Though he had been offered a suite of rooms in the chapter house, Crispin had preferred the damp cold of these narrow rooms. Stopping to pick up a candle from the basket on the floor, he lit it on the torch, then proceeded past locked storerooms and doorless cells to his own. The tiny room was just large enough to contain the thin pallet on which he slept and the chest that held Crispin’s few possessions: parchment rolls with prayers he’d written, a coarse cloak and an old robe and, beneath it, wrapped in a length of linen, the jar of monkshood.
Crispin glanced at the chest, then back over his shoulder, regretting the lack of privacy. But the need to rid himself of this last link with the vile deed burned in his gut. Setting the candle on the floor, Crispin slowly raised the lid.
“Ah, Brother Crispin,” hissed a low, sly voice.
Crispin spun on his heels, lost his balance and landed hard on the packed earthen floor. Through the stars dancing in his head, he made out a figure filling the doorway.
Walter de Folke.
“B-brother Prior,” Crispin stammered, barely resisting the urge to throw himself in front of the chest. “What do you here?”
“I am sleeping in the next cell.”
“But…but you have rooms above.”
“Fine rooms.” Walter’s smile had an edge to it that grated on Crispin’s raw nerves. “But I have taken a vow to renounce all such luxuries till Thurstan’s murderer is caught.”
Crispin scrambled to his feet, heart racing. “She…they…are dead. Drowned in the river. God’s will,” he blurted out.
“Indeed?” Something cold and suspicious flickered in Walter’s eyes. “They may be dead, but I am not certain we have learned the whole truth of the matter. Till I have it, I will fast and live as simply as St. Benedictine. To that end, I have taken the cell next to yours, where I will spend the night in prayerful contemplation. I bid you good sleep, Brother.” Walter inclined his head and slipped away.
Crispin groaned and fell to his knees. The cold of the earth was nothing to his chilled flesh. Did Walter suspect something? Or was he merely trying to thwart Crispin’s advancement by solving this himself?
Either way, Walter must learn nothing.
Crispin glanced at the chest. He dared not move the monkshood now. He must bide his time, as he had for these past few months, and pray that all would work out.
Simon lay before the door on the pallet Linnet had insisted he pull from under the bed. The thin layer of straw did little to mask the floor’s hardness nor did the accompanying blanket ward off the chill that had crept into the room as the fire died down. He had not slept much, either, but discomfort and sleeplessness had become old companions while he was on Crusade.
What was different was the longing in his gut.
The sounds of her even breathing, the rustle of straw as she turned in her sleep had teased him all night. Knowing she would have welcomed him if he’d crawled into her bed had sharpened his desire.
Honor was a vastly overrated commodity, Simon decided as dawn sent pale fingers sliding in through the thin hide that covered the window. But he could no more change that about himself than he could change the blood in his veins.
Did he want to?
The question had haunted him all night, but the ghosts were different from the ones that had plagued him after he’d learned Thurstan de Lyndhurst was his father.
His father.
Simon shifted. He had avoided even thinking those words, but meeting Linnet and listening to the folk of Durleigh had changed his perception. Nothing, of course, could ease the pain of having been ignored all his life, but now he wondered why a man who championed orphans had abandoned his own son.
Bah. Simon sat up, wincing as his stiff muscles protested. Nothing could change what Thurstan had done. There was no excuse for abandoning your own child, he thought, slowly rotating his shoulders until the ache in them, at least, eased. The emptiness in his heart was something that would never go away.
Casting aside the blankets, Simon stood and glanced at the bed. Linnet was turned toward him, her hands tucked under her chin, her face vulnerable to the pale light. It was that vulnerability, as much as frustrated desire, that had kept him awake and tossing all night. If he did not find out who had killed Thurstan, the murder might be pinned on her. Gut tight with dread, he eased open the door and crept down the stairs.
Drusa was already up and stirring a pot of porridge in a black pot slung over the fire. “How is she?”
“Sleeping.”
