The Champion. Suzanne Barclay
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He was clad in a faded gray tabard. And on the left shoulder was embroidered a black rose.
The emblem of Durleigh’s Crusaders. But they were dead.
Thurstan gaped at the intruder, a tall, broad-chested man with shoulder-length black hair. His face was partially hidden in the shadows, but Thurstan knew that face.
Simon. Dieu!
Now he was hallucinating. Thurstan sank into his chair and covered his face with his hands. “Go away, specter,” he pleaded.
“Not till I know the truth. Are you my sire?” growled the apparition. The floor seemed to shake as he advanced.
I must be dead, Thurstan thought. Dead and gone straight to hell. “Aye. I did sire you,” he muttered.
“Why did you never tell me what I was to you?”
“I had no choice,” Thurstan whispered.
“Was my mother so foul a creature?”
“Nay. Never that.” Thurstan looked up and found the creature standing across the table from him. He looked so real, the stubble on his cheeks, the anguish in his eyes. They were green, like Rosalynd’s, but with a hint of his own gray, and ablaze with emotions too painful to endure. Thurstan looked away. “She was an angel, your mother.”
“Then why?” A fist struck the table, rattling writing implements and making the candlelight dance.
Gasping, Thurstan sat bolt upright. “What manner of visitation is this?” he asked brokenly.
“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