of Thurstan’s methods. The cold and grimly pious archdeacon coveted the bishopric. He made a great show of contrasting his behavior with Thurstan’s, spending more time on his knees in the chapel than he did in the administration of his duties. Crispin wore coarse robes and styled himself after St. Benedictine, while Thurstan wore embroidered silk and superfine wool.
But murder…?
Though Crispin’s hatred was plain to see, Thurstan had trouble casting the archdeacon in the role of murderer. Why, the man was known to flog himself every Saturday for those sins he might inadvertently have committed. Nay, not Crispin.
Prior Walter, then? He had been a frequent visitor this winter and had, in fact, arrived this very day, ostensibly to bring greetings from His Grace, the Archbishop of York, and to inquire into Thurstan’s health. Walter de Folke was a sly, slippery man whose rise to power within the church had been swift and unexpected, given his humble origins.
Thurstan tried to think if his illness had been worse after Walter visited. But his mind was bogged by shock. Shuddering, he turned from the window, his eyes darting wildly about the richly appointed chamber. How had it been done? Food? Drink?
He stumbled across the room to the massive writing table. The tray on one corner held a silver flagon filled with his favorite Bordeaux wine. Nay, it could not be that, for he served the wine to guests, to his sister, Odeline, to whom he’d given temporary rooms upstairs, and even to Walter. Aye, Walter had drunk a cup only this noon.
Thurstan relaxed until he looked through the open door to his bedchamber. On the bedside table stood the bottle of herbal brandy. He sipped a wee dram of the strongly flavored liquor each night while he wrote in his journal. Could it be poisoned?
Thurstan stared at the little bottle, too weak to walk so far. And smelling it would tell him nothing, for he’d been drinking it with ease these past months. How could he judge when he knew not what had been used? Belladonna? Hemlock? Monkshood?
Monkshood.
The air caught in Thurstan’s throat, along with a sob. He had gotten some of that poisonous herb from Linnet to kill off the voles that had been eating the roots of his prized roses. Had he touched the powder? Nay, he had handed the small jar to Olf, the gardener, who had mixed the powder with the grain to be set out in the garden. If anyone was poisoned by contact with the monkshood, it should be Olf.
What then, was killing him? And who?
Thurstan glanced down at the slender black ledger lying on the table. The first three pages contained his favorite prayers, the rest his personal journal, an accounting of how he spent his days. But recorded there, also, were the sins of Durleigh’s citizens as told to him in the confessional. And next to each name, the penance Thurstan had extracted for that slip.
For the poor, the price had been a prayer or a good deed. From the wealthy, he had taken coins to fill the church’s coffers. And sometimes his own. For those whose crimes were evil or cruel, the penalties had been stiffer. Had one of them decided to exact his own form of revenge?
The horn sounded, heralding the dinner hour.
Thurstan grimaced. The last thing he wanted to do was break bread with his nag of a sister and two men he found tedious, and, possibly, murderous. He wanted to seek out Brother Anselme, discuss these suspicions and see if the good brother could find an antidote before it was too late. If it was not already. He wanted to study the journal and see if he could determine who-The door from the hallway suddenly flew open.
A man paused on the threshold. 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
