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“Trapped,” Simon whispered.
“Nay. There’s a door.” Hinges creaked, a draft of air eddied around them, smelling strongly of straw and horses.
“Stables?” he muttered.
“Aye. We can hide here.”
“Knights do not cower in—”
“Please. You cannot prevail against so many.”
“But…”
“I am so afraid.”
Simon could hear the terror in her voice and feel her trembling, though he could not see her face. “All right.”
Inside the stable it was pitch-dark. “We’ll be safer up in the loft,” whispered the woman. “There should be a ladder. Ah, here. Let me go first.”
Simon followed her up, one hand on the hem of her skirts. He reached the top and fell forward into the loft. His body came up against hers as they hit the straw.
“Thank you. I-if you had not come…” She shuddered
Simon drew her close. She was small and slender “You should have run off while we were fighting.”
“I could not leave you, not when he was besting you.”
“Bah, I could have taken him with a few blows had I not drunk half the ale in Durleigh.”
“Aye. You are so strong.” Her hands were on his chest, kneading. “Hold me,” she whispered
“I am.”
“Tighter. Hold me tighter.” She pressed against him, her breasts teasing him through the layers of their clothes.
“I will not let anything happen to you,” Simon murmured. Her hair smelled so good, like roses and woman. He buried his face in it and rolled so he covered her with his body. “How perfectly we are matched.”
“I knew it would be thus.”
Simon nodded, his mind too dizzy with ale and desire. “I have to touch you.” Her breasts were small and firm; her sigh when he caressed them tore at his control. He could think of only one thing, being inside her. He tore at the laces of his hose and levered himself over her.
“Simon,” she whispered, drawing him to her.
He groaned and sank into the most perfect bliss he had ever known, hot and tight and welcoming, her body closed around his. It was like coming home.
A sharp pounding shattered the dream.
Simon groaned and sat up, his breathing rough, his body hard as tempered stone.
“Open, I say.” The coarse voice came from below his window.
It took Simon a moment to recall he was not in the hayloft with his perfect lover, but in the room he’d taken last night at the Royal Oak. Moaning, he flopped back on the pillow and threw an arm over his eyes.
The dream again. He had had it the first time on the night before leaving for the Holy Land, waking hot, sweaty and half-dressed in a stable loft. The dream had reoccurred so many times since, that every aspect of it was engraved on his heart. Yet he could not see the woman’s face, or decide whether the encounter had been real or a figment of his alesoaked brain.
How odd that he, who had ever been cautious in his dealings with women, should dream that he had coupled with her only a short while after meeting her. Odder still, he had spent these past years searching for a flesh and blood woman who matched him as perfectly as his dream lover.
A fist collided with the door below. “Open, I say…”
Hinges creaked in protest. “What the hell is going on?” Simon recognized the voice of Warin Selwyne, the tavern owner.
“I am looking for a knight. Simon of Blackstone, they believe he’s called.”
“Who believes? And what do ye want him for, Bardolf?”
“None of yer business. My orders are to find him and bring him for questioning.”
Simon was already out of bed, his first thought that something had happened to Nicholas or Guy. When he’d arrived at the inn, he’d found a note from Guy saying he had followed Lord Edmund to London. Nicholas had not been at the inn, either, but one of the maids recalled seeing him go off with a comely woman soon after he’d arrived.
“What is this about?” Warin grumbled.
“Sheriffs business. Will ye tell me if he’s here, or do I have to come in and look for meself?”
Simon opened the hide shutters and looked down on the confrontation between Warin and a large man with lank brown hair and ill-fitting clothes. Behind him lounged two more thugs.
“I am Simon of Blackstone,” Simon called.
Bardolf tilted his head back, displaying an ugly face and close-set eyes. “Ye’re to come with me.”
“What for?”
“Questioning in the death of Bishop Thurstan. And don’t think to try to run out. I’ve got men watching the front.”
“Death?” Simon exclaimed. “He is dead?”
Archdeacon Crispin Norville sat behind Bishop Thurstan’s desk, a thin, austere man who managed to look down his beak of a nose at Simon standing before him. Flanking the archdeacon were Brother Oliver Deeks, and Prior Walter de Folke of York.
