Книга - The Champion

The Champion
Suzanne Barclay


KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE AS THE MYSTERY UNFOLDED, SO DID THEIR LOVE… .Newly returned from the Crusades, Simon of Blackstone had thought to confront his past, not find himself the prime suspect for a murder he didn't commit. Yet to uncover the real killer he had no choice but to join forces with Linnet Especer, a woman he had every reason to despise.But the lady was proving difficult to hate. And as the two came dangerously close to discovering the truth behind the evil that menaced them both, Simon began to realize that he would do anything to protect Linnet from harm… and would fight to the death for her honor and love.









Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ud21e2d88-8936-50bf-9e7f-5804c3c9646f)

Excerpt (#u7b12d809-3dbe-5ea2-b8c8-e47d907160a2)

Dear Reader (#u0d067ae6-6546-566f-bc6d-804f80548560)

Title Page (#ue18e98f2-0e44-5218-82ce-4b688c995726)

Dedication (#ua6bd3a43-d9e7-5444-b436-e87f13aac454)

Prologue (#u300f9b9f-5e3d-5a1e-8db0-f7624ee71ff9)

Chapter One (#ubf3f3894-d941-5929-92ac-f2ec3a3f8ce2)

Chapter Two (#u3ba63440-f588-5059-b625-a9b6a2dc5f23)

Chapter Three (#u20464357-bbc0-542c-b71c-6488a8dfbcc8)

Chapter Four (#uf6a8cf7b-bcf3-5f91-bcf8-e661c6efb3de)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




The voice was hauntingly familiar


Blinking furiously, Linnet made out a figure hunched over her. “Sweet Mary, I have died,” she whispered. Dimly she was aware of gentle pokes and prods as he examined her arms and legs.



“I do not think anything is broken.” The man sat back on his haunches. “Can you move your limbs?”



“Simon?” Linnet murmured.



He cocked his head. “You know who I am?”



“But…you perished….”



“Nay, though I came close on a few occasions.”



Joy pulsed through her, so intense it brought fresh tears to eyes that had already cried a river for him.



He leaned closer, his jaw stubbled, his eyes shadowed by their sockets. “Do I know you?”



A laugh bubbled in her throat, wild and a bit hysterical. She cut it off with a sob. She had been right. He did not even remember her or their wondrous moment together….


Dear Reader,



What a perfect time to celebrate history—the eve of a new century. This month we’re featuring four terrific romances with awe-inspiring heroes and heroines from days gone by that you’ll want to take with you into the next century.

Simon of Blackstone, a knight returning from the Crusades, is one of those characters. He’s the valiant hero in Suzanne Barclay’s latest medieval novel, The Champion. This is the first book in our new connected minisenes, KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE, about a handful of English knights who come home from the horrors of the battlefield to new lives and new loves. Simon returns to confront the father he never knew…and finds himself and his lady love the prime suspects in a chilling murder. Don’t miss this reunion romance with unparalleled twists!

Wolf Heart is the fascinating, timeless hero from Shawnee Bride, an emotion-filled Native American romance by Elizabeth Lane. It’s about a white Shawnee warrior who falls in love with the young woman he rescues from river pirates. In By Queen’s Grace by Shari Anton, Saxon knight Corwin of Lenvil heroically wins the hand and heart of his longtime love, a royal maiden.

Antoinette Huntington is the unforgettable heroine in The Lady and the Outlaw, a new Western by DeLoras Scott. After her husband’s murder, Antoinette flees England and has a romantic run-in with an outlaw on a train headed for the Arizona Territory.

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.



Happy holidays,



Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor




The Champion

Suzanne Barclay







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To the talented ladies who created the Knights of the Black Rose:

Shari Anton, Laurie Grant, Sharon Schulze, Ana Seymour and Lyn Stone.

What fun we had brainstorming this terrific series. Let’s do it again sometime.




Prologue (#ulink_4e551408-8e70-53ae-a763-1fdfd0c1dd55)


England, May 10, 1222

They rode north on the road from York to Durleigh, six Crusader knights in worn gray tabards with a black rose stitched over the heart, a babe scarce a year old and Odetta, a goat that was more trouble than the Saracens they had faced in the East.

Thick gray clouds obscured the noonday sun. The raw breeze that harried their backs carried a hint of rain that discouraged lingering on the trail.

Not that Simon of Blackstone was inclined to linger. He’d set a brisk pace since rousting his comrades from their blanket rolls in the darkness of predawn, and he meant to be in Durleigh by midafternoon. Ignoring the discomfort, as he had so many other unpleasant things life had flung at him, he concentrated on the muddy track ahead. His thoughts, his entire being, were focused on reaching the town a half day’s journey north.

Durleigh, where he’d been fostered and knighted in the household of Lord Edmund de Meresden. Durleigh, seat of the great cathedral presided over by Bishop Thurstan de Lyndhurst.

The man who had sired him.

Simon’s jaw set tighter, and the heat of anger rose to counter the damp chill. Three long years he had waited to confront the priest who had given him life, but never bothered to acknowledge him. Three years of living with the bitter knowledge that his whole life had been a lie.

“We need to call a halt,” muttered Guy de Meresden, riding at Simon’s right.

Stop then, but I will not. Not till I’ve seen the mighty bishop and extracted a penance for his sins.

The words stuck in Simon’s throat. Two hundred men had ridden out from Durleigh four years ago bound for the East. Only six had come back alive, and Simon’s five comrades were as precious to him as the family he never had.

Sighing, Simon glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the troop. Hugh, Bernard, Gervase and Nicholas were veterans of long marches and short rations, but their mounts were beginning to droop and Odetta was wobbling. If the damn thing keeled over, there’d be no milk for wee Maudie’s supper. “I had hope to reach Durleigh today,” Simon muttered.

“As do I, my friend.” Guy smiled, teeth white against bronzed skin that betrayed his mixed heritage. According to Guy’s Saracen mother, he was the legitimate son of Lord Edmund de Meresden, born after his lordship had left Acre for England. “We are equally anxious to confront our sires, if for different reasons. But our horses need rest and water.”

Simon grunted in reluctant agreement and looked over his shoulder again. “We will halt in yon meadow for a bit.”

Nicholas of Hendry grinned. “Better yet, I know of an inn up ahead where the ale’s sweet—”

“And the lasses sweeter, I wager,” Simon grumbled.

Nicholas’s easy smile, the one that charmed every woman he met, faded. “I have put aside the wild ways of my youth.”

“Forgive my sharp tongue,” Simon said, though privately he thought, once a rogue, always a rogue. Living side by side for four years had forged a bond between them, but Simon disliked Nicholas’s easy morals. Who knew how many bastards Nick had spread about the country—and abandoned? Just as Bishop Thurstan had abandoned Simon. “Lead the way to this inn, then.”

“I have changed,” Nicholas said crisply before taking Simon’s customary place at the head of the column.

“He understands why you feel as you do,” said Guy.

“Nay, I do not think anyone does, even you.” Simon cast his mind back three years to when Brother Martin, confessor to their band of Crusaders, had fallen ill. As he lay dying, the priest had revealed a startling secret. Simon was Bishop Thurstan’s son. “At least your father was wed to your mother.”

“Aye, but Lord Edmund vowed he’d return for my mother. He never did,” Guy said softly. “Perhaps he wished to forget he’d wed an infidel…even if she did become a Christian.”

“You knew your mother. She raised you, loved you, and you saw to her welfare when you were older. I do not know what became of my mother.” The pain ripped at Simon’s insides. “He abandoned her and ignored me, though we lived in the same town.”

“Perhaps he had a good reason.”

“Bah! He sought to preserve his reputation, did Bishop Thurstan,” Simon growled. “But I will confront him with his dark deed, and I will have my mother’s name that I may find her.” The thought of her, alone and likely destitute, was nigh intolerable.

“There is the inn,” Nicholas called as they rounded a bend in the road and came upon a small hamlet. They caused quite a stir as they dismounted in the yard of the inn, the horses snorting and tossing their heads, Odetta bleating for all she was worth. Baby Maud awoke with a start and wailed.

“Shh. We’ll be getting some milk.” Hugh of Halewell jiggled Maud. The black-haired imp looked incongruous in his massive arms, but there she had ridden from Acre to England, though she was not Hugh’s child. Maud was the daughter of a prisoner held in the same compound from which the knights had rescued Hugh. With her dying breath, the woman had begged Hugh to save her daughter. It was a charge the knight took most seriously.

“I think she needs to be changed again,” Simon murmured.

Hugh stared ruefully at the wet spot on his tabard, blue eyes twinkling. “‘Tis no wonder my mail is constantly rusty.”

“And we’ve more wash than a whole Crusader camp.” Simon glanced at the nappy tied onto Hugh’s lance tip to dry.

The door to the tavern opened and a burly man peered out.

“See here, what is—” His eyes rounded. “Sir…Sir Nicholas?”

“Aye. I’m pleased you remembered me, Master—”

“Ye’re dead.” The innkeeper crossed himself and backed up.

“Dead?” Simon exclaimed. “What do you mean?”

“Killed. Dead.” The innkeeper eyed them warily “King’s messenger brought word last autumn ye were butchered by the infidels. Bishop Thurstan held a special mass in Durleigh.”

Simon’s lip curled. “Likely he was celebrating my demise.”

“What a thing to say!” the innkeeper exclaimed.

“Thanks to my stupidity we were away when our comrades were attacked,” Hugh grumbled. “If I hadn’t gotten myself captured—”

“We would not have gone to Acre to rescue you.” Simon looked at Hugh’s back, remembering the Saracen arrow that had lodged there as they fled. If not for Gervase’s special healing skills, he’d have died in that alley. “I had no idea we had all been reported dead.” He glanced around at his comrades and saw his own speculation mirrored in their faces. What had those they’d left behind thought when they had heard the news? Would the knights be welcomed with rejoicing when each reached his home? Or would there be more challenges to face?

“Well, praise be to God for saving ye.” All smiles, the innkeeper hustled them inside to a table by the hearth and brought a round of ale. A pretty maidservant offered to take Maud above stairs for a change of nappy and a bit of Odetta’s milk. Used to the company of men, Maud clung to Hugh.

“Shh, here, lovey.” Hugh gave her a cup of milk.

Simon settled back in his chair, the cup of ale resting on his lean belly, as he watched the five men who had unexpectedly become his friends. How much they had all changed in four years.

Bernard FitzGibbons had grown the most, under Hugh’s expert guidance, from a bumbling knightling to a seasoned warrior. Fair-haired Gervase of Palgrave had discovered he had a healing touch that defied explanation. Torn between two worlds, Guy had found a haven with the knights of Durleigh and grown especially close to Simon.

“How far we have come,” Simon murmured. “We are different men from when we set out together.”

“Aye.” Nicholas scowled. “I hope I can convince my sire I am now worthy to be his heir, else he’ll make good his threat to cut off that part of me he blames for my mischief.”

Hugh laughed. “Gervase may be able to make it whole again.”

“My healing is not a thing to be used lightly.”

“Oh, I’d not take it lightly,” Nicholas teased.

They grinned at that, but beneath their banter lurked a tension Simon finally put into words. “Being reported dead may have consequences when we reach home.”

Silence fell over the table, each one recalling the troubling circumstances that had led to their taking the cross in the first place. Simon had gone with lofty hopes of saving the Holy Land, but the Crusade had been a bitter, dismal failure. Nicholas had gone to escape a horde of amorous women. Bernard to atone for his overlord’s sins. Gervase because of a vow made on his father’s grave. Hugh as a penance for killing a friend on the tiltyard. In each case, their going had been demanded by Bishop Thurstan as payment for a sin. To Simon, such manipulation was but another crime the bishop had committed.

“No one will be pleased to see me return,” Simon said.

“You may be surprised,” Guy said quietly. “We do not always know whose lives we have touched.”

Simon grunted, drained his cup and stood. “Well, we shall soon find out. I’m for Durleigh.” He turned to Hugh. “Are you certain your brother will welcome wee Maud in his household?”

“Aye. He should be wed by now, and he has a soft heart. If for some reason that is not so, I will raise her myself.”

Simon nodded. “If you cannot, send her to me. I will not stay in Durleigh after I confront the bishop, but I will leave word at the Royal Oak-Inn where I have gone. I would not like to think of her raised without love and caring.” As he had been.

“Rest assured that will not happen,” Hugh replied.

