The Champion. Suzanne Barclay

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