Читать книгу The Champion - Suzanne Barclay - Страница 9

Someone was following her.

The realization pierced the fog of misery that had enveloped Linnet Especer since leaving Thurstan.

Night had fallen while she’d been with Thurstan. The lights from the cathedral and the bishop’s palace winked back at her, islands of light in the darkness, promising a safe haven. Yet she dared not return. Archdeacon Crispin heartily disapproved of her relationship with Thurstan, and, since the bishop’s decline, he had become more vocal in voicing it. Not that she cared what the archdeacon thought of her, but his accusations sullied the good name of a man who was, to her, nearly a saint.

There! A shadow drifted down the path from the palace, cloak billowing in the light evening breeze. One of the archdeacon’s spies, she thought in annoyance. Yet he was tall and moved with more purpose than any monk. As his cloak shifted again, she caught the glint of light on metal. A sword.

The sheriff?

The notion that Hamel Roxby might be after her quickened Linnet’s pulse and deepened her fear. Her closeness with Thurstan had kept the sheriff from pressing his unwanted attentions on her. But maybe Hamel had noted the bishop’s growing weakness and thought to take advantage of her.

Her heart in her throat, Linnet rushed out through the stone gates of the cathedral courtyard and onto the Deangate. The street was nearly deserted, free of the pilgrims and worshipers who flocked to the cathedral by day. The most direct route back to her shop was along Colliergate where the charcoal burners plied their trade and thence across town to Spicier’s Lane. But it was also the least trafficked in the evening.

So she darted along Deangate and into the center of Durleigh. The scent of freshly baked bread rolled over her as she rounded the corner onto Blake Street. The narrow thoroughfare was not crowded, but there were enough people hurrying in and out of the bakeshops lining it to make her feel a bit more comfortable. And the light from the open shop doors made her less afraid. Halfway down the street, she glanced back, hoping she had been wrong about her pursuer.

Nay, there he was, just entering Blake, a head taller than those around him, his stride measured but purposeful. The way he moved, seeming to slide from one group of people to the next, sent a shiver of fear down her spine. He used them for cover as a fox might use stands of brush when sneaking up on a rabbit.

Linnet did what any rabbit would do. She jumped down the nearest alleyway. Durleigh had been her home from infancy, and even in the dark she knew every twist and turn that would take her home. The Guildhall sat on the corner of High Gate and New Street, an imposing stone-and-timbered building, testament to the wealth of Durleigh’s tradesmen. Day or evening, the hall was usually abustle with activity. Tonight was no exception.

Torches lined the front of the building, flickering in the wind, sending light and shadow over the clerks hurrying home for the day and paunchy merchants arriving for some supper. Many of them were known to her, but none would have aided her against the sheriff, either out of fear or because they believed she was Thurstan’s mistress and reviled her for that.

Linnet lingered in the alley long enough to remove her cloak and fashion it into a bundle with the prayer book inside. She loosened her long, tawny braids, shook her hair free and pulled it about her face. As disguises go, it was not much, but if Hamel were indeed following her, he’d be looking for a cloaked woman, not the laundress she hopefully resembled.

Emerging from the alley, Linnet fell into step with a pair of clerks who were heading south on High Gate. She dared not look back to see if Hamel followed for fear of dislodging her flimsy disguise. Her nape prickled, and an icy chill ran down her spine. With every step she took, she expected to be grabbed and spun about to face her longtime nemesis. But she walked on unmolested, past the market square.

When they came abreast of the Royal Oak Inn, Linnet breathed a sigh of relief. Here, at least, she could count on aid. Bidding a silent thanks to the clerks, she slipped around to the kitchen of the tavern. With trembling fingers, she rebraided her hair as best she could, then pushed open the door. Light and the scent of richly spiced food spilled out, welcoming her.

Across the kitchen, Elinore Selwyne looked up from ladling stew into wooden bowls. “Linnet. Whatever are you doing here at this time of night?”

“I—I was passing,” Linnet said breathlessly.

Elinore frowned, her sharp eyes scanning Linnet from head to toe. “What is it? What is wrong?”

Conscious of how harried she must look, Linnet opened her mouth to explain, then noticed the maid loitering in the far doorway. Short and curvaceous, Tilly had sly brown eyes and a nose for gossip. Linnet’s apprentice, Aiken, fancied Tilly, but the maid had eyes only for the sheriff. It was rumored she’d been seen frequenting his small house near the market square.

“I am hungry is all,” Linnet said, biding her time.

