Nay, he was mad. Mad to desire the woman who, if she had not been Thurstan’s mistress, was at least hiding something from him. Dark secrets flickered through her soulful eyes like ghosts.
Knowing he’d not sleep, Simon dragged himself out of bed and stumbled to the window. Dawn was still a few hours distant, the air cool and frosty when he exhaled. Waning moonlight shimmered on the slate roofs of Durleigh stretched out below him. His eyes went first across the scraggly field to the apothecary. All was quiet, but he cocked his head, searching the shadows around the building for some sign of movement. He had not wanted to leave her, even with Jasper sleeping fully armed in the front entryway and Miles in the kitchen.
Linnet had been apprehensive, too. “You…you are not staying?” she had asked.
“Nay. It would stain your reputation if I slept here.”
“I fear it is already somewhat smudged.” Her smile had been both sad and rueful.
He had wanted to hold her, to soothe the worry from her face. And that had convinced him leaving was best. Quite simply, he did not trust himself to be alone with her.
And now she had invaded his special dream.
Simon scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away from the window before he weakened and went to make certain all was right at the shop. Lighting the candle, he sat at the small table he had borrowed from Elinore. From his pack, he took parchment and began to copy over the list Oliver had given him. He added the notes he’d made earlier and left space for more.
Ten names, more than he could likely visit m one day, but he desperately wanted this business over so he could be on his way. He checked off two: the priest and nun from Blackstone Abbey. According to Oliver, they had left Durleigh before noon, taking with them the daughter of a local merchant.
“Was she taking holy vows?” Simon had asked.
Oliver had shaken his head, glanced at the prior then shaken his head again. “She wants to be an illuminator.”
Something in the way he had said that raised Simon’s curiosity. He could see no motive for murder in sending a daughter to be taught a craft, but if tune permitted, he would stop at the metalworks and speak with the girl’s father, Clarence Billeter, a surly brute if Simon recalled correctly.
A knock at the door brought Simon out of the chair. Hefting his sword, he sprinted across the room. “Who is it?”
“Aiken,” said a muffled voice. “Mistress Linnet is set on going out alone. Miles thought ye should know.”
“Fool woman.” Simon pulled on his boots, grabbed up his sword and cloak, and yanked open the door. Furious, he swept out of the tavern and across the yard, reaching the apothecary just as Linnet was leaving by the back door.
“Simon!” she squeaked, one hand fluttering at her throat.
“Where do you think you are going?”
“I—I wanted to get an early start on speaking with the—”
“Without me?”
“Aye, well…” She glanced over her shoulder at their avid audience, the two soldiers from the castle and her servants. “You had no right to tattle on me.”
Miles scowled. “I promised Sir Simon I’d look after ye.”
“And we are both grateful for that.” Simon glared at Linnet. She was too impetuous by half and needed to learn who was in charge of this enterprise. “We will leave together, after we have eaten and decided whom to see first.”
She tossed her head. “I have eaten.”
“I have not. Drusa…?”
“There’s fresh bread, hard cheese and ale on the table,” the maid said, her relief obvious.
Linnet sidled like a nervous mare. “Eat, then, Sir Simon. You can catch up with me at—”
Simon grabbed hold of her arm before she could slip by him. “Would it be too much trouble for you to bring me a plate and cup out here, Drusa?” he asked through clenched teeth. “Linnet and I have a few things to discuss. In private.”
The onlookers scattered like leaves before an angry wind.
“Let go of my arm,” Linnet said tightly.
Simon battled the urge to shake some sense into her. “I will when you tell me which person you did not want me to see.”
Her eyes widened. “I…you are mistaken.”
“Is one of them your lover?” he growled, alarmed by the sharp sting of jealousy.
“I have no lover.”
“Then who are you sneaking off to visit?”
She shivered and closed her eyes. “It is not that, I—”
Drusa bustled out, carrying a covered tray. Aiken hurried after her with a pottery jug. They made a great show of arranging the food on one end of the stone bench.
