Читать книгу The Champion - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 10

Drusa clomped up the stairs with water and towels. “Let us see where ye are hurt, dearling.”

“It is nothing. A bump on the head, a bit of a scrape on my elbow,” Linnet insisted. “I can tend my—”

Drusa clucked her tongue. “Always did want to do everything for herself.” She smiled wryly at Simon and set to work.

Simon leaned his shoulder against the mantel and watched the woman tend Linnet with the gruff tenderness that bespoke years of caring. The old longing curled in his belly. What would it be like to be loved like that? He shook it off with practiced ease and set his mind on the present, not his troubled past.

Covertly, he studied the woman he had run down. When he’d bent over her on the dark path, something about her had seemed familiar. But now, seeing her m the light, that sense of recognition faded. Perhaps it was the scent of roses she wore that had struck a chord with him. She was certainly beautiful enough to make him wish he knew her.

Linnet’s delicate profile was so perfect it might have been carved from marble, marred only by the bits of dirt Drusa was gently washing away. The maid had also loosened Linnet’s braids, so her hair tumbled over her slender shoulders and down her back in a honey-colored river, glinting like gold in the firelight.

He guessed her age at twenty or so, which would have made her ten and six when he left on Crusade. Old enough to have attracted his eye when he’d been in town on Lord Edmund’s business, comely enough to have merited a second glance. Her brown eyes were warm and expressive. They sparkled with two things he valued in men and women: intelligence and wry humor. And when she had smiled, her whole face had seemed to glow, as though lit from within.

Linnet the Spicier was a woman he would know better.

But that was not the only reason Simon lingered in her cozy little solar. The vulnerability and the fear she could not quite hide worried him. She had been fleeing something when they collided. Or, more likely, someone. The aura of danger aroused the protective streak his friends had often teased him about.

You have problems enough of your own.

Simon shoved them aside to be considered later. Part of him, the soft side few men saw, hoped Thurstan would send word to him. The tough shell he had developed as an orphaned youth warned him not to care. He had been six when he arrived at Lord Edmund’s household as a page. Though he had not been abused, neither had he been loved. There had been no father to shield him when the older pages taunted and teased him, no mother to dry his tears when he was hurt in practice. The only true friends he had were the five knights of the Black Rose.

“There.” Drusa set her cloth in the basin. “I’ve put betony cream on those scrapes, and the bump does not look grievous.”

“Thank you,” Linnet grumbled, obviously irked at the fuss.

“I am much relieved to hear you have suffered no serious harm, Mistress Linnet. I feared you might set the sheriff on me,” Simon teased.

Linnet shivered. “That is the last thing I would do.”

Interesting. Sheriff John Turnebull was a fair man, if Simon recalled correctly. Did she fear the sheriff would ask questions she tlid not want to answer?

“If ye will sit with her a moment, sir, I will put these things away and fetch some ale.”

“You do not have to watch over me,” Linnet muttered.

“It is no hardship at all, I assure you. And the ale would be most welcome. You may have recovered, but I still feel a bit shaky,” he said dramatically. “In fact, I think I had best sit.” Simon pulled over a stool and plopped down at Linnet’s feet, stretching his boots toward the fire.

“Just so. I’ll be back in two shakes.” Drusa hurried off.

Linnet snorted and rolled her eyes. “You, a fearless knight returned from the Crusades, are shaky?”

“The sight of a woman in distress does affect me most severely. And the thought that I might have caused you grievous injury…” He put a hand over his heart and sighed mightily. It was a pose Nicholas struck. It never failed to make women melt.

Linnet laughed. The sound was musical, captivating. The merriment transformed her features from comely to striking. Firelight picked out the gold flecks in her eyes and made her hair shimmer. It was as though the sun had suddenly come out from behind a cloud to shed its radiance on the world, to banish darkness and cold.

Simon had an unexpected urge to pull her onto his lap, to kiss her breathless, wrap them both in her glorious hair and see if she could measure up to his dream. Already he could feel his body responding, his pulse leaping, his loins quickening in prelude to a chase as old as time. But he had never wanted any woman as swiftly or with as much certainty as he did this one.

She felt it, too. He measured her awareness in the widening of her eyes, the soft gasp that seemed to fill the room with possibilities. What would she do? Scream? Faint? Throw herself at him and fulfill their unspoken fantasy?

“Aiken has returned with the food,” Drusa called up the stairs. “I’ll bring it up directly.”