“I see.” And Elinore likely did. Older than Linnet by a dozen years, she had inherited the inn from her father and now ran it with the help of her husband, Warin. Elinore’s tart tongue and keen head for business belied her kind heart. When Linnet’s father died the year before, Elinore had taken Linnet under her wing. She had offered comfort, support and advice when Thurstan’s intercession with the guild paved the way for Linnet to take over the apothecary. “Aiken has already been here to collect supper for your household, but you’d best stay here and eat. I have no doubt he and Drusa have gobbled down the lot.”

Linnet managed a smile. Both her apprentice and her elderly maidservant had prodigious appetites. “I appreciate your offer.” Heart in turmoil, she set her cloak down on the floor beside the door and waited while Elinore finished filling the bowls.

The tavern kitchen was small, but neat and efficiently run by the plump, pretty Elinore. A brick hearth tall enough to stand in filled the far end of the room. Inside it, a toothed rack supported two massive cauldrons for cooking. Before it sat the long plank worktable where the food was prepared, flanked by two chests, one for cooking implements, the other for spices. Shelves on the far wall held wooden bowls, horn spoons and platters for serving the broken meats, bread and cheese.

“Serve that quick before it gets cold,” Elinore admonished, shooing Tilly out the door. “Now…” She advanced on Linnet, blue eyes steely. “Whatever has happened? You look all afright. Your hair is half undone, your eyes wild as a harried fox’s.”

“Nothing.” Linnet’s lips trembled, and tears filled her eyes, making Elinore’s lined face blur.

“Come. Sit down.” Elinore wrapped an arm around her waist and led her to the bench beside the table.

Linnet sank down. “I—I fear the bishop is dying.”

“Dying.” Elinore crossed herself. “What is it now?”

Poison. But Linnet dared not voice her suspicions, even to her dearest friend. She did not want anyone to guess, as she had, that the bishop was killing himself out of grief. She, too, had mourned when Simon was reported dead. And Thurstan’s grief was all the sharper because he felt he’d failed Simon in life.

Six months had not dulled the anguish of Simon’s passing for her, though she had never been his, not really. She had admired him from afar for years, but had only gotten close to him once. The night before the Crusaders left Durleigh. That single, brief encounter had changed her life forever. She mourned him deeply. It seemed impossible that so bright and vibrant a soul as Simon’s had been snuffed out.

“The tonic you took the bishop last week did not help?”

Linnet shook her head, fighting back her tears. If she let them fall, she feared she’d never stop crying. For Thurstan. For Simon. And for another life, lost to her, too.

“He has not been well since last autumn when word came that the Crusaders had died.” Elinore patted her hand. “One and fifty is not such a great age, but when the heart weakens…”

Or when it ceases to hope. Linnet sighed. “I fear you are right, but it hurts so to see him in such pain and be unable to help.” There was no antidote for monkshood, but if she could find his supply and destroy it, perhaps she could save him.

“Your friendship has eased him and brought him joy.” Elinore frowned. “But it has sullied your reputation, my dear.”

“I do not care what others think of me.”

“Not now, but when he is gone,” Elinore said delicately, “those whose tongues were stayed by the bishop’s power may speak out against you.”

“Their words cannot harm me.”

“They might if they cost you custom or your place in the guild,” said practical Elinore. “And then there is the matter of Sheriff Hamel’s persistent interest in you.”

“Aye.” Linnet shivered. “Why can he not leave me alone? I have said time and again that I want nothing to do with him.”

“Silly girl, you know little of men if you ask that.”

Indeed. She had known only one man, and him so briefly.

“Men are hunters who revel in the chase. To Hamel you are a challenge. If he caught you, he might well abandon you the next day and never bother you again.”

Elinore’s words ripped open an old wound. Simon had taken Linnet’s innocence that warm spring night and looked straight through her the next morn when the Crusaders left Durleigh for the East. Nay, he had not done it out of meanness. Logically she knew darkness and drink had likely fogged his memory. After all, Simon had-been unaware of her existence, while she had mooned over him for some time. Fate had thrown them together for that brief, passionate interlude in the dark stables. Shame had driven her to creep off while he still slept. So it was her own fault if he did not know with whom he had lain that night.

“Well, I will not give in to Hamel,” Linnet said. Though Simon was gone, she could not sully the memory of their loving by giving herself to another. And then there was the other, the greater sin that weighed on her conscience. She had already betrayed Simon once by giving away his most precious gift.

“No woman should be forced to endure someone she dislikes. I am only saying that you must be prepared. If God does see fit to take our good bishop, Hamel may pursue you.”

“I fear it has begun already.” She told Elinore of the tall man who had trailed her from the cathedral.

