Linnet ducked her head, seeing in her mind’s eye the words she had but an hour past read in Thurstan’s journal.
I will love her always, above kith, kin and even God.
Rosalynd le Beckele.
Simon’s mother.
Not a simple maid seduced by a cleric, but a great lady, wed to another.
She cannot keep the babe, so I have taken her to Blackstone Abbey on the pretext that she is grieving for her mother, who died the day Rosalynd learned she was pregnant with our child
It is the blackest day of our lives
“Linnet…?”
She raised her head and stared into Simon’s anxious eyes. His heart was finally healing, but learning that his mother had given him up might deal it a fatal blow. She could no more utter those cruel words than she could bare her own dark secret. How terribly history does repeat itself, she thought, and spoke the only words she could. “I love you, Simon.”
His smile was as dazzling as the sun, a balm to her guilty conscience. “Thank God for that. When you burst into tears, I feared you did not return my regard.”
“I have loved you forever…from the moment I first saw you.”
“It has taken me a little longer to open my eyes, but now that I have—” He took her mouth in a kiss so tender and sweet it made her want to cry again.
Instead, she clung to him, her blood heating, her mind hazing with passion. This was what she needed, to steep herself in him, in them, to forget, even for a few moments, the heavy burdens weighing down on her soul. All too soon, he raised his head. “Simon. Oh, Simon, I want you so…”
“And I you. But not like this, in the bishop’s house with the guards outside.” Simon gave her a last, hard kiss and reluctantly stood. “Till tomorrow, my love. Sleep well.”
“I doubt I will sleep at all,” she said tartly.
Simon smiled, ruffled her hair and crossed the room. It took all his willpower to leave her there, warm and soft and all the more desirable for the love they bore each other. But if he stayed they’d neither one get the sleep they needed.
He swung down the scaling rope and in through the window of the bishop’s quarters to find Nicholas pacing.
“‘Bout time you returned.”
“Were you caught in Odeline’s room?” Simon asked, hauling in the rope with the ease of long practice.
“Nay. I was concerned you’d gotten, er, caught up.”
Simon grinned. “Nearly.”
“Hmph. I’ve never seen you act like this over a woman.”
“She is not just any woman, oaf, she is my intended wife.”
“Wife.” Nicholas shivered. “Perish the thought”
“I no longer find it repugnant in the least. The moment this business is settled, we will be wed. Now, did you find anything in Odeline’s room?”
“Aye, though it took some time. The woman has enough clothes, shoes and such to outfit ten jaded court ladies. Stacks of trunks and chests, each one filled with tidily folded garments arranged by color. ‘Tis like a portable tailor’s shop.” Nick threw a blanket and pillow on the floor before the hearth. “I found her stash of cosmetics and false hair rolls all neatly placed in a sack under the bed. It was dusty, so I’d say she’d not been painting herself up while here at the cathedral.”
“Did you find belladonna?”
“Nay. She had arsenic powder, rouge pots, even a pot of kohl for darkening the lashes. Women who use such things usually employ belladonna for brightening the eyes,” added Nick, who knew much about such matters. “Perhaps she threw it away.”
“Or am I chasing an impossible dream and we will never have a chance to avenge Bishop Thurstan’s murder?”
“I am surprised you care after the way he abandoned you.”
“So am I.” It was Linnet’s insistence on showing him the bishop’s good side that had eased his bitterness, Simon thought as he wandered off to seek his bed. Meeting her and falling in love with her had changed so much in his life.
One battle left to fight, and then they would have a lifetime together.
He would prevail on the morrow. He had to.
“I want Simon dead,” Odeline muttered.
“So you’ve said…a dozen times.” Stripped to the waist before the fire in his kitchen, Hamel worked his sword along the grinding wheel, honing the edge to bite through steel and bone. “I’ll kill him for you,” he added with relish.
“Hmph.” Odeline cast her eyes over the hard muscles bunching beneath his sweaty skin. He was a magnificent animal, strong, sleek, skilled. But in battle, the unexpected did happen, and Simon had survived the Saracen hordes. “I still think we should drug his horse.”
