The Champion

“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.