“Well, that explains why you looked like a hunted thing when you bounded in the door. Let me give you a room here.” Elinore had made a similar offer when Linnet’s father died.

“I hate to leave Drusa and Aiken alone.”

“Bring them here. He can sleep here in the kitchen, and she can have a pallet in your room.”

“I do not know.” Linnet twisted her hands together. “To leave the shop and my spices unguarded does not seem wise.”

“It is just through the back lane,” Elinore said. “I can have one of our serving lads sleep there if it would ease you.”

“Thank you, Elinore, you are a dear friend to try to protect me, but, if worse comes to worse, I would not want you to fall afoul of Hamel on my account.”

A soft gasp warned they were no longer alone. Tilly stood in the doorway, her eyes alight with speculation.

“What mean you sneaking in here?” Elinore demanded.

Tilly sniffed. “I didn’t sneak, mistress. I’ve come after four more bowls of stew. For the sheriff and his men.”

“The sheriff is here?” Linnet cried.

“Aye. He said he likes the food—” Tilly smiled provocatively “—and the service.”

Linnet waited to hear no more, but rose and headed for the outside door with Elinore close on her heels.

“Stay. It’ll be safer here,” Elinore whispered.

“Nay.” Linnet grabbed up her bundle. “I had best get back to the shop.” She dashed out the door with Elinore’s warning to take care ringing in her ears.

Behind the Royal Oak was a modest-size stable and beside it, the privy. A narrow lane cut through the grassy backyard and disappeared into a thick hedge. The lane led clear

through to the back door of the apothecary. Here there were no lights to guide the way, but Linnet knew it well enough. She ran, the cloak clutched tight against her chest. Just as she cleared the hedge, she ran headlong into something warm and hard as rock.

She bounced off and flew backward, striking her head as she went down and driving the air from her lungs.

“Are you all right?” inquired a low male voice.

Linnet whimpered, more from fear than pain. She tried to move, but her limbs only twitched, and a gray mist obscured her vision.

“Easy.” Large hands gripped her shoulders, stilling her struggles. “Lie still till I make certain nothing is broken.”

The voice was hauntingly familiar.

Blinking furiously, Linnet made out a figure hunched over her. His hair and clothing blended with the gloom so his face seemed to float above her.

Simon of Blackstone’s face.

“Sweet Mary, I have died,” Linnet whispered.

A dry chuckle greeted her statement. “I think not, though doubtless you will be bruised come morn. I am sorry I did not see you coming.” Dimly she was aware of gentle pokes and prods as he examined her arms and legs. “I do not think anything is broken.” He sat back on his haunches. “Can you move your limbs?”

“Simon?” Linnet murmured.

He cocked his head. “You know who I am?”

“But…you perished in the Holy Land….”

“Nay, though I came right close on a few occasions.”

Joy pulsed through her, so intense it brought fresh tears to eyes that had cried a river for him.

He leaned closer, his jaw stubbled, his eyes shadowed by their sockets. “Do I know you?”

A laugh bubbled in her throat, wild and a bit hysterical. She cut it off with a sob. She had been right. He did not even remember her or their wondrous moment together. “Nay.”

“Curse me for a fool. You’ve hit your head, and here I leave you lying on the cold ground. Where do you live?”

“Just yonder in the next street.”

He nodded, and before she could guess what he planned, scooped her up, bundle and all, and stood.

The feel of his arms around her opened a floodgate of poignant memories. “Please, put me down.”

“Nay, it is better I carry you till we can be certain you are not seriously hurt.”

So gallant. But his nearness made her weak with longing, and she feared she might say something stupid. “I am not hurt.”

“You are dazed and cannot judge.”

“I can so. I am an apothecary.”

“I see.” His teeth flashed white in the gloom as he smiled. Though she couldn’t see it, she knew there’d be a dimple in his right cheek. “I should have guessed, for you smell so sweet.” He sniffed her hair. “Ah, roses. I thought longingly of them when I was away on Crusade.”

She had always worn this scent. “Did they remind you of a girl you had left behind?” she asked softly, hopefully.

“Nay.” His eyes took on a faraway look, then he shook his head. “Nothing like that. I have no sweetheart and never have.”

Linnet’s eyes prickled. “Please put me down.”

“You are stubborn into the bargain, my rose-scented apothecary,” he teased. “But I am, too. Which way is home?”

Linnet sighed and pointed at her shop. It was heaven to be carried by him, to feel his heart beat against her side. If he had dreamed of roses, she had dreamed of this. She looked up, scarcely able to believe this was not some fevered imagining, but the warmth of his body enveloping her as it had long ago.