Her eyes searched his with piercing intensity. What she found there must have reassured her because she smiled. “Ye’re a good man, Simon of Blackstone. Come break yer fast.”
Simon settled for a hunk of cheese and bread. He took them with him as he slipped into the crisp morning. He waited until Miles barred the door before setting off. All the way through town, he hoped the brigand would jump out from some alleyway and give him a chance to repay his treachery with cold steel.
Alas, he reached the Red Tower Gate without incident. The guard at the gate gave him directions to Old Nelda’s hut. It was a surprisingly sturdy structure of wood and wattle huddled in the lee of the town walls. The old woman sat before the hut on a three-legged stool, stirring a cooking pot in the dawn gloom. She did not look up at Simon’s approach, but when he was a few feet away, said, “I heard ye were dead, Simon of Blackstone.”
“Indeed?” Simon crossed his arms over his chest. “Good news travels quickly, I see.”
“Good?” She glanced up. “Who would rejoice at yer passing?”
“Bishop Thurstan’s murderer.”
Her expression didn’t change. “Is that why ye’ve come, with fire in yer eyes, to accuse Nelda of killing the bishop?”
“Or Olf.”
She snorted. “Ye think my lad killed his lordship for forcing me to live here?” She waved a stained hand at the hut and the rocky bank that spilled down to the edge of the river. Though the water ran swiftly, it stank of the filth it carried away from Durleigh.
“You had it better when you lived inside the town.”
“Not much, and it cost me, too. Here I live free.”
Simon glanced at the closed door of the hut. “Is Olf within? He has not been seen since the bishop died.”
“What if he is?”
“I have a few questions I would ask him.”
“He knows nothing.”
“I’m told he worked late in the gardens. It is possible he saw or heard something that night.”
“I would doubt it.” Nelda looked out over the river. “Olf’s mind is slow. A curse laid upon him for my sins. Isn’t much he knows, but Thurstan taught him to care for those roses.” She turned troubled eyes on Simon. “What’ll happen to them and him?”
“Hard to say until they name a new bishop.”
“If Archdeacon Crispin has his way, the roses will be pulled up by their roots. That one has a mean soul.”
Simon smiled. “On that we agree.”
“Is he trying to say my Olf killed the bishop? I thought he was keen to hang Mistress Linnet for it.”
Simon’s throat tightened. “He is keen to settle the matter quickly so he can boast of his prowess to the archbishop.”
“Hmm. Crispin Norville as bishop?” She shook her greasy gray head. “That don’t bode well for Durleigh. Say what ye will about Thurstan, he did right by the town.”
“I expected you would hate him.”
Nelda shrugged. “He did what he thought was right. Can’t say I agree with his decision, but there was folks who wanted me hanged over the matter. Himself stopped them.” She grinned, revealing broken teeth. “Hard to hate a man for that.”
“But you speak ill of him.”
“‘Tis expected. If I praised him, there’d be folk who’d say Old Nelda got off too easy and seek to punish me or Olf.”
Simon looked past her to the hut, catching what he’d missed at first glance. The wood was weathered gray, but the wattle was uncracked and t
he door new. “He paid for this, didn’t he?”
Her smile broadened. “Ye’re quick, there’s not many who’d guess he’d help sinful Nelda.”
“Why would he?” Simon asked bluntly. “What you were doing went against all the tenets of the church.”
“Thurstan and I wanted the same thing—to help any lasses who found themselves in the family way with no husband.” She shrugged. “We just went about it different, that’s all.”
It was Simon’s turn to look into the impersonal swirls of the river. “At least your way left no innocent bastard babes to pay for the sins of their parents.”
“Ye cannot forgive Thurstan, even now?” she asked.
Simon whipped his head back around. “What do you mean?”
“Nelda knows much, but she also knows how to mind her tongue.” She smiled smugly. “Ye’d be surprised what secrets Nelda keeps. Even fine ladies come here for potions they cannot buy from decent apothecaries like yer pretty Linnet.”
“She is not mine,” Simon grumbled, upset by the notion that Nelda knew he was Thurstan’s son.
