LITMIR.BIZ

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      “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,

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