He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment against the hot, angry flood of tears that threatened, and his chest constricted even further, seemed to stick there.
Simon certainly couldn’t stay in England now. Once the bishop learned the truth—if he hadn’t already—he would see him excommunicated, ruined. Possibly imprisoned.
And yet, how could Simon abandon those he loved to bear the worst fury of the aftermath of the scandal, which had the potential to destroy not just the life of Louisa—the woman for whom he’d forsaken his vows for forty years—but also the lives of her and Simon’s seven children?
He hadn’t come to any good conclusion by the time the carriage rocked to a halt, and Simon blinked with a bit of surprise as he realized he’d arrived at the docks. He pushed the door open and climbed out slowly, feeling as though he’d aged a score of years in the brief ride.
“They’ll have trunks,” Simon called up to the driver halfheartedly, rubbing at his chest with the heel of his hand as he turned to walk down the sloping quay toward the milling crowd gathered before the tall-masted ships docked in the water.
“I’ll keep me eyes sharp for your signal, Father,” the driver called out after him.
Simon raised a hand in acknowledgment and threaded his way into the fringe of the stinking tapestry of merchants and sailors, prostitutes and travelers.
He caught glimpses of a flowing cassock coming down a gangplank through the crush of individuals hurrying to and fro on the ship. Simon pushed his way to the end in time to see a priest and the two monks who followed him come ashore. The skinny, balding superior seemed to scan the crowd, perhaps seeking Lady Bledsoe, as the pair of brethren behind him—looking almost identical—jostled a trunk between them.
“You must let me carry the trunk, Brother.”
“No, I insist that you conserve your strength.”
The priest’s profile turned toward Simon at last, causing his already lurching heart to leap painfully into his throat.
“Victor?” he whispered. And then, louder, “Victor!Victor!” Simon ignored the drawing pain in his arm and shoulder to wave above the crowd.
Victor turned at the sound of his name and his eyes widened, his face brightening, as he saw who had hailed him. He pushed his way forward.
“Simon?” he said in happy disbelief, his kind face—so much older now—split into the smile Simon remembered from his youthful studies.
The two priests met with a clasp of arms and then a full embrace, laughing.
“Simon!” Victor repeated in his soft accent, noticeably lessened now, as he leaned back and beamed into his old friend’s face. “You’ve no idea how glad I am to see you. This is Brother Ladislav and Brother Vladislav—they’ve come to assist me on some special abbey business.”
Simon nodded to the monks and tried to swallow down the painful lump that had manifested at the base of his throat. “Good day, Brothers.”
“Good day to you, Father,” the robed men spoke over each other.
Victor drew his attention once more. “But what are you doing in London? The last news I had of you, you had retreated to the countryside. I’d thought to have need to beat bushes to find you.”
“It’s only temporary,” Simon said, rising up on tiptoe to look over the crowd and signal the driver, who began maneuvering the conveyance farther down the quay to meet them. “I’ve come on Lady Bledsoe’s behalf; the lord suddenly took ill. I’ve just left them at the manse.”
“Is it serious?” Victor asked as they moved slowly through the crowd.
Simon cleared his throat with some effort. The lump was growing thorns and spreading further behind his shoulder blades. “I’m afraid it looks that way.”
“My sympathies to you, Simon,” Victor said earnestly. “I know how devoted the three of you have been to one another these many years.”
Simon couldn’t bring himself to comment further and so only nodded in acknowledgment as he led the way to the carriage. But as the twin monks argued over who would lift the trunk to the top of the coach, Simon took the opportunity to grasp Victor’s sleeve and lean in, speaking while he could; the pain in his chest seemed to be stealing his breath, and sweat poured down his temples.
“Did you receive a woman at Melk in early spring?” he asked, hearing the breathiness of his own voice. “A dark-haired woman, perhaps a boy with her?”
Victor frowned. “A woman? But—”
“Yes, a woman,” Simon insisted. “She was in trouble. I—I sent her to you.”
The abbot grabbed for Simon as his knees threatened to buckle. “A boy as well, you say?”
“Yes, a blond English boy. Orphaned by a fire at one of the estates. I was looking out for him. I’m worried something happened to him. To both of them.” He gritted his teeth against the cry of pain as his left side seemed to spasm.
Victor called out to the bickering monks in his own language, but Simon couldn’t concentrate on the words enough to translate what the priest was saying. In a moment, the burly twins had helped him into the carriage and followed him in. Victor called up to the driver before joining them, shutting the door firmly and turning toward Simon as the two brethren fought over who should pour the wine.