Linnet started, shattering the moment. Her cheeks turned bright red, and her eyes filled with such confusion Simon knew she was new to this. Perhaps even a maiden.

The notion heightened his turmoil, the craving for her warring with the need to protect her. He knew he could not be alone with her in this room and be certain he would not act on the desire that sizzled between them.

“We will come down, Drusa.” Simon smiled wryly and climbed to his feet. “There is a time for everything, they say. Our time will come.”

She ducked her head. “Perhaps it has come and gone.”

What an odd thing to say. Simon extended his arm. “Come, Linnet, we are both in need of food.” He started when she laid her hand on his arm, the tingle warming his flesh. How was it that this woman he had only just met excited him so?

Drusa and Aiken were waiting for them in the kitchen. A steaming bowl of stew sat in the middle of the table, flanked by bread, butter and a pitcher of ale.

“Drusa said Elinore would worry if I told her ye’d been hurt, so I said nothing,” Aiken remarked.

“Not even to Tilly?” Linnet asked.

Aiken’s expression turned sullen. “She was serving the sheriff and didn’t even see me.”

Linnet let go of Simon’s arm and sat on the nearest bench, but not before he had felt her shudder.

What had she done? He wondered again.

Drusa served up three bowls of stew and poured ale for all of them before joining Aiken across the table from Simon and Linnet. “How does it happen ye survived, Sir Simon?”

“It was God’s will, I would guess,” Simon replied. God’s will, a bit of luck and a lot of hard fighting.

“How did you come to be reported dead?” asked Linnet.

“Eat, and I will tell you.” Between bites of stew, Simon related the events leading up to Hugh’s capture and eventual transport to Acre, from whose stout prison they’d freed him.

“A miracle.” Linnet’s eyes shimmered with tears.

How compassionate she was to care so for a stranger, Simon thought, drawn to her even more strongly. Their gazes locked, and he felt the tension stir between them again.

“Did ye kill a host of the fiends?” Aiken asked, his eagerness typical of many who had sailed with Simon to the East.

Simon smiled faintly at Linnet and forced himself to look away. Unfortunately, the Crusade had been not only a dismal failure, but a living hell. Deplorable living conditions, temble weather, disease, lack of supplies, loneliness. These had taken more of a toll on the Crusaders than the infidels’ swords and arrows. “We killed our share,” he allowed.

Aiken’s lower lip came out. “Wish I could have trained to be a soldier instead of a spicier,” he grumbled. “Then Tilly wouldn’t look down her nose at me.”

“There are other girls in Durleigh,” Linnet said gently. “Girls who would realize that a successful apothecary can earn twenty times what a soldier would.”

“Lot ye know.” Aiken shoved back the bench he shared with Drusa, nearly toppling the woman.

Simon caught hold of Drusa’s hand to steady her and glared up at Aiken. “Courtesy to others, especially women, is one of the first duties a knight learns.”

Aiken paled. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I am sure ye didn’t,” Drusa said hastily.

“Sit, then, lad, and I will tell you of the wonders I saw while in the Holy Land.”

“Tilly would certainly be impressed,” said Linnet.

Aiken sat and listened eagerly, but it was to Linnet that Simon spoke as he spun tales of sailing ships and cities with gold-domed buildings, of endless deserts and towering palms, strange people and even stranger animals. Time drifted away until he suddenly realized that Linnet’s face had gone pale and dark smudges rimmed her eyes. “You are tired.”

“It is fascinating.”

“Nonetheless, I should go.” He stood slowly, reluctant to leave the cozy kitchen and the woman who intrigued him more with each passing moment.

She rose beside him. “Have you some place to stay?”

“The Royal Oak.” He grinned down at her, thinking how small she was—her head came to the center of his chest. And how close, only a foot separating them. His body hummed with the desire to take the single step that would bring them together. He relished the ache, for it had been a long time since he had felt passion stir this sharply, other than in his special dream.

“Sir Nicholas and Sir Guy, two of my fellow Crusaders, went to the inn earlier to reserve a room. They are likely wondering what’s become of me.” Still he could not look away from her.

“Come, Aiken,” said Drusa. “It’s time we were settling in, too. Go through to the shop and make certain all is locked.”

Linnet nibbled on her lower lip, her eyes eloquent. “Let me give you a torch to light the way, Sir Simon.” She lit a pitch-tipped pole in the coals and handed it to him. Stepping outside with him, she pointed the way. “The path is over there and leads through the hedge to the inn’s backyard.” She sounded as breathless as he felt.