“So ye say, but Nelda knows different.” She gave the pot a stir and changed subjects. “Ye must have gone straight to the bishop when ye reached town.”
“Aye.” Remorse churned in his gut. He’d have done things differently if he had known it would be the last time he’d see Thurstan alive.
“Angry words were spoken, I’d reckon. Ye are a hard, unbending man, Simon of Blackstone.”
“What he did was inexcusable.”
“Would ye have been happier raised in the shadow of the man many feared and some hated?” She sighed. “Better to cast yer own shadow, I’m thinking.”
“I would have survived.”
“Likely. Ye are strong and stalwart, but a parent cannot always know how a babe will turn out, and so must guard it as best she can.” She tilted her head, expression crafty. “Odd how history do oft repeat itself, ain’t it?”
Simon straightened. “Does he have other bastards?”
“None I know of.” Her eyes were shifty, filled with secrets and secret amusement. “But don’t they teach us that no one is without sin, even good folk such as yerself? Interesting thing, sin. Folks will go to great lengths to cover theirs up. Or to defend them…pretty them up. Thurstan knew that well, ye ken?”
“What did he know?”
“A great many secrets.” She cackled. “He had a gift for using what he knew to bend folk to his will.”
Like the men Thurstan had sent on Crusade as a penance for their sins, he thought. “Manipulating people is not a gift.”
“A talent, then. Ye’ve got it, too.” She laughed when he tried to deny it. “All leaders have a gift for getting other folk to do their will. It’s the use they put that gift to that separates the good ones from the evil. And ye can bet Nelda has seen plenty of evil in her day.”
Simon nodded, hesitated but a moment, then told her about the monkshood in the brandy. “Olf used that in the gardens.”
Her mouth tightened. “Are ye accusing my lad?”
“Whoever did this was clever and calculating.” Olf was neither. “He also had access to Thurstan’s rooms.”
“Crispin is all those things.”
“We can hardly accuse him of murder without proof. I was hoping Olf might remember having seen someone around his shed.”
“We can ask.” She cocked her head again like an inquisitive sparrow. “Ye said the archdeacon was set on accusing Mistress Linnet. Are ye championing her cause again?”
“Again?”
“I saw ye help her get away from Hamel Roxby the night before the Crusaders left Durleigh.”
Simon frowned, trying to see through the haze that obscured most of that night. “It was not I. You must be mistaken.”
“It’s possible. Everyone had had a bit too much ale that night. Meself included.”
“Likely,” Simon muttered. It bothered him that he could not remember exactly what had happened. “We stray from the matter at hand. Will you let me speak with Olf?”
Nelda called the lad, who came out blinking and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Only a mother could love his wide face with its bulging eyes, flattened nose and slack lips. When Olf saw Simon, he gasped and retreated.
Simon extended his empty hands. “I only wanted to talk about the roses.”
“Tell Sir Simon about the bishop’s roses,” Nelda said gently.
Olf looked at Simon. “Himself didn’t come to see the roses yesterday.” His brow scrunched with worry. “Do ye think he’s wroth with me?”
Simon closed his eyes briefly, his heart contracted. No one had told Olf that Thurstan was dead.
“Olf, ye recall we talked about the bishop going to see God,” Nelda murmured.
“Aye, but he should be back.” A line of drool seeped from Olf’s lips. “I stayed up for two moons. Caught me this many moles.” He held up three filthy fingers.
“That is good.” Simon’s will quailed. “They have been harming the roses, haven’t they?”
Olf nodded. “They eat the roots. Roses die. The bishop got monkshood from Mistress Linnet.”
From Linnet. Dread trickled down Simon’s spine, bringing with it old suspicions. Why had Linnet not told him she’d given Thurstan monkshood? “When was that?”
“Dunno.”
“February, I think,” Nelda said.
“Did that kill the moles?”
“For a time. Then not.” Olf frowned. “They eat the grain Olf puts out, but they don’t die.”
Because someone had replaced the monkshood with harmless powder? “Did you tell the bishop?”
