The Rebel

by C. J. Archer

  "No!" Lucy cried. "Nick, stop it! Don't give in."

  He ignored her. Upfield hesitated a moment then inclined his head. "Agreed. It's you we want."

  "Lucy?" It was Henry, his voice coming from beyond the mob. "Lucy, are you all right?" The crowd parted, and he was spat out into the storeroom. "Thank God," he said when he saw her. He knelt and wrapped her in his arms.

  "They're going to take him," she said, pulling away. "Can't you do something?"

  He shook his head. "They want his blood, and they're not going to stop until they get it."

  The crowd parted again. "Move aside, make way. This is my inn, and I'm in charge here." It was Milner, and right behind him came Widow Dawson.

  "Where's your bandage?" the wise woman asked, squinting at Nick.

  "Release him," Upfield snapped at Milner. "He's ours now. We only want justice for one of our own."

  "Your own?" Lucy said. She didn't care anymore. Nick was going to be lynched or beaten to death if she didn't do something. And since he wasn't going to help himself, she had to do it for him. "Your own was a vile man."

  "Lucy," Henry whispered. "Be careful."

  "Don't," Nick warned her with a shake of his head. "It'll change nothing."

  She stood in front of Upfield where he couldn't ignore her. He laughed in her face, his foul breath making her wince.

  "Get out of the way, wench," he said. "He ain't worth getting beat up for."

  Behind her, Nick growled. Henry came up beside her. "Don't touch my sister," he said.

  "If you do," said Widow Dawson, "this entire village will come after you."

  "Aye," said Milner.

  Upfield's gaze flicked from one to the other, but he said nothing, nor did he tell her to move again.

  "Listen to me," Lucy said. "There is something about Renny that none of you know. If you did, you wouldn't be here defending his honor. The man had none."

  "What're you saying?" Peter growled, stepping forward. He held a dagger in his hand, unsheathed, but not poised to strike. That didn't mean he wouldn't.

  "Renny was a good man," Upfield said. "What do you know of him, anyway?"

  "I know that he committed terrible crimes." She forged on, even though her heart broke for the boys. Peter glared at her, his arms crossed, but the younger, Frankie seemed to shrink in on himself. "Crimes so awful that his victims are too damaged to accuse him, even now."

  "Lucy," Nick said, sharp.

  "Shut it, Coleclough," Henry said. "Or I'll beat you myself. She'll speak if she wants to, and neither you nor I can stop her."

  Lucy kept her back to Nick, but she could feel his glare boring into her. She could do this. She had to. "They hired Nick to… assassinate Renny." The word stuck in her throat, made her mouth dry.

  Several people in the mob gasped. Frankie grabbed his brother's hand, but Peter shook him off. His face was hard, as hard as Nick's had ever been.

  "What'd he do?" someone near the back called out.

  "Aye," said the big man next to Upfield, his nose and eyes swollen from when Monk had hit him. "If his crime was so bad, why don't we know of it?"

  "Because his victims wanted to keep it quiet. What he did… " She gulped, shook her head. Henry's arm wrapped around her shoulders. She couldn't go on. Those poor girls.

  "If you can't tell us," Upfield said, "how can we believe you?"

  "She can't prove it," someone said.

  "You." Peter pointed his dagger at Nick. "You tell us what my Pa is supposed to have done."

  Nick remained silent.

  "See!" Peter shouted. "Pa did nothing. He was a good man."

  To Lucy's surprise, it took a moment for anyone to say, "Aye," and that was only Upfield. A few more chimed in, but not the entire mob.

  The big, blocky man put a hand on Peter's shoulder. "Give us names, witnesses, and we'll not trouble you today. We'll let your fate be decided at the assizes."

  "No, we bloody won't!" Upfield snapped. "It's lies! Must be. Peter, lad, you know your Pa."

  Peter said nothing, but he continued to glare at Nick.

  "Where's Sawyer?" Henry asked. "He seems a reasonable man."

  "Not here," Upfield said.

  "He left for Larkham this morning," Milner added.

  "Prob'ly staking a claim on Renny's widow," Upfield said with a sneer that earned him a fierce glare from Peter.

  "Don't sully my Ma's name," Frankie said, indignant. "She's a good woman. The best."