The archdeacon had already judged him guilty, Simon thought, dread piercing his earlier shock.
“Brother Oliver says you burst in upon the bishop last eve. What business did you have with him?” the archdeacon demanded.
Conscious of Bardolf lurking in the doorway, Simon chose his words with care. “I wanted to tell him that six of his Crusaders had returned.” Bardolf had hinted there was something suspicious about Thurstan’s death, but the under-sheriff had refused to say what. “Is it true the bishop is dead?”
The archdeacon waved away the question, his long fingers naked of rings. “Why did you not make an appointment?”
Simon’s nape prickled. As an orphan bastard, he had learned early on to sense trouble, and this luxurious room fairly reeked of it. “I understood that the bishop was upset by reports we had all died, and I was anxious to alleviate his grief.”
“Hmm.” The archdeacon steepled his soft, slender hands. He had sharp brown eyes and the manner of one who liked power. He and the manipulative Thurstan must have butted heads. “You came directly here, then, the moment you arrived.”
“I did.” Three years Simon had burned to confront Thurstan. He could not have waited a moment more. Now the answers to his questions would forever go unanswered. Thurstan was dead, and he could not begin to say how he felt about that. Later, when this interview was over he would think on it.
“Where are the other five knights?” asked the prior. He had the smug look of a frog about to snap up a fly, his eyes narrowed, his bald pate shimmering in the early morning light that streamed into the withdrawing room.
“Three returned to their homes. Two of them came as far as Durleigh with me, but they continued on about their business.” Simon missed them sorely. He would have welcomed Guy’s sage counsel, Nicholas’s easy charm and strong sword arm.
“Was the bishop pleased to see you?” the archdeacon asked.
Simon frowned. He had been caught up in his own anger and resentment Now that he thought on it, Thurstan’s initial reaction had been one of astonishment. Followed by joy when he realized Simon was not a spirit, but a real man. It shamed Simon that he had felt no pleasure in seeing Thurstan. “He was.”
“Oliver says he heard raised voices.”
The secretary hunched his shoulders and looked at the floor. He was short and pudgy, with a round face and eyes red-rimmed from crying. His soft woven robe seemed too fine for a priest, in sharp contrast with the archdeacon’s coarse wool and the prior’s simple linen. But it was Oliver’s reticent expression that piqued Simon’s interest.
Had Oliver heard something he should not? Perhaps a woman professing her love for Thurstan? Who was she? Simon wondered, the woman he had lost in the dark last night? “His Lordship cried out in surprise. He did at first think I was a spirit.”
Crispin brightened. “In devil’s guise?”
Simon saw that trap and sidestepped. “Nay. If I had died on Crusade, I would have been guaranteed entrance into heaven. After a moment the bishop realized I was, indeed, ahve. He may have exclaimed again at that.”
“He was well when you left him?” asked Prior Walter.
“Well?” Simon felt an unexpected pang of remorse. Nay, the bishop…he could not think of him as his father…had looked sickly and frail. “He seemed to have aged since last I saw him.”
“The bishop suffered a seizure when the Crusaders were reported lost,” Brother Oliver interjected. “But he insisted on continuing with his many duties.”
Simon knew what it was to carry on despite illness, but ignored the unwelcome spurt of sympathy for Thurstan. “How did he die?” he asked again, for this was all passing strange.
“He was struck on the head,” said the archdeacon.
Prior Walter shifted. “Brother Anselme, our infirmarer, is examining the bishop’s body and will shortly determine the cause of Bishop Thurstan’s death.”
“I gave orders that Brother Anselme prepare the body for immediate burial.” The archdeacon’s eyes flashed a warning. “And until the archbishop names a new bishop, I am in charge here.”
The prior’s smile was thin and deadly as drawn steel. “That is true, but I am here as His Grace’s legate. And, if it be determined that someone did kill Bishop Thurstan, His Grace will want the culprit apprehended, tried and punished.”
“That is why I question this knight,” Crispin growled.
Simon tensed, apprehension trickled across his skin. He was glad he had told no one, not even Linnet Especer, of his connection to Thurstan. “When did the bishop die?” he asked calmly.
