Kitabı oku: «The Champion»
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Excerpt
Dear Reader
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Copyright
The voice was hauntingly familiar
Blinking furiously, Linnet made out a figure hunched over her. “Sweet Mary, I have died,” she whispered. Dimly she was aware of gentle pokes and prods as he examined her arms and legs.
“I do not think anything is broken.” The man sat back on his haunches. “Can you move your limbs?”
“Simon?” Linnet murmured.
He cocked his head. “You know who I am?”
“But…you perished….”
“Nay, though I came close on a few occasions.”
Joy pulsed through her, so intense it brought fresh tears to eyes that had already cried a river for him.
He leaned closer, his jaw stubbled, his eyes shadowed by their sockets. “Do I know you?”
A laugh bubbled in her throat, wild and a bit hysterical. She cut it off with a sob. She had been right. He did not even remember her or their wondrous moment together….
Dear Reader,
What a perfect time to celebrate history—the eve of a new century. This month we’re featuring four terrific romances with awe-inspiring heroes and heroines from days gone by that you’ll want to take with you into the next century.
Simon of Blackstone, a knight returning from the Crusades, is one of those characters. He’s the valiant hero in Suzanne Barclay’s latest medieval novel, The Champion. This is the first book in our new connected minisenes, KNIGHTS OF THE BLACK ROSE, about a handful of English knights who come home from the horrors of the battlefield to new lives and new loves. Simon returns to confront the father he never knew…and finds himself and his lady love the prime suspects in a chilling murder. Don’t miss this reunion romance with unparalleled twists!
Wolf Heart is the fascinating, timeless hero from Shawnee Bride, an emotion-filled Native American romance by Elizabeth Lane. It’s about a white Shawnee warrior who falls in love with the young woman he rescues from river pirates. In By Queen’s Grace by Shari Anton, Saxon knight Corwin of Lenvil heroically wins the hand and heart of his longtime love, a royal maiden.
Antoinette Huntington is the unforgettable heroine in The Lady and the Outlaw, a new Western by DeLoras Scott. After her husband’s murder, Antoinette flees England and has a romantic run-in with an outlaw on a train headed for the Arizona Territory.
Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.
Happy holidays,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
The Champion
Suzanne Barclay
To the talented ladies who created the Knights of the Black Rose:
Shari Anton, Laurie Grant, Sharon Schulze, Ana Seymour and Lyn Stone.
What fun we had brainstorming this terrific series. Let’s do it again sometime.
Prologue
England, May 10, 1222
They rode north on the road from York to Durleigh, six Crusader knights in worn gray tabards with a black rose stitched over the heart, a babe scarce a year old and Odetta, a goat that was more trouble than the Saracens they had faced in the East.
Thick gray clouds obscured the noonday sun. The raw breeze that harried their backs carried a hint of rain that discouraged lingering on the trail.
Not that Simon of Blackstone was inclined to linger. He’d set a brisk pace since rousting his comrades from their blanket rolls in the darkness of predawn, and he meant to be in Durleigh by midafternoon. Ignoring the discomfort, as he had so many other unpleasant things life had flung at him, he concentrated on the muddy track ahead. His thoughts, his entire being, were focused on reaching the town a half day’s journey north.
Durleigh, where he’d been fostered and knighted in the household of Lord Edmund de Meresden. Durleigh, seat of the great cathedral presided over by Bishop Thurstan de Lyndhurst.
The man who had sired him.
Simon’s jaw set tighter, and the heat of anger rose to counter the damp chill. Three long years he had waited to confront the priest who had given him life, but never bothered to acknowledge him. Three years of living with the bitter knowledge that his whole life had been a lie.
“We need to call a halt,” muttered Guy de Meresden, riding at Simon’s right.
Stop then, but I will not. Not till I’ve seen the mighty bishop and extracted a penance for his sins.
The words stuck in Simon’s throat. Two hundred men had ridden out from Durleigh four years ago bound for the East. Only six had come back alive, and Simon’s five comrades were as precious to him as the family he never had.
Sighing, Simon glanced back over his shoulder at the rest of the troop. Hugh, Bernard, Gervase and Nicholas were veterans of long marches and short rations, but their mounts were beginning to droop and Odetta was wobbling. If the damn thing keeled over, there’d be no milk for wee Maudie’s supper. “I had hope to reach Durleigh today,” Simon muttered.
“As do I, my friend.” Guy smiled, teeth white against bronzed skin that betrayed his mixed heritage. According to Guy’s Saracen mother, he was the legitimate son of Lord Edmund de Meresden, born after his lordship had left Acre for England. “We are equally anxious to confront our sires, if for different reasons. But our horses need rest and water.”
Simon grunted in reluctant agreement and looked over his shoulder again. “We will halt in yon meadow for a bit.”
Nicholas of Hendry grinned. “Better yet, I know of an inn up ahead where the ale’s sweet—”
“And the lasses sweeter, I wager,” Simon grumbled.
