For a moment, nothing happened. Then, Kit dashed toward the forest.
“Stop him!” the bishop commanded.
Mercy ran after Kit, but only to interfere with the soldiers’ pursuit. She stepped in front of them, following Kit and purposely slowed her run, giving Kit time to enter the forest. One of the soldiers shoved her aside. She fell to her knees, scrapping her knee and palm on the ground. She watched them from her hands and knees as they disappeared into the forest after Kit in the rising sunlight. “Run,” she whispered, half to Kit, half in prayer.
Clunk. Shuffle. Clunk. The sound stopped directly behind her. Tremors moved through her.
“You have not been penitent.”
She was so glad. At least he would never have Kit.
“You are not sorry for your sins.” There was a tight anger in the bishop’s voice.
Mercy was not listening to him. She was listening to the shouts from the forest.
“This way!”
“Over here!”
Then, Kit’s cry. “Let go!”
“Aw! Ya little brat!”
“Run,” she whispered again.
“I know where he was going,” the bishop stated.
Anguished terror snaked through her. She swiveled her head to look at the bishop. He stood in the rising sun cast in a red glow, shadows playing over his face. He looked inhuman. The bishop turned his head toward the group of villagers.
“As I said,” he continued, “he told me everything.”
Mercy’s gaze settled on Walter. Agony sliced through her like a blade. Walter knew everything. She had trusted him completely, confided in him. She tried to rise, but the bishop put a hand on her shoulder and shoved her back to the ground with surprising strength.
“Stop it!”
At Kit’s cry, Mercy’s hands curled in the dirt in desperation.
They emerged from the forest. One soldier held Kit’s arm tightly. The other two soldiers walked behind them, crashing through the brush.
Mercy began to shake. The forest blurred against the onslaught of tears rushing through her eyes. She wouldn’t give up. She whirled on the bishop. “What do you want him for? He doesn’t want to go!”
“We don’t always get what we want or what is good for us.”
“Take me instead! He’s just a boy!”
“You?” His gaze moved over her in repulsion. “You are flawed. You are a sinner. The boy is innocent yet. I can mold him into a man worthy to work for God.”
Kit pulled against the soldier’s hold. “Mom!”
“Keep fighting, Kit. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
“Can’t you see that I am doing what is best for the boy?” the bishop asked.
“You don’t know him! You don’t know what is best for him. Let him go!” With an angry growl, Mercy pulled the dagger from her belt and lunged at the soldiers like a cat. The first soldier, the one holding Kit, sidestepped her attack. As she turned with the dagger raised, the second soldier caught her arm and twisted it savagely until pain wrenched her elbow. She dropped the dagger.
“You were going to run away with him and put the rest of the village in danger. Who were you thinking of? Yourself.” The bishop turned and walked toward his horse.
“Mom!” Kit cried as he was dragged toward the horses.
Mercy rushed to follow, but the second soldier grabbed her around the waist, restraining her. She twisted and turned to break free, but the soldier’s hold was not gentle nor was it weak. He held her firmly.
The bishop turned as Kit neared. “You shall be my greatest accomplishment,” he whispered.
Kit kicked the bishop in the shin.
The bishop’s pale face turned red, but he did not double over. “Bind him,” he said through clenched teeth.
“No!” Mercy struggled. She whirled, clenching her fist, and hit the soldier holding her in the nose. Startled, hurt, he released her, and she dashed forward across the clearing toward her son.
Simon stepped in front of her, grabbing her arm. “Let him have the boy.”
She shoved him away from her, hard, and continued.
Just before the horses, just as they put Kit on the horse, she was stopped. Walter grabbed her arm.
“The village will thrive. It’s best for us all,” Walter said.
“Best for you,” she growled. She pushed at Walter’s hold. Then Simon and Bartholomew were there, restraining her. Holding her back from reaching her son.
“They’ll kill you,” Walter said.
“No,” she pleaded.
The soldier she had hit mounted his horse, holding his nose.
The bishop cast one last look at her, a cold stare, before he urged his steed down the road.
Mercy pushed and twisted against the arms that held her as the horses moved down the road, as her boy moved farther and farther from her. A guttural cry welled up inside of her. No. They couldn’t have taken him. This can’t be happening.
When the bishop’s horses were finally out of sight, the village men released her. She jerked forward, but they were gone. Kit was gone. Her entire body shook.
Simon and Bartholomew stepped by her, moving down the road back to their homes.
“This is for the best, Mercy. You must see that,” Walter whispered.
She whirled on him, glaring hatred and fury. She saw nothing except betrayal, desolation.
“It’s for the best.” With a sigh, even Walter left her.
The sun rose behind her and she could do nothing but stand there watching the empty road. They were gone. Kit was gone. Mercy stood for a long time, staring. Waiting for Kit to come running back.
The worst pain she had ever felt pierced her chest. She felt lost in a fog of despondence and dropped to her knees as tears rushed to her eyes. She couldn’t protect him. She had failed.
“You knew who I was.”
Even his voice could not alleviate the despair. Richard. She had put all of her hope in him for nothing. He had not been there when she needed him most. Now, nothing mattered.