“His body was found in this very room,” said the archdeacon. “Shortly after you departed the palace.”
The prickling in Simon’s neck increased. He could almost feel the noose tightening about it. If they knew he had spent the past three years hating Thurstan, he would be their prime suspect. “The bishop was alive when I left him.”
Crispin frowned. “Did anyone see you go?”
Dieu, he did not know. He had stormed out in a fit of temper, his vision obscured by a red veil of rage. “If Brother Oliver saw me enter, perhaps he saw me go.” He looked at the secretary, who had his chin buried in his chest. “The bishop said he was expecting someone, and indeed I heard a woman—”
“We know about that.” The archdeacon’s face twisted with intense dislike. “I had left orders she was not to be admitted to the palace, but Brother Oliver saw fit to disregard them.”
Brother Oliver’s eyes filled with tears. “I—I did not.”
“It was not Brother Oliver’s fault,” said a soft voice.
Simon whirled and gaped.
Linnet stood on the threshold, looking vastly neater but no less desirable than she had last night. Her glorious hair was pinned up and covered by a white linen cap. From beneath her gray cloak peeped a murrey-red gown. Her eyes, wide with dismay, were fastened on the archdeacon. She resembled a doe facing down an armed hunter. “Why are you sitting at Bishop Thurstan’s writing table, Reverend Father?”
The archdeacon leaped to his feet, his eyes blazing with hatred. “Harlot! How dare you question me? You will tell truly why you were here last night in defiance of my wishes.”
She flinched. “I came last night to see how he fared.” She looked about the room. “What has happened? Why are you all…?” Her eyes widened. “Sir Simon, what do you here?”
“You know him?” asked the prior.
“Aye.” Her eyes softened, and she smiled tremulously.
A queasy feeling stirred in Simon’s gut. His first instinct was to shield her from the rabid archdeacon. But there were dangerous currents here he did not understand. He did not want to be dragged down by them. “We met by chance last night.”
One of the priests who’d been huddled in the far end of the room stepped forward. “He followed her when she left.”
Followed her when she left. Simon started. She had been Thurstan’s last visitor?
“So.” The archdeacon’s eyebrows rose, and his mouth curved into a malicious smile. “Are you accomplices?”
“Accomplices…” Simon sputtered, aghast by the picture of Linnet forming in his mind. Was she the one he had heard profess her love for the bishop last night?
“Accomplices?” Linnet asked. “In what, pray tell?”
“In Bishop Thurstan’s death,” the archdeacon said bluntly.
“He…he is dead?” Linnet swayed, her eyes rolling back.
Instinct propelled Simon forward to scoop her up before she hit the floor. Cradling her in his arms as he had last night, he carried her to one of the high-backed chairs before the hearth. A vigorous fire crackled there, but the warmth did not penetrate the icy dread that had settled in Simon’s gut as he placed her in the chair and knelt beside it. “Linnet?” he murmured.
Her lashed lifted. “Thurstan is dead?” The whispered query held a wealth of pain. She looked so small and defenseless.
Simon was torn between the urge to comfort her and the need to demand she tell him what she was to Thurstan. Clearly cosseting her could only worsen their plight. Settling back on his heels, he nodded. “I have been told he is dead.”
“He had been so sick for so long,” she murmured. “But I prayed he would recover. Especially now that you have returned. ‘Twas what I came to tell him this morn, that you were alive.”
Did she know he was Thurstan’s son? A tremor of alarm iced Simon’s blood. Precarious as things were, he did not want her blurting it out. “Shh. Stay quiet.” He looked over his shoulder and saw the archdeacon lurking there. “She needs wine.”
Crispin raised one skeptical brow. “I think this harlot has ensnared you, too, with her wanton wiles.”
Too? Simon did not like the sounds of that at all. His skin crawled with apprehension. “We barely know each other.”
“You are solicitous for a stranger.” The archdeacon tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe, his expression watchful, vicious. Like a snake with a pair of cornered mice.
Simon stood, enjoying the way he towered over Crispin. “Knights are ever chivalrous of women.”