“My thanks,” Simon muttered. “We will serve ourselves.” He released Linnet’s arm and bowed. “My lady…”
She exhaled heavily and walked to the bench like a prisoner bound for the gallows.
Simon sat and poured them each a cup of ale. “I thought you trusted me.”
She whipped her head up, her eyes deep wells of compassion. “Oh, I do. It is just…embarrassing.”
“What is?”
“Hana Billeter,” she whispered.
“The girl who went to study illumination?”
“Hmm.” She knotted her fingers in her lap. “Hana is with child. And unwed.”
Bastard. The old taunt rose like bile in his throat. “So they have sent her to the abbey.” As they had his mother.
Linnet nodded. “Bishop Thurstan arranged it.”
“I am sure he is a practiced hand at that.” Simon suddenly wondered if he had a gaggle of half brothers and sisters hanging about somewhere.
“There have been others. Oh, not his, I assure you,” she quickly added. “But other girls from the diocese who have found themselves in trouble and in need of aid.”
“What happens to the babes?”
She looked down again, but not before he saw the color drain from her face and the light from her eyes. “Good homes are found for them, with parents who have lost little ones to sickness or who cannot have any of their own.”
Simon’s heart went out to them. Unless they were very lucky, they would grow up as he had, unloved.
“Master Billeter was against this. He paid Old Nelda to abort Hana’s baby, but Jean, her mother, confessed it to Thurstan, who took steps to save the babe.”
“He violated the sanctity of the confessional?”
“He did what he had to to save a child’s life.”
“And line his pockets at the same time,” Simon muttered. “I daresay this charitable couple will pay dearly for the babe.”
“How can you say that?”
“It is likely how Lord Edmund got me. A strapping lad to train, another knight to serve the house of de Meresden.”
“Did they abuse you?” she whispered.
He shook his head. “I was punished for my transgressions, but no more than any other fostered there.” He hesitated. How could he expect someone who had been raised by a loving mother and father to understand what it was like to have no family, no one who truly cared about you? “I was not abused,” he said curtly. “But neither was I truly wanted.”
“Oh, Simon…” She stood slowly, reaching for him.
He stepped back. “Save your pity.”
“It is not pity. I—”
“We wander from the business at hand.” He picked up a cup and drained it. The ale did not wash the bitterness from his mouth. “Do you think the Billeters bore the bishop a grudge?”
“Master Clarence does, I am certain. He is a large man with a temper as hot as his forges. Mistress Jean, however, is a mouse of a thing. I am surprised she stood up to him on this, and do not doubt she was punished for it.”
“A man who would beat his wife for loving their daughter might be capable of murder.”
“I could see him striking in anger, but poison…” She shook her head. “I doubt he’d know belladonna or monkshood from sage.”
“Hmm.” Simon sat and motioned for her to do t
he same. The explanation made sense, but her face was pale and her manner edgy as though she hid something more. “Why go there alone?”
“I thought I could speak with Mistress Jean in private and learn where Clarence had been yesterday.”
“Might not this hot-tempered man have taken his fists to you if he caught you whispering in corners with his wife?”
She started. “I—I had not thought about that.”
That is what worried him. “And we have no reason to suspect he was at the cathedral yesterday. Still, I will ask Brother Oliver if anyone saw him about”
“Where do we start, then?”
“It would be best if you remain safely here.”
“I will go, with you or without you.” She folded her arms, molding the wool bodice to her breasts. The sight was not half as provocative as the combative light in her eyes.
“You need me.”
You have no idea how much. Indeed, he sensed that was true, a mark of her innocence where men were concerned. She did not play with words to tempt or seduce. She spoke from the heart.
“I know most of the folk on Oliver’s list, if not personally, then by reputation.”
Simon sighed and gave in to the inevitable. Better to have her beside him where he could protect her than trailing along behind, fair game for Hamel or footpads. “Very well,” he growled. “We will visit the grave digger first.”
She groaned.
“Change your mind about accompanying me?”