The sun was making a valiant effort to fight off the clouds when they emerged from the tavern. Rested and watered, the horses picked up the pace. Not long now until they parted company, Simon thought unhappily. Nicholas and Guy would ride with him as far as Durleigh. The others would take different paths. Who knew if they would meet again? The sense of loss that filled him was unexpected. He had learned not to need anyone.

Fighting to regain his composure, Simon looked up and noted a flock of birds rising from the trees ahead. “En garde,” he said softly. “It may be someone waits around yon bend.” He gave the orders that sent Bernard and Nicholas off the road and through the trees in a flanking action.

Hugh handed the dozing Maud to Gervase. “Guard her.”

“With my life.” Gervase withdrew into the brush.

Simon pulled the sword from his scabbard, laid it across his thighs and lowered his visor. “Ready?”

“Aye,” Hugh and Guy replied as one. They cut in behind Simon and rode warily down the road.

The forest seemed to close in on the trail, dark and sinister. Senses alert, Simon scanned the area ahead, probing each leaf and branch for some sign. “There! To the right,” he whispered, muscles tensing. “Behind the rocks.”

Just as they came abreast of the rocks, the woods were suddenly alive with men. Screaming like banshees, they streamed onto the road, led by a slender man with a mask over his face.

Simon counted ten bandits as he brought his sword up to counter a stinging attack from the largest of the men. They were armed with swords and axes but wore only leather vests and caps for armor. Nor were they battle trained, Simon thought as he made short work of his first opponent. He had no time to savor the victory, for two more men challenged him.

Behind him, Hugh roared his battle cry, wielding his great sword like a Viking berserker while Guy swung his own wicked blade in a deadly, killing arch. But what they lacked in fighting finesse, the men made up for in sheer numbers. Simon could feel himself faltering under the withering attack of three men. Dieu, where the hell was Nicholas?

“For the Black Rose!” Nicholas shouted, charging out of the woods with Bernard at his side.

“Just like old times!” Hugh screamed, and fought harder.

Simon grinned grimly and took one opponent down with a single stroke and turned on the other two, dimly conscious of other battles raging around him. The clash of steel, the grunts of straining men and the screams of the vanquished ones.

In minutes, it was over.

Breathing harshly, Simon turned away from his last opponent and scanned the road. The only men left standing were his and they were clustered around a rock where Bernard sat. Simon sprinted to them. “Is anyone hurt?”

“My leg.” Bernard grimaced. “We killed all except for that cur.” He glared at a man sprawled on the ground a few feet away. “I disarmed him, but he picked up a boulder and mashed my leg.”

“The leader.” Simon hunkered down and tugged off the mask.

The outlaw’s eyes flew open, then widened with shock and horror. “Simon of Blackstone? Ye’re dead.”

As Simon stared at the narrow face with its sly eyes and grim mouth, a memory stirred. “I have seen you before….”

The villain shot up from the ground as though launched from a catapult and dashed into the trees with Simon in swift pursuit. But he was not quick enough, and the brigand obviously knew these woods, for he disappeared as though swallowed up.

Simon gave up and stalked back to the battlefield.

“Find him?” Nicholas asked.

“Nay.” Simon kicked at a clump of dirt. “Bernard?”

“Gervase thinks his leg is broken,” said Hugh. “He knows of an abbey close by and wants to take him there. I will go, too.”

Simon nodded and stared at the woods. “I have seen that man before. At Durleigh Cathedral.”

“Simon, do not leap to conclusions,” Nicholas said. “The bishop could not have sent this thug to kill you. He did not know we were alive, much less likely to come this way.”

“Perhaps, but it makes me wonder what evils I will find in Durleigh,” Simon murmured.



Rob FitzHugh kept running until he reached the little hut where he and his band had sheltered. Panting, one hand pressed to the burning wound in his shoulder, he pushed open the flimsy door and halted. “What are you doing here?”

Jevan le Coyte rose from the stool by the hearth. The coarse clerical robe he wore emphasized his lean, lanky frame. “I need money.” His handsome features twisted with distaste. “Though from the looks of you, the raid did not prosper.”

“Prosper!” Rob cried. Kicking the door shut, he stumbled to the hearth and drank from the flagon beside it. The sour ale eased his parched throat but did not wash away the taste of defeat. “We were routed. Everyone’s dead but me!”

“You took no coin, then?” Jevan asked coolly.

“Nay, what we took was steel.” Rob moved his bloody hand to display the nasty wound, but the youth who was the mastermind behind their little scheme merely shrugged. “They were knights, dammit, five of them, not helpless merchants.”

“Five against your ten.” Jevan snorted derisively.

“Five Knights of the Black Rose. Led by Simon of Blackstone.”

Jevan’s jaw dropped. “He is dead.”

“It was him…no mistaking. And he recognized me.”

“Nay!” The usually cool Jevan shoved both hands into his silky black hair and screamed, “Not now! Not when Thurstan’s fortune is within my grasp. I will not lose. I will not.” His eyes were as wild as a mad dog’s.

Rob backed toward the door. “What will you do?”

“I will not lose.” Teeth set in a furious grimace, Jevan pushed past Rob and out of the hut. “Come, we’ve work to do.”




Chapter One (#ulink_8fde9afd-af37-5cea-89cd-97c67a88c262)


Durleigh Cathedral, May 10, 1222

He was dying.

The malaise of spirit he could attribute to the loss of his son. But the weakness in his limbs that grew steadily worse, the pain that had built from a grinding ache this winter to a sharp burning, these he could no longer ignore. Impossible as it seemed, given his wealth, his power and his divine connections, he, Thurstan de Lyndhurst, Bishop of Durleigh, was dying.

“Nay.” His anguished cry of anger and denial echoed the length of his withdrawing room. It bounced off the intricately carved wooden beams, slid down the wall hangings embroidered with scenes from the Bible and was swallowed up by the thick carpet covering the floor of his second-story sanctuary.

Fear drove him to clutch the edge of his writing table so hard the knuckles of his long, soft hands turned white. It was an emotion he had felt only once before in his one and fifty years, on the day he’d realized that the love he and the lady Rosalynd had shared would bear fruit.

Simon. A son he could never claim. Dead now, was Simon, a bright, promising light extinguished before it had had a chance to shine. And soon Thurstan would follow the son he’d loved but had never even been allowed to hold.

Thurstan sighed. Little as he wanted to quit this life, at least when he and Simon were reunited in the Promised Land, he could explain why he had done what he had.

A wry smile lifted Thurstan’s lips. That was supposing he went to heaven, which was by no means a sure thing, given the sins he had committed—some in the name of profit, others in retribution. Sins nonetheless, he thought as he slowly stood and crossed to the window. The richly embroidered tunic he had donned in honor of tonight’s dinner weighed down his body as surely as Simon’s death preyed on his conscience.

If only things could have been different.

But it was too late to make reparation, had been since that grim day last autumn when a messenger arrived with news that Simon and the other Crusaders of Durleigh had perished.

The sharp pain in Thurstan’s chest was not borne of his illness, but of an anguish too deep for words. He and Rosalynd had been denied a life together, but he had taken solace in providing the best for their child. Though he could never claim Simon, Thurstan had cleverly schemed to have him fostered with Lord Edmund and raised here in Durleigh at Wolfsmount Castle so he could watch Simon grow. His chest had swelled with pride when he’d officiated at Simon’s knighting ceremony, for the boy had become a man of unswerving loyalty, courage and honor.

Heartsick, Thurstan unlatched the shutters and opened the two sections of the oiled parchment windows. Fresh damp air poured in, momentarily chasing the scent of death from his chamber. Below him lay the green bailey that surrounded the cathedral, and beyond it, the rooftops of the bustling, prosperous town of Durleigh, all of it lorded over by Wolfsmount Castle on its rocky hillside. Durleigh had been a small town when he’d come here five and twenty years ago. Now it was a center of commerce and trade to rival the great city of York to the south. Much of Durleigh’s growth had come as a result of Thurstan’s scheming and his family’s connections at court. As Durleigh had swelled with tradesmen and laborers, so had Thurstan’s coffers.

All that gold was small comfort now. His love was lost to him, his son was dead, and he was dying.

Thurstan sighed, his thoughts growing more morose as his gaze skimmed the roof of the apothecary. Ah, he would miss his golden-haired Linnet with her quicksilver wit and boundless zest for life. He had had plans for the young apothecary, but with Simon dead, they would never come to fruition.

A sharp pain cramped his gut, doubling him over. When the wave of agony passed, Thurstan grabbed hold of the windowsill and straightened. What was this sickness that tormented him so? Over the years of bringing absolution to the stricken, he had seen death in many guises, but never one that weakened the victim yet brought no fever, no wasting of the flesh. Even Brother Anselme, the infirmarer, was at a loss to identify this ague, nor did any of the tonics Anselme and Linnet had concocted bring Thurstan any relief.

This disease was like a poison invading his--

”Poison…” The word slipped from Thurstan’s lips with a hiss. He recalled with dawning horror the insidiousness with which this illness had crept up upon him.

Could it be that someone was poisoning him?

Who? And why?

Thurstan’s narrowed gaze swept over the town he’d ruled for so long. Ruled it like a despot, his detractors whispered. But they spoke softly and behind his back, for Bishop Thurstan’s wealth and power exceeded even the dreams of the manipulative sire who had bought for him the Bishopric of Durleigh so many years ago. Was there one among his flock who chafed under a heavy penance? Or did the culprit lay closer at hand?

Crispin Norville, Durleigh Cathedral’s archdeacon, had made no secret of the fact that he heartily disapproved of Thurstan’s methods. The cold and grimly pious archdeacon coveted the bishopric. He made a great show of contrasting his behavior with Thurstan’s, spending more time on his knees in the chapel than he did in the administration of his duties. Crispin wore coarse robes and styled himself after St. Benedictine, while Thurstan wore embroidered silk and superfine wool.

But murder…?

Though Crispin’s hatred was plain to see, Thurstan had trouble casting the archdeacon in the role of murderer. Why, the man was known to flog himself every Saturday for those sins he might inadvertently have committed. Nay, not Crispin.

Prior Walter, then? He had been a frequent visitor this winter and had, in fact, arrived this very day, ostensibly to bring greetings from His Grace, the Archbishop of York, and to inquire into Thurstan’s health. Walter de Folke was a sly, slippery man whose rise to power within the church had been swift and unexpected, given his humble origins.

Thurstan tried to think if his illness had been worse after Walter visited. But his mind was bogged by shock. Shuddering, he turned from the window, his eyes darting wildly about the richly appointed chamber. How had it been done? Food? Drink?

He stumbled across the room to the massive writing table. The tray on one corner held a silver flagon filled with his favorite Bordeaux wine. Nay, it could not be that, for he served the wine to guests, to his sister, Odeline, to whom he’d given temporary rooms upstairs, and even to Walter. Aye, Walter had drunk a cup only this noon.

Thurstan relaxed until he looked through the open door to his bedchamber. On the bedside table stood the bottle of herbal brandy. He sipped a wee dram of the strongly flavored liquor each night while he wrote in his journal. Could it be poisoned?

Thurstan stared at the little bottle, too weak to walk so far. And smelling it would tell him nothing, for he’d been drinking it with ease these past months. How could he judge when he knew not what had been used? Belladonna? Hemlock? Monkshood?

Monkshood.

The air caught in Thurstan’s throat, along with a sob. He had gotten some of that poisonous herb from Linnet to kill off the voles that had been eating the roots of his prized roses. Had he touched the powder? Nay, he had handed the small jar to Olf, the gardener, who had mixed the powder with the grain to be set out in the garden. If anyone was poisoned by contact with the monkshood, it should be Olf.

What then, was killing him? And who?

Thurstan glanced down at the slender black ledger lying on the table. The first three pages contained his favorite prayers, the rest his personal journal, an accounting of how he spent his days. But recorded there, also, were the sins of Durleigh’s citizens as told to him in the confessional. And next to each name, the penance Thurstan had extracted for that slip.

For the poor, the price had been a prayer or a good deed. From the wealthy, he had taken coins to fill the church’s coffers. And sometimes his own. For those whose crimes were evil or cruel, the penalties had been stiffer. Had one of them decided to exact his own form of revenge?

The horn sounded, heralding the dinner hour.

Thurstan grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was break bread with his nag of a sister and two men he found tedious, and, possibly, murderous. He wanted to seek out Brother Anselme, discuss these suspicions and see if the good brother could find an antidote before it was too late. If it was not already. He wanted to study the journal and see if he could determine who-The door from the hallway suddenly flew open.