“I sent a man round to check. It’s under guard.”
“We could drug Simon, then.”
Hamel lifted the blade from the wheel and stared at her. “You have so little faith in my abilities?”
“Of course not,” she said quickly and soothed over the matter by clucking about his safety. “I had best return to the cathedral before they shut the gates.” She pecked his salty, whiskery cheek and left. But the idea of drugging Simon stuck in her brain. It might be the only way to assure his death.
She told Jevan so as they walked back to the cathedral.
“Do not worry, Mama. One way or another, Simon of Blackstone will not live out today.” His face was set into a fierce scowl, his voice as hard as flint.
Alarmed, Odeline clutched at his arm. “Jevan, promise me you will do nothing rash and endanger yourself.”
“Me?” His laugh was high and shrill. “Save your concern for Thurstan’s bastard.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Make certain I get what was promised to me. Now come along, I have much to do before the contest is waged.”
Chapter Nineteen
Overnight, Durleigh’s training field had taken on the festive air of a holiday market fair. Hastily erected booths were selling everything from pins and cloth to pottery crocks. The crowd from the ale tent spilled out in all directions, raucous laughter vying with the shouts of vendors hawking hot meat pies and wine.
“This is disgusting,” Linnet muttered, glaring so fiercely that two men stepped from her path. She brushed past them, clasping Thurstan’s prayer book over her heart.
“People are not always as good as we wish they were,” said Abbess Catherine as she led the way to a tiered section of benches shaded by a tent canopy.
Elinore, Drusa and the flock of nuns fanned out to fill the first row. The benches above them were packed with Durleigh’s leading townsfolk. All stared avidly at Linnet, some whispered behind their hands. A few of the more sympathetic called greetings and words of support.
Linnet could not reply. Her nerves were strung as taut as the ropes that marked off the large square where the battle would be joined. Behind it, a sea of avid onlookers jostled for position, some holding children on their shoulders.
“Disgusting,” Linnet said again. As she turned away, her eyes fell on an even more disgusting sight.
Odeline approached the bleachers from the right, dressed in a lavish gown of berry-red wool, her hair coiled in wheels above her ears and covered with gold netting. Poised as a queen, she was, her sly smile grating on Linnet’s brittle nerves.
Alarmed, Linnet turned away. “Where is Simon?”
“There, with my Warin and Sir Nicholas.” Elinore pointed to a cluster of figures at the left end of the field.
Linnet instantly picked Simon out of the crowd. Over his gleaming mail, he wore the silver tabard of the Black Rose. She wondered if there was anyone else in the crowd who knew the significance of the emblem Thurstan had chosen for his band of Crusader knights.
A black rose for the rose I lost, Thurstan had written.
Linnet could not bear it if she lost Simon again. “Please, please keep him safe,” she whispered.
A stir in the crowd heralded the arrival of Hamel Roxby. Surrounded by his band of thugs, he cantered onto the
field like a conquering hero. But his appearance was greeted with more than a few hisses and curses. He drew rein and glared the onlookers into silence. A formidable sight he was, too, burly body encased in chain mail, a sword and brace of long knives at his waist.
“He is so big,” Drusa whispered fearfully.
“Aye.” Shivering, Linnet hunched her shoulders and watched in growing dread as Simon rode onto the field.
He wore his helmet, but the visor was up, his eyes searching the stands. The moment they met hers, he smiled. His right hand came up to touch the rose embroidered over his heart.
A silent pledge of love.
It reminded Linnet too forcefully of Thurstan and Rosalynd’s star-crossed love. Were she and Simon destined to be parted? Somehow she managed a wan smile. “God be with you.”
Simon inclined his head and rode on, taking Linnet’s hopes and her heart with him.
A priest walked out onto the field, dispensing streams of fragrant incense from a metal burner on a chain. Archdeacon Crispin strode through the smoke, followed by a line of chanting priests and novices. When he reached the knights, he stopped.
“We are come here to settle the matter of Mistress Linnet Especer’s guilt in the death of Bishop Thurstan of Durleigh,” Crispin intoned. “Who stands for the law and the church?”