Nicholas’s easy smile, the one that charmed every woman he met, faded. “I have put aside the wild ways of my youth.”
“Forgive my sharp tongue,” Simon said, though privately he thought, once a rogue, always a rogue. Living side by side for four years had forged a bond between them, but Simon disliked Nicholas’s easy morals. Who knew how many bastards Nick had spread about the country—and abandoned? Just as Bishop Thurstan had abandoned Simon. “Lead the way to this inn, then.”
“I have changed,” Nicholas said crisply before taking Simon’s customary place at the head of the column.
“He understands why you feel as you do,” said Guy.
“Nay, I do not think anyone does, even you.” Simon cast his mind back three years to when Brother Martin, confessor to their band of Crusaders, had fallen ill. As he lay dying, the priest had revealed a startling secret. Simon was Bishop Thurstan’s son. “At least your father was wed to your mother.”
“Aye, but Lord Edmund vowed he’d return for my mother. He never did,” Guy said softly. “Perhaps he wished to forget he’d wed an infidel…even if she did become a Christian.”
“You knew your mother. She raised you, loved you, and you saw to her welfare when you were older. I do not know what became of my mother.” The pain ripped at Simon’s insides. “He abandoned her and ignored me, though we lived in the same town.”
“Perhaps he had a good reason.”
“Bah! He sought to preserve his reputation, did Bishop Thurstan,” Simon growled. “But I will confront him with his dark deed, and I will have my mother’s name that I may find her.” The thought of her, alone and likely destitute, was nigh intolerable.
“There is the inn,” Nicholas called as they rounded a bend in the road and came upon a small hamlet. They caused quite a stir as they dismounted in the yard of the inn, the horses snorting and tossing their heads, Odetta bleating for all she was worth. Baby Maud awoke with a start and wailed.
“Shh. We’ll be getting some milk.” Hugh of Halewell jiggled Maud. The black-haired imp looked incongruous in his massive arms, but there she had ridden from Acre to England, though she was not Hugh’s child. Maud was the daughter of a prisoner held in the same compound from which the knights had rescued Hugh. With her dying breath, the woman had begged Hugh to save her daughter. It was a charge the knight took most seriously.
“I think she needs to be changed again,” Simon murmured.
Hugh stared ruefully at the wet spot on his tabard, blue eyes twinkling. “‘Tis no wonder my mail is constantly rusty.”
“And we’ve more wash than a whole Crusader camp.” Simon glanced at the nappy tied onto Hugh’s lance tip to dry.
The door to the tavern opened and a burly man peered out.
“See here, what is—” His eyes rounded. “Sir…Sir Nicholas?”
“Aye. I’m pleased you remembered me, Master—”
“Ye’re dead.” The innkeeper crossed himself and backed up.
“Dead?” Simon exclaimed. “What do you mean?”
“Killed. Dead.” The innkeeper eyed them warily “King’s messenger brought word last autumn ye were butchered by the infidels. Bishop Thurstan held a special mass in Durleigh.”
Simon’s lip curled. “Likely he was celebrating my demise.”
“What a thing to say!” the innkeeper exclaimed.
“Thanks to my stupidity we were away when our comrades were attacked,” Hugh grumbled. “If I hadn’t gotten myself captured—”
“We would not have gone to Acre to rescue you.” Simon looked at Hugh’s back, remembering the Saracen arrow that had lodged there as they fled. If not for Gervase’s special healing skills, he’d have died in that alley. “I had no idea we had all been reported dead.” He glanced around at his comrades and saw his own speculation mirrored in their faces. What had those they’d left behind thought when they had heard the news? Would the knights be welcomed with rejoicing when each reached his home? Or would there be more challenges to face?
“Well, praise be to God for saving ye.” All smiles, the innkeeper hustled them inside to a table by the hearth and brought a round of ale. A pretty maidservant offered to take Maud above stairs for a change of nappy and a bit of Odetta’s milk. Used to the company of men, Maud clung to Hugh.
“Shh, here, lovey.” Hugh gave her a cup of milk.
Simon settled back in his chair, the cup of ale resting on his lean belly, as he watched the five men who had unexpectedly become his friends. How much they had all changed in four years.
Bernard FitzGibbons had grown the most, under Hugh’s expert guidance, from a bumbling knightling to a seasoned warrior. Fair-haired Gervase of Palgrave had discovered he had a healing touch that defied explanation. Torn between two worlds, Guy had found a haven with the knights of Durleigh and grown especially close to Simon.
“How far we have come,” Simon murmured. “We are different men from when we set out together.”
“Aye.” Nicholas scowled. “I hope I can convince my sire I am now worthy to be his heir, else he’ll make good his threat to cut off that part of me he blames for my mischief.”
Hugh laughed. “Gervase may be able to make it whole again.”
“My healing is not a thing to be used lightly.”