A man paused on the threshold. He was clad in a faded gray tabard. And on the left shoulder was embroidered a black rose.

The emblem of Durleigh’s Crusaders. But they were dead.

Thurstan gaped at the intruder, a tall, broad-chested man with shoulder-length black hair. His face was partially hidden in the shadows, but Thurstan knew that face.

Simon. Dieu!

Now he was hallucinating. Thurstan sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands. “Go away, specter,” he pleaded.

“Not till I know the truth. Are you my sire?” growled the apparition. The floor seemed to shake as he advanced.

I must be dead, Thurstan thought. Dead and gone straight to hell. “Aye. I did sire you,” he muttered.

“Why did you never tell me what I was to you?”

“I had no choice,” Thurstan whispered.

“Was my mother so foul a creature?”

“Nay. Never that.” Thurstan looked up and found the creature standing across the table from him. He looked so real, the stubble on his cheeks, the anguish in his eyes. They were green, like Rosalynd’s, but with a hint of his own gray, and ablaze with emotions too painful to endure. Thurstan looked away. “She was an angel, your mother.”

“Then why?” A fist struck the table, rattling writing implements and making the candlelight dance.

Gasping, Thurstan sat bolt upright. “What manner of visitation is this?” he asked brokenly.

“A long overdue one, I should say.” The eyes went cold and hard. “Brother Martin contracted a fever and died in Damietta. I sat with him during his last hours, and he did confess to me that you were my sire.” He leaned closer, his breath warming Thurstan’s icy flesh. “Why was the truth kept from me?”

Thurstan blinked. “You are alive.”

“Aye. A fact that no doubt displeases you. Were you hoping that your mistake would be lost in the Holy Land?”

“It is a miracle “ Thurstan had never put much faith in them. Nor in prayers either, for his own had gone unanswered until now, but this was surely a miracle.

“A strong sword arm saved me, not divine intervention.” Simon’s lip curled. “I survived with but one thought, to return here and accuse you of these crimes to your face. Perhaps you sent Brother Martin to make certain I did not return.”

“Why would I want you dead?” Thurstan cried.

“Obviously I am an embarrassment to you, else you would have acknowledged me years ago.”

“There were reasons.”

“So you say.”

“It is the truth.”

Simon waved the declaration away. “You would not know the truth if it bit you in your holy arse. For years I watched you manipulate others to your will. Half the men who went on Crusade did so because you blackmailed them into going so you could swell the ranks you sent in answer to the Pope’s cry for help. A stepping-stone on your way to becoming archbishop, perhaps. You walk in their blood,” Simon growled. “For that and for what you did to me, I despise you.”

“You do not understand.”

“I understand that I hate you, above all men.” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “You wanted to keep our relationship secret, and I agree. I have no wish for anyone to know that your blood flows in my veins. There is but one thing I want from you. I would know who my mother was.”

“I cannot tell you,” Thurstan mumbled, bound by a vow that had been forced upon him long ago.

“Then I will find out for myself.”

“Nay.” Desperation propelled Thurstan to his feet. He swayed, gripped the desk as white-hot pain lanced through his belly. A reminder he was dying. Terror gripped him even as the pain receded. Whoever was killing him might transfer his hatred or greed or whatever drove him to Simon. Until he knew who the murderer was, Simon was not safe. Thurstan studied the dear face he had not expected to see again in this life. Dieu, he wanted to hold the boy, if only for a moment. Instead, he steeled himself for the task ahead. “You must leave, for I am expecting an important visitor.” The lie was a small smudge on his already blackened soul. What mattered was getting rid of Simon before someone saw him, or worse, overheard.

Simon straightened. “I want her name. Doubtless you have left the poor woman destitute.”

“She is dead,” Thurstan said quickly, desperately.

“You lie. She lives, and I will know where.”

“I cannot tell you. Go,” he cried. “We will speak of this another time.” He had much to do, a killer to unmask, an inheritance charter to amend, and little time remaining.

Simon stiffened as though the words had been a sharp slap. “If I go, I will not return.”

“That is your choice,” Thurstan said, his heart aching.

Simon turned toward the door, his black woolen cape swirling softly. Then he paused and looked back. His rigid stance and unrelenting expression reminded Thurstan of his own father. Aye, there was much of Robert de Lyndhurst in his grandson. Simon would not forget a slight or forgive an injury. “I am staying at the Royal Oak Inn. Send word to me there of my mother’s name and whereabouts. If I have not heard from you by this time tomorrow, I will investigate on my own.”

The slamming of the door echoed through the room with dreadful finality.

Thurstan sank into his chair, the ache in his heart sharper than the pain in his gut and limbs. Simon hated him. It was the final, cruel irony.

Dimly Thurstan heard the horn sounding the second call to sup. Brother Oliver would come looking for him if he did not appear soon. Indeed, a slight creak signaled the opening of the door into his secretary’s small chamber.

“Oh, Thurstan.”

Thurstan opened his eyes to see Linnet rushing toward him across the room. “My dear.” He managed to sit forward, though it cost him dearly. “You should not be here.”

“I know.” She knelt at his feet and took his cold hands in her warm ones. “I know it will cause you problems if the archdeacon finds I’ve been here.”

“It is your reputation I fear for.” He squeezed her hands and looked into unusual whiskey-colored eyes. So warm, so filled with compassion a man could get lost in them.

“Your color seems better this evening,” she said, smiling.

Simon is alive. The words hovered on Thurstan’s tongue, but he held them back. It wasn’t safe. “The warmer weather helps.”

Her smile faded; her grip on him tightened. “Thurstan, I fear this is no ordinary sickness. I think it is poison.”

“Poison?” He forced a laugh. She must not suspect, must not voice her suspicions until he knew who the poisoner was.

“Aconite. Monkshood—you will remember I gave you some for your rose gardens. I read about it in an old herbal, and the symptoms of monkshood poisoning are similar to yours.”

So, at least he knew what was killing him. “I’ve heard it kills, not sickens.”

“In small quantities, it would bring pain such as yours.”

“No one is poisoning me, my dear. You must not think—”

The corridor door opened, and Oliver peered around it. “My lord, your guests await in the—” His plain-as-pudding face twisted into a frown. “What is she doing here, my lord?”

Linnet stood and shook out her skirts. “I had to come and see how my lord bishop fared.”

Oliver sniffed. “He has myself and Brother Anselme to look after his health.” Of Thurstan, he asked, “Are you well enough to go below and dine?”

Nay, he was not. But Robert de Lyndhurst had raised no weaklings. Never let your enemies see you are vulnerable. “Tell them I will be down directly.” But for how long could he continue? As the door closed behind Oliver, Thurstan’s eyes fell on the journal. What if he collapsed, and it fell into the wrong hands? Partly his concern was for the townsfolk whose sins he had sinned in recording…and in using against them. Mostly, it was for the document concealed behind the front cover of the journal. The charter, granting Simon the manor of Blackstone Heath. Thurstan had purchased the estate to give to Simon after his knighting, but the boy had promptly pledged himself to the Crusade. And died.

Thurstan had still been reeling from the horrible news when his youngest half sister, Odeline, and her son had arrived. Her scandalous antics had resulted in her being exiled from court. If Thurstan did not provide for her, Odeline had cried, she and Jevan would starve. Not wanting that on his conscience, too, Thurstan had taken them both in. He’d also amended the charter, granting Blackstone to Jevan, provided he completed his studies at the cathedral school.-The boy was as vain and spoiled as his mother and no student, but Thurstan had hoped that the discipline would turn Jevan into a capable overlord.

Now that Simon was back, the charter must be changed again so that Blackstone would go to him. Another bit of land could be found for Jevan, or perhaps coin so he could buy—

“Thurstan…” Linnet’s eyes were filled with tears.

“Do not fret, my dear.” He managed to stand and found his legs steadier than expected. “I am feeling better.” Simon was alive, and Thurstan thought he knew what, if not who, was killing him. Hope fluttered in his chest for the first time in months. Directly after dinner, he would take the herbal brandy to Brother Anselme for examination. Perhaps ceasing to drink the stuff would be enough to save him. But the sense of impending doom did not lift. It moved over his skin like chilling fog—or a draft from the grave—making him tremble.

“Thurstan?” Her hand closed over his on the journal.

That damned journal with its dark secrets. “I want you to have this, my dear.” What better person to guard his secrets than the woman whose own transgression he had meticulously recorded within? After all, her life was intricately connected with Simon’s. With luck, the two of them might find the happiness that had eluded him and Rosalynd. “My favorite prayers are within.”

“Thank you.” She clasped the book to her breast. “But I am afraid for you. For your soul. I would help you.”

“You have helped, more than you know, but you must leave now, before Archdeacon Crispin comes looking for me and finds you here. Will you close the window on your way out?”

She nodded, her expression still troubled, and hurried over to the window. “It is because I love you that I am worried, Thurstan,” she said as she drew the window shut.

“Do not fret, my dear Linnet. I am feeling stronger by the moment. In a few days, I will send for you.” By then, he might know who had planned this vile deed. “We will sit together in the garden.” He would extract the charter from its hiding place in the journal and make the critical changes that would shift Blackstone Heath from Jevan’s grasp into Simon’s.



Simon flung out of the bishop’s palace, barely hanging on to the temper that had plagued him all his days. He kicked stones from his path, imagining each was Bishop Thurstan.

Dieu, the man was even more of a coldhearted, unfeeling monster than Simon had remembered.

“It is because I love you that I am worried, Thurstan.” A choked female voice carried in the still air.

Simon stopped in his tracks. He turned, looked over his shoulder and scanned the bishop’s palace, four stories of impressive stonework, broken at regular intervals by small windows. A lit one on the second story was just closing. A moment’s calculation told him it was the room he had just left. The bishop’s withdrawing room.

Thurstan’s important visitor was a woman. A woman who openly professed her love for him. For an instant, Simon was sickened. Dieu, was there no limit to the man’s crimes?

What if it was his mother?

The notion hit Simon so hard he trembled. Then he crept up beneath the window and cocked his ear, but heard no more. Still shaking, he leaned against the building for support. The voice had been soft and so choked with emotion as to be ageless.

Did she live here?

On the chance that even Thurstan would not be so brazen as to keep his mistress within the cathedral, Simon ducked around the side of the building and hid in the bushes. The scent of roses from the nearby garden assailed his senses, temporarily piercing his turmoil. There had been nights in the desert when he’d lain awake, pining for England, for the damp air, the lush smell of grass and roses.

He knew why.

That last night in England he had dreamed of a woman, a woman whose skin smelled of roses, and whose touch had ruined him for all other women. Four years he’d spent searching in vain for a woman who completed him as she had.

The crunch of footsteps on the gravel walkway shattered Simon’s reverie. Peering out, he saw a cloaked figure hurry away from the palace. The cowl hid face and hair, but the person was small and moved like a woman.

His mother?

His heart atangle with hope and dread, Simon emerged from hiding and followed.



Thurstan stood with his hands braced on the table, his head bowed as he sought the strength to negotiate the winding stairs to the ground floor and endure the six-course meal. Hearing the door open, he lifted his head, hoping that Simon had returned.

Odeline entered in a whisper of bright silk, gems winking like stars in the crispinette that held her hair back. She was the image of her mother, a clever, sensuous beauty who had caught Robert de Lyndhurst’s eye when he was fifty and she twenty, luring him to the altar, much to the disgust of Robert’s children. “Are you coming down to sup?”

“Aye.” Thurstan rounded the desk, his slow, shuffling gait in marked contrast to Odeline’s catlike glide as she closed the distance between them. It was then, as she moved from shadow into the golden circle cast by the candles on the table, that he saw the fury in her emerald eyes. “You are upset.”

“Upset?” She spat the word. Her hands came up, fingers curled into talons. “He is back, your bastard son.”

Thurstan started. “What makes you say that?”

“I saw him going down the stairs.”

“Ah.” Thurstan sighed. “Few people m Durleigh know of Simon’s and my…connection. I would keep it that way.” At least until he’d discovered who was poisoning him.

“As if I would want the world to know my brother the bishop did father a son on—”

“Have a care, Odeline, lest your own indiscretions become common knowledge.”

“A trade. My silence in exchange for Blackstone Heath.”

“Blackstone is Simon’s. I’ll find another bone for your pup to chew on,” Thurstan said nastily.

