” Nicholas huffed.
Simon smiled. “I am sure it was terrible.”
“It was. She asked me to escort her home. Said the roads were dangerous, and I thought, why not? You and Guy were busy, she was…persuasive.” Nicholas snarled a hand in his hair. “I got her home without incident, but she turned prickly when I tried to leave and drugged my wine. It’s been a hellish few days.”
“Oh, aye, it has,” Simon said with feeling.
Nicholas straightened. “Curse me for going on about my paltry troubles. Warin’s told me about the bishop and the mess you’re in. What do you need me to do?”
“Seduce some information from my aunt,” Simon said.
‘Twas the heart of the night. The moon rode high in a starlight sky. The bishop’s palace slept.
Linnet could not.
Her mind refused to rest. Instead it ran in tight little circles, treading over and over again upon the same problems. Beset by fears for Simon’s safety, torn by guilt, she huddled under a thick blanket but could not get warm.
What if something happened to him? What if Hamel—
A scraping sound from the direction of the window scattered her morbid thoughts. Heart racing, she slowly sat up, just as the two halves of the window eased open.
Hamel!
“Go away, or I’ll scream for the abbess,” she hissed.
“Linnet, ‘tis Simon.”
“Simon.” Before Linnet could free herself from the tangled bed linens, he was beside her. She whimpered his name as he swept her into an embrace so satisfyingly tight her ribs creaked. “You should not be here,” she whispered, clinging for all she was worth.
“I know.” His grip eased. His hands stroked down her back as he dropped kisses on her hair, her temples. “But I could not stay away for worrying about you.”
“Me?” She looked up into his moonlit face. “You are the one who put himself at risk.”
“It is worth it to save you.”
“Oh, Simon, there is something I must tell you.” Though it would surely shatter any hope of a future with him.
“I know.” He cupped her cheek, his eyes shining with emotions so pure they stole her breath. “I feel the same.”
“You do? But…”
“I—I love you.” He blinked, then smiled ruefully. “I never thought to say that to anyone, but you have somehow managed to steal into my heart and heal the—”
Linnet burst into tears.
“Linnet, my sweet Linn.” Simon gathered her close, moved by the tremors that shook her slender body. “Shh. It will be all right. I will be victorious tomorrow, and we can be together.”
She cried harder.
Poor mite, he thought as he cradled her in his arms. She has been through so
much, had met so many obstacles with wit and bravery. But she was done in. “When this is settled, we will go away for a time. Just the two of us. To London, mayhap. Or to visit one of my fellow knights.”
She sobbed even louder.
Simon despaired. He had little experience with women, especially crying women. Nick, on the other hand…“That reminds me,” he whispered. “Nicholas has returned.” Chuckling softly, he told her what had befallen his roguish comrade-in-arms.
Linnet sniffed and raised tear-drenched eyes to his. “You sent him to seduce Odeline?”
“Well…” Simon smiled ruefully, glad the foolish subject had stemmed her tears. “Nick refused to seduce her—he claims to have renounced women. But he has gone to search her room.”
“What of the guards in the hallway?”
“He’s gone up the wall with a scaling rope and in through her window…same as I came here to you. Nicholas is adroit at getting in and out of ladies’ bedchambers unseen. He will be fine. Besides, Brother Anselme learned Odeline has gone into town…to visit a sick friend.”
“To plot with Hamel, morelike,” Linnet muttered. “You must be on your guard for trickery.”
“‘Twill be easier now, with Nick here to watch my back.”
Linnet nodded but did not relax. “Even if you find the belladonna, it will not prove them guilty.”
“Nay, for that we need the charter.”
“Abbess Catherine said that Thurstan had deeded an estate to you. Blackstone Heath, to be exact.”
“Blackstone Heath!” Simon spat the name like a curse. “I do not want it.” He left the bed to pace. “I was raised there, by the caretaker and his wife. ‘Tis a bleak and cheerless place.”
Together we could make it a home, she thought. But she had no right to dream such impossible dreams. “If we are correct, it would seem Jevan and Odeline do not share your low opinion.”
“It is a large manor, if memory serves. Doubtless the revenues would be good.” He padded back to the bed and sat beside her again. “But I do not want it. He cannot buy my forgiveness with such a gift. It comes too late.”
“Do you hate him still?” she whispered.
“Hate?” He shook his head. “Nay, but neither can I forget what he did to me and my mother.”
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 25
