Suzanne Barclay - The Champion

If only things could have been different.

But it was too late to make reparation, had been since that grim day last autumn when a messenger arrived with news that Simon and the other Crusaders of Durleigh had perished.

The sharp pain in Thurstan’s chest was not borne of his illness, but of an anguish too deep for words. He and Rosalynd had been denied a life together, but he had taken solace in providing the best for their child. Though he could never claim Simon, Thurstan had cleverly schemed to have him fostered with Lord Edmund and raised here in Durleigh at Wolfsmount Castle so he could watch Simon grow. His chest had swelled with pride when he’d officiated at Simon’s knighting ceremony, for the boy had become a man of unswerving loyalty, courage and honor.

Heartsick, Thurstan unlatched the shutters and opened the two sections of the oiled parchment windows. Fresh damp air poured in, momentarily chasing the scent of death from his chamber. Below him lay the green bailey that surrounded the cathedral, and beyond it, the rooftops of the bustling, prosperous town of Durleigh, all of it lorded over by Wolfsmount Castle on its rocky hillside. Durleigh had been a small town when he’d come here five and twenty years ago. Now it was a center of commerce and trade to rival the great city of York to the south. Much of Durleigh’s growth had come as a result of Thurstan’s scheming and his family’s connections at court. As Durleigh had swelled with tradesmen and laborers, so had Thurstan’s coffers.

All that gold was small comfort now. His love was lost to him, his son was dead, and he was dying.

Thurstan sighed, his thoughts growing more morose as his gaze skimmed the roof of the apothecary. Ah, he would miss his golden-haired Linnet with her quicksilver wit and boundless zest for life. He had had plans for the young apothecary, but with Simon dead, they would never come to fruition.

A sharp pain cramped his gut, doubling him over. When the wave of agony passed, Thurstan grabbed hold of the windowsill and straightened. What was this sickness that tormented him so? Over the years of bringing absolution to the stricken, he had seen death in many guises, but never one that weakened the victim yet brought no fever, no wasting of the flesh. Even Brother Anselme, the infirmarer, was at a loss to identify this ague, nor did any of the tonics Anselme and Linnet had concocted bring Thurstan any relief.

This disease was like a poison invading his--

”Poison…” The word slipped from Thurstan’s lips with a hiss. He recalled with dawning horror the insidiousness with which this illness had crept up upon him.

Could it be that someone was poisoning him?

Who? And why?

Thurstan’s narrowed gaze swept over the town he’d ruled for so long. Ruled it like a despot, his detractors whispered. But they spoke softly and behind his back, for Bishop Thurstan’s wealth and power exceeded even the dreams of the manipulative sire who had bought for him the Bishopric of Durleigh so many years ago. Was there one among his flock who chafed under a heavy penance? Or did the culprit lay closer at hand?

Crispin Norville, Durleigh Cathedral’s archdeacon, had made no secret of the fact that he heartily disapproved of Thurstan’s methods. The cold and grimly pious archdeacon coveted the bishopric. He made a great show of contrasting his behavior with Thurstan’s, spending more time on his knees in the chapel than he did in the administration of his duties. Crispin wore coarse robes and styled himself after St. Benedictine, while Thurstan wore embroidered silk and superfine wool.

But murder…?

Though Crispin’s hatred was plain to see, Thurstan had trouble casting the archdeacon in the role of murderer. Why, the man was known to flog himself every Saturday for those sins he might inadvertently have committed. Nay, not Crispin.

Prior Walter, then? He had been a frequent visitor this winter and had, in fact, arrived this very day, ostensibly to bring greetings from His Grace, the Archbishop of York, and to inquire into Thurstan’s health. Walter de Folke was a sly, slippery man whose rise to power within the church had been swift and unexpected, given his humble origins.

Thurstan tried to think if his illness had been worse after Walter visited. But his mind was bogged by shock. Shuddering, he turned from the window, his eyes darting wildly about the richly appointed chamber. How had it been done? Food? Drink?

He stumbled across the room to the massive writing table. The tray on one corner held a silver flagon filled with his favorite Bordeaux wine. Nay, it could not be that, for he served the wine to guests, to his sister, Odeline, to whom he’d given temporary rooms upstairs, and even to Walter. Aye, Walter had drunk a cup only this noon.

Thurstan relaxed until he looked through the open door to his bedchamber. On the bedside table stood the bottle of herbal brandy. He sipped a wee dram of the strongly flavored liquor each night while he wrote in his journal. Could it be poisoned?

Thurstan stared at the little bottle, too weak to walk so far. And smelling it would tell him nothing, for he’d been drinking it with ease these past months. How could he judge when he knew not what had been used? Belladonna? Hemlock? Monkshood?

Monkshood.

The air caught in Thurstan’s throat, along with a sob. He had gotten some of that poisonous herb from Linnet to kill off the voles that had been eating the roots of his prized roses. Had he touched the powder? Nay, he had handed the small jar to Olf, the gardener, who had mixed the powder with the grain to be set out in the garden. If anyone was poisoned by contact with the monkshood, it should be Olf.

What then, was killing him? And who?

Thurstan glanced down at the slender black ledger lying on the table. The first three pages contained his favorite prayers, the rest his personal journal, an accounting of how he spent his days. But recorded there, also, were the sins of Durleigh’s citizens as told to him in the confessional. And next to each name, the penance Thurstan had extracted for that slip.

For the poor, the price had been a prayer or a good deed. From the wealthy, he had taken coins to fill the church’s coffers. And sometimes his own. For those whose crimes were evil or cruel, the penalties had been stiffer. Had one of them decided to exact his own form of revenge?

The horn sounded, heralding the dinner hour.

Thurstan grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was break bread with his nag of a sister and two men he found tedious, and, possibly, murderous. He wanted to seek out Brother Anselme, discuss these suspicions and see if the good brother could find an antidote before it was too late. If it was not already. He wanted to study the journal and see if he could determine who-The door from the hallway suddenly flew open.

A man paused on the threshold. He was clad in a faded gray tabard. And on the left shoulder was embroidered a black rose.

The emblem of Durleigh’s Crusaders. But they were dead.

Thurstan gaped at the intruder, a tall, broad-chested man with shoulder-length black hair. His face was partially hidden in the shadows, but Thurstan knew that face.

Simon. Dieu!

Now he was hallucinating. Thurstan sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands. “Go away, specter,” he pleaded.

“Not till I know the truth. Are you my sire?” growled the apparition. The floor seemed to shake as he advanced.

I must be dead, Thurstan thought. Dead and gone straight to hell. “Aye. I did sire you,” he muttered.

“Why did you never tell me what I was to you?”

“I had no choice,” Thurstan whispered.

“Was my mother so foul a creature?”

“Nay. Never that.” Thurstan looked up and found the creature standing across the table from him. He looked so real, the stubble on his cheeks, the anguish in his eyes. They were green, like Rosalynd’s, but with a hint of his own gray, and ablaze with emotions too painful to endure. Thurstan looked away. “She was an angel, your mother.”