“You wanted me to kill the bishop because of what I had already done. Because I had already killed Becket.”
Nothing mattered. “Where were you?” she whispered.
“You used me! Or you planned to. You didn’t care about me. You only wanted me to kill the bishop.”
She turned to him. A shadow against the rising red sun. “Why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t you help Kit?”
“Help you?” he echoed, shocked.
It didn’t matter. In the end, no one had helped her. Her shoulders slouched and she turned away from him to look at the dusty ground. A small footprint no bigger than her hand was outlined by the dirt of the road. Kit’s footprint. She ran a finger along the outline. She hadn’t been able to protect him. Her defeat was total. They had her boy. What could she do? And then, she thought of Abbey. Her friend. Abbey couldn’t live with the fact that they had taken her son.
“Where’s Kit?”
A numbing death washed over her. “They took him.” How could she live without Kit? She stood on shaky legs and stumbled back to the cottage. The bag she had packed for her escape lay open on the ground; the bread loaves had tumbled out into the dust. She moved the curtain aside and stepped into the cottage. Everywhere she looked, she saw Kit. His straw mattress. The table he ate at. The chickens he chased. She gasped a ragged sigh. She collapsed on his straw mattress, clutching her stomach. What was she to do? What was she to do?
And then her gaze lighted on a piece of rope used to corral the chickens. She reached out to it. Abbey had known her anguish. She clutched the rope in her hand. Abbey had given up her life as well as her boy. Because Luke was her life. Just as Kit was hers.
“What are you doing?”
Chapter Ten
“What are you doing?” Richard stared at Mercy. He didn’t like the anguish on her face, he didn’t like the way she was looking at that damned rope. It shouldn’t matter! She shouldn’t matter! Yet, guilt ate away inside
him. He should have been there to help her. But how? He had no weapon, no sword. And yet, he knew if he was there, he would have fought to save Kit.
He couldn’t take his eyes from her. Sitting slumped over on Kit’s bed, that rope held loosely in her small hands. He took a step into the cottage. “What are you doing?”
“I would have killed him,” she whispered. “To save Kit, I would have killed the bishop.” She lifted such tormented eyes to him that Richard was taken aback. An immediate need to help her filled him. “This is what hell is. I’m already there.”
Richard grimaced. She knew nothing of hell. Or perhaps she did. Now. They called him the Brute. Compassionless. Yet, he felt the desire to go to her and gather her in his arms.
“There is no life without him,” she whispered, looking down at the rope. “Abbey knew this.”
Richard didn’t like her hopelessness. He didn’t like the way she was looking at the rope. He crossed the room in two large strides and stood before her, his arms crossed. “What are you going to do?”
Mercy shook her head. Her eyes filled with tears. She stared down at the rope for a long moment. “Anything,” she finally whispered.
“Anything?” he demanded. He towered over her. She had lied to him, kept his identity a secret. He owed her nothing. Except… he recognized the desolation in her eyes. She was alone. A loneliness he lived with every day. And the boy. The child was innocent. And truthfully, he had enjoyed the child’s company. He was strong and clever. He couldn’t let the bishop have him.
She threw the rope across the room. “Anything I can to get Kit back.”
His eyes narrowed. That was the Mercy he knew. He nodded once. “I’ll find the children.”
She looked up at him, staring blankly as if she didn’t understand his words. “How will you find him when no one could find the other children?”
“Is that what they told you? And you believe them? Someone somewhere knows where they are. I’ll bring Kit back.” He turned and started toward the doorway.
“Why?”
Richard grunted. “Because I am a fool.” He walked to the curtain that sheltered the cottage from the outside world, and paused. He cast a glance back at her. “You are to wait here. Do you hear me?”
Her expression melted and she stared at him with such wonder that he became uncomfortable.
“I’m not doing this for you,” he said firmly. “I’m doing this for the boy.”
She stood.
For the first time, Richard realized how fragile she was. How slim and tiny. How utterly brave to be the common sense of the village.
“We should go after the bishop now. Follow them.”
Disbelief filled him. “I have no sword. What would you have me do against armed men?” Hardness filled him at her betrayal. “Unless you are still planning to trade me for Kit.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Hear you nothing that I say, woman?” he demanded as she crossed the room toward him.
“The village men will try to stop you if they know what you are planning.”
“All the more reason for you to stay and keep my secret.”
She shook her head. “They don’t know where you are. They think you’ve gone. You can’t trust any of them. I can’t trust any of them.” She shook her head firmly, a lock of dark hair swung free from her braid. “I can’t stay here. I don’t want to.”
“It’s not your decision.” Richard left the cottage and walked to the barn.
“I want nothing further to do with Goodmont.”
At least there was a blush in her cheeks and purpose in her eyes. “You are not coming with me. You will only slow me down.”
“Then I will look for Kit myself.” She whirled and headed toward her horse.
“God’s blood!” Richard stormed after her. He grabbed her arm and spun her around. “They know you! You can’t just walk into the cathedral and start searching for Kit.”
She lifted her chin. “How will you do it?”