All too soon they reached the back of her shop.

“Will someone be within?” he asked.

Shaken from her reverie, Linnet nodded. “My maid.”

Simon kicked at the door with his toe.

“Who is there?” Drusa called out.

“It is I, Drusa,” Linnet said, but the voice seemed too weak and breathless to be her own.

Nonetheless, the bar scraped as the maid lifted it, then flung open the heavy door.

“Oh, mistress, I was that wor—” Drusa gasped and fell back a step, one hand pressed to her ample bosom, her lined face going white as flour.

“Fear not,” said Simon gently. “Your mistress has taken a tumble and hit her head. Where can I lay her down?”

Drusa, not the most nimble-witted soul, goggled at them.

Aiken appeared behind her. “What is this? Mistress Linnet!”

“I…” Linnet’s wits seemed to have deserted her.

“Your mistress has hit her head. Direct me to her bedchamber, lad,” Simon said firmly but not sharply. “Drusa, we will want water for washing, a cloth and ale if you have it.”

Used to following orders, Drusa spun from the door, hurried across the kitchen and began gathering what he’d requested.

Aiken scowled. “Ain’t fitting for ye to go above stairs.”

“Aiken…” Linnet began, her head pounding in earnest now. “Pray excuse his rudeness, sir. He was Papa’s apprentice, and with my father gone, sees himself as protector of our household.”

Simon nodded. “Your caution and concern for your lady do you credit; Aiken.” His voice held a hint of suppressed amusement. “But these are unusual circumstances and I am no stranger. I am Simon of Blackstone, a Knight of the Black Rose, newly returned from—”

“They said ye all died!” Aiken exclaimed.

Simon smiled. “Only six of us survived to return home.” The smile dimmed, and profound sadness filled his eyes.

Linnet’s heart contracted, thinking of the hardships he must have endured. But he was back, alive.

Aiken grunted. “I suppose it’s all right, then.” He led the way through the kitchen and into the workroom beyond. “Those stairs go up to the second floor.”

“Will you light the way?” Simon asked.

Aiken grunted again, seized the thick tallow candle from the worktable and tromped up the stairs.

Simon followed.

“I can walk,” Linnet whispered.

“Not till we’ve made certain you are not seriously hurt.” Simon took the narrow stairs carefully so as not to bump her head. They opened into the room that served her as counting room, withdrawing room and bedchamber. He hesitated a moment, then headed for the big, canopied bed.

“Nay, the chair,” Linnet murmured. The thought of him laying her down in the bed where she’d woven so many dreams was intolerable. “Else Aiken will surely think the worst.”

Simon chuckled, a deep rich sound that made her pulse leap, and deposited her in the high-backed chair by the hearth. “Could you build up the fire and bring more candles, Aiken?” he asked.

“I’ll go down and get more wood directly,” the boy replied, his expression respectful now instead of wary. Apparently Crusader knights were to be trusted.

“There are candles in that box on the mantel,” Linnet said as Aiken hurried off.

Simon turned away, selected one and lit it on the tallow.

“I am sorry to be so much trouble,” Linnet said. “If I had been looking where I was going I…” The words died in her throat as the candle flared, illuminating Simon’s face.

His face was leaner than she remembered, the stubble on his cheeks and squared jaw hiding the cleft in his chin. His eyes, too, were changed, the ghosts of turbulent emotions swirling in gray-green pools that had once danced with humor. The mouth that had kissed her with such devastating thoroughness years ago was now drawn in a somber line.

“Who were you running from?” he asked.

Linnet opened her mouth to reply, then recalled the long-ago enmity between Simon and Hamel. That night Simon had come out of the darkness to save her, which had ended in disaster. She was not involving him again. “I was not running, I—”

“You fled as though some evil demon pursued you.”

“Nay, I was not” Linnet lifted her chin, but could not meet those piercing green eyes.

Aiken emerged from the stairwell cradling two logs in his arms. He stopped and glanced at them. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Linnet said quickly, glaring at Simon.

Aiken shambled over, added the logs to the banked coals and blew them into life. Apparently unaware of the tension between them, he stood. “How is she, Sir Simon?”

“Stubborn,” Simon growled.

“She did not break anything, then?”

“Certainly not her spirit.”

“I am fine,” Linnet grumbled.

“Drusa thinks ‘twas hunger made ye fall.”

Simon frowned. “You have not eaten?”

“I was just on my way home to sup when we, er, met.”