Her lips curled back in a feral snarl. “You promised my

son that estate, and he will have it.”

“Not without my say so. And I say nay.”

“Bastard.” She struck him in the chest with both hands. Her shove sent Thurstan backward.

He cried out, reaching for her as he lost his balance. She didn’t move. The last thing he saw before his head struck the desk was the smile that spread over her face. Even that winked out in a shower of inky stars.




Chapter Two (#ulink_6b76bd5b-4670-5f09-a130-e49ed4b4c824)


Someone was following her.

The realization pierced the fog of misery that had enveloped Linnet Especer since leaving Thurstan.

Night had fallen while she’d been with Thurstan. The lights from the cathedral and the bishop’s palace winked back at her, islands of light in the darkness, promising a safe haven. Yet she dared not return. Archdeacon Crispin heartily disapproved of her relationship with Thurstan, and, since the bishop’s decline, he had become more vocal in voicing it. Not that she cared what the archdeacon thought of her, but his accusations sullied the good name of a man who was, to her, nearly a saint.

There! A shadow drifted down the path from the palace, cloak billowing in the light evening breeze. One of the archdeacon’s spies, she thought in annoyance. Yet he was tall and moved with more purpose than any monk. As his cloak shifted again, she caught the glint of light on metal. A sword.

The sheriff?

The notion that Hamel Roxby might be after her quickened Linnet’s pulse and deepened her fear. Her closeness with Thurstan had kept the sheriff from pressing his unwanted attentions on her. But maybe Hamel had noted the bishop’s growing weakness and thought to take advantage of her.

Her heart in her throat, Linnet rushed out through the stone gates of the cathedral courtyard and onto the Deangate. The street was nearly deserted, free of the pilgrims and worshipers who flocked to the cathedral by day. The most direct route back to her shop was along Colliergate where the charcoal burners plied their trade and thence across town to Spicier’s Lane. But it was also the least trafficked in the evening.

So she darted along Deangate and into the center of Durleigh. The scent of freshly baked bread rolled over her as she rounded the corner onto Blake Street. The narrow thoroughfare was not crowded, but there were enough people hurrying in and out of the bakeshops lining it to make her feel a bit more comfortable. And the light from the open shop doors made her less afraid. Halfway down the street, she glanced back, hoping she had been wrong about her pursuer.

Nay, there he was, just entering Blake, a head taller than those around him, his stride measured but purposeful. The way he moved, seeming to slide from one group of people to the next, sent a shiver of fear down her spine. He used them for cover as a fox might use stands of brush when sneaking up on a rabbit.

Linnet did what any rabbit would do. She jumped down the nearest alleyway. Durleigh had been her home from infancy, and even in the dark she knew every twist and turn that would take her home. The Guildhall sat on the corner of High Gate and New Street, an imposing stone-and-timbered building, testament to the wealth of Durleigh’s tradesmen. Day or evening, the hall was usually abustle with activity. Tonight was no exception.

Torches lined the front of the building, flickering in the wind, sending light and shadow over the clerks hurrying home for the day and paunchy merchants arriving for some supper. Many of them were known to her, but none would have aided her against the sheriff, either out of fear or because they believed she was Thurstan’s mistress and reviled her for that.

Linnet lingered in the alley long enough to remove her cloak and fashion it into a bundle with the prayer book inside. She loosened her long, tawny braids, shook her hair free and pulled it about her face. As disguises go, it was not much, but if Hamel were indeed following her, he’d be looking for a cloaked woman, not the laundress she hopefully resembled.

Emerging from the alley, Linnet fell into step with a pair of clerks who were heading south on High Gate. She dared not look back to see if Hamel followed for fear of dislodging her flimsy disguise. Her nape prickled, and an icy chill ran down her spine. With every step she took, she expected to be grabbed and spun about to face her longtime nemesis. But she walked on unmolested, past the market square.

When they came abreast of the Royal Oak Inn, Linnet breathed a sigh of relief. Here, at least, she could count on aid. Bidding a silent thanks to the clerks, she slipped around to the kitchen of the tavern. With trembling fingers, she rebraided her hair as best she could, then pushed open the door. Light and the scent of richly spiced food spilled out, welcoming her.

Across the kitchen, Elinore Selwyne looked up from ladling stew into wooden bowls. “Linnet. Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I—I was passing,” Linnet said breathlessly.

Elinore frowned, her sharp eyes scanning Linnet from head to toe. “What is it? What is wrong?”

Conscious of how harried she must look, Linnet opened her mouth to explain, then noticed the maid loitering in the far doorway. Short and curvaceous, Tilly had sly brown eyes and a nose for gossip. Linnet’s apprentice, Aiken, fancied Tilly, but the maid had eyes only for the sheriff. It was rumored she’d been seen frequenting his small house near the market square.

“I am hungry is all,” Linnet said, biding her time.

“I see.” And Elinore likely did. Older than Linnet by a dozen years, she had inherited the inn from her father and now ran it with the help of her husband, Warin. Elinore’s tart tongue and keen head for business belied her kind heart. When Linnet’s father died the year before, Elinore had taken Linnet under her wing. She had offered comfort, support and advice when Thurstan’s intercession with the guild paved the way for Linnet to take over the apothecary. “Aiken has already been here to collect supper for your household, but you’d best stay here and eat. I have no doubt he and Drusa have gobbled down the lot.”

Linnet managed a smile. Both her apprentice and her elderly maidservant had prodigious appetites. “I appreciate your offer.” Heart in turmoil, she set her cloak down on the floor beside the door and waited while Elinore finished filling the bowls.

The tavern kitchen was small, but neat and efficiently run by the plump, pretty Elinore. A brick hearth tall enough to stand in filled the far end of the room. Inside it, a toothed rack supported two massive cauldrons for cooking. Before it sat the long plank worktable where the food was prepared, flanked by two chests, one for cooking implements, the other for spices. Shelves on the far wall held wooden bowls, horn spoons and platters for serving the broken meats, bread and cheese.

“Serve that quick before it gets cold,” Elinore admonished, shooing Tilly out the door. “Now…” She advanced on Linnet, blue eyes steely. “Whatever has happened? You look all afright. Your hair is half undone, your eyes wild as a harried fox’s.”

“Nothing.” Linnet’s lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes, making Elinore’s lined face blur.

“Come. Sit down.” Elinore wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to the bench beside the table.

Linnet sank down. “I—I fear the bishop is dying.”

“Dying.” Elinore crossed herself. “What is it now?”

Poison. But Linnet dared not voice her suspicions, even to her dearest friend. She did not want anyone to guess, as she had, that the bishop was killing himself out of grief. She, too, had mourned when Simon was reported dead. And Thurstan’s grief was all the sharper because he felt he’d failed Simon in life.

Six months had not dulled the anguish of Simon’s passing for her, though she had never been his, not really. She had admired him from afar for years, but had only gotten close to him once. The night before the Crusaders left Durleigh. That single, brief encounter had changed her life forever. She mourned him deeply. It seemed impossible that so bright and vibrant a soul as Simon’s had been snuffed out.

“The tonic you took the bishop last week did not help?”

Linnet shook her head, fighting back her tears. If she let them fall, she feared she’d never stop crying. For Thurstan. For Simon. And for another life, lost to her, too.

“He has not been well since last autumn when word came that the Crusaders had died.” Elinore patted her hand. “One and fifty is not such a great age, but when the heart weakens…”

Or when it ceases to hope. Linnet sighed. “I fear you are right, but it hurts so to see him in such pain and be unable to help.” There was no antidote for monkshood, but if she could find his supply and destroy it, perhaps she could save him.

“Your friendship has eased him and brought him joy.” Elinore frowned. “But it has sullied your reputation, my dear.”

“I do not care what others think of me.”

“Not now, but when he is gone,” Elinore said delicately, “those whose tongues were stayed by the bishop’s power may speak out against you.”

“Their words cannot harm me.”

“They might if they cost you custom or your place in the guild,” said practical Elinore. “And then there is the matter of Sheriff Hamel’s persistent interest in you.”

“Aye.” Linnet shivered. “Why can he not leave me alone? I have said time and again that I want nothing to do with him.”

“Silly girl, you know little of men if you ask that.”

Indeed. She had known only one man, and him so briefly.

“Men are hunters who revel in the chase. To Hamel you are a challenge. If he caught you, he might well abandon you the next day and never bother you again.”

Elinore’s words ripped open an old wound. Simon had taken Linnet’s innocence that warm spring night and looked straight through her the next morn when the Crusaders left Durleigh for the East. Nay, he had not done it out of meanness. Logically she knew darkness and drink had likely fogged his memory. After all, Simon had-been unaware of her existence, while she had mooned over him for some time. Fate had thrown them together for that brief, passionate interlude in the dark stables. Shame had driven her to creep off while he still slept. So it was her own fault if he did not know with whom he had lain that night.

“Well, I will not give in to Hamel,” Linnet said. Though Simon was gone, she could not sully the memory of their loving by giving herself to another. And then there was the other, the greater sin that weighed on her conscience. She had already betrayed Simon once by giving away his most precious gift.

“No woman should be forced to endure someone she dislikes. I am only saying that you must be prepared. If God does see fit to take our good bishop, Hamel may pursue you.”

“I fear it has begun already.” She told Elinore of the tall man who had trailed her from the cathedral.

“Well, that explains why you looked like a hunted thing when you bounded in the door. Let me give you a room here.” Elinore had made a similar offer when Linnet’s father died.

“I hate to leave Drusa and Aiken alone.”

“Bring them here. He can sleep here in the kitchen, and she can have a pallet in your room.”

“I do not know.” Linnet twisted her hands together. “To leave the shop and my spices unguarded does not seem wise.”

“It is just through the back lane,” Elinore said. “I can have one of our serving lads sleep there if it would ease you.”

“Thank you, Elinore, you are a dear friend to try to protect me, but, if worse comes to worse, I would not want you to fall afoul of Hamel on my account.”

A soft gasp warned they were no longer alone. Tilly stood in the doorway, her eyes alight with speculation.

“What mean you sneaking in here?” Elinore demanded.

Tilly sniffed. “I didn’t sneak, mistress. I’ve come after four more bowls of stew. For the sheriff and his men.”

“The sheriff is here?” Linnet cried.

“Aye. He said he likes the food—” Tilly smiled provocatively “—and the service.”

Linnet waited to hear no more, but rose and headed for the outside door with Elinore close on her heels.

“Stay. It’ll be safer here,” Elinore whispered.

“Nay.” Linnet grabbed up her bundle. “I had best get back to the shop.” She dashed out the door with Elinore’s warning to take care ringing in her ears.

Behind the Royal Oak was a modest-size stable and beside it, the privy. A narrow lane cut through the grassy backyard and disappeared into a thick hedge. The lane led clear

through to the back door of the apothecary. Here there were no lights to guide the way, but Linnet knew it well enough. She ran, the cloak clutched tight against her chest. Just as she cleared the hedge, she ran headlong into something warm and hard as rock.

She bounced off and flew backward, striking her head as she went down and driving the air from her lungs.

“Are you all right?” inquired a low male voice.

Linnet whimpered, more from fear than pain. She tried to move, but her limbs only twitched, and a gray mist obscured her vision.

“Easy.” Large hands gripped her shoulders, stilling her struggles. “Lie still till I make certain nothing is broken.”

The voice was hauntingly familiar.

Blinking furiously, Linnet made out a figure hunched over her. His hair and clothing blended with the gloom so his face seemed to float above her.

Simon of Blackstone’s face.

“Sweet Mary, I have died,” Linnet whispered.

A dry chuckle greeted her statement. “I think not, though doubtless you will be bruised come morn. I am sorry I did not see you coming.” Dimly she was aware of gentle pokes and prods as he examined her arms and legs. “I do not think anything is broken.” He sat back on his haunches. “Can you move your limbs?”

“Simon?” Linnet murmured.

He cocked his head. “You know who I am?”

“But…you perished in the Holy Land….”

“Nay, though I came right close on a few occasions.”

Joy pulsed through her, so intense it brought fresh tears to eyes that had cried a river for him.

He leaned closer, his jaw stubbled, his eyes shadowed by their sockets. “Do I know you?”

A laugh bubbled in her throat, wild and a bit hysterical. She cut it off with a sob. She had been right. He did not even remember her or their wondrous moment together. “Nay.”

“Curse me for a fool. You’ve hit your head, and here I leave you lying on the cold ground. Where do you live?”

