Suzanne Barclay - The Champion

“Oliver says he heard raised voices.”

The secretary hunched his shoulders and looked at the floor. He was short and pudgy, with a round face and eyes red-rimmed from crying. His soft woven robe seemed too fine for a priest, in sharp contrast with the archdeacon’s coarse wool and the prior’s simple linen. But it was Oliver’s reticent expression that piqued Simon’s interest.

Had Oliver heard something he should not? Perhaps a woman professing her love for Thurstan? Who was she? Simon wondered, the woman he had lost in the dark last night? “His Lordship cried out in surprise. He did at first think I was a spirit.”

Crispin brightened. “In devil’s guise?”

Simon saw that trap and sidestepped. “Nay. If I had died on Crusade, I would have been guaranteed entrance into heaven. After a moment the bishop realized I was, indeed, ahve. He may have exclaimed again at that.”

“He was well when you left him?” asked Prior Walter.

“Well?” Simon felt an unexpected pang of remorse. Nay, the bishop…he could not think of him as his father…had looked sickly and frail. “He seemed to have aged since last I saw him.”

“The bishop suffered a seizure when the Crusaders were reported lost,” Brother Oliver interjected. “But he insisted on continuing with his many duties.”

Simon knew what it was to carry on despite illness, but ignored the unwelcome spurt of sympathy for Thurstan. “How did he die?” he asked again, for this was all passing strange.

“He was struck on the head,” said the archdeacon.

Prior Walter shifted. “Brother Anselme, our infirmarer, is examining the bishop’s body and will shortly determine the cause of Bishop Thurstan’s death.”

“I gave orders that Brother Anselme prepare the body for immediate burial.” The archdeacon’s eyes flashed a warning. “And until the archbishop names a new bishop, I am in charge here.”

The prior’s smile was thin and deadly as drawn steel. “That is true, but I am here as His Grace’s legate. And, if it be determined that someone did kill Bishop Thurstan, His Grace will want the culprit apprehended, tried and punished.”

“That is why I question this knight,” Crispin growled.

Simon tensed, apprehension trickled across his skin. He was glad he had told no one, not even Linnet Especer, of his connection to Thurstan. “When did the bishop die?” he asked calmly.

“His body was found in this very room,” said the archdeacon. “Shortly after you departed the palace.”

The prickling in Simon’s neck increased. He could almost feel the noose tightening about it. If they knew he had spent the past three years hating Thurstan, he would be their prime suspect. “The bishop was alive when I left him.”

Crispin frowned. “Did anyone see you go?”

Dieu, he did not know. He had stormed out in a fit of temper, his vision obscured by a red veil of rage. “If Brother Oliver saw me enter, perhaps he saw me go.” He looked at the secretary, who had his chin buried in his chest. “The bishop said he was expecting someone, and indeed I heard a woman—”

“We know about that.” The archdeacon’s face twisted with intense dislike. “I had left orders she was not to be admitted to the palace, but Brother Oliver saw fit to disregard them.”

Brother Oliver’s eyes filled with tears. “I—I did not.”

“It was not Brother Oliver’s fault,” said a soft voice.

Simon whirled and gaped.

Linnet stood on the threshold, looking vastly neater but no less desirable than she had last night. Her glorious hair was pinned up and covered by a white linen cap. From beneath her gray cloak peeped a murrey-red gown. Her eyes, wide with dismay, were fastened on the archdeacon. She resembled a doe facing down an armed hunter. “Why are you sitting at Bishop Thurstan’s writing table, Reverend Father?”

The archdeacon leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing with hatred. “Harlot! How dare you question me? You will tell truly why you were here last night in defiance of my wishes.”

She flinched. “I came last night to see how he fared.” She looked about the room. “What has happened? Why are you all…?” Her eyes widened. “Sir Simon, what do you here?”

“You know him?” asked the prior.

“Aye.” Her eyes softened, and she smiled tremulously.

A queasy feeling stirred in Simon’s gut. His first instinct was to shield her from the rabid archdeacon. But there were dangerous currents here he did not understand. He did not want to be dragged down by them. “We met by chance last night.”

One of the priests who’d been huddled in the far end of the room stepped forward. “He followed her when she left.”

Followed her when she left. Simon started. She had been Thurstan’s last visitor?

“So.” The archdeacon’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth curved into a malicious smile. “Are you accomplices?”

“Accomplices…” Simon sputtered, aghast by the picture of Linnet forming in his mind. Was she the one he had heard profess her love for the bishop last night?

“Accomplices?” Linnet asked. “In what, pray tell?”

“In Bishop Thurstan’s death,” the archdeacon said bluntly.

“He…he is dead?” Linnet swayed, her eyes rolling back.

Instinct propelled Simon forward to scoop her up before she hit the floor. Cradling her in his arms as he had last night, he carried her to one of the high-backed chairs before the hearth. A vigorous fire crackled there, but the warmth did not penetrate the icy dread that had settled in Simon’s gut as he placed her in the chair and knelt beside it. “Linnet?” he murmured.

Her lashed lifted. “Thurstan is dead?” The whispered query held a wealth of pain. She looked so small and defenseless.

Simon was torn between the urge to comfort her and the need to demand she tell him what she was to Thurstan. Clearly cosseting her could only worsen their plight. Settling back on his heels, he nodded. “I have been told he is dead.”

“He had been so sick for so long,” she murmured. “But I prayed he would recover. Especially now that you have returned. ‘Twas what I came to tell him this morn, that you were alive.”

Did she know he was Thurstan’s son? A tremor of alarm iced Simon’s blood. Precarious as things were, he did not want her blurting it out. “Shh. Stay quiet.” He looked over his shoulder and saw the archdeacon lurking there. “She needs wine.”

Crispin raised one skeptical brow. “I think this harlot has ensnared you, too, with her wanton wiles.”

Too? Simon did not like the sounds of that at all. His skin crawled with apprehension. “We barely know each other.”

“You are solicitous for a stranger.” The archdeacon tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe, his expression watchful, vicious. Like a snake with a pair of cornered mice.

Simon stood, enjoying the way he towered over Crispin. “Knights are ever chivalrous of women.”

“A woman such as this one can enslave a man with a look.”

Oh, Simon knew that firsthand. A few moments in her company last night, and he’d been smitten, had even fancied she might be the woman to equal the one in his dream.

Crispin glanced at Linnet. “Did you tire of the bishop and murder him so you could have this young and comely knight?”

“Murder?” Linnet’s face went whiter still.

“He was killed. Struck down,” said Crispin.

“We do not know that,” Brother Oliver said gently. “It may be he collapsed as he did last autumn and hit his head.”

“You think I murdered him?” Linnet said slowly, as though trying to come to grips with it. “Nay, but he was my friend.”

“Oh, I think you were more than a friend,” the archdeacon said silkily. “You were Bishop Thurstan’s mistress.”