The Champion. Suzanne Barclay

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