“I, Hamel, Sheriff of Durleigh.”
“Temporary sheriff,” Elinore muttered.
Simon straightened in the saddle. “And I, Simon of Blackstone, champion the lady.”
Tears sprang into Linnet’s eyes. He had ever been her champion. Never had she felt more in need of one. She clasped the journal tighter and prayed Thurstan would watch over him.
“Let God’s will be done,” said Crispin. Turning, he led the priestly procession off the field of battle. Barely had they cleared the ropes when Hamel drew his sword and attacked.
“Foul!” Nicholas sprinted down the field. “Foul! You must wait for the signal to—”
His objections were lost in the clash of steel as Simon brought his blade up to counter Hamel’s heinous stroke.
Simon shuddered as the impact jarred down the length of his sword, numbing his hand and arm. Though nearly matched in height, Hamel had the advantage in weight and reach. Which meant he would have to be quicker and smarter if he wanted to win. Simon not only wanted to win. He had to win.
But Hamel would not make it easy. Nor, it seemed, would he fight fairly. He came at Simon with a furious hail of blows designed to crush and maim.
Simon gritted his teeth and gave ground to buy time. The pressure from his knees forced his stallion to dance away. The shouts of dismay from the crowd rose over the thundering of blood against his ears. Simon spared a thought for his terrified Linnet, then closed his mind to everything except the man he must defeat. Hamel might be bigger, but Simon had had the benefit of fighting alongside Hugh, a master swordsman. He could almost hear Hugh whispering in his ear. Watch him. Look for a weakness. Wait till the time is right, then exploit his flaw.
Simon watched and waited and endured blow after bruising blow. They tested each other with deadly steel as they had as youths with clenched fists and wooden weapons. Their harsh breathing filled the near silence that had fallen over the field, punctuated only by grunts and the clash of metal on metal. Simon ducked and parried and retreated. He refused to go on the attack, but maintained a stout defense, probing Hamel’s fighting style for the flaw that would gain him a victory.
Hamel’s eyes glowed in the sockets of his helmet, burning with fury and frustration. “Stand still. Stand and fight, dammit.” He went in low, aiming for Simon’s mount.
Cursing, Simon drew back sharply on the reins. The stallion reared, screaming in rage. Its hooves slipped on the slick grass. They were going down. Instinctively Simon kicked his feet free of the stirrups and jumped. He landed on his back with enough force to drive the air from his lungs and make his vision swim. Vaguely he was aware of the taste of blood in his mouth and of Linnet’s screams rising about the roar of the crowd. Marshaling his reserves, Simon rolled onto his knees and came up in a crouch.
None too soon, for Hamel bore down on him, sword aloft, eyes glittering with malicious triumph.
Winded, aching in more places than he could count, Simon lowered his sword and forced himself to wait. It was a game the Saracen youth had played in their camp across the river from the Crusaders’. He’d watched them often enough to admire their horsemanship and understand the value of timing.
Hamel pounded closer…closer…so close Simon could see the triumphant gleam in his enemy’s eyes. As Hamel brought his sword in for the coup de grace, Simon ducked under the blade, spun and came up in time to grab Hamel by the back of his tabard. The momentum that nearly pulled Simon’s arms from their sockets jerked Hamel from the saddle.
The sheriff landed with a thud that made the ground shake, but he was on his feet quicker than a scalded cat and looking just as mean. “Bastard,” Hamel screamed and came at Simon, beating him back with a flurry of blows.
Simon could feel himself faltering, the sleepless nights taking their toll in weakening limbs and sluggish responses. He countered the exhaustion by reminding himself what was at stake. Linnet’s freedom. Her life.
“I’ve got ye now,” Hamel crowed, moving in for the kill. As he raised his sword, Hamel committed the greatest sin. He overextended, assuming Simon would not attack.
It was the opening Simon had prayed for. He slipped in under Hamel’s lax guard. Steel screamed on steel as his blade slid down Hamel’s sword, aiming for the shoulder.
