“He may not be our next bishop,” Walter mused. “But we keep you from your work. Good day, Sheriff.”
Hamel scowled. “Send word to me when you learn how the bishop died.” He spun on his heel and strode out, his spurs grating on the stone floors. And on Simon’s nerves.
The moment the door closed, Linnet sank down on the bench and Brother Anselme heaved a sigh of relief.
“Well done, Prior Walter,” Simon murmured. He usually found priests annoyingly passive. It was refreshing to meet one who stood up for what he believed in, even to someone like Hamel.
“It was my pleasure. I remember Thurstan saying that Hamel Roxby was not half the man his father was. Thurstan and Lord Edmund had reservations about Hamel being undersheriff, but could find no grounds for dismissing him.”
“Hamel is a clever man who loves power,” Simon said. He looked at Linnet’s ashen face and felt a wholly unwelcome urge to comfort her. Instead, he looked away. “I would appreciate knowing what you find out, Brother Anselme.”
“Of course, but it may take several days—”
“Time is critical,” Walter said. “In my years of service to the archbishop, I have regrettably undertaken other such investigations. The more time that passes, the harder it is to discover tjie murderer, important facts are forgotten, clues disturbed.”
Brother Anselme nodded. “I will work as quickly as I can.”
“Excellent.” Walter tucked his pudgy hands into his sleeves. “And I would ask you report your findings only to me. Now I will go make certain the bishop’s chambers are secured and return with those flagons.” He hurried away.
Linnet stood. “I had best be getting back to my shop.”
“I do not like you walking back alone with Hamel lurking about. Simon, would you go with her?” Anselme asked Nay. He did not trust himself to be alone with Linnet for fear the contempt he felt for her would erupt.
“It is not necessary. I will be fine.” She walked away. This time her head was bowed, her shoulders slumped.
He would not care. Simon looked away. “Perhaps I could help you with your work, Brother.”
“It is not a pleasant task for a relative.”
“Was I the last person in Durleigh to learn the bishop had a bastard son?” Simon growled.
“No one else knows save myself and Linnet.”
“It does not matter. He was no father to me.”
“He was more of one than you realize.” The monk sighed. “But we’ve no time to argue the point now. I must find out how he died. You can help me by seeing Linnet back to her shop.”
“I am certain she knows the way.”
“And so does Hamel Roxby.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Our sheriff is interested in Linnet.”
Simon ignored a spurt of alarm. “She is not my concern.”
“In that, too, you are wrong, my son,” he said cryptically. “She does not welcome Hamel’s advances.”
The spurt of alarm grew stronger. “I do not care.”
“You lie to me and to yourself,” Anselme snapped, eyes crackling now with anger. “But I have neither the time nor the patience to argue. Linnet has had enough sorrow in her short life. If you will not do this out of the kindness of your heart, then I offer a bribe. Keep Linnet safe and I will share with you what I discover about the bishop’s murder.”
“You are certain about the poison?”
Brother Anselme nodded grimly. “I do not know exactly how he died, but there are signs he was poisoned, aye.”
Simon’s throat tightened. He had no alibi, only his word. The word of a man who had hated Bishop Thurstan for four years. “All right. I will see she reaches her shop safely.”
“Good.” The monk clapped him on the shoulder. “Stay there with her. I will come as soon as I am finished here. Surely no later than vespers.”
“But that is hours away. What will I do cooped up with her in that small shop of hers?”
“You know the place, then?”
Simon groaned. Dieu, if he did not watch his tongue, he’d condemn himself. “I have never visited a large apothecary.”
“Ah.” Anselme smiled. “Your wits are as quick as I’d heard. If anyone should ask why you go with her, say I have need of some lavender to sweeten the bishop’s shroud.”
Simon was only too glad to leave the clever monk to his gruesome task. The path from the infirmary took him past the sweet-scented rose garden. The plants were lush and green, laid out in neat, sweeping beds. Whoever tended them had a knack for nurturing. As he approached the main gate, he met Brother Gerard coming toward him.