“Just yonder in the next street.”

He nodded, and before she could guess what he planned, scooped her up, bundle and all, and stood.

The feel of his arms around her opened a floodgate of poignant memories. “Please, put me down.”

“Nay, it is better I carry you till we can be certain you are not seriously hurt.”

So gallant. But his nearness made her weak with longing, and she feared she might say something stupid. “I am not hurt.”

“You are dazed and cannot judge.”

“I can so. I am an apothecary.”

“I see.” His teeth flashed white in the gloom as he smiled. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew there’d be a dimple in his right cheek. “I should have guessed, for you smell so sweet.” He sniffed her hair. “Ah, roses. I thought longingly of them when I was away on Crusade.”

She had always worn this scent. “Did they remind you of a girl you had left behind?” she asked softly, hopefully.

“Nay.” His eyes took on a faraway look, then he shook his head. “Nothing like that. I have no sweetheart and never have.”

Linnet’s eyes prickled. “Please put me down.”

“You are stubborn into the bargain, my rose-scented apothecary,” he teased. “But I am, too. Which way is home?”

Linnet sighed and pointed at her shop. It was heaven to be carried by him, to feel his heart beat against her side. If he had dreamed of roses, she had dreamed of this. She looked up, scarcely able to believe this was not some fevered imagining, but the warmth of his body enveloping her as it had long ago.

All too soon they reached the back of her shop.

“Will someone be within?” he asked.

Shaken from her reverie, Linnet nodded. “My maid.”

Simon kicked at the door with his toe.

“Who is there?” Drusa called out.

“It is I, Drusa,” Linnet said, but the voice seemed too weak and breathless to be her own.

Nonetheless, the bar scraped as the maid lifted it, then flung open the heavy door.

“Oh, mistress, I was that wor—” Drusa gasped and fell back a step, one hand pressed to her ample bosom, her lined face going white as flour.

“Fear not,” said Simon gently. “Your mistress has taken a tumble and hit her head. Where can I lay her down?”

Drusa, not the most nimble-witted soul, goggled at them.

Aiken appeared behind her. “What is this? Mistress Linnet!”

“I…” Linnet’s wits seemed to have deserted her.

“Your mistress has hit her head. Direct me to her bedchamber, lad,” Simon said firmly but not sharply. “Drusa, we will want water for washing, a cloth and ale if you have it.”

Used to following orders, Drusa spun from the door, hurried across the kitchen and began gathering what he’d requested.

Aiken scowled. “Ain’t fitting for ye to go above stairs.”

“Aiken…” Linnet began, her head pounding in earnest now. “Pray excuse his rudeness, sir. He was Papa’s apprentice, and with my father gone, sees himself as protector of our household.”

Simon nodded. “Your caution and concern for your lady do you credit; Aiken.” His voice held a hint of suppressed amusement. “But these are unusual circumstances and I am no stranger. I am Simon of Blackstone, a Knight of the Black Rose, newly returned from—”

“They said ye all died!” Aiken exclaimed.

Simon smiled. “Only six of us survived to return home.” The smile dimmed, and profound sadness filled his eyes.

Linnet’s heart contracted, thinking of the hardships he must have endured. But he was back, alive.

Aiken grunted. “I suppose it’s all right, then.” He led the way through the kitchen and into the workroom beyond. “Those stairs go up to the second floor.”

“Will you light the way?” Simon asked.

Aiken grunted again, seized the thick tallow candle from the worktable and tromped up the stairs.

Simon followed.

“I can walk,” Linnet whispered.

“Not till we’ve made certain you are not seriously hurt.” Simon took the narrow stairs carefully so as not to bump her head. They opened into the room that served her as counting room, withdrawing room and bedchamber. He hesitated a moment, then headed for the big, canopied bed.

“Nay, the chair,” Linnet murmured. The thought of him laying her down in the bed where she’d woven so many dreams was intolerable. “Else Aiken will surely think the worst.”

Simon chuckled, a deep rich sound that made her pulse leap, and deposited her in the high-backed chair by the hearth. “Could you build up the fire and bring more candles, Aiken?” he asked.

“I’ll go down and get more wood directly,” the boy replied, his expression respectful now instead of wary. Apparently Crusader knights were to be trusted.

“There are candles in that box on the mantel,” Linnet said as Aiken hurried off.

Simon turned away, selected one and lit it on the tallow.

“I am sorry to be so much trouble,” Linnet said. “If I had been looking where I was going I…” The words died in her throat as the candle flared, illuminating Simon’s face.

His face was leaner than she remembered, the stubble on his cheeks and squared jaw hiding the cleft in his chin. His eyes, too, were changed, the ghosts of turbulent emotions swirling in gray-green pools that had once danced with humor. The mouth that had kissed her with such devastating thoroughness years ago was now drawn in a somber line.

“Who were you running from?” he asked.

Linnet opened her mouth to reply, then recalled the long-ago enmity between Simon and Hamel. That night Simon had come out of the darkness to save her, which had ended in disaster. She was not involving him again. “I was not running, I—”

“You fled as though some evil demon pursued you.”

“Nay, I was not” Linnet lifted her chin, but could not meet those piercing green eyes.

Aiken emerged from the stairwell cradling two logs in his arms. He stopped and glanced at them. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Linnet said quickly, glaring at Simon.

Aiken shambled over, added the logs to the banked coals and blew them into life. Apparently unaware of the tension between them, he stood. “How is she, Sir Simon?”

“Stubborn,” Simon growled.

“She did not break anything, then?”

“Certainly not her spirit.”

“I am fine,” Linnet grumbled.

“Drusa thinks ‘twas hunger made ye fall.”

Simon frowned. “You have not eaten?”

“I was just on my way home to sup when we, er, met.”

“Hmm.” Aiken shuffled his feet. “There is not much left, but I could run down the lane and fetch something from the tavern. The Royal Oak,” he added, looking at Simon, “lies just behind us. Their fare’s the finest in Durleigh.”

Simon nodded, his gaze resting on Linnet’s face. “So I recalled. I was on my way to meet friends there.”

“Well, we will not detain you longer.” Much as she craved his company, Linnet knew it was not wise to be around him. He was alive, and that changed so much. Guilt mingled with her joy.

“I have not eaten, either.” Simon stroked his chin, his eyes fixed on her face. “If it would not be trouble to fetch food for two, I will pay for it.”

“Nonsense,” Linnet exclaimed. “I can pay—”

“I owe you for the fall you took.”

Nay, I owe you. But there was no going back. No changing what she had been forced to do. “Very well,” Linnet said. Pray God this is not another mistake.

“Brother Oliver, if my lord bishop is not well enough to join us, we will certainly understand,” said Archdeacon Crispin silkily. He and the prior were seated at the long table in the bishop’s great hall, to the right and left of Thurstan’s chair.

A chair either man would have sold his soul to occupy, Crispin mused. But when the time came to name Thurstan’s successor, Crispin was confident he would be chosen. Walter de Folke was, after all, of inferior stock, being half Saxon. And the prior was nearly as corrupt and manipulative as Bishop Thurstan. What the good folk of Durleigh needed was a stern hand to guide them, a religious leader who thought more of their souls than their trade and prosperity.

“The bishop bade me apologize for his tardiness, but a matter arose that required his immediate attention.”

“Indeed?” Crispin sniffed and regarded Brother Oliver with a level gaze that made the little toad squirm beneath his robes. The secretary was cut from the same flawed cloth as the master he served so zealously. When he was bishop, Crispin meant to name Brother Gerard as his assistant. He and Gerard had been together since entering the priesthood and agreed on the importance of piety, chastity and poverty, three tenets that were totally disregarded at Durleigh Cathedral.

But not for much longer, Crispin thought. The bishop grew weaker by the day. He could not last another month. And then—

“My lords!” Lady Odeline burst into the hall, her face white as new snow, her eyes wide with horror.

Crispin raked his eyes over the lush figure so scandalously displayed by her tight, low-cut gown. Her presence in the bishop’s residence was an affront to all that was decent. Since her coming, the confessionals had been crowded with clerics and students tainted with the sin of lust. “What is it?”

“My brother…he…” She clasped a hand to her heaving breasts.

“The bishop is ill?” Crispin was on his feet at once.

Odeline’s perfect chin wobbled. “He…he collapsed.”

Ah, joy. Crispin schooled his features to reveal none of the excitement that coursed through his veins. “Is he…dead?”

“Nay. He is breathing,” Odeline cned. “But so still—”

Brother Oliver exclaimed in dismay, charged across the room and pushed past her. “Fetch Brother Anselme,” he shouted.

“Of course.” Crispin turned to send Gerard on that errand…slowly, of course. But the spot to his left was empty, and he recalled having set Gerard to watch in case Linnet should defy his orders and try to see the bishop.

“Go for the infirmarer,” said Prior Walter to the young cleric who attended him.

“Thank you, brother.” Crispin looked into the prior’s cold, measuring eyes and felt a chill move down his spine.

He cannot know anything. But the words brought scant comfort. “Come, we must attend our fallen bishop.” Even as he swept from the room, Crispin was conscious of the prior’s measured tread at his heels. Drat, what ill luck that the sharpeyed Walter should be here at this critical moment.

“Take care you do not trip on your hem,” Walter said softly as they mounted the steep, winding stairs.

“I am ever cautious,” Crispin replied, his agile mind already leaping ahead to the things that must be done. A funeral to arrange, letters to send to the archbishop at York…

Brother Oliver’s scream cut off his thoughts.

“Quickly, brother.” Walter pushed on his back, urging him up the stairs. Together they burst into the upper corridor and hustled the few steps to the bishop’s withdrawing room.

There, on the disgustingly flamboyant carpet sprawled the body of Bishop Thurstan, his limbs flung wide, his mouth contorted in anguish, his head resting in a pool of crimson blood.

Bile rose in Crispin’s throat. “Is he dead?”

Walter knelt beside the bishop, felt in the folds of his neck and looked up at Crispin. “Aye, he is.” Turning back, Walter began murmuring the prayers that would ease Thurstan’s soul into the hereafter.

Crispin sent his own prayer after it. I was not here and cannot be blamed for this. The words only marginally eased the burden on his conscience.




Chapter Three (#ulink_6086ce5b-b900-5987-a7ea-8bbfbcb0a14f)


Drusa clomped up the stairs with water and towels. “Let us see where ye are hurt, dearling.”

“It is nothing. A bump on the head, a bit of a scrape on my elbow,” Linnet insisted. “I can tend my—”

Drusa clucked her tongue. “Always did want to do everything for herself.” She smiled wryly at Simon and set to work.

Simon leaned his shoulder against the mantel and watched the woman tend Linnet with the gruff tenderness that bespoke years of caring. The old longing curled in his belly. What would it be like to be loved like that? He shook it off with practiced ease and set his mind on the present, not his troubled past.

Covertly, he studied the woman he had run down. When he’d bent over her on the dark path, something about her had seemed familiar. But now, seeing her m the light, that sense of recognition faded. Perhaps it was the scent of roses she wore that had struck a chord with him. She was certainly beautiful enough to make him wish he knew her.

Linnet’s delicate profile was so perfect it might have been carved from marble, marred only by the bits of dirt Drusa was gently washing away. The maid had also loosened Linnet’s braids, so her hair tumbled over her slender shoulders and down her back in a honey-colored river, glinting like gold in the firelight.

He guessed her age at twenty or so, which would have made her ten and six when he left on Crusade. Old enough to have attracted his eye when he’d been in town on Lord Edmund’s business, comely enough to have merited a second glance. Her brown eyes were warm and expressive. They sparkled with two things he valued in men and women: intelligence and wry humor. And when she had smiled, her whole face had seemed to glow, as though lit from within.

Linnet the Spicier was a woman he would know better.

But that was not the only reason Simon lingered in her cozy little solar. The vulnerability and the fear she could not quite hide worried him. She had been fleeing something when they collided. Or, more likely, someone. The aura of danger aroused the protective streak his friends had often teased him about.

You have problems enough of your own.

Simon shoved them aside to be considered later. Part of him, the soft side few men saw, hoped Thurstan would send word to him. The tough shell he had developed as an orphaned youth warned him not to care. He had been six when he arrived at Lord Edmund’s household as a page. Though he had not been abused, neither had he been loved. There had been no father to shield him when the older pages taunted and teased him, no mother to dry his tears when he was hurt in practice. The only true friends he had were the five knights of the Black Rose.