  "Aye," said several of the mob.

  "Which is why she needs justice," Upfield said. "You too, lads. This man killed your Pa. Anyone here got doubts he did it?"

  Feet shuffled. "No," one said.

  "None," said another. "Too many witnesses."

  "Renny's boy himself saw this man remove his disguise," Upfield went on. "You talk of vileness, wench, but he did the lowest thing. He took the life of a good townsman, a father and husband. Left his wife and children with no master. How can you defend him?"

  She was losing them. The mob had wavered for a moment, but now Upfield had them again. They echoed his words, smacked their clubs into their open palms.

  And then Upfield himself stepped around her and grabbed Nick by the jerkin. Milner had unlocked the chain—perhaps to free Nick so he could defend himself—and Upfield shoved him forward through the crowd.

  "Stop!" she shouted. "Stop it!" She tried to run after them, but Henry held her so hard she could barely move.

  "Hush, pet," said Widow Dawson. The hopelessness on her face was as plain as day.

  The crowd followed Upfield and Nick out. Lucy could no longer see him, but that didn't stop her screaming until her throat burned and her voice expired. She beat her fists against Henry, scratched at his hands and arms, but he held her firmly until she felt too weak to even stand. He sank with her to the floor and she curled into a ball. Her stomach churned. Her heart felt like it was being sucked out of her chest. Her sobs filled the empty storeroom.

  Nick was gone. He hadn't even tried to fight them off.

  She'd lost him.

  CHAPTER 19

  Cole could still hear Lucy's cries even after he was marched out of the innyard to the street. They ripped through him, made him want to run back and beg her forgiveness. Made him want to fight for her, for himself.

  But he couldn't hope to beat so many captors, and, once he'd blocked out her sobs and come to his senses again, he remembered that she was better off being free of him. She would find someone else. How could she not? She was eminently desirable.

  He should know. He desired her beyond reason and above everything except her own safety and happiness. Perhaps it was madness. He certainly felt like he no longer had a grip on a world that had tilted sideways. He was sliding off into an abyss, but at least Lucy wasn't going with him. She would recover.

  "Move!" Upfield growled, pushing Cole forward.

  They were heading out of the village, in the direction of Larkham. Would they walk all the way, or would they kill him on the road somewhere? It seemed they didn't want to do it within spitting distance of Sutton Grange. He couldn't blame them. Lucy had too many friends there. Some were even following. He caught a glimpse of Widow Dawson with two women and some men, but not enough to confront the mob. Perhaps if Hughe and Monk were there it would be different, and definitely if Orlando was added to the mix. But all of his friends seemed to have abandoned him.

  It was up to Cole. The irony almost made him laugh. Until that morning, he'd welcomed whatever was in store for him, as he'd welcomed it every day of his life since he'd left Coleclough Hall.

  Or thought he had.

  Now that his life was closer to ending than it had ever been, he wanted to live. It must have always been that way, only he'd not realized. He supposed that's why he'd never lost a fight. There was something inside him that had never truly given up.

  The only thing he had given up on was Lucy. Nothing changed the fact that she was never going to be his. She was much too precious to
be shackled to a man like him. A hunted, hated man with no prospects beyond being an assassin.

  "Move faster." Upfield slammed his fist into Cole's back, right on a bruise that one of Renny's boys had inflicted in the meadow.

  Cole ground his back teeth and kept going. The pain eased after a moment, unlike the one piercing his head as sharp as a blade, making thinking up a plan of escape difficult. At least he had time before they reached Larkham. Something would come to him by then.

  "Stop here," Upfield said. "It's far enough."

  Fuck.

  The men surrounding Cole halted. Upfield pushed him down onto the dusty road. A sharp stone scratched his knee, and a boot kicked him in the back. He needed a weapon, but there were only small stones scattered across the road surface, no large rocks. He wished he'd hidden the knife Hughe had given him in his boot instead of under the pallet where it still lay.

  "Don't do this," pleaded Widow Dawson. She sounded close, just out his line of sight. "Please, sir, it's wrong."

  "Go back to Sutton Grange," Cole said. "Take care of Lucy. There's nothing you can do here."

