Page 71 of The Herald's Heart
“But ...”
“Mine was the first name you thought of when the earl’s murder was discovered.”
“That was Timoras.”
“But you believed him. Not me.”
“Please, Larkin, we can resolve this.”
“Leave me be. I’ll not suffer your lack of faith any longer.” She left him there, slamming the solar door as she went. She wished she could close him out of her mind as easily. She was tempted to run to the abbess. Mother Clement had always provided comfort and sensible advice. But she knew what the nun would say. “You cannot resolve your problems by hiding here in the abbey.” The abbess would be right. To resolve all the difficulties facing her, Larkin needed proof of her identity and Le Hourde’s perfidy. So she’d best continue searching for it. Maybe when she found it, Talon would cease to doubt her. Somehow she suspected that even gaining his trust could not mend what was broken between them. Nonetheless she must try, for justice and Rosewood Castle at least.
• • •
Talon walked his horse down the track that led to the anchorage, where he’d been told he could find Mother Clement. He’d sat alone in the solar for some time trying to figure out how to persuade Larkin that he always intended to help her regain Rosewood. That he’d always meant to find justice for her family. But his circling thoughts and the ache in his heart kept him from developing any plan. He needed advice and sought out the wisest person he knew.
Mother Clement was seated on a stool outside the unshuttered window as he approached. She spooned liquid from a crock she held to the anchoress’s lips. He dismounted and tethered his horse. The scent of chicken broth wafted toward him. As he approached, he could see Dame Margery’s flushed face, her eyes bright with fever. Her lips moved between sips, as did Mother Clement’s. Did they pray? Was the anchoress’s state so dire that only God could help her?
At three paces’ distance, he stopped and waited for the women to finish their prayers. But they weren’t praying.
“You told me he was dead. That I would never again have to see him.”
“He is dead,” murmured the abbess.
“I swear on the Virgin’s heart that I saw him only days ago. You brought him to me yourself.”
“That was not the same man.”
“But he has guinea hair and eyes the color of purple pansies.”
“Aye, he does.” She cast a glance his way.
So the abbess knew he listened and did not care.
“But, the man I brought you is not the one you fear,” she continued.
“How can that be?”
“The one you fear is dead.”
“Is it his spirit then?”
“Nay, only a relative, seeking answers.”
“He asked me questions. Questions about the candles.”
The abbess put the spoon in the crock and settled the pot upon the ground.
She placed a hand on Dame Margery’s cheek. “You must rest now.”
The anchoress grasped Mother Clement’s wrist. “Nay. Tell me why he seeks answers. Why he asks about the candles.”
“He believes the candles killed a man.”
“How can that be?”
“There was poison in the candles that was released in their smoke.”
“Ah. Was the man who died one that I fear?”