“There.” Drusa set her cloth in the basin. “I’ve put betony cream on those scrapes, and the bump does not look grievous.”

“Thank you,” Linnet grumbled, obviously irked at the fuss.

“I am much relieved to hear you have suffered no serious harm, Mistress Linnet. I feared you might set the sheriff on me,” Simon teased.

Linnet shivered. “That is the last thing I would do.”

Interesting. Sheriff John Turnebull was a fair man, if Simon recalled correctly. Did she fear the sheriff would ask questions she tlid not want to answer?

“If ye will sit with her a moment, sir, I will put these things away and fetch some ale.”

“You do not have to watch over me,” Linnet muttered.

“It is no hardship at all, I assure you. And the ale would be most welcome. You may have recovered, but I still feel a bit shaky,” he said dramatically. “In fact, I think I had best sit.” Simon pulled over a stool and plopped down at Linnet’s feet, stretching his boots toward the fire.

“Just so. I’ll be back in two shakes.” Drusa hurried off.

Linnet snorted and rolled her eyes. “You, a fearless knight returned from the Crusades, are shaky?”

“The sight of a woman in distress does affect me most severely. And the thought that I might have caused you grievous injury…” He put a hand over his heart and sighed mightily. It was a pose Nicholas struck. It never failed to make women melt.

Linnet laughed. The sound was musical, captivating. The merriment transformed her features from comely to striking. Firelight picked out the gold flecks in her eyes and made her hair shimmer. It was as though the sun had suddenly come out from behind a cloud to shed its radiance on the world, to banish darkness and cold.

Simon had an unexpected urge to pull her onto his lap, to kiss her breathless, wrap them both in her glorious hair and see if she could measure up to his dream. Already he could feel his body responding, his pulse leaping, his loins quickening in prelude to a chase as old as time. But he had never wanted any woman as swiftly or with as much certainty as he did this one.

She felt it, too. He measured her awareness in the widening of her eyes, the soft gasp that seemed to fill the room with possibilities. What would she do? Scream? Faint? Throw herself at him and fulfill their unspoken fantasy?

“Aiken has returned with the food,” Drusa called up the stairs. “I’ll bring it up directly.”

Linnet started, shattering the moment. Her cheeks turned bright red, and her eyes filled with such confusion Simon knew she was new to this. Perhaps even a maiden.

The notion heightened his turmoil, the craving for her warring with the need to protect her. He knew he could not be alone with her in this room and be certain he would not act on the desire that sizzled between them.

“We will come down, Drusa.” Simon smiled wryly and climbed to his feet. “There is a time for everything, they say. Our time will come.”

She ducked her head. “Perhaps it has come and gone.”

What an odd thing to say. Simon extended his arm. “Come, Linnet, we are both in need of food.” He started when she laid her hand on his arm, the tingle warming his flesh. How was it that this woman he had only just met excited him so?

Drusa and Aiken were waiting for them in the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stew sat in the middle of the table, flanked by bread, butter and a pitcher of ale.

“Drusa said Elinore would worry if I told her ye’d been hurt, so I said nothing,” Aiken remarked.

“Not even to Tilly?” Linnet asked.

Aiken’s expression turned sullen. “She was serving the sheriff and didn’t even see me.”

Linnet let go of Simon’s arm and sat on the nearest bench, but not before he had felt her shudder.

What had she done? He wondered again.

Drusa served up three bowls of stew and poured ale for all of them before joining Aiken across the table from Simon and Linnet. “How does it happen ye survived, Sir Simon?”

“It was God’s will, I would guess,” Simon replied. God’s will, a bit of luck and a lot of hard fighting.

“How did you come to be reported dead?” asked Linnet.

“Eat, and I will tell you.” Between bites of stew, Simon related the events leading up to Hugh’s capture and eventual transport to Acre, from whose stout prison they’d freed him.

“A miracle.” Linnet’s eyes shimmered with tears.

How compassionate she was to care so for a stranger, Simon thought, drawn to her even more strongly. Their gazes locked, and he felt the tension stir between them again.

“Did ye kill a host of the fiends?” Aiken asked, his eagerness typical of many who had sailed with Simon to the East.

Simon smiled faintly at Linnet and forced himself to look away. Unfortunately, the Crusade had been not only a dismal failure, but a living hell. Deplorable living conditions, temble weather, disease, lack of supplies, loneliness. These had taken more of a toll on the Crusaders than the infidels’ swords and arrows. “We killed our share,” he allowed.

Aiken’s lower lip came out. “Wish I could have trained to be a soldier instead of a spicier,” he grumbled. “Then Tilly wouldn’t look down her nose at me.”

“There are other girls in Durleigh,” Linnet said gently. “Girls who would realize that a successful apothecary can earn twenty times what a soldier would.”

“Lot ye know.” Aiken shoved back the bench he shared with Drusa, nearly toppling the woman.

Simon caught hold of Drusa’s hand to steady her and glared up at Aiken. “Courtesy to others, especially women, is one of the first duties a knight learns.”

Aiken paled. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I am sure ye didn’t,” Drusa said hastily.

“Sit, then, lad, and I will tell you of the wonders I saw while in the Holy Land.”

“Tilly would certainly be impressed,” said Linnet.

Aiken sat and listened eagerly, but it was to Linnet that Simon spoke as he spun tales of sailing ships and cities with gold-domed buildings, of endless deserts and towering palms, strange people and even stranger animals. Time drifted away until he suddenly realized that Linnet’s face had gone pale and dark smudges rimmed her eyes. “You are tired.”

“It is fascinating.”

“Nonetheless, I should go.” He stood slowly, reluctant to leave the cozy kitchen and the woman who intrigued him more with each passing moment.

She rose beside him. “Have you some place to stay?”

“The Royal Oak.” He grinned down at her, thinking how small she was—her head came to the center of his chest. And how close, only a foot separating them. His body hummed with the desire to take the single step that would bring them together. He relished the ache, for it had been a long time since he had felt passion stir this sharply, other than in his special dream.

“Sir Nicholas and Sir Guy, two of my fellow Crusaders, went to the inn earlier to reserve a room. They are likely wondering what’s become of me.” Still he could not look away from her.

“Come, Aiken,” said Drusa. “It’s time we were settling in, too. Go through to the shop and make certain all is locked.”

Linnet nibbled on her lower lip, her eyes eloquent. “Let me give you a torch to light the way, Sir Simon.” She lit a pitch-tipped pole in the coals and handed it to him. Stepping outside with him, she pointed the way. “The path is over there and leads through the hedge to the inn’s backyard.” She sounded as breathless as he felt.

Knowing he should not touch her, but unable to help himself, Simon put his hand under her chin and lifted it. “Linnet. I would like to call upon you again.”

“Oh, I would like that above all things.” She smiled.

“Tomorrow, then.” He lowered his head, just to brush her lips with his, but the moment they touched, he was lost. Her mouth was so soft it seemed to melt beneath his. Groaning, Simon slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her neck as he deepened the kiss.

She responded so sweetly, her hands coming up to clutch at his tunic as she followed where he led. Her throaty moans set his blood afire, but when he slipped his tongue inside to explore her more thoroughly, she started and drew back.

“Easy.” Simon lifted his head but kept his hand on her nape, soothing her slender neck with his thumb. “I would never hurt or force you.”

Her chuckle was unsteady, and she leaned her forehead into his chest. “I am afraid it would not be force.”

Simon groaned and closed his eyes, praying for strength. “You should not tell me that.”

“Why?”

He looked down to find his features reflected in her wide, passion-hazed eyes.

“Because, I do not trust myself to guard your innocence.”

Pain flickered in her eyes. Or was it a trick of the half light? “Perhaps I am not as innocent as you think.”

Simon smiled indulgently, pleased that she wanted him enough to lie about her experience. “I will be back tomorrow.” He guided her to the door, bade her lock it and stayed until he heard the bar drop. Then he went off to the inn, his step lighter than when he’d left the bishop.



Linnet sagged against the door frame, her knees still weak, her body trembling from the force of her reaction to Simon.

“The Lord does work in miraculous ways,” Drusa said as she bustled about putting away the remains of their meal.

Linnet straightened and tried to calm her raging emotions. “Aye, it is a miracle six of Durleigh’s Crusaders returned.”

“To be sure I’ll give thanks when I go to the cathedral for mass. That he should be one of them is the true miracle.”

“What do you mean?” Linnet had never discussed Simon with anyone except her mother and Thurstan.

“Yer mama said ye were taken with him.”

If you only knew. “He was unaware of my interest in him then,” Linnet said primly. Why should he have noticed? They had never met face-to-face or spoken a word until he had stumbled out of the darkness and rescued her from Hamel’s unwanted attentions.

Drusa cocked her gray head. “Well, I’ve seen the way he looks at ye. My Reggie used to watch me so when we were courting, like he couldn’t wait to get me off in some shadowy corner and steal a kiss.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Linnet said airily. But the memory of the kiss made her cheeks burn and her lips tingle.

Drusa chuckled. “Ye cannot fool me, dearling. I’ve served this house since ye were born, and I know ye inside and out.”

Linnet’s smile dimmed. There was one thing Drusa did not know. Nor did Simon. She felt something akin to relief wash through her. If he recalled nothing, then perhaps she would not have to confess that their loving had produced consequences.

Consequences. What a cold, inadequate way to describe something at once so terrible and so wonderful it had marked her forever. If only she had been stronger….

Do not think of it, for that way lay madness.

“This was but an accidental meeting. He may not return.”

“Oh, he’ll be back.” Drusa grinned. “Now, off to bed with ye. We cannot have ye all hollow-eyed when he comes calling.”

Linnet just shook her head, but she climbed the stairs and readied for bed with a lighter heart than she had in years.

Simon was alive. Simon was back.

Suddenly the future did not seem so bleak and lonely. She was just pulling on her nightshift when she remembered Thurstan. How could she have been so selfish not to have thought of him sooner? He would be overjoyed to discover Simon was alive. First thing tomorrow, she must go to the cathedral and tell him.

That decided, Linnet knelt beside her bed, crossed herself and prayed to a God she had almost ceased to believe in when word of Simon’s death had come. She begged forgiveness for that, thanked the Lord most fervently for sparing Simon, and added a plea that the return of his son would lift Thurstan’s spirits.

Lastly, she prayed for the well-being of the babe she and Simon had made that long-ago night.

The babe she had given away.

Linnet shuddered as the pain lanced through her, followed by a wave of longing so sharp it made her moan. If only she could hold her baby daughter for just a moment. But she did not even know where the baby was. Thurstan had assured her the babe was not only loved and accepted in the home he had found for her, she would not bear the stain of bastardy. That alone had given Linnet the courage to give her up. But knowing her daughter was better off did not still the ache in her heart.

Or the guilt.



Walter de Folke stood nearby as Brother Anselme knelt over the body of Bishop Thurstan. Around them, the brothers of Durleigh prayed for the soul of their departed bishop. The fervent Latin mixed with Brother Oliver’s wrenching sobs and the softer weeping of Lady Odeline. Ensconced in a chair by the fire, she was attended by her son. They made a striking pair, the beautiful, red-eyed woman and the pretty, sullen boy. Lady Odeline had wept a river, alternately lamenting her brother’s passing and her own uncertain fate now that he was gone. Jevan had stood beside her, as emotionless as a statue.

“To think that while we waited below our beloved brother collapsed and died,” Crispin murmured.

Beloved brother? Walter bit his tongue, knowing the archdeacon had despised Thurstan. For his part, Walter had admired de Lyndhurst’s keen intellect but envied his genius for amassing wealth and power. Now the scramble would be on to see who succeeded to the rich bishopric Thurstan had built. That contest pitted Walter and Crispin against each other. Walter believed he held a slight edge, for he was well-known to the archbishop and had served His Grace most ably. “Indeed. His Grace will be much saddened to learn that his great friend has succumbed to this illness,” Walter said.

“It was not the ague that took him,” growled the portly Brother Anselme, still on his knees beside the body, eyes drenched with sadness.

Walter nodded. “The illness caused him to collapse, and he struck his head on the table as he fell.”

“The blow to the head seems too deep for a fall.”

“What are you saying?” Crispin demanded with a shrillness that silenced both the praying and the weeping.

“That this may not have been an accident,” Brother Anselme replied.

Walter stared into the monk’s troubled brown eyes, trying to read the suspicions that lurked there.