  "God and the judges won't look well upon you, Mr. Upfield," she went on, ignoring Cole. "Don't think we won't tell 'em."

  "Widow Dawson!" Cole snapped. "Go!" The foolish woman was only going to bring trouble down on her head if she spoke like that.

  "Peter," Upfield said. "Take my sword. Remove his head from his shoulders. Do it fast, or take your time. Up to you."

  He was asking the lad to kill? The man was base.

  "Do it for yer Pa."

  Cole braced himself. He didn't want to attack the lad, but it would be easier than trying to bring down Upfield. He listened for the first step on the packed earth. The boy was light, Cole needed to concentrate.

  Still nothing.

  "You do it, Upfield," said one of the other men. "The lad's not ready."

  Upfield grunted. There was a shuffle of feet, a rustle of clothing. Cole closed his eyes. Held his breath. Waited.

  Someone—maybe Widow Dawson—screamed. It covered the sound of Upfield's step but not the whine of a blade through air.

  Cole ducked to the side, swiveled, and lunged at Upfield's legs. Upfield crashed backward and landed on his back. The breath whooshed out of him as he hit hard, and he let go of the sword. He did not get up, but lay there, fighting for air. He would recover in a moment or two. Cole didn't have much time.

  He scanned the faces, full of anger and indignation. He could not possibly fight them all. "What will it be?" he asked, settling into his battle stance. "One at a time or all together?"

  The biggest man growled. "You're cock-sure for someone surrounded by dozens of armed men."

  Cole caught sight of something down the road, a distant movement, and he felt the vibration of hooves through the earth. It didn't come from the Sutton Grange direction like he expected. Whoever it was, he silently thanked them for the distraction.

  "Ah, here they are," he said.

  Heads turned to follow his gaze. Cole seized the big man around the throat and wrenched the sword out of his hand. The man tried to call out, but could only manage a gurgle. It took the others a moment to realize what had happened, and when they did, they turned on Cole.

  The blows to his ribs broke bones, but it was the club smashing into his head that finally felled him.

  The drumming of hooves grew louder. People shouted, but Cole couldn't make out words through the fire blazing inside his skull.

  Then a voice rose above all the noise, clear and commanding. "Disperse!" Hughe.

  Cole closed his eyes because it hurt too much to keep them open. Blackness swallowed him. Hands cradled his head, inspected the new wound methodically yet gently. Widow Dawson. He should thank her, but the words jumbled through his brain, and he couldn't put them together into a sentence.

  "Shhh, don't try to talk," she said.

  "Who did this?" Hughe demanded. "Who's responsible?"

  Careful, Hughe, or they'll realize you're no fool.

  "So help me, I'll thrash every one of you."

  Don't let them think you care.

  "You. Upfield is it? On your knees."

  Cole cracked open an eyelid, but the world blurred and the sunlight stung his eyeball. He saw Monk and Sawyer on horseback beside Hughe, and a set of female arms wrapped around Sawyer's waist. Not Lucy's. He closed his eye again.

  "Nick! Dear God." Lucy. She was there after all. Hell. He didn't want her to see him like this.

  She was suddenly beside him, her familiar hands taking over from Widow Dawson's, gently stroking his hair, inspecting each of his new cuts and bruises. She sobbed once, then pressed her cool lips to his hot forehead. Her kiss lingered long enough for her tears to dampen his skin. She made no more sounds, but he could feel her entire body shuddering.

  He would give anything to hold her, comfort her, let her know he was all right. He struggled to sit, and a pair of strong hands helped him. Monk, he realized when he opened his eyes again.

  "Do you know who you are?" Monk asked, frowning into Cole's face.

  "I'm a cantankerous, cold-hearted devil."

  Monk gave a shaky laugh. "Glad you're still with us, my friend," he said quietly. "You had us worried."

  "Us too," said Henry. He passed Cole a wineskin.

  Cole drank and handed it back. He lifted his gaze to Lucy's. The fear and worry on her face hurt him more than his physical pain. He looked away. She remained close, but did not touch.

  "I told you to kneel," Hughe said from where he still sat on his horse.

  Upfield knelt. "We only wanted justice, my lord."

  "Like this? Are you barbarians in Larkham?"