“Did Linnet Especer pass this way?” Simon asked.
The ferret stopped, tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe and glared at Simon in perfect imitation of the archdeacon. “Chasing after her again, sir knight?”
“Brother Anselme bid me ask her for some lavender.”
“It is not wise of you to associate with that murderess.”
“Why would she want to murder the bishop?”
“Women do not need reasons. They are sly, evil creatures.”
Simon’s hands clenched. He longed to plow a fist into the ferret’s face, but losing his temper would only make matters worse. “I will remember your warning,” he said through his teeth and stalked out the gates onto the Deangate. His expression was so fierce that people scrambled to get out of his way.
The street was not overly crowded, and Simon was taller than most folk, but he did not spot Linnet’s fair hair up ahead. Had Hamel already snatched her? Fear quickened his stride, until he was fairly running, across Deangate, down Colliergate. The stink of burnt wood and the cries of the charcoal vendors followed him. At each intersection, he paused to look both ways, searching lanes and alleyways for some sign of Linnet.
As he passed the mouth of Hosier Lane, he saw something that stopped him midstride.
Hamel had someone pinned up against the side of a tavern. His hands were braced on the wall, hiding his victim’s face, but a cloud of fair hair was visible.
The sight stirred something in Simon’s memory…a vague, dreamlike sense of having stood here before.
Ridiculous.
Simon shook it off and plunged into the gloomy lane, his strides eating up the distance. “Mistress Linnet,” he called.
Hamel whipped his head around, his eyes narrowed to furious slits. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for the apothecary.”
“Find another. This one is busy,” Hamel growled.
Simon peered over Hamel’s beefy arm at Linnet. The only color in her white, stricken face was in her eyes, great pools of ginger-brown, terrified, beseeching. No matter how she’d tried to deceive him, he could not leave her here. “I fear no other will do. Brother Anselme sent me to buy from her stock.”
“Buy from someone else.”
“He was most specific that it be Mistress Linnet,” Simon replied, aware that a man had come out of the tavern. The wool merchant, one of Durleigh’s most prosperous citizens.
“Sheriff, what is—?” Edric Woolmonger’s eyes rounded in his fleshy face. “Simon of Blackstone! Aren’t ye dead?”
“It seems not, Master Woolmonger. I am pleased you recall me.” Simon was relieved to see Hamel step back from Linnet.
“Of course I remember ye. Did ye not twice escort my wool to Tynemouth for shipment? And without losing a single wagon. Praise be to God for sparing ye.” Edric crossed himself. “I would have ye to sup and hear of yer adventures, but—” his smile faded “—now I must go to the cathedral and offer prayers for our beloved bishop.” Edric cocked his head. “Will ye return to Lord Edmund’s service now ye’re back?”
“I do not know. His lordship is away at present.”
“Well, ‘tis good to see ye alive, at any rate.” Edric turned to Hamel. “What luck did ye have last night catching that wolf?”
“None.” Hamel’s eyes blazed hatred at Simon.
> “Well, it must be caught before it devours my whole herd,” Edric grumbled. “Walk with me apace and tell me what can be done about the wolf.”
Hamel shot one more hot look at Linnet, then fell into step with the merchant.
Linnet whimpered, her head falling forward, her eyes closing. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Brother Anselme asked me to come,” Simon said coldly.
She lifted her head, her gaze haunted. “You wanted to refuse. I am very glad you did not.”
So was he. She looked so fragile, so damned vulnerable, it was all he could do not to sweep her into his arms and carry her. “I promised him I’d see you to your shop.”
“A promise grudgingly given, I’ll grant. I wish I were brave enough to refuse your reluctant escort.” She looked down the lane in the direction Hamel had taken. “But I am not.”
Simon wished it, too. Despite all he’d learned this morning, she still drew him.
“How are we going to find the charter if we cannot enter Thurstan’s room to search for it?” Jevan demanded for the dozenth time since he and his mother had retreated to her room.