“He was struck down?” the archdeacon barked. He whirled. “Brother Oliver, did you say a knight burst in upon his lordship? A crazed man who—”

“I understood he was a Crusader,” Walter said calmly.

“He was in an agitated state. It may be that he blamed our good bishop for sending him on Crusade.” Crispin sniffed. “You do know that Bishop Thurstan coerced some men into going.”

Walter inclined his head, fascinated by the play of emotions in Crispin’s usually austere features. From the moment Lady Odeline had rushed screaming into the dining room with news of finding the bishop, Crispin’s color had been high, his beady eyes unusually bright. “Brother Ohver, what say you?”

Oliver raised his head, eyes so puffy they were mere slits in his wet face. “It is true, I did see the knight leaving this very room as I was coming to ch-check on his lordship.”

“Who is this knight?” Crispin demanded.

“I—I think he is called Simon—S-Simon of Blackstone,” Oliver stammered, “b-b-but I spoke with the bishop, he was alive and well after the knight left the palace. Si-sitting in this very chair, he was—” Oliver’s eyes filled with tears “—talking with Mistress Linnet the—”

“That woman was here tonight?” Crispin shouted.

Brother Oliver cringed and glanced sidelong at Walter before nodding in mute chagrin. “She came to see how he—”

“There is your murderess, Brother Prior,” snarled Crispin.

“Why would she wish our bishop ill?”

“She is an evil woman, who did conspire to tempt our bishop to forget his holy vows,” said Crispin piously. “Doubtless she killed him out of frustration when her plans failed.”

Walter suppressed a snort of derision. Crispin’s theory had more holes than new cheese, yet he was clearly anxious to find Thurstan’s killer. Doubtless so he could put himself in a favorable light with the archbishop and gain Durleigh for himself. Walter girded himself for battle. “I will question her and this Sir Simon,” he said.

“You? By what right do you question anyone?” Crispin cried.

“By the power vested in me by the archbishop.” Walter smiled thinly into Crispin’s furious face. “His Grace did send me here to check on his dear friend, and he will expect a full accounting of this sad event when I return to York.” I have you there, you sanctimonious old stick.

Brother Anselme rose between them. “I do think we should look more closely into this matter, Reverend Father,” he said to Crispin. “At the very least, we must know how he d-died.”

The color leached from Crispin’s face. “Of course. Take the body to the infirmary and see what you can learn.”

The monk nodded.

“I would also suggest that the room be sealed and a guard placed on the doors so that nothing is disturbed till we know what is what,” said Walter, earning a glare from Crispin.

“Brother Gerard will compile a list of everyone who entered the palace this evening,” snapped the archdeacon. “On the morrow, I will personally speak with each one.” He left in a swirl of coarse gray robes.

The lady Odeline followed directly, leaning heavily on her son’s arm, her face buried in a linen handkerchief. Jevan’s expression was as remote as carved marble, but when he reached the door, he turned back, sweeping the room with avid eyes before exiting with his mother.

Curious, that, Walter thought as he moved aside so Thurstan’s body could be lifted. Did the boy expect to inherit some of his uncle’s fabled wealth? If so…

Walter sighed. Dieu, he was as bad as Crispin, seeking to point the finger at everyone he saw. Jevan had been at supper in the dining hall with the others when summoned to hear the dreadful news his uncle had died. And Lady Odeline had no reason to wish her brother ill. Without Thurstan’s support, she and her sullen chick would be cast out into the cold.

But the fact was that someone within these very walls might have murdered the bishop.




Chapter Four (#ulink_9420e168-e704-5f56-b822-bb361cd26252)


A lady cried out.

Simon stopped and turned Swaying slightly, a wineskin dangling from his hand, he squinted at the shops and homes lining the street.

All were dark and deserted, the owners off at the feast hosted by Bishop Thurstan to celebrate the departure of Durleigh’s Crusaders. The roofs of the buildings were silhouetted against the glow of lights from the market square where the festivities were being held How had he wandered so far away? Dimly Simon could hear the hum of voices raised in song and prayer as the folk of Durleigh bid Godspeed to their Crusader band

A bubble of drunken pride rose in his chest. Tomorrow he would be leaving with them…a knight bound for the Holy Land Stumbling slightly, he started back to the fete.

The woman cried out again. “Don’t. Please don’t!”

“Get back here,” roared a male voice.

Simon whirled toward the sounds and caught a flash of white moving in the alley across the way, followed closely by a large, dark shape. “Bastard.” Throwing the wineskin away, he drew his sword and staggered after them. Down the alley, and through it into the next street, he pursued them, driven by the vows he’d sworn earlier in the evening.

To uphold justice and protect the downtrodden. The oath burned bright in his heart, like a fever driving out the effects of a day spent drinking. He felt strong and powerful.

At last, Simon saw them. The wretch had a small figure in white trapped against the side of a building.

“Unhand her!” Simon roared.

The assailant whirled, his face a pale blur in the gloom, his sword gleaming as it came up to counter Simon’s lunge. Steel rang on steel as the blades met.

Simon grunted, pain shuddering up his arm. He had drunk too much. He met his opponent’s flurry of blows cleanly, but slowly. Too slowly. He wondered if the girl had gotten away, but could spare no time to look Then he heard a sound that sent a chill down his sweaty spine.

“To me! Bardolf, Richie, to me!” the assailant cried

Simon groaned and redoubled his efforts, knowing he’d never survive a trio of swordsmen. Suddenly a length of cloth flew out of the darkness and settled over the man’s head. While he flailed and cursed, a hand grabbed Simon’s arm.

“Quick, come this way.” The speaker was a woman. A small hand grabbed his arm and led him down a side alley. It was so dark he could see nothing except the faint blur of her white gown. A few harried steps later, he ran into a wall.

“Trapped,” Simon whispered.

“Nay. There’s a door.” Hinges creaked, a draft of air eddied around them, smelling strongly of straw and horses.

“Stables?” he muttered.

“Aye. We can hide here.”

“Knights do not cower in—”

“Please. You cannot prevail against so many.”

“But…”

“I am so afraid.”

Simon could hear the terror in her voice and feel her trembling, though he could not see her face. “All right.”

Inside the stable it was pitch-dark. “We’ll be safer up in the loft,” whispered the woman. “There should be a ladder. Ah, here. Let me go first.”

Simon followed her up, one hand on the hem of her skirts. He reached the top and fell forward into the loft. His body came up against hers as they hit the straw.

“Thank you. I-if you had not come…” She shuddered

Simon drew her close. She was small and slender “You should have run off while we were fighting.”

“I could not leave you, not when he was besting you.”

“Bah, I could have taken him with a few blows had I not drunk half the ale in Durleigh.”

“Aye. You are so strong.” Her hands were on his chest, kneading. “Hold me,” she whispered

“I am.”

“Tighter. Hold me tighter.” She pressed against him, her breasts teasing him through the layers of their clothes.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” Simon murmured. Her hair smelled so good, like roses and woman. He buried his face in it and rolled so he covered her with his body. “How perfectly we are matched.”

“I knew it would be thus.”

Simon nodded, his mind too dizzy with ale and desire. “I have to touch you.” Her breasts were small and firm; her sigh when he caressed them tore at his control. He could think of only one thing, being inside her. He tore at the laces of his hose and levered himself over her.

“Simon,” she whispered, drawing him to her.

He groaned and sank into the most perfect bliss he had ever known, hot and tight and welcoming, her body closed around his. It was like coming home.

A sharp pounding shattered the dream.

Simon groaned and sat up, his breathing rough, his body hard as tempered stone.

“Open, I say.” The coarse voice came from below his window.

It took Simon a moment to recall he was not in the hayloft with his perfect lover, but in the room he’d taken last night at the Royal Oak. Moaning, he flopped back on the pillow and threw an arm over his eyes.

The dream again. He had had it the first time on the night before leaving for the Holy Land, waking hot, sweaty and half-dressed in a stable loft. The dream had reoccurred so many times since, that every aspect of it was engraved on his heart. Yet he could not see the woman’s face, or decide whether the encounter had been real or a figment of his alesoaked brain.

How odd that he, who had ever been cautious in his dealings with women, should dream that he had coupled with her only a short while after meeting her. Odder still, he had spent these past years searching for a flesh and blood woman who matched him as perfectly as his dream lover.

A fist collided with the door below. “Open, I say…”

Hinges creaked in protest. “What the hell is going on?” Simon recognized the voice of Warin Selwyne, the tavern owner.

“I am looking for a knight. Simon of Blackstone, they believe he’s called.”

“Who believes? And what do ye want him for, Bardolf?”

“None of yer business. My orders are to find him and bring him for questioning.”

Simon was already out of bed, his first thought that something had happened to Nicholas or Guy. When he’d arrived at the inn, he’d found a note from Guy saying he had followed Lord Edmund to London. Nicholas had not been at the inn, either, but one of the maids recalled seeing him go off with a comely woman soon after he’d arrived.

“What is this about?” Warin grumbled.

“Sheriffs business. Will ye tell me if he’s here, or do I have to come in and look for meself?”

Simon opened the hide shutters and looked down on the confrontation between Warin and a large man with lank brown hair and ill-fitting clothes. Behind him lounged two more thugs.

“I am Simon of Blackstone,” Simon called.

Bardolf tilted his head back, displaying an ugly face and close-set eyes. “Ye’re to come with me.”

“What for?”

“Questioning in the death of Bishop Thurstan. And don’t think to try to run out. I’ve got men watching the front.”

“Death?” Simon exclaimed. “He is dead?”



Archdeacon Crispin Norville sat behind Bishop Thurstan’s desk, a thin, austere man who managed to look down his beak of a nose at Simon standing before him. Flanking the archdeacon were Brother Oliver Deeks, and Prior Walter de Folke of York.

The archdeacon had already judged him guilty, Simon thought, dread piercing his earlier shock.

“Brother Oliver says you burst in upon the bishop last eve. What business did you have with him?” the archdeacon demanded.

Conscious of Bardolf lurking in the doorway, Simon chose his words with care. “I wanted to tell him that six of his Crusaders had returned.” Bardolf had hinted there was something suspicious about Thurstan’s death, but the under-sheriff had refused to say what. “Is it true the bishop is dead?”

The archdeacon waved away the question, his long fingers naked of rings. “Why did you not make an appointment?”

Simon’s nape prickled. As an orphan bastard, he had learned early on to sense trouble, and this luxurious room fairly reeked of it. “I understood that the bishop was upset by reports we had all died, and I was anxious to alleviate his grief.”

“Hmm.” The archdeacon steepled his soft, slender hands. He had sharp brown eyes and the manner of one who liked power. He and the manipulative Thurstan must have butted heads. “You came directly here, then, the moment you arrived.”

“I did.” Three years Simon had burned to confront Thurstan. He could not have waited a moment more. Now the answers to his questions would forever go unanswered. Thurstan was dead, and he could not begin to say how he felt about that. Later, when this interview was over he would think on it.

“Where are the other five knights?” asked the prior. He had the smug look of a frog about to snap up a fly, his eyes narrowed, his bald pate shimmering in the early morning light that streamed into the withdrawing room.

“Three returned to their homes. Two of them came as far as Durleigh with me, but they continued on about their business.” Simon missed them sorely. He would have welcomed Guy’s sage counsel, Nicholas’s easy charm and strong sword arm.

“Was the bishop pleased to see you?” the archdeacon asked.

Simon frowned. He had been caught up in his own anger and resentment Now that he thought on it, Thurstan’s initial reaction had been one of astonishment. Followed by joy when he realized Simon was not a spirit, but a real man. It shamed Simon that he had felt no pleasure in seeing Thurstan. “He was.”

“Oliver says he heard raised voices.”

The secretary hunched his shoulders and looked at the floor. He was short and pudgy, with a round face and eyes red-rimmed from crying. His soft woven robe seemed too fine for a priest, in sharp contrast with the archdeacon’s coarse wool and the prior’s simple linen. But it was Oliver’s reticent expression that piqued Simon’s interest.

Had Oliver heard something he should not? Perhaps a woman professing her love for Thurstan? Who was she? Simon wondered, the woman he had lost in the dark last night? “His Lordship cried out in surprise. He did at first think I was a spirit.”

Crispin brightened. “In devil’s guise?”

Simon saw that trap and sidestepped. “Nay. If I had died on Crusade, I would have been guaranteed entrance into heaven. After a moment the bishop realized I was, indeed, ahve. He may have exclaimed again at that.”

