Suzanne Barclay - The Champion

Or the guilt.

Walter de Folke stood nearby as Brother Anselme knelt over the body of Bishop Thurstan. Around them, the brothers of Durleigh prayed for the soul of their departed bishop. The fervent Latin mixed with Brother Oliver’s wrenching sobs and the softer weeping of Lady Odeline. Ensconced in a chair by the fire, she was attended by her son. They made a striking pair, the beautiful, red-eyed woman and the pretty, sullen boy. Lady Odeline had wept a river, alternately lamenting her brother’s passing and her own uncertain fate now that he was gone. Jevan had stood beside her, as emotionless as a statue.

“To think that while we waited below our beloved brother collapsed and died,” Crispin murmured.

Beloved brother? Walter bit his tongue, knowing the archdeacon had despised Thurstan. For his part, Walter had admired de Lyndhurst’s keen intellect but envied his genius for amassing wealth and power. Now the scramble would be on to see who succeeded to the rich bishopric Thurstan had built. That contest pitted Walter and Crispin against each other. Walter believed he held a slight edge, for he was well-known to the archbishop and had served His Grace most ably. “Indeed. His Grace will be much saddened to learn that his great friend has succumbed to this illness,” Walter said.

“It was not the ague that took him,” growled the portly Brother Anselme, still on his knees beside the body, eyes drenched with sadness.

Walter nodded. “The illness caused him to collapse, and he struck his head on the table as he fell.”

“The blow to the head seems too deep for a fall.”

“What are you saying?” Crispin demanded with a shrillness that silenced both the praying and the weeping.

“That this may not have been an accident,” Brother Anselme replied.

Walter stared into the monk’s troubled brown eyes, trying to read the suspicions that lurked there.

“He was struck down?” the archdeacon barked. He whirled. “Brother Oliver, did you say a knight burst in upon his lordship? A crazed man who—”

“I understood he was a Crusader,” Walter said calmly.

“He was in an agitated state. It may be that he blamed our good bishop for sending him on Crusade.” Crispin sniffed. “You do know that Bishop Thurstan coerced some men into going.”

Walter inclined his head, fascinated by the play of emotions in Crispin’s usually austere features. From the moment Lady Odeline had rushed screaming into the dining room with news of finding the bishop, Crispin’s color had been high, his beady eyes unusually bright. “Brother Ohver, what say you?”

Oliver raised his head, eyes so puffy they were mere slits in his wet face. “It is true, I did see the knight leaving this very room as I was coming to ch-check on his lordship.”

“Who is this knight?” Crispin demanded.

“I—I think he is called Simon—S-Simon of Blackstone,” Oliver stammered, “b-b-but I spoke with the bishop, he was alive and well after the knight left the palace. Si-sitting in this very chair, he was—” Oliver’s eyes filled with tears “—talking with Mistress Linnet the—”

“That woman was here tonight?” Crispin shouted.

Brother Oliver cringed and glanced sidelong at Walter before nodding in mute chagrin. “She came to see how he—”

“There is your murderess, Brother Prior,” snarled Crispin.

“Why would she wish our bishop ill?”

“She is an evil woman, who did conspire to tempt our bishop to forget his holy vows,” said Crispin piously. “Doubtless she killed him out of frustration when her plans failed.”

Walter suppressed a snort of derision. Crispin’s theory had more holes than new cheese, yet he was clearly anxious to find Thurstan’s killer. Doubtless so he could put himself in a favorable light with the archbishop and gain Durleigh for himself. Walter girded himself for battle. “I will question her and this Sir Simon,” he said.

“You? By what right do you question anyone?” Crispin cried.

“By the power vested in me by the archbishop.” Walter smiled thinly into Crispin’s furious face. “His Grace did send me here to check on his dear friend, and he will expect a full accounting of this sad event when I return to York.” I have you there, you sanctimonious old stick.

Brother Anselme rose between them. “I do think we should look more closely into this matter, Reverend Father,” he said to Crispin. “At the very least, we must know how he d-died.”

The color leached from Crispin’s face. “Of course. Take the body to the infirmary and see what you can learn.”

The monk nodded.

“I would also suggest that the room be sealed and a guard placed on the doors so that nothing is disturbed till we know what is what,” said Walter, earning a glare from Crispin.

“Brother Gerard will compile a list of everyone who entered the palace this evening,” snapped the archdeacon. “On the morrow, I will personally speak with each one.” He left in a swirl of coarse gray robes.

The lady Odeline followed directly, leaning heavily on her son’s arm, her face buried in a linen handkerchief. Jevan’s expression was as remote as carved marble, but when he reached the door, he turned back, sweeping the room with avid eyes before exiting with his mother.

Curious, that, Walter thought as he moved aside so Thurstan’s body could be lifted. Did the boy expect to inherit some of his uncle’s fabled wealth? If so…

Walter sighed. Dieu, he was as bad as Crispin, seeking to point the finger at everyone he saw. Jevan had been at supper in the dining hall with the others when summoned to hear the dreadful news his uncle had died. And Lady Odeline had no reason to wish her brother ill. Without Thurstan’s support, she and her sullen chick would be cast out into the cold.

But the fact was that someone within these very walls might have murdered the bishop.

A lady cried out.

Simon stopped and turned Swaying slightly, a wineskin dangling from his hand, he squinted at the shops and homes lining the street.

All were dark and deserted, the owners off at the feast hosted by Bishop Thurstan to celebrate the departure of Durleigh’s Crusaders. The roofs of the buildings were silhouetted against the glow of lights from the market square where the festivities were being held How had he wandered so far away? Dimly Simon could hear the hum of voices raised in song and prayer as the folk of Durleigh bid Godspeed to their Crusader band

A bubble of drunken pride rose in his chest. Tomorrow he would be leaving with them…a knight bound for the Holy Land Stumbling slightly, he started back to the fete.

The woman cried out again. “Don’t. Please don’t!”

“Get back here,” roared a male voice.

Simon whirled toward the sounds and caught a flash of white moving in the alley across the way, followed closely by a large, dark shape. “Bastard.” Throwing the wineskin away, he drew his sword and staggered after them. Down the alley, and through it into the next street, he pursued them, driven by the vows he’d sworn earlier in the evening.

To uphold justice and protect the downtrodden. The oath burned bright in his heart, like a fever driving out the effects of a day spent drinking. He felt strong and powerful.

At last, Simon saw them. The wretch had a small figure in white trapped against the side of a building.

“Unhand her!” Simon roared.

The assailant whirled, his face a pale blur in the gloom, his sword gleaming as it came up to counter Simon’s lunge. Steel rang on steel as the blades met.

Simon grunted, pain shuddering up his arm. He had drunk too much. He met his opponent’s flurry of blows cleanly, but slowly. Too slowly. He wondered if the girl had gotten away, but could spare no time to look Then he heard a sound that sent a chill down his sweaty spine.