  "We care for our own."

  "Do you? I'm glad to hear it."

  Cole knew that tone. Hughe had something up his sleeve.

  "We must get Nick back to Sutton Grange," said Lucy. "His injuries need to be tended to."

  "Aye," said Widow Dawson. "Mayhap he can take yer horse, Mr. Monk, if the beast can be instructed to walk gently."

  Monk nodded, just as Sawyer dismounted, revealing the woman sitting behind him.

  "Ma!" cried Frankie.

  Peter gasped. "What're you doing here?"

  "You ought to be home, grieving," Upfield said. "Not facing this cur here. What'd you bring her for, Sawyer?"

  Cole knew. You damned fool, Hughe.

  But Hughe wasn't looking at Cole. He too had dismounted and regarded one Renny boy then the other. "Take them to the Plough," he ordered Monk.

  "What?" Peter said. "Why?"

  The younger boy, Frankie, began to cry. "Ma?"

  "Go with Mr. Monk," she said, leaning down and lovingly touching her younger son's head. "I'll come and find you later. There are some things that need to be discussed here, and they're not for your ears yet. Or yours, Peter."

  "No!" the older boy said, crossing his arms.

  "Let him stay," Hughe said. "After what he did to Cole in the meadow, he's old enough to hear this."

  Cole wasn't so sure about that. It was one thing to beat up the man who'd killed your father, it was quite another to learn what your father had done to deserve the death.

  Widow Renny dismounted with Sawyer's aid, then Monk and Frankie mounted and rode off to Sutton Grange. Once they were out of earshot, she turned to Upfield. He stood again, the scowl on his face gone. The man seemed genuinely curious. Cole glanced at Hughe, shook his head slightly. Don't do this. Don't tell them. The girls…

  Hughe ignored him.

  Cole closed his eyes against the nausea. He'd heard the details once already. He didn't want to hear them again.

  "Release him," the widow said. "He doesn't deserve this."

  A ripple of gasps washed over the mob. They all looked at one another, at Upfield. "What!" their leader blurted. "What have they said to you?"

  "Only that the man who killed my husband is facing a trial. He should not."

  "But you said yerself, he killed Renny!"
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  Lucy grasped Cole's fingers, and he soaked up the comfort she offered. Then he let go. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her blink rapidly at him, then she turned to watch Widow Renny.

  "My husband wasn't the man you thought him." She pressed her lips together, and Sawyer touched her shoulder. "He was depraved."

  Lucy stood mesmerized by the brave woman standing in front of the mob of men she must have known all her life. She couldn't begin to imagine what courage it took. She only wished the older Renny boy had gone with his brother. It would have been easier for their mother.

  "I knew him better than anyone," Upfield snapped. "He was a good alderman, upstanding. He did much for the village."

  Two or three heads nodded.

  "He was good to his friends, yes. You benefited from his decisions, Mr. Upfield, and others too. I understand why you're angry now. Your livelihood may suffer for a short time, but I trust it will recover soon enough."

  "So?" Upfield jerked his thumb at Nick. "Renny may have made some decisions that didn't benefit all, but was that reason to kill him? Or to let his killer walk free?"

  "There's more, Mr. Upfield. Much more." Widow Renny glanced briefly at Peter, and tears pooled in her eyes. Sawyer's hand on her shoulder squeezed, and she bit her wobbling lip. A hush blanketed the mob as they waited. There was not a breath of wind, nor a rustle of leaves to break the silence.

  "My husband committed a terrible sin against two girls. I have no wish to enter into details, but the things he did… " She shook her head, closed her eyes. "Not a single one of you good people would be unmoved if you heard what he'd done. You would be sick to your stomachs, and you would have run my husband out of town if you'd known, or worse."

  "Surely this is a mistake," said Upfield, but he didn't sound confident anymore. "What girls do you speak of? How old were they? Mayhap they begged him to do those things. Some wenches—"

  "Enough!" Cole bellowed. "No woman wants that." He looked like he would thump the man. Hughe too, if the hard set of his jaw was any indication.

  "He's right," Widow Renny said quickly before Upfield could argue. "Raping young virgins then doing what he did afterward… " She choked on a sob and shook her head, unable to go on.