“Oh, no!” He wiggled a finger before her face. “I’m not giving you that information so you can use it.”
“Richard, please. I can help you. There’s nothing for me here now. My entire life is with that evil man.”
His eyebrows rose. “The bishop?”
“Not all men of the cloth are holy.”
Tingles danced along the nape of his neck. That is what he had thought of Archbishop Thomas Becket, the man he had killed. And it had gotten him into a whole world of trouble. “Be careful what you think. Sometimes it will lead you to trouble.”
Mercy scowled. “He takes children from their families. No man of the cloth would proclaim that as the will of God.”
Richard considered her words. It sounded so logical and correct. But who was he to judge? After the gruesome act he had committed in the cathedral. Guilt scratched the back of his mind. He shook his head. “I’m not one to ask.”
A noise from down the road made Mercy turn. “The men will be back.” She looked at him. “Let me come with you.”
Richard began to shake his head.
“I can’t stay here. Not with…” She looked back at the cottage. “…all the memories.”
Richard sighed. He stared hard at her. He certainly did not want her with him. But if she was with him, he could protect her and keep her out of trouble. He cursed. “Then fetch a bag for the road and be quick about it.”
She turned and raced back into the cottage.
He waited near the barn and his horse, Eoos. He grinned. It was ironic the name he had been called was the name of his horse. He patted the palfrey’s neck, his mind shifting to the mission before him. He considered his options; formulated a plan. Someone knew something about where the children were being held, but they could not ask in Goodmont. Too many knew his face and Mercy’s. They would have to journey to another village that worshipped at the cathedral; a village in the bishop’s dioceses. Mercy would know which village to go to. Perhaps she could help him. He would simply have to remember that she was not to be trusted.
Just as he thought this, he smelled smoke. He looked up at the cottage to see the chickens run from the structure. Through the gaps at the side of the curtain, he saw flames. His heart quickened and he quickly moved forward. A figure pushed the curtain aside, emerging into the morning sunlight. Her brown hair reflected the red of the snapping flames behind her as they quickly engulfed the cottage. She carried a sack over her shoulder and a piece of burning wood. She tossed the wood aside as she approached.
“What did you do?” Richard gasped as he stared at the flames eating away at the cottage.
“With any luck, they will think I died in the flames.” She walked by him.
The fire spread fast. Hungry red tongues danced and ate away at the roof.
He had to admire her thinking. It would give them time.
“I only wish I could burn the village.”
He glanced at her retreating form in surprise. What had they unleashed?
Chapter Eleven
“Are you sure we shouldn’t go directly to the cathedral?” Mercy asked.
Richard clenched his teeth. “I agreed you could accompany me, not that you would have a say in the plan.”
Mercy scowled. She slouched in the saddle of her horse. They had been riding all day. That was an entire day without Kit. Anxiety crept around her like spiders. “Maybe –”
Richard brought Eoos to a halt and glanced over his shoulder to look at her. “Should we knock on the front door and ask if they’ve seen the boys?”
Mercy frowned.
“We’ll start in the village of Dunford. You said the village also worshipped at the cathedral. We’ll ask around, subtly. See if any of their children were taken. Remember, we don’t want to call attention to ourselves.”
Mercy kept quiet. She bit her lip. Kit had never been away from her for an entire day. What was the bishop doing to him? “I miss him,” she admitted.
Richard grunted. “It’s
very important you think about this question. Does anyone know you in Dunford? Is there anyone that would recognize you?”
Mercy considered his question. “No. I visited Dunford once with Dean.” She looked at Richard’s proud, strong back. He was so different from Eoos, the man she had cared for; the man she remembered him to be. He seemed…colder…somehow. “The question should be will anyone recognize you.”
“Not unless they saw me at court or my home.” He swiveled around to look at her. “It’s not likely.”
“And yet Bartholomew recognized you.”
Richard seemed to consider her words. He nodded. “We’ll have to be very careful. Let’s get one thing straight. You are to do everything I tell you without question. Do you understand?”
Mercy grimaced.
“I’m not rescuing you if the bishop or his guards happen to see you.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Not after how she treated him. She should have told him the truth.
“Then we are in understanding.”
She nodded. “All I want is my son back.”
“That’s what you’ve wanted all along.”
His tone was stated as fact. There was no condemnation in it. For that, she was grateful. She knew he was angry with her. But she was angry, too. He had said he would save them. She had expected him to honor that vow. But he hadn’t been there. Perhaps he was not the one who was colder, more distrustful. Maybe it was her. Maybe it was both of them.
They rode in silence for the rest of the trip until they came to Dunford. It was a bigger village than Goodmont. As they approached, the road became more crowded with merchants moving to and from the village. Thatched roofed houses lined the streets. In the distance, Mercy saw a tall spire with a cross on it. Like a beacon, it called to her.
Someone bumped her horse, and she looked down to see a bread merchant hurrying by. Slowly, she acknowledged all the people on the road. One woman carried a child on one hip and a basket on the other. A merchant led a horse-drawn wagon filled with large empty casks away from the town. They passed a man arguing at the side of the road with another man.
A Knight With Mercy - an Assassin Knights novel Page 9