“We will have to wait.” Odeline paced before the empty hearth, kicking her skirts from her path in impotent rage.
“I am tired of waiting,” Jevan whined. “Curse the luck, why did Simon of Blackstone have to turn up alive? In another few weeks Thurstan would have died and Blackstone Heath come to me.”
Odeline le Coyte stopped and turned to regard her only child. He was so like her, she thought, her heart swelling with love. He had inherited the good looks, quick mind and driving ambition shared by all the de Lyndhursts. From his father, Jevan had unfortunately gotten a black temper. She had tried her best to teach Jevan to control his outbursts, but he always wanted more than he had and lashed out when he could not get it immediately. “How can you know his death was so near?”
“‘Twas written on his face, plain to see.”
Odeline shuddered. She was not a murderess. She was not. The wee shove she had given Thurstan had not been forceful enough to kill him. He had been alive when she’d gone to fetch help. She knew it, his face and limbs relaxed as in sleep, but when she’d returned with the prior and archdeacon…
Dieu, the torturous twisting of her brother’s body, the anguish etched into his features had been terrible to behold. It would haunt her all her days. But she was not responsible. He must have suffered a seizure of some sort.
“We have to find the damned charter,” Jevan whined.
Odeline started and shoved her guilt aside. “Just be patient a bit longer, Jevan. The guards will likely be gone from Thurstan’s rooms by nightfall. I will go down after everyone is asleep and find the charter.”
“I should have made him give it to me first.”
“What do you mean?”
Jevan gave her an odd, calculating look and turned toward the window. “Why, before I agreed to attend his school.” The slick words, the cocky set of his head, were so like his father’s.
Odeline shivered. Jevan was not like his father. He was not. “You were at supper when Thurstan died?” she asked softly.
Jevan turned and smiled. “As any number of good brothers will vouch.” The smile turned feral. “I want Blackstone Heath.”
“I promise you will have it.” No matter what she had to do.
Somehow, Linnet managed the walk to her shop, but she could not have said what route they took or who they passed. What remained of her slim store of energy was devoted to putting one foot in front of the other. Yet she was oddly aware of the man who walked beside her.
This was the second time Simon had saved her from Hamel. But he did not remember that first time. She was glad of it, for if he had, Simon would truly think her a loose woman. The sort who coupled with a man she had only just met.
“Damn, it looks as though you have customers waiting.”
Linnet raised her head, surprised to find they had reached the corner of Spicier’s Lane. A small crowd did indeed seem to be gathered in front of her shop. Dread trickled down her spine. “I hope nothing is wrong.” She started forward
“Wait.” Simon stepped in front of her, as he had in the infirmary, one hand on his sword hilt. “Stay behind me.” He crossed the lane and headed slowly toward the shop.
As they drew near, Linnet saw that Aiken had raised the shutters at the front of the shop. He stood behind the plank that served as a counter, busily dispensing goods. Drusa stood in the street, chatting with two of the women.
“Is business always this brisk?” Simon asked.
“Nay, I cannot think why—”
“There she is. There is Linnet,” someone called. As one, the dozen or so customers turned. All were known to her, their expressions ranging from sympathy to curiosity.
“What is going on here?” Simon asked.
“Gawkers.” Come to see how she was bearing up under the strain of Thurstan’s death. “It was the same when Papa died.” Nay, that was not quite true. Then people had looked at her with sympathy. Today, many were curious, a few openly censorious.
Simon sniffed disapprovingly. “I will order them away.”
Tempting. Linnet shook her head. “It would only make matters worse. I had best get inside and help Aiken.” The crowd parted easily to make way for Linnet. Several of the women were crying, some murmured words of support.
“Is it true the wretch is dead?” asked a querulous voice.
Linnet gasped and spun around to find Old Nelda behind her.
Crazy, some folk called the old woman. She lived down by the river, dabbling in charms and noxious potions. “Is it true?” Her iron-gray hair was pulled back so severely her skin stretched tight as old leather. She stared at Linnet, her yellow eyes as intent as a cat’s watching a cornered mouse.
