The sound of Simon’s breathing was harsh in the narrow space, but his feet made scarcely a whisper as he glided down the worn steps. Taking the torch from the wall, he moved slowly along a narrow corridor. Off of it opened a number of storerooms and rough chambers barely large enough to hold a pallet and stool. Cells for visiting clerics, by the look. All appeared to be uninhabited except the last one.
Crispin’s, he guessed, though the room looked as spartan as the others. A gray robe hung from a nail at the foot of the pallet, and a small chest had been positioned near the stool. On it sat a candle and writing implements.
Simon glanced about, then entered, wishing for a door to close while he searched. A quick examination of the robe showed a small rent in the sleeve. Scarcely daring to hope they might match the ones found in Olf’s shed, he pulled off a few threads and stuck them into the pouch at his belt. He patted down the straw-filled pallet, but did not find the missing crock of monkshood. It took only moments to search the rest of the room.
The chest was locked, but opened to the tip of his knife. Inside were a few bits of thick winter clothing and scrolls of parchment, some blank, most covered with a neat, cramped script. All were written in Latin.
Simon sighed and wished he had not been such a poor student. Linnet could read and write the language, he knew from watching her in the shop, but he could hardly steal all these on the slim hope that there was some scrap of information. As he moved to replace the other papers, the light caught on something white in the bottom of the chest.
Simon leaned closer, his fingers hovering over a small mound of powder too white to be dust.
Monkshood?
Anselme and Linnet had both warned that the poison could be absorbed through the skin. He seized a scrap of parchment, fashioned a packet and, using another bit of paper, gathered up some of the powder. Gingerly, he folded the makeshift pack into a tight square and put it into the scrip on his belt.
The muffled tolling of the bell drove Simon to his feet. Quickly he put everything back where he’d found it, closed the chest and stole to the door. Senses alert, nerves tingling with equal parts apprehension and cautious triumph, he retraced his steps and exited the palace. Hiding in the yews at the corner of the building, he watched the priests, novices and students stream from the cathedral. Some had obviously stayed inside, likely to pray at Thurstan’s bier. But he recognized Crispin’s brisk stride and gray robes.
“Murderer,” Simon growled under his breath. The hatred that coiled tight in his gut caught him by surprise because it felt…personal. Thurstan de Lyndhurst might have ignored him while he lived, but he had given Simon life, and there was a part of him that mourned the loss of the sire he had not known.
Through narrowed eyes, Simon tracked the archdeacon’s swaying gray robe across the dark expanse of lawn. How easy it would be to slip up behind the prelate and extract revenge. His hand tightened on the hasp of the knife at his belt. He started to withdraw it from the scabbard, then shoved it back in again. Killing Crispin would avenge Thurstan and save Linnet from harm, but it was not his way.
A few yards from the palace, the archdeacon turned and took the path that led into the rose gardens.
“What the…?” Simon crouched down, scuttled across the lawn and hunkered down behind the yew hedge framing the gardens. Instincts on alert, he parted the prickly bush and watched.
Crispin marched to the center of the garden, stopped and looked about His demeanor, his actions, fairly screamed intrigue, and when he bent to dig in the dirt, Simon was certain he knew what Crispin was about. Burying the monkshood.
Elation roared through Simon. Dieu, he wished Prior Walter or Brother Anselme were with him to witness this.
Crispin stood, looked about, then moved briskly down the garden path toward the bishop’s palace. The moment Crispin was out of sight, Simon hurried to the center of the garden and knelt. Despite the darkness, he saw a patch of earth that was rough, recently disturbed. Probing with the tip of his blade, he struck something solid a few inches down.
Simon rocked back on his heels, mind whirling. Tempted as he was to dig it might be better to secure a witness first.
Linnet awoke in slow stages, like a swimmer emerging from warm water, feeling boneless and content. As she stretched, her hand strayed across the bed and encountered empty space.
“Simon?” She sat up, more hurt than she could say when a brief glance about the room revealed he had not only left the bed but her room as well.