“He was well when you left him?” asked Prior Walter.

“Well?” Simon felt an unexpected pang of remorse. Nay, the bishop…he could not think of him as his father…had looked sickly and frail. “He seemed to have aged since last I saw him.”

“The bishop suffered a seizure when the Crusaders were reported lost,” Brother Oliver interjected. “But he insisted on continuing with his many duties.”

Simon knew what it was to carry on despite illness, but ignored the unwelcome spurt of sympathy for Thurstan. “How did he die?” he asked again, for this was all passing strange.

“He was struck on the head,” said the archdeacon.

Prior Walter shifted. “Brother Anselme, our infirmarer, is examining the bishop’s body and will shortly determine the cause of Bishop Thurstan’s death.”

“I gave orders that Brother Anselme prepare the body for immediate burial.” The archdeacon’s eyes flashed a warning. “And until the archbishop names a new bishop, I am in charge here.”

The prior’s smile was thin and deadly as drawn steel. “That is true, but I am here as His Grace’s legate. And, if it be determined that someone did kill Bishop Thurstan, His Grace will want the culprit apprehended, tried and punished.”

“That is why I question this knight,” Crispin growled.

Simon tensed, apprehension trickled across his skin. He was glad he had told no one, not even Linnet Especer, of his connection to Thurstan. “When did the bishop die?” he asked calmly.

“His body was found in this very room,” said the archdeacon. “Shortly after you departed the palace.”

The prickling in Simon’s neck increased. He could almost feel the noose tightening about it. If they knew he had spent the past three years hating Thurstan, he would be their prime suspect. “The bishop was alive when I left him.”

Crispin frowned. “Did anyone see you go?”

Dieu, he did not know. He had stormed out in a fit of temper, his vision obscured by a red veil of rage. “If Brother Oliver saw me enter, perhaps he saw me go.” He looked at the secretary, who had his chin buried in his chest. “The bishop said he was expecting someone, and indeed I heard a woman—”

“We know about that.” The archdeacon’s face twisted with intense dislike. “I had left orders she was not to be admitted to the palace, but Brother Oliver saw fit to disregard them.”

Brother Oliver’s eyes filled with tears. “I—I did not.”

“It was not Brother Oliver’s fault,” said a soft voice.

Simon whirled and gaped.

Linnet stood on the threshold, looking vastly neater but no less desirable than she had last night. Her glorious hair was pinned up and covered by a white linen cap. From beneath her gray cloak peeped a murrey-red gown. Her eyes, wide with dismay, were fastened on the archdeacon. She resembled a doe facing down an armed hunter. “Why are you sitting at Bishop Thurstan’s writing table, Reverend Father?”

The archdeacon leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing with hatred. “Harlot! How dare you question me? You will tell truly why you were here last night in defiance of my wishes.”

She flinched. “I came last night to see how he fared.” She looked about the room. “What has happened? Why are you all…?” Her eyes widened. “Sir Simon, what do you here?”

“You know him?” asked the prior.

“Aye.” Her eyes softened, and she smiled tremulously.

A queasy feeling stirred in Simon’s gut. His first instinct was to shield her from the rabid archdeacon. But there were dangerous currents here he did not understand. He did not want to be dragged down by them. “We met by chance last night.”

One of the priests who’d been huddled in the far end of the room stepped forward. “He followed her when she left.”

Followed her when she left. Simon started. She had been Thurstan’s last visitor?

“So.” The archdeacon’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth curved into a malicious smile. “Are you accomplices?”

“Accomplices…” Simon sputtered, aghast by the picture of Linnet forming in his mind. Was she the one he had heard profess her love for the bishop last night?

“Accomplices?” Linnet asked. “In what, pray tell?”

“In Bishop Thurstan’s death,” the archdeacon said bluntly.

“He…he is dead?” Linnet swayed, her eyes rolling back.

Instinct propelled Simon forward to scoop her up before she hit the floor. Cradling her in his arms as he had last night, he carried her to one of the high-backed chairs before the hearth. A vigorous fire crackled there, but the warmth did not penetrate the icy dread that had settled in Simon’s gut as he placed her in the chair and knelt beside it. “Linnet?” he murmured.

Her lashed lifted. “Thurstan is dead?” The whispered query held a wealth of pain. She looked so small and defenseless.

Simon was torn between the urge to comfort her and the need to demand she tell him what she was to Thurstan. Clearly cosseting her could only worsen their plight. Settling back on his heels, he nodded. “I have been told he is dead.”

“He had been so sick for so long,” she murmured. “But I prayed he would recover. Especially now that you have returned. ‘Twas what I came to tell him this morn, that you were alive.”

Did she know he was Thurstan’s son? A tremor of alarm iced Simon’s blood. Precarious as things were, he did not want her blurting it out. “Shh. Stay quiet.” He looked over his shoulder and saw the archdeacon lurking there. “She needs wine.”

Crispin raised one skeptical brow. “I think this harlot has ensnared you, too, with her wanton wiles.”

Too? Simon did not like the sounds of that at all. His skin crawled with apprehension. “We barely know each other.”

“You are solicitous for a stranger.” The archdeacon tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe, his expression watchful, vicious. Like a snake with a pair of cornered mice.

Simon stood, enjoying the way he towered over Crispin. “Knights are ever chivalrous of women.”

“A woman such as this one can enslave a man with a look.”

Oh, Simon knew that firsthand. A few moments in her company last night, and he’d been smitten, had even fancied she might be the woman to equal the one in his dream.

Crispin glanced at Linnet. “Did you tire of the bishop and murder him so you could have this young and comely knight?”

“Murder?” Linnet’s face went whiter still.

“He was killed. Struck down,” said Crispin.

“We do not know that,” Brother Oliver said gently. “It may be he collapsed as he did last autumn and hit his head.”

“You think I murdered him?” Linnet said slowly, as though trying to come to grips with it. “Nay, but he was my friend.”

“Oh, I think you were more than a friend,” the archdeacon said silkily. “You were Bishop Thurstan’s mistress.”

“Mistress?” Simon was struck with a ridiculous urge to wipe his mouth, to rub away the kiss they had shared.

“It is not true,” Linnet whispered, expression anguished.

Simon looked away, unable to bear the sight of her delicate features and beautiful eyes. Lying eyes. To think he had come close to seducing his father’s mistress.

“Aye, she was his mistress.” Crispin’s lip curled with loathing. “But perhaps she fancied a younger protector.”

“If so, it was not me,” Simon said stonily. “I only returned to Durleigh yesterday.”

“Yet Brother Gerard saw you follow her from the palace.”

Simon shrugged. “Coincidence. We were here at about the same time, and the Deangate is the quickest route into town.”

“You appeared to wait till she left, then pursued her.” Brother Gerard had the sharp features of a ferret and the fawning, smug manner of a toady.

Simon despised him on principle. “I lingered in the gardens a moment after leaving the bishop. Which I would not have done were I guilty of murder.” A reminder of his service to God could not go amiss, either. “The roses drew me, for I missed their sweet smell while on Crusade in the dry, desolate East.”

The archdeacon’s scowl eased a bit.

“Bishop Thurstan’s death is my fault,” whispered Brother Oliver. “If I had been with him when he was stricken, he would not have fallen and struck his head.”

“Be at ease, Brother,” said the prior. “Whatever happened, it was God’s will.”

Brother Oliver sighed and bent his head.

Crispin nodded. “Thank you for reminding us of that, Brother Prior. Bishop Thurstan’s passing was indeed God’s will.”

Simon released the breath he had been holding and silently gave thanks for the prior’s level head. “I may go, then?”

“For the moment, but do not try to leave Durleigh till this matter is settled. And I would say the same to you, Mistress Linnet.” Crispin pinned her with a searing glance.

“I have nothing to hide.” Her eyes were haunted, but she held her head up as she turned and walked regally from the room.

The archdeacon stared after her, but his lean face was twisted with loathing. Simon almost pitied her, for she had incurred the enmity of the man who would, if only temporarily, wield much power m Durleigh. It was a fact he would do well to remember if he wanted to remain a free man.

“Come, Brothers, we must go to the chapel and pray for the bishop’s soul.” Crispin gathered his robes in one hand and swept from the room, followed by the other priests.

Prior Walter remained behind, as did two muscular men Simon had marked as soldiers. When the priests had gone, Walter posted the guards in the hallway, one at the bedchamber door, the other outside the withdrawing room, with orders to let none pass. Then he turned to Simon. “You must have been close to Bishop Thurstan if your first act in Durleigh was to visit him.”

Simon hesitated, wondering what to make of this bald little prelate with his sharp eyes and even sharper wit. “We barely knew one another.” True enough. “But many of the men in the Black Rose took the cross in response to a penance levied by the bishop. I thought he should know a few of us had survived.”

“A noble gesture.”

“The archdeacon does not seem to think so.”

“Aye, well.” Walter shrugged. “Crispin disapproved of everything Bishop Thurstan did and said.”

“He covets the bishopric, then?” Simon asked.

“Only because he feels he is better suited to the task.”

“What of you?” Simon asked archly.

Walter grinned. “I am not as critical of Thurstan as Crispin, but every man aspires to better himself.”

“A clever answer.”

“A truthful one. I admired what Thurstan accomplished here, though his methods are not mine. As to taking his place…” Walter shrugged again. “I doubt few men could. I would welcome a chance to try, but I would not kill to get it.”

A shrill voice sounded outside in the hallway.

“You have no right to keep me out!” A woman burst into the room. She was not young, but still beautiful. Despite the early hour, her blond hair had been sleeked neatly back, coiled at her nape and encased in a gold wire net. Her fashionable green gown was close-fitting, showing off a slender body.

Close on her heels came the guard. “My lord prior. .”

“It is all right.” Walter’s manner stiffened. “Lady Odeline, is something amiss?”

The lady sniffed and advanced on the prior, followed by a well-dressed youth in his early twenties. “Why have we been refused admittance to Thurstan’s chambers?” she demanded.

Her easy use of Thurstan’s name piqued Simon’s interest. Could this be his mother? If so, she must have been a mere child when she bore him.

“It was by my order, Lady Odeline. We are investigating the circumstances of the bishop’s death.”

“Surely it was an accident.” Tears magnified the eyes she raised to the pnest. “Oh, cruel fate to take my brother from me. He was the only one who loved me. The only one who sympathized with my trials.”

“Brother?” Simon whispered. He felt his mouth fall open in astonishment and closed it with a snap This was Thurstan’s sister? His own aunt?

“Whatever will we do?” She clutched at the boy who now stood beside her. “Where will my son and I go? We have nothing. No home, no money. Nothing.”

Simon’s compassion for her faltered. Clearly she cared more for her welfare than the loss of her brother. But then, her selfishness should not be surprising. Thurstan had cared more for satisfying his pleasures than for his holy vows or for the fate of any child he might sire.

“I am certain the bishop provided for you,” said Walter.

“Nay.” Lady Odeline was sobbing now. “He always said his money would go to build a chapel for his remains. And to the abbey. We will have nothing.”

Walter sighed. “Jevan, take your mother above stairs to her chambers that she may rest.”

“Nay, I would remain here and pray for my brother,” Lady Odeline said.

“Tomorrow, when the matter of his passing has been settled, you may sit vigil here,” said the prior.

Rage dried her eyes, and her cheeks went red as fire. “You would deny me this?” she demanded.

Walter met her glare with coolness. “Regrettably. Nothing must be disturbed till we know what happened.”

Simon looked to see how Jevan was taking this and found the boy staring at him. He was a head shorter than Simon with the lean build of a whippet, glossy black hair and pale skin. His eyes were narrowed to angry slits, glinting with blatant hatred. He knows I am Thurstan’s son. Simon felt the shame burn up his neck to his cheeks.

“Jevan!” the lady cned. “We will take this up with the archdeacon.” She swept from the room, her son at her heels.

Walter sighed. “Spoiled and willful. The lady is Thurstan’s youngest half sister. Doted on by her mother and always in trouble. A scandal led to her exile from court. Had Thurstan not agreed to let her stay here while Jevan studied at the cathedral school, they would both have been homeless.”

“Jevan is studying to be a priest?”

“A clerk. Thurstan feared that without discipline and a trade, he’d turn out like his father.” Walter paused. “The man was a drunkard, killed in a back alley brawl. Come,” he added. “Let us see if Brother Anselme has learned anything.”





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