“Bishop Thurstan is dead,” Linnet whispered.
“Did he die in yer bed?” Spittle foamed at the edges of Nelda’s thin lips. The crowd went deathly silent.
“Of course not,” Linnet cried. She started as a warm, wide hand touched her shoulder. Simon’s hand.
“Cease this vile gossip, old woman, and be on your way,” Simon growled.
Nelda smiled slyly, revealing black stumps. “Gossip’s always got a grain of truth. They say she was his mistress. They say she bore him a bastard babe when she was at Blackstone Abbey some years back.”
Linnet shuddered. Or was it Simon’s hand that shook in the instant before he removed it. Suddenly she felt cold and alone.
“Be gone.” Simon’s voice was low and hard.
“I’ll go, but ye cannot still me tongue.” Nelda waggled her bushy brows at Linnet. “Nay, Thurstan’s gone. Can’t keep me quiet now.” She turned and shuffled off, dirty bare feet peering from beneath the hem of her ragged clothes.
Simon muttered an oath, then turned to the rest of the onlookers. “If you have come to buy, do so. If not, get about your business and leave Mistress Linnet to hers.” He took her arm with surprising gentleness. Gentle, too, was his voice as he whispered, “Come inside, away from this crowd.”
Drusa met them at the door and hustled Linnet toward the kitchen. “Poor lamb. Sit down here. I’ll mull ye some wine.”
Linnet collapsed onto the bench. Her heart ached, her head pounded. She laid it on the cool wood and wished she could simply melt into the oak, be absorbed by it.
“Are you all right?” Simon asked.
Linnet opened one eye. Up close, she saw what she had missed earlier, the dark shadows under his eyes, the raw emotions in them, a swirl of shock, pain and, aye, fear. “I should learn to ignore her ravings.”
“Has this sort of thing happened before?”
“Nelda is always speaking out against the bishop. Earlier in the year he had her exiled from Durleigh for peddling her purgatives and abortives in the market square.”
“So she has reason to hate him?” Was she telling the truth about you and the bishop? His eyes asked.
“And to spread
lies, aye.” Linnet sat up and scrubbed her hands over her burning eyes. “I do not care for myself, but to besmirch the name of so fine a man and bishop….”
“She is not the only one who thinks you were his mistress.”
Linnet sighed. “Bishop Thurstan said it is not in people’s nature to think a man—even a man of God—and a woman can be friends. The talk about us began before I went to the abbey.”
“Why were you at the nunnery?”
Linnet looked down at her hands, knotted in her lap, for fear he would see more than she wanted him to. “To study healing from the sisters. Bishop Thurstan arranged it. Catherine de Lyndhurst, his own sister, is abbess there.” She heard his indrawn breath. “She is a full sister and not like Odeline.”
“I see,” he said slowly. “And the part about the babe?”
Linnet clenched her hands until the nails bit into her palms. Sweet Mary, how can I bear this? But she must. “Gossip,” she murmured. “Gossip and hurtful lies.”
He said nothing.
The silence stretched and grew around them until Linnet did not think she could last another minute. “Thank you for coming to my aid and seeing me home.”
He sat down across the table from her. “I told Brother Anselme I would wait here for him.”
“There is no need,” she said stiffly.
“He will bring us news of how Thurstan died.”
Linnet lifted her head. “I thought you did not care.”
“I stand high on the archdeacon’s list of suspects. And if Thurstan’s death was not natural or accidental…”
“But he was alive when I left him.”
“Which was shortly after I left him.” He leaned closer. “But we have just our word on that, and if the poison was a slow-acting one, we may yet be charged.”
“What motive could either of us have had for killing him?”
Simon sighed. “None as far as anyone knows, but you can be assured Crispin and Hamel will dig furiously to uncover some. It is best they not learn I was in your shop last night.”
“What can that matter?” Linnet whispered.
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 8