“Nay.” She raised one brow. “Do you always get even?”
“Always.” He smiled sardonically. “Among my acquaintances, and most especially my enemies, it is well-known that Simon of Blackstone never forgets a slight.”
The light in her eyes went out like a snuffed candle, leaving them dark and flat. “I shall remember that.”
They found Digger Martin in the cemetery plot behind St. Mary’s Church, standing hip-deep in an empty, coffin-size hole.
“Are you Digger Martin?” Simon asked.
Digger glanced up, shielding his grimy face with a filthy hand. “Who wants to know?”
“Simon of Blackstone, a Knight of the Black Rose.”
“Ye’re the one came back from the dead.” Digger grinned, toothlessly. “Bad for business, that.” He cackled.
Simon smiled. “But good for me. Would you step out a moment so we could talk?”
“Gotta make my quota or I don’t get paid.”
Simon took a penny from the pouch at his waist, tossed it into the air and caught it. “For your time.”
“Fair enough.” Digger hefted himself out of the hole. He was a rough man, of stocky build, his arms and shoulders bulging with muscles. But did that make him a murderer?
“You know the bishop is dead?” Simon asked.
“Aye.” Digger chuckled. “Wonder if he’d want me digging up his bones in a year’s time and selling ‘em?”
Linnet gasped and leaned into Simon.
He wrapped an arm around her. “What sort of vile thing—?”
“That’s why ye’ve come, isn’t it? ‘Cause someone remembered Old Digger was up to the palace yesterday and thought he might have bashed his lordship over the head.”
“Did you?” Simon growled.
“‘Course not. Bones. That’s what the meet was about. The Stick caught wind of what the bishop were about and called us both to account. Threatened to excommunicate me.” Digger sniffed. “Not that I’d care.”
“What are you talking about?” Simon demanded.
Digger cocked his head. “Cost ye two pennies.”
“Providing I’m convinced you are telling the truth.”
“No reason to lie now.” Digger sat down on a mound of dirt. “Two years ago, it was. I was earning a bit of extra money by taking out dead apple trees in the church orchard yonder. Unearthed a grave, I did. Ten bodies buried all together.”
“Sweet Mary.” Linnet crossed herself. “Who were they?”
“Dunno. There was no marker and they were naught but bones wrapped in rags. They’d been there some time. I told Father Stephens, who was priest at St. Mary’s then. Right angry he was. Told me to fill the hole in and say nothing of what I’d seen.”
“He knew about them?” Linnet whispered, aghast.
“Aye. It didn’t sit well with me, but I told no one.. .except my confessor.”
“Bishop Thurstan,” Simon growled.
Digger nodded. “He was right furious, especially when he learned the ten were riverfolk swept to their deaths in the spring flooding six years ago. Father Stephens was supposed to have buried them in hallowed ground, at St. Mary’s expense.”
“He saved himself the expense.”
“Aye, but Bishop Thurstan fixed him. Vengeful sort, for a priest. Sent Father Stephens off to a poor church along the Scottish border. Killed in a raid, he was, the next year.”
“And the bodies of the riverfolk.”
“The bishop said as how it would cast the church in a bad light did we tell folk what had happened, and most of the dead ones didn’t have no family to care. So…” His eyes twinkled with wry humor. “He sold them.”
“Sold them?” Simon scowled.
“Aye, sold them as holy bones for reliquaries and such.”
Linnet was shocked speechless.
“Blasphemy,” Simon hissed. “Sacrilege. To think a bishop would do such a deceitful thing.”
“Didn’t do no harm,” Digger grumbled. “The bishop used the money for that almshouse of his. Said it was fitting that the bones of the poor should buy blankets for the living. Besides, everyone knows that most of the bones sold for such things is really the part of some animal, not a saint.”
“You said The Stick had found out about this,” said Simon.
“Archdeacon Crispin. That’s what I calls him. He learned about the bones somehow. Took on something fierce. Thought he was going to take that fancy staff of his to the bishop…. Say, ye dinna suppose he clobbered him after I left?”