He went to spare your reputation, chided her mind.
He could have kissed me ere he left, her heart replied.
Likely he had not wanted to wake her. Consideration was sometimes overrated, she thought frowning as she lay back down. It was early yet, judging by the darkness beyond her window. She should sleep, for the day promised to be a trying one.
But thoughts of what lay ahead—Thurstan’s funeral and a confrontation with Archdeacon Crispin—made sleep impossible.
Sighing, she pushed back the covers and reached for her bed robe. The wee sensual ache in private places made her sigh again, with longing this time. She had not guessed that Simon’s resolute—and sometimes fierce—exterior hid such tenderness, such a capacity for giving. His care of her gave Linnet faith they would have a future together. And children. She wanted them, needed them, to heal the empty place in her heart.
The candle by the bed was nearly gutting in its wax. She lit a fresh one and crossed to her writing table. To one side were tally sticks waiting to be notched with the sums of customers’ purchases. Lists of the exotic spices she needed in London were jumbled in with notes on those herbs she planned to plant in her garden next year. Quills in need of sharpening were piled helter-skelter beside a pot of ink.
Scowling, she set down the candle and began to restore order. With all that had happened, she was behind in her accounts. As she moved the scrolls into a tidy pile, she came across a small black book.
Thurstan’s prayer book.
Linnet sat, eyes filling with tears as her fingers trailed over the precious volume. Reverently; she opened to the first page and saw the book had been a gift from his sister, Catherine, long before she became abbess of Blackstone Abbey.
May you find a measure of peace, if not the happiness that was stolen from you, Catherine had written.
The inside of the front cover was buckled, as though the sheet of parchment that covered the edges of the book’s leather covering had come loose and been poorly repaired. Perhaps she could restore it, she mused, turning pages, scanning the familiar Latin of Thurstan’s favorite prayers. But when she opened to the fourth page, she stopped and stared.
Here was no ancient prayer, but a listing set out in four columns. Frowning, she bent closer and translated from the Latin: dates and names, many of them folk from Durleigh. Next to the names were brief notes, some no more than a word or two. They were dark, powerful words, representing all the classic sins: theft, usury, avarice and adultery. The final column listed the penances Thurstan had levied on the sinners, from sums of money donated to the church to small acts of chanty.
Trembling, Linnet sat back. She had found Thurstan’s journal. Why had he kept a record of the sins confessed to him? What would happen if it fell into the wrong hands? And then an even more terrible thought struck her. Frantically she thumbed through the pages until she came to that day when she had confessed her deepest secret to Thurstan.
Linnet Especer, unwed and carrying the child of Simon of Blackstone, she read. She will go to Blackstone and bear—
Linnet tore her gaze from the page before she could read the words that exposed the terrible price she’d paid. How could Thurstan have written it all down for anyone to read? Sweet Mary, what was she to do with it?
Hide it. Burn it. But what if the journal contained some clue to Thurstan’s murder? Tentatively she reached out to turn the pages—
“Hello inside,” called a voice from outside the shop.
Linnet shove
d the book aside and hurried to the window that faced the front. It was still dark, but there, in the shadows by the front door a shape moved. She could not see who it was, but heard one of Simon’s men call out a question from inside.
The would-be customer’s reply was muffled, except for one word. Sickness.
Instantly Linnet turned from the window, grabbed the candle and headed for the stairs. She reached the entryway just as Jasper informed the customer that he’d have to come back.
“Wait,” Linnet commanded. “It may be serious.”
Jasper’s face was a mask of wariness in the flickering light. “Simon said no one was to come in whilst he was gone.”
“He’s gone?” Linnet felt cold and weak.
“Aye. Out the back some time ago,” muttered Miles, joining them in the corridor, his blade out.
Linnet looked from their fierce expressions to the door, torn between caution and duty. “A customer came by earlier to get a tonic for her sick babe. I said she should come back if the child did not improve. Let me see if this is her husband.”
Jasper scowled at Miles, then shrugged. “See who it is.”