“Oh, I’d not take it lightly,” Nicholas teased.
They grinned at that, but beneath their banter lurked a tension Simon finally put into words. “Being reported dead may have consequences when we reach home.”
Silence fell over the table, each one recalling the troubling circumstances that had led to their taking the cross in the first place. Simon had gone with lofty hopes of saving the Holy Land, but the Crusade had been a bitter, dismal failure. Nicholas had gone to escape a horde of amorous women. Bernard to atone for his overlord’s sins. Gervase because of a vow made on his father’s grave. Hugh as a penance for killing a friend on the tiltyard. In each case, their going had been demanded by Bishop Thurstan as payment for a sin. To Simon, such manipulation was but another crime the bishop had committed.
“No one will be pleased to see me return,” Simon said.
“You may be surprised,” Guy said quietly. “We do not always know whose lives we have touched.”
Simon grunted, drained his cup and stood. “Well, we shall soon find out. I’m for Durleigh.” He turned to Hugh. “Are you certain your brother will welcome wee Maud in his household?”
“Aye. He should be wed by now, and he has a soft heart. If for some reason that is not so, I will raise her myself.”
Simon nodded. “If you cannot, send her to me. I will not stay in Durleigh after I confront the bishop, but I will leave word at the Royal Oak-Inn where I have gone. I would not like to think of her raised without love and caring.” As he had been.
“Rest assured that will not happen,” Hugh replied.
The sun was making a valiant effort to fight off the clouds when they emerged from the tavern. Rested and watered, the horses picked up the pace. Not long now until they parted company, Simon thought unhappily. Nicholas and Guy would ride with him as far as Durleigh. The others would take different paths. Who knew if they would meet again? The sense of loss that filled him was unexpected. He had learned not to need anyone.
Fighting to regain his composure, Simon looked up and noted a flock of birds rising from the trees ahead. “En garde,” he said softly. “It may be someone waits around yon bend.” He gave the orders that sent Bernard and Nicholas off the road and through the trees in a flanking action.
Hugh handed the dozing Maud to Gervase. “Guard her.”
“With my life.” Gervase withdrew into the brush.
Simon pulled the sword from his scabbard, laid it across his thighs and lowered his visor. “Ready?”
“Aye,” Hugh and Guy replied as one. They cut in behind Simon and rode warily down the road.
The forest seemed to close in on the trail, dark and sinister. Senses alert, Simon scanned the area ahead, probing each leaf and branch for some sign. “There! To the right,” he whispered, muscles tensing. “Behind the rocks.”
Just as they came abreast of the rocks, the woods were suddenly alive with men. Screaming like banshees, they streamed onto the road, led by a slender man with a mask over his face.
Simon counted ten bandits as he brought his sword up to counter a stinging attack from the largest of the men. They were armed with swords and axes but wore only leather vests and caps for armor. Nor were they battle trained, Simon thought as he made short work of his first opponent. He had no time to savor the victory, for two more men challenged him.
Behind him, Hugh roared his battle cry, wielding his great sword like a Viking berserker while Guy swung his own wicked blade in a deadly, killing arch. But what they lacked in fighting finesse, the men made up for in sheer numbers. Simon could feel himself faltering under the withering attack of three men. Dieu, where the hell was Nicholas?
“For the Black Rose!” Nicholas shouted, charging out of the woods with Bernard at his side.
“Just like old times!” Hugh screamed, and fought harder.
Simon grinned grimly and took one opponent down with a single stroke and turned on the other two, dimly conscious of other battles raging around him. The clash of steel, the grunts of straining men and the screams of the vanquished ones.
In minutes, it was over.
Breathing harshly, Simon turned away from his last opponent and scanned the road. The only men left standing were his and they were clustered around a rock where Bernard sat. Simon sprinted to them. “Is anyone hurt?”
“My leg.” Bernard grimaced. “We killed all except for that cur.” He glared at a man sprawled on the ground a few feet away. “I disarmed him, but he picked up a boulder and mashed my leg.”
“The leader.” Simon hunkered down and tugged off the mask.
The outlaw’s eyes flew open, then widened with shock and horror. “Simon of Blackstone? Ye’re dead.”
As Simon stared at the narrow face with its sly eyes and grim mouth, a memory stirred. “I have seen you before….”
The villain shot up from the ground as though launched from a catapult and dashed into the trees with Simon in swift pursuit. But he was not quick enough, and the brigand obviously knew these woods, for he disappeared as though swallowed up.
Simon gave up and stalked back to the battlefield.
“Find him?” Nicholas asked.
“Nay.” Simon kicked at a clump of dirt. “Bernard?”
“Gervase thinks his leg is broken,” said Hugh. “He knows of an abbey close by and wants to take him there. I will go, too.”
Simon 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.”
Chapter One
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 Norville, Durleigh Cathedral’s archdeacon, had made no secret of the fact that he heartily disapproved 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.”