“An interesting notion,” Simon said softly. He toyed with it as they walked to the ironworks. Logically he agreed with Walter that Nelda and Clarence seemed likely suspects, but his gut told him something else. A churchman would have had easier access to Thurstan’s drink, and Archdeacon Crispin did have two reasons for wanting him dead: hatred and hope of personal gain.
“Here we are.” Linnet knocked at the front door of a prosperous-looking stone-and-timber home. It was answered promptly by a mouse of a maid, who scurried off and returned with news her mistress would receive them.
Mistress Jean sat before the fire in a small corner chamber, bent over her mending. She lifted her head warily at their approach. Her face was thin and pale, except for her left cheek, which was marred by a violet bruise. The eye above it was swollen nearly shut. “I’m sorry to hear about the bishop,” she mumbled through a split lip.
“Aye.” Linnet looked as furious and helpless as Simon felt, but she introduced him, and accepted a chair and a cup of ale from the maid. “Your Hana has gone to the abbey?”
“Aye. Yesterday.”
“We have heard your husband was not pleased.” Simon twisted the cup in his hands and wished he could get them around the neck of the brute.
“Nay, he was not” Jean sighed. “He had plans to wed her to Maurice Larson, but Hana fancied Gib Farmer’s youngest son, Alain. Even when we learned she was carrying Alain’s babe, Clarence thought to save his plans by getting rid of it” Her voice trembled, and she looked down at her hands. “I’m glad the bishop stopped him, for he was the only one who could have.”
“She will still be giving up the child to be raised by strangers,” Simon muttered.
Linnet flinched, his contemptuous words cutting deeper than he could possibly know. There were stretches of time, minutes, hours when she nearly forgot about the past and believed they might have a future together. But if he ever found out…
“Much can happen m six months,” Jean said. “Hana and Ala
in might wed and run off…once his broken leg mends.” She sighed. “Clarence’s doing that was. Might have beaten Alain to death if his pa hadn’t heard the fracas and come running.”
Simon shot Linnet a meaningful glance. “Do you think Clarence might have decided to punish the bishop, too?”
“Might have liked to after he finished lessoning me.” She gingerly touched her cheek. “But first Clarance took two of his lads and rode out to Gib’s farm after Alain.”
“When was this?”
“Late afternoon yesterday.”
“And when did he return?”
“Near nightfall.” Jean smiled faintly. “Took him that long to recover from the beating Gib and his sons gave him. I dosed him with a cup of wine and put him to bed. He’s up there now, battered face to the wall, groaning fit to wake the dead.” Her smile became a crooked grin. “It isn’t Christian to rejoice in another’s pain, I know—”
“I’m sure God would be willing to make an exception in Clarence’s case,” Simon said savagely.
Linnet echoed his sentiments, but as they took their leave, she wondered if Simon would forgive her her sins. The need for his understanding was like a dull ache, weighing down her heart.
Hamel straightened as Tilly emerged from the side door of the Royal Oak. “Did you search his room?”
“Aye. But there was no books about”
Hamel frowned. Three possibilities occurred to him. Simon had hidden the journal, taken it with him or given it to someone else. Linnet, perhaps.
She touched his arm. “There’s an hour or so before we serve the noon meal. Will ye sit and have an ale wi—”
“I have work to do,” Hamel grumbled. His man, Ellis, had lost Simon and Linnet again. Damn, he wished he knew where they kept disappearing to. What were they up to? He could not break into the apothecary and search for the journal Odeline wanted because two men-at-arms were guarding the shop. More of Simon’s doing. Curse him. Why could he not have stayed dead?
Of course, there were ways to correct that.
Hamel smiled grimly, but even that hint of pleasure faded as he thought about the confrontation to come. He had promised Odeline he would find the bishop’s journal for her, and she would not be pleased when she learned he had failed her. Wanted it for sentimental reasons, she’d said. Odd, he had not thought she was that fond of her iron-fisted brother. But then, a death made folks look at things differently.
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 12