“Aye. Tolt him someone had been in my shed, too.”
“Who was?”
“Dunno.” He looked at his mother. “Tricksters.”
Nelda sighed. “The village louts sometimes play tricks on Olf, taking his things and mocking him when he tries to get them back. Did ye recognize any of them?”
“Didn’t see anybody. Things was moved. I didn’t do it.” His chin wobbled. “Does he stay away ‘cause he’s angry with me?”
“Nay.” Simon put a gentle hand on Olf’s shoulder. He could not bear to give him the news his mentor was gone. “Two nights ago, did you see anyone leaving the bishop’s palace?”
“Saw ye, standing in the yews.”
Simon brightened. “Did you see anyone else?”
“Mistress Linnet. She came out after. In a hurry.”
“How did you know it was her?”
“She walks just so…” Olf took a few short, quick steps, his hips swaying from side to side, his back straight and his head held high in a fair imitation of Linnet.
Simon laughed. “That is very good, Olf.”
“Good.” Olf nodded and traipsed back and forth a few more times, chuckling to himself. Then he imitated Crispin’s economical stride and Brother Anselme’s brisk gait. “Other lady like this…” He thrust out his chest and glided along. “Like a snake,” he added.
“Who is that?” Simon asked.
Olf shrugged. “Other lady. I see her at night.”
Thurstan’s current mistress? “Did she visit the bishop?”
“Aye.” Olf bobbed his head. “She kissed him.”
Disgust warred with curiosity. Could this woman be his mother? Simon wondered. “Was she young or old?”
Olf frowned.
“Did she have gray hair?” Nelda asked.
“Nay. Black…and the lad, too. Him that’s at the school. He seed the bishop, too.”
Odeline and Jevan. Simon sighed. “Where does Odeline go at night?”
“Out. She wears a priest robe, but I know her walk.” Olf frowned. “I have to go back. Wait for the bishop.”
Simon looked at Nelda, who shook her head. She was right. What good could come of forcing the boy to face the truth? “Thank you for talking to me, Olf I think your roses are beautiful, and I am sure the bishop does, too.”
Olf beamed. “I’
m hungry.”
“Go down to the nver and wash up, then we’ll eat.”
Simon kept a smile on his face until the boy had turned and tromped down to the water’s edge. “On the way to Durleigh, my companions and I were set upon by brigands. We killed all save the leader, a wiry man with dark hair, a lean face and sly black eyes. He took a sword cut to the left shoulder. Have you been asked to treat such a wound?”
“Perhaps.”
“Do you know where he might be staying?”
Nelda grunted and squatted over her pot. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. It’s why folk come to me.”
“Did Hamel bring him to you?”
She straightened. “Nay, but there was someone with him. Kept to the shadows, he did, so I never saw his face.”
“It was a man, then?”
“Aye, but not near as big a one as Hamel.”
“It could have been one of his men.”
Nelda shrugged. “Hamel might be in league with the brigands. He has a craving for power. Thurstan curbed it while he was well.”
“Could Hamel have killed Thurstan to clear the field?”
“Nay, for all his scheming, Hamel is not clever enough. But I do know where the lady Odeline goes of a night. To see Hamel.”
“Hamel and Lady Odeline?” Simon exclaimed.
“Don’t be fooled by her pretty face and fine manners. She’s a lusty one and canny as a fox. But I’d venture to say she’s just amusing herself with Hamel. The one person she cares about, excepting her pampered self, is that sly son of hers.”
“How did she feel about Thurstan?”
“Grateful, I’d guess, seeing as he took them in.”
Or resentful. And her rooms were just above Thurstan’s.
“Oh, and the brigand’s name is Rob FitzHugh,” Nelda added. “He’s a mean one…carries a knife in his boot top.”
Simon inclined his head in appreciation. “I thought I had recognized him from Durleigh Cathedral, but—”
“Ye did, right enough. Five years back. He was one of the men who laid out the bishop’s gardens. Drifted about working at this and that, I’d guess, till he turned outlaw.”
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 17