“Hmm.” Aiken shuffled his feet. “There is not much left, but I could run down the lane and fetch something from the tavern. The Royal Oak,” he added, looking at Simon, “lies just behind us. Their fare’s the finest in Durleigh.”

Simon nodded, his gaze resting on Linnet’s face. “So I recalled. I was on my way to meet friends there.”

“Well, we will not detain you longer.” Much as she craved his company, Linnet knew it was not wise to be around him. He was alive, and that changed so much. Guilt mingled with her joy.

“I have not eaten, either.” Simon stroked his chin, his eyes fixed on her face. “If it would not be trouble to fetch food for two, I will pay for it.”

“Nonsense,” Linnet exclaimed. “I can pay—”

“I owe you for the fall you took.”

Nay, I owe you. But there was no going back. No changing what she had been forced to do. “Very well,” Linnet said. Pray God this is not another mistake.

“Brother Oliver, if my lord bishop is not well enough to join us, we will certainly understand,” said Archdeacon Crispin silkily. He and the prior were seated at the long table in the bishop’s great hall, to the right and left of Thurstan’s chair.

A chair either man would have sold his soul to occupy, Crispin mused. But when the time came to name Thurstan’s successor, Crispin was confident he would be chosen. Walter de Folke was, after all, of inferior stock, being half Saxon. And the prior was nearly as corrupt and manipulative as Bishop Thurstan. What the good folk of Durleigh needed was a stern hand to guide them, a religious leader who thought more of their souls than their trade and prosperity.

“The bishop bade me apologize for his tardiness, but a matter arose that required his immediate attention.”

“Indeed?” Crispin sniffed and regarded Brother Oliver with a level gaze that made the little toad squirm beneath his robes. The secretary was cut from the same flawed cloth as the master he served so zealously. When he was bishop, Crispin meant to name Brother Gerard as his assistant. He and Gerard had been together since entering the priesthood and agreed on the importance of piety, chastity and poverty, three tenets that were totally disregarded at Durleigh Cathedral.

But not for much longer, Crispin thought. The bishop grew weaker by the day. He could not last another month. And then—

“My lords!” Lady Odeline burst into the hall, her face white as new snow, her eyes wide with horror.

Crispin raked his eyes over the lush figure so scandalously displayed by her tight, low-cut gown. Her presence in the bishop’s residence was an affront to all that was decent. Since her coming, the confessionals had been crowded with clerics and students tainted with the sin of lust. “What is it?”

“My brother…he…” She clasped a hand to her heaving breasts.

“The bishop is ill?” Crispin was on his feet at once.

Odeline’s perfect chin wobbled. “He…he collapsed.”

Ah, joy. Crispin schooled his features to reveal none of the excitement that coursed through his veins. “Is he…dead?”

“Nay. He is breathing,” Odeline cned. “But so still—”

Brother Oliver exclaimed in dismay, charged across the room and pushed past her. “Fetch Brother Anselme,” he shouted.

“Of course.” Crispin turned to send Gerard on that errand…slowly, of course. But the spot to his left was empty, and he recalled having set Gerard to watch in case Linnet should defy his orders and try to see the bishop.

“Go for the infirmarer,” said Prior Walter to the young cleric who attended him.

“Thank you, brother.” Crispin looked into the prior’s cold, measuring eyes and felt a chill move down his spine.

He cannot know anything. But the words brought scant comfort. “Come, we must attend our fallen bishop.” Even as he swept from the room, Crispin was conscious of the prior’s measured tread at his heels. Drat, what ill luck that the sharpeyed Walter should be here at this critical moment.

“Take care you do not trip on your hem,” Walter said softly as they mounted the steep, winding stairs.

“I am ever cautious,” Crispin replied, his agile mind already leaping ahead to the things that must be done. A funeral to arrange, letters to send to the archbishop at York…

Brother Oliver’s scream cut off his thoughts.

“Quickly, brother.” Walter pushed on his back, urging him up the stairs. Together they burst into the upper corridor and hustled the few steps to the bishop’s withdrawing room.

There, on the disgustingly flamboyant carpet sprawled the body of Bishop Thurstan, his limbs flung wide, his mouth contorted in anguish, his head resting in a pool of crimson blood.

Bile rose in Crispin’s throat. “Is he dead?”

Walter knelt beside the bishop, felt in the folds of his neck and looked up at Crispin. “Aye, he is.” Turning back, Walter began murmuring the prayers that would ease Thurstan’s soul into the hereafter.

Crispin sent his own prayer after it. I was not here and cannot be blamed for this. The words only marginally eased the burden on his conscience.