The Champion

“A long overdue one, I should say.” The eyes went cold and hard. “Brother Martin contracted a fever and died in Damietta. I sat with him during his last hours, and he did confess to me that you were my sire.” He leaned closer, his breath warming Thurstan’s icy flesh. “Why was the truth kept from me?”

Thurstan blinked. “You are alive.”

“Aye. A fact that no doubt displeases you. Were you hoping that your mistake would be lost in the Holy Land?”

“It is a miracle “ Thurstan had never put much faith in them. Nor in prayers either, for his own had gone unanswered until now, but this was surely a miracle.

“A strong sword arm saved me, not divine intervention.” Simon’s lip curled. “I survived with but one thought, to return here and accuse you of these crimes to your face. Perhaps you sent Brother Martin to make certain I did not return.”

“Why would I want you dead?” Thurstan cried.

“Obviously I am an embarrassment to you, else you would have acknowledged me years ago.”

“There were reasons.”

“So you say.”

“It is the truth.”

Simon waved the declaration away. “You would not know the truth if it bit you in your holy arse. For years I watched you manipulate others to your will. Half the men who went on Crusade did so because you blackmailed them into going so you could swell the ranks you sent in answer to the Pope’s cry for help. A stepping-stone on your way to becoming archbishop, perhaps. You walk in their blood,” Simon growled. “For that and for what you did to me, I despise you.”

“You do not understand.”

“I understand that I hate you, above all men.” Simon’s eyes narrowed. “You wanted to keep our relationship secret, and I agree. I have no wish for anyone to know that your blood flows in my veins. There is but one thing I want from you. I would know who my mother was.”

“I cannot tell you,” Thurstan mumbled, bound by a vow that had been forced upon him long ago.

“Then I will find out for myself.”

“Nay.” Desperation propelled Thurstan to his feet. He swayed, gripped the desk as white-hot pain lanced through his belly. A reminder he was dying. Terror gripped him even as the pain receded. Whoever was killing him might transfer his hatred or greed or whatever drove him to Simon. Until he knew who the murderer was, Simon was not safe. Thurstan studied the dear face he had not expected to see again in this life. Dieu, he wanted to hold the boy, if only for a moment. Instead, he steeled himself for the task ahead. “You must leave, for I am expecting an important visitor.” The lie was a small smudge on his already blackened soul. What mattered was getting rid of Simon before someone saw him, or worse, overheard.

Simon straightened. “I want her name. Doubtless you have left the poor woman destitute.”

“She is dead,” Thurstan said quickly, desperately.

“You lie. She lives, and I will know where.”

“I cannot tell you. Go,” he cried. “We will speak of this another time.” He had much to do, a killer to unmask, an inheritance charter to amend, and little time remaining.

Simon stiffened as though the words had been a sharp slap. “If I go, I will not return.”

“That is your choice,” Thurstan said, his heart aching.

Simon turned toward the door, his black woolen cape swirling softly. Then he paused and looked back. His rigid stance and unrelenting expression reminded Thurstan of his own father. Aye, there was much of Robert de Lyndhurst in his grandson. Simon would not forget a slight or forgive an injury. “I am staying at the Royal Oak Inn. Send word to me there of my mother’s name and whereabouts. If I have not heard from you by this time tomorrow, I will investigate on my own.”

The slamming of the door echoed through the room with dreadful finality.

Thurstan sank into his chair, the ache in his heart sharper than the pain in his gut and limbs. Simon hated him. It was the final, cruel irony.

Dimly Thurstan heard the horn sounding the second call to sup. Brother Oliver would come looking for him if he did not appear soon. Indeed, a slight creak signaled the opening of the door into his secretary’s small chamber.

“Oh, Thurstan.”

Thurstan opened his eyes to see Linnet rushing toward him across the room. “My dear.” He managed to sit forward, though it cost him dearly. “You should not be here.”

“I know.” She knelt at his feet and took his cold hands in her warm ones. “I know it will cause you problems if the archdeacon finds I’ve been here.”

“It is your reputation I fear for.” He squeezed her hands and looked into unusual whiskey-colored eyes. So warm, so filled with compassion a man could get lost in them.

“Your color seems better this evening,” she said, smiling.

Simon is alive. The words hovered on Thurstan’s tongue, but he held them back. It wasn’t safe. “The warmer weather helps.”

Her smile faded; her grip on him tightened. “Thurstan, I fear this is no ordinary sickness. I think it is poison.”

“Poison?” He forced a laugh. She must not suspect, must not voice her suspicions until he knew who the poisoner was.

“Aconite. Monkshood—you will remember I gave you some for your rose gardens. I read about it in an old herbal, and the symptoms of monkshood poisoning are similar to yours.”

So, at least he knew what was killing him. “I’ve heard it kills, not sickens.”

“In small quantities, it would bring pain such as yours.”

“No one is poisoning me, my dear. You must not think—”

The corridor door opened, and Oliver peered around it. “My lord, your guests await in the—” His plain-as-pudding face twisted into a frown. “What is she doing here, my lord?”

Linnet stood and shook out her skirts. “I had to come and see how my lord bishop fared.”

Oliver sniffed. “He has myself and Brother Anselme to look after his health.” Of Thurstan, he asked, “Are you well enough to go below and dine?”

Nay, he was not. But Robert de Lyndhurst had raised no weaklings. Never let your enemies see you are vulnerable. “Tell them I will be down directly.” But for how long could he continue? As the door closed behind Oliver, Thurstan’s eyes fell on the journal. What if he collapsed, and it fell into the wrong hands? Partly his concern was for the townsfolk whose sins he had sinned in recording…and in using against them. Mostly, it was for the document concealed behind the front cover of the journal. The charter, granting Simon the manor of Blackstone Heath. Thurstan had purchased the estate to give to Simon after his knighting, but the boy had promptly pledged himself to the Crusade. And died.

Thurstan had still been reeling from the horrible news when his youngest half sister, Odeline, and her son had arrived. Her scandalous antics had resulted in her being exiled from court. If Thurstan did not provide for her, Odeline had cried, she and Jevan would starve. Not wanting that on his conscience, too, Thurstan had taken them both in. He’d also amended the charter, granting Blackstone to Jevan, provided he completed his studies at the cathedral school.-The boy was as vain and spoiled as his mother and no student, but Thurstan had hoped that the discipline would turn Jevan into a capable overlord.

Now that Simon was back, the charter must be changed again so that Blackstone would go to him. Another bit of land could be found for Jevan, or perhaps coin so he could buy—

“Thurstan…” Linnet’s eyes were filled with tears.

“Do not fret, my dear.” He managed to stand and found his legs steadier than expected. “I am feeling better.” Simon was alive, and Thurstan thought he knew what, if not who, was killing him. Hope fluttered in his chest for the first time in months. Directly after dinner, he would take the herbal brandy to Brother Anselme for examination. Perhaps ceasing to drink the stuff would be enough to save him. But the sense of impending doom did not lift. It moved over his skin like chilling fog—or a draft from the grave—making him tremble.

“Thurstan?” Her hand closed over his on the journal.

That damned journal with its dark secrets. “I want you to have this, my dear.” What better person to guard his secrets than the woman whose own transgression he had meticulously recorded within? After all, her life was intricately connected with Simon’s. With luck, the two of them might find the happiness that had eluded him and Rosalynd. “My favorite prayers are within.”

“Thank you.” She clasped the book to her breast. “But I am afraid for you. For your soul. I would help you.”

“You have helped, more than you know, but you must leave now, before Archdeacon Crispin comes looking for me and finds you here. Will you close the window on your way out?”