nodded and stared at the woods. “I have seen that man before. At Durleigh Cathedral.”
“Simon, do not leap to conclusions,” Nicholas said. “The bishop could not have sent this thug to kill you. He did not know we were alive, much less likely to come this way.”
“Perhaps, but it makes me wonder what evils I will find in Durleigh,” Simon murmured.
Rob FitzHugh kept running until he reached the little hut where he and his band had sheltered. Panting, one hand pressed to the burning wound in his shoulder, he pushed open the flimsy door and halted. “What are you doing here?”
Jevan le Coyte rose from the stool by the hearth. The coarse clerical robe he wore emphasized his lean, lanky frame. “I need money.” His handsome features twisted with distaste. “Though from the looks of you, the raid did not prosper.”
“Prosper!” Rob cried. Kicking the door shut, he stumbled to the hearth and drank from the flagon beside it. The sour ale eased his parched throat but did not wash away the taste of defeat. “We were routed. Everyone’s dead but me!”
“You took no coin, then?” Jevan asked coolly.
“Nay, what we took was steel.” Rob moved his bloody hand to display the nasty wound, but the youth who was the mastermind behind their little scheme merely shrugged. “They were knights, dammit, five of them, not helpless merchants.”
“Five against your ten.” Jevan snorted derisively.
“Five Knights of the Black Rose. Led by Simon of Blackstone.”
Jevan’s jaw dropped. “He is dead.”
“It was him…no mistaking. And he recognized me.”
“Nay!” The usually cool Jevan shoved both hands into his silky black hair and screamed, “Not now! Not when Thurstan’s fortune is within my grasp. I will not lose. I will not.” His eyes were as wild as a mad dog’s.
Rob backed toward the door. “What will you do?”
“I will not lose.” Teeth set in a furious grimace, Jevan pushed past Rob and out of the hut. “Come, we’ve work to do.”
Durleigh Cathedral, May 10, 1222
He was dying.
The malaise of spirit he could attribute to the loss of his son. But the weakness in his limbs that grew steadily worse, the pain that had built from a grinding ache this winter to a sharp burning, these he could no longer ignore. Impossible as it seemed, given his wealth, his power and his divine connections, he, Thurstan de Lyndhurst, Bishop of Durleigh, was dying.
“Nay.” His anguished cry of anger and denial echoed the length of his withdrawing room. It bounced off the intricately carved wooden beams, slid down the wall hangings embroidered with scenes from the Bible and was swallowed up by the thick carpet covering the floor of his second-story sanctuary.
Fear drove him to clutch the edge of his writing table so hard the knuckles of his long, soft hands turned white. It was an emotion he had felt only once before in his one and fifty years, on the day he’d realized that the love he and the lady Rosalynd had shared would bear fruit.
Simon. A son he could never claim. Dead now, was Simon, a bright, promising light extinguished before it had had a chance to shine. And soon Thurstan would follow the son he’d loved but had never even been allowed to hold.
Thurstan sighed. Little as he wanted to quit this life, at least when he and Simon were reunited in the Promised Land, he could explain why he had done what he had.
A wry smile lifted Thurstan’s lips. That was supposing he went to heaven, which was by no means a sure thing, given the sins he had committed—some in the name of profit, others in retribution. Sins nonetheless, he thought as he slowly stood and crossed to the window. The richly embroidered tunic he had donned in honor of tonight’s dinner weighed down his body as surely as Simon’s death preyed on his conscience.
If only things could have been different.
But it was too late to make reparation, had been since that grim day last autumn when a messenger arrived with news that Simon and the other Crusaders of Durleigh had perished.
The sharp pain in Thurstan’s chest was not borne of his illness, but of an anguish too deep for words. He and Rosalynd had been denied a life together, but he had taken solace in providing the best for their child. Though he could never claim Simon, Thurstan had cleverly schemed to have him fostered with Lord Edmund and raised here in Durleigh at Wolfsmount Castle so he could watch Simon grow. His chest had swelled with pride when he’d officiated at Simon’s knighting ceremony, for the boy had become a man of unswerving loyalty, courage and honor.
Heartsick, Thurstan unlatched the shutters and opened the two sections of the oiled parchment windows. Fresh damp air poured in, momentarily chasing the scent of death from his chamber. Below him lay the green bailey that surrounded the cathedral, and beyond it, the rooftops of the bustling, prosperous town of Durleigh, all of it lorded over by Wolfsmount Castle on its rocky hillside. Durleigh had been a small town when he’d come here five and twenty years ago. Now it was a center of commerce and trade to rival the great city of York to the south. Much of Durleigh’s growth had come as a result of Thurstan’s scheming and his family’s connections at court. As Durleigh had swelled with tradesmen and laborers, so had Thurstan’s coffers.
All that gold was small comfort now. His love was lost to him, his son was dead, and he was dying.
Thurstan sighed, his thoughts growing more morose as his gaze skimmed the roof of the apothecary. Ah, he would miss his golden-haired Linnet with her quicksilver wit and boundless zest for life. He had had plans for the young apothecary, but with Simon dead, they would never come to fruition.
A sharp pain cramped his gut, doubling him over. When the wave of agony passed, Thurstan grabbed hold of the windowsill and straightened. What was this sickness that tormented him so? Over the years of bringing absolution to the stricken, he had seen death in many guises, but never one that weakened the victim yet brought no fever, no wasting of the flesh. Even Brother Anselme, the infirmarer, was at a loss to identify this ague, nor did any of the tonics Anselme and Linnet had concocted bring Thurstan any relief.
This disease was like a poison invading his--
”Poison…” The word slipped from Thurstan’s lips with a hiss. He recalled with dawning horror the insidiousness with which this illness had crept up upon him.
Could it be that someone was poisoning him?
Who? And why?
Thurstan’s narrowed gaze swept over the town he’d ruled for so long. Ruled it like a despot, his detractors whispered. But they spoke softly and behind his back, for Bishop Thurstan’s wealth and power exceeded even the dreams of the manipulative sire who had bought for him the Bishopric of Durleigh so many years ago. Was there one among his flock who chafed under a heavy penance? Or did the culprit lay closer at hand?
Crispin