Knowing he should not touch her, but unable to help himself, Simon put his hand under her chin and lifted it. “Linnet. I would like to call upon you again.”

“Oh, I would like that above all things.” She smiled.

“Tomorrow, then.” He lowered his head, just to brush her lips with his, but the moment they touched, he was lost. Her mouth was so soft it seemed to melt beneath his. Groaning, Simon slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her neck as he deepened the kiss.

She responded so sweetly, her hands coming up to clutch at his tunic as she followed where he led. Her throaty moans set his blood afire, but when he slipped his tongue inside to explore her more thoroughly, she started and drew back.

“Easy.” Simon lifted his head but kept his hand on her nape, soothing her slender neck with his thumb. “I would never hurt or force you.”

Her chuckle was unsteady, and she leaned her forehead into his chest. “I am afraid it would not be force.”

Simon groaned and closed his eyes, praying for strength. “You should not tell me that.”

“Why?”

He looked down to find his features reflected in her wide, passion-hazed eyes.

“Because, I do not trust myself to guard your innocence.”

Pain flickered in her eyes. Or was it a trick of the half light? “Perhaps I am not as innocent as you think.”

Simon smiled indulgently, pleased that she wanted him enough to lie about her experience. “I will be back tomorrow.” He guided her to the door, bade her lock it and stayed until he heard the bar drop. Then he went off to the inn, his step lighter than when he’d left the bishop.

Linnet sagged against the door frame, her knees still weak, her body trembling from the force of her reaction to Simon.

“The Lord does work in miraculous ways,” Drusa said as she bustled about putting away the remains of their meal.

Linnet straightened and tried to calm her raging emotions. “Aye, it is a miracle six of Durleigh’s Crusaders returned.”

“To be sure I’ll give thanks when I go to the cathedral for mass. That he should be one of them is the true miracle.”

“What do you mean?” Linnet had never discussed Simon with anyone except her mother and Thurstan.

“Yer mama said ye were taken with him.”

If you only knew. “He was unaware of my interest in him then,” Linnet said primly. Why should he have noticed? They had never met face-to-face or spoken a word until he had stumbled out of the darkness and rescued her from Hamel’s unwanted attentions.

Drusa cocked her gray head. “Well, I’ve seen the way he looks at ye. My Reggie used to watch me so when we were courting, like he couldn’t wait to get me off in some shadowy corner and steal a kiss.”

“I do not know what you mean,” Linnet said airily. But the memory of the kiss made her cheeks burn and her lips tingle.

Drusa chuckled. “Ye cannot fool me, dearling. I’ve served this house since ye were born, and I know ye inside and out.”

Linnet’s smile dimmed. There was one thing Drusa did not know. Nor did Simon. She felt something akin to relief wash through her. If he recalled nothing, then perhaps she would not have to confess that their loving had produced consequences.

Consequences. What a cold, inadequate way to describe something at once so terrible and so wonderful it had marked her forever. If only she had been stronger….

Do not think of it, for that way lay madness.

“This was but an accidental meeting. He may not return.”

“Oh, he’ll be back.” Drusa grinned. “Now, off to bed with ye. We cannot have ye all hollow-eyed when he comes calling.”

Linnet just shook her head, but she climbed the stairs and readied for bed with a lighter heart than she had in years.

Simon was alive. Simon was back.

Suddenly the future did not seem so bleak and lonely. She was just pulling on her nightshift when she remembered Thurstan. How could she have been so selfish not to have thought of him sooner? He would be overjoyed to discover Simon was alive. First thing tomorrow, she must go to the cathedral and tell him.

That decided, Linnet knelt beside her bed, crossed herself and prayed to a God she had almost ceased to believe in when word of Simon’s death had come. She begged forgiveness for that, thanked the Lord most fervently for sparing Simon, and added a plea that the return of his son would lift Thurstan’s spirits.

Lastly, she prayed for the well-being of the babe she and Simon had made that long-ago night.

The babe she had given away.

Linnet shuddered as the pain lanced through her, followed by a wave of longing so sharp it made her moan. If only she could hold her baby daughter for just a moment. But she did not even know where the baby was. Thurstan had assured her the babe was not only loved and accepted in the home he had found for her, she would not bear the stain of bastardy. That alone had given Linnet the courage to give her up. But knowing her daughter was better off did not still the ache in her heart.

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.