“Is that you, Master Carpenter? Is the babe worse?”
“Aye,” came the gruff reply. “She’s taken bad.”
“Oh, dear.” Immediately Linnet’s thoughts flew to cures for the colic. Obviously the asparagus buds boiled in broth were not strong enough. A decoction of lavender to drink and garden rue boiled in oil to rub on the belly. “Let Master Carpenter in, please, whilst I get what is needful.”
Linnet entered the shop to find Drusa and Aiken huddled together, eyes wide with fright “It is all right. Just Master Carpenter come to get some medicines for—”
A cry from the entryway cut her off, followed by sounds of a scuffle. “‘Ware, Mistress Linnet!” Jasper shouted. “Brigands.” His warning was drowned out by hoarse grunts and clashing steel.
Drusa screamed and collapsed onto a bench.
“Quick, out the back!” Aiken exclaimed.
Linnet took one step in that direction, then reconsidered. “Nay, there may be more of them waiting to take us.”
“Where, then?” Aiken cried.
“I do not—”
Four men catapulted out of the hallway and into the shop. They were big and brawny, their expression fierce, their swords red with blood.
Linnet froze, heart racing like a trapped doe’s. In that instant, she realized it was the brigand, Rob FitzHugh.
“Where’s Simon of Blackstone?” Rob demanded, raking the room with malicious intent.
Drusa screamed again and toppled to the floor, breaking the deadly tableau. Aiken seized an iron poker from the hearth and whipped it up like a sword. The attack lasted only a second, for Rob backhanded the boy into the wall. Aiken’s head hit with a crack. He slid down into a lifeless heap.
“Nay!” Linnet started toward her stricken apprentice, only to be caught fast and shoved against the same wall.
“Where’s Blackstone?” Rob’s breath was hot and rank.
“O-out,” Linnet stammered. “But he’ll be back in—”
“Give me yer shop ledger and any other books ye’ve got.”
Linnet gaped at him. Rape or money she could understand, but why would he want books? “My ledger?”
“The book where ye record what’s sold to who. Hurry up! Hand it over!” He punctuated the words with vicious shakes, bouncing her head off the wall.
Black stars danced before Linnet’s eyes. “P-please, I…”
“Is it worth yer life?” The edge of his sword pressed against her throat.
“N-nay.” Linnet swallowed. “The…the ledger is in my workroom. My…my other books and papers are above stairs.” She gestured limply with her left hand.
“The ledger first.” He lowered the blade and grabbed hold of her shoulder, his filthy fingers biting into her flesh.
Linnet stumbled across the room, her legs so weak she feared they would not hold her. At the door he stopped her. It was dark within, but she knew every inch of her small domain.
“Bring a light,” Rob called over his shoulder.
Linnet stood there, shivering in his grasp. Her heart was galloping fit to burst from her body. Survival was uppermost in her mind. But in the few moments it took for the other brigand to find a torch and light it, a new fear intruded. Once he had the ledger, would he leave, or kill them?
The queasy knot in Linnet’s belly rose into her throat. It went against her grain to simply give up, but what could she do? She had no weapon, nothing except her herbs and spices.
“Here,” growled a coarse voice. Light bloomed behind her.
He released his grip on her shoulder to take the torch. “Get the ledger, and no tricks, mind.” He shoved her ahead of him into the wee room where she mixed her potions. Light swung over neat shelves of crockery, bunches of dried herbs and vessels filled with everything from goose grease to rosewater.
Perhaps she could bash him over the head with a crock, she thought on a bubble of hysterical laughter. The ledger lay open in the center of the worktable, between a heap of fresh nettles and the pot she’d intended to boil them in.
“Is this it?”
Linnet nodded, her head jerking like a puppet’s.
He seized the ledger and examined it with the glazed look of one who cannot read. “This better be what he wants.” Rob growled. He thrust the ledger at his cohort. “Take this, Ranulf, and mind it doesn’t get dirty.”
Ranulf grunted in assent and hurried away.
“Upstairs…we’ll get yer books,” Rob ordered.
