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

by Suzanne Barclay

  “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

  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.