Take Hamel prisoner. Find out what he knows.
In the last instant, Hamel twisted. The blade glanced off his shoulder and bit into the side of his neck, drawing a gush of blood. He grunted and looked at Simon, his wide face contorted with pain and shock. The weapon slipped from his hand and onto the ground. Hamel groaned; his eyes fluttered shut, and he followed his sword down.
“Simon! Simon!”
He turned to see Linnet dashing across the trampled grass, followed by the abbess, a flock of nuns and half of Durleigh. They were chanting his name and hers.
It was over.
Exhausted, bruised, Simon sank down on one knee and waited.
It was over, and they had won.
Standing at the verge of the battlefield, Crispin stared m mute horror at the fallen sheriff and listened in stunned disbelief to the jubilant shouts of the townsfolk as they gathered around the triumphant knight.
The bishop’s bastard and his leman had won.
God had chosen them over himself.
The enormity of his loss weighed heavy on Crispin’s soul, sin piling upon sin. He had poisoned not one but two of his fellow priests. That neither had died at his hand was a moot point. He had sought their deaths.
It mattered little that he had believed his cause was just, for that holy cause now lay like ashes at his feet.
What did he do now? How could he. live with the knowledge that God had not sanctioned his acts?
Crispin buried his face in his hands. Death would be preferable to that living purgatory, but he could not compound the sins he had already committed with that most heinous of—
“It is not over!” cried a female voice.
Crispin lowered his hands in time to see the lady Odeline step from the shadow of the bleachers and onto the field.
“Bastard, you will not take what is rightfully my son’s!” Something glittered in her upraised hand as she dashed toward the gathering a few feet from Crispin.
She meant to kill Simon of Blackstone.
Crispin knew it as surely as he knew that his burdened soul would never see heaven. One last act, he thought. One good act to wipe away the sins of the past.
Crossing himself, he stepped into Odeline’s path.
A scream of mortal pain shattered the celebration.
Linnet turned in the circle of Simon’s arms and saw the archdeacon go down, blood on his breast, Lady Odeline sprawle
d on top of him in a welter of crimson skirts. “What…?”
“She’s stabbed the archdeacon!” Simon ran to the fallen pair with Linnet hard on his heels. Cursing, he pulled Odeline off the prelate and shoved her at Nicholas. “Hold her fast,” he commanded before turning to Linnet. “What can we do?”
Linnet knelt beside her enemy and shook her head. The welling blood told an ominous tale.
“Brother Crispin.” Anselme knelt at his side, hands hovering over the jeweled hilt. “I dare not pull it. Get me clean linens and a litter.”
Crispin’s eyes opened. “Do not trouble yourself, Brother. I am dying.” His lips lifted in a half smile. “Blessed death.”
“He is mad!” Odeline cried. “He threw himself on my knife.”
“Come away, my lady.” Nicholas carried her to the benches.
Crispin turned his head, his eyes cloudy with pain, dark with purpose. “I never meant for Thurstan to die, only sicken.”
“So you could be bishop?” Linnet asked.
He nodded, his eyes drifting closed again. “Forgive me,” he whispered, “for God never will.”
“Let me shrive you, Reverend Father.” Brother Gerard knelt at the archdeacon’s head.
Linnet turned away and was welcomed into Simon’s embrace. “He put the monkshood in the brandy,” she whispered.
“Aye. Odeline was right, Crispin is mad. Come.” Simon took her to the benches where Nicholas and the lady sat. His aunt looked half mad herself, her hair disheveled, her eyes wild. “Did you give Thurstan the belladonna, Odeline?”
“It’s finished. Done.” Odeline slumped against Nicholas. “All for nothing. Nothing without the charter.”
“The charter for Blackstone Heath?” Simon asked.
An eerie smile crossed Odeline’s face. “Blackstone Heath…we will be happy there, Jevan. No more living on the scraps of others. I told you I would secure it for you.”
Linnet shivered. “Oh, Simon…”
“Did you kill Thurstan?” Simon asked gently.
Odeline stared through him, her eyes distant, unfocused.
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 26