“Why?” Linnet squeaked. “They are of little val—”
“Sheriff wants ‘em.”
If Linnet had been cold before, now she was frozen. Escape was her first, her only, thought. But how?
“Come on, Ain’t got all night.” Rob snagged her right arm in his punishing grip and jerked her toward the door.
Instinct had Linnet grabbing the first thing that came to hand. The nettles. She had wrapped the stems m a bit of linen to protect her skin. Now she hid the bundle in the folds of her bed robe and stumbled along beside her captor.
Out in the shop, Ranulf was gone, but the other two thugs were pawing through her baskets and chests, doubtless looking for money. Drusa lay on the floor, moaning softly, her eyelids fluttering. Aiken lolled against the wall, head cocked to one side, blood trickling from his mouth.
Linnet stopped. “Let me see to my apprentice.”
“Nay. We’ll go up and get the other books.” Rob shouted for the others to leave their pillaging.
Linnet’s hand tightened on the nettles. Now? Or later? Desperate and so afraid her teeth were chattering, she weighed her chances as Rob dragged her toward the stairs.
Simon stepped out from the kitchen, his sword out, his expression so hard and ruthless she scarcely recognized him. “Let her go, FitzHugh,” he growled.
Rob swore, dragged Linnet in front of him and brought up his blade. “Drop yer sword, or I’ll run her through.”
“Easy.” Simon’s eyes flicked to hers. The anguish in them mirrored his inner struggle, his determination to save her overriding the instinct to fight.
Linnet watched in horror as Simon lowered his weapon. “Nay!” She brought the nettles up and raked the side of Rob’s face with the stinging plant. When he screamed and loosened his hold on her, she jerked free.
“Run, Linnet!” Simon shouted, bringing his sword up. He had only a fraction of a second to applaud her courageous move and no time to see if she had fled to safety. The clash of steel on steel drowned out Rob’s curse as he met Simon’s blade. The blow numbed Simon’s arm to the shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he shook off the pain even as the other two thugs rushed into the fray. Together, the trio backed Simon across the room, blades flashing silver in the torchlight.
Rob’s face was a mask of fury in the flickering light, his eyes smug. “Not so sure of yerself now, are ye?”
“W
e’ll see.” Marshaling his strength, Simon parried and thrust, catching the man on the left across the ribs. The wretch screamed and went down, but the respite was shortlived. Rob and his cohort took up the battle in earnest. What the brigands lacked in skill they made up for in numbers. It would be a miracle if he survived, Simon thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Linnet and his fear doubled. “Flee!” he cried.
She did not, his brave, impetuous darling. She darted forward and stuffed the nettles down the other man’s tunic. Her victim dropped his sword, screaming and clawing at his back.
The momentary distraction was all Simon needed. He slipped his blade under Rob’s guard and drove it home. Rob’s eyes rounded in surprise. He stared down at the blood on his chest, then slowly slid to the floor.
Simon felt for a pulse, but Rob was gone, taking with him the answers to Simon’s questions. “Damn.” Simon looked up to check on the others. Linnet had roused Drusa. Between them, they were tending to Aiken. Miles stood over the body of the nettle-ridden brigand. Blood dripped from the soldier’s arm, but his gaze met Simon’s steadily. “Jasper?” Simon asked.
“Knocked around a bit, but like to live.” Miles toed the thief. “This one’s alive.”
Simon crossed to them and knelt. It was the beggar who’d sat outside the shop. “Call the watch.” As Miles stalked away, Simon shook the brigand. “Who sent you here? Was it Hamel?”
The man grunted, his body twisting in pain.
“What did he want?” Simon pressed.
“My ledger,” Linnet whispered from beside Simon.
“And…and the bishop’s charter.” The man looked at Simon. “The one you stole from the…the bishop the night he died.”
“I took nothing of him,” Simon growled.
“Hamel said…it was…hers.”
Simon frowned. “Linnet’s?”
The Champion (Knights of the Black Rose Series : Harlequin Historicals, No 491) Page 21