“Come, Franny,” Archie cajoled, seeing her forlorn expression. “It’s not far now. We’ll visit with Da and be gone from here before the sun rises.”
“I’m so worn out, Archie,” Frances moaned. She knew it wasn’t safe to stay near Cranley, but her back ached, and her feet were sore from days of walking. What she wouldn’t give for a hot bath scented with rose oil and a soft, feather bed with clean linen and a fluffy pillow. But, that life was gone forever. Frances slid her arm through Archie’s, desperate for support. Archie was alive, and that’s all that mattered. They would make a life for themselves and be a family.
The village was almost behind them now, the ribbon of road winding toward open fields and the forest. A few more miles and they would reach the Hicks farm. Archie suddenly stopped, his face tense. “Shh,” he whispered, but it was too late. They’d been seen. Jacob Wilmot, the blacksmith, sat in front of the smithy, tankard in hand, and a jug of ale at his side. A faint glow lit up the doorway, illuminating the man’s belligerent expression. Strong drink mellowed some men, but Jacob was a mean drunk, the kind who sought to brawl, and often took out his fury on his long-suffering wife who wore the marks of his ire more often than not. He’d been thrown out of the tavern often enough, and warned not to return, unless he could contain his temper and keep the peace with hard-working men who came into the tavern to enjoy a tankard of ale with their neighbors after a long day.
Jacob Wilmot and Archie didn’t get on, for reasons that Archie never elaborated on, but if Frances had to hazard a guess, Archie had probably either beaten the man to a pulp at some point or had humiliated him in front of his cronies. If angered, Archie wouldn’t hesitate to belittle the dimwitted, bullish blacksmith and make him a laughing stock, something that he richly deserved in Frances’s opinion. She looked around frantically, praying that Mark Watson wasn’t nearby. She didn’t see anyone else about, but the blacksmith was enough. Wilmot was on his feet in seconds, surprisingly steady for someone who’d been drinking heavily. He charged Archie like a mad bull. Archie pushed Frances out of the way, simultaneously dodging a blow.
Frances took a few steps back, but refused to go any further. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her breathing shallow as she watched the two men facing each other in the dusty road, murder in their eyes. Having Archie arrested would be bad enough, but at the moment, her fear was of a more immediate nature. Wilmot weighed at least twenty stone and was all hard, ropey muscle from endless days in the smithy. After almost two months of near-starvation, Archie was probably half that. He was thin and weak, his body depleted from weeks of walking and not eating properly. Archie’s only advantage was his agility, something that was in short supply in a man the size of a small mountain.
“Ye,” Wilmot growled as the two men circled each other. “How dare ye show your face ‘round ‘ere? They should ‘ave strung ye up when they ‘ad the chance, the fools. They say ye killed two guards with a sharpened spoon; a killer will always find a way, I always say, but I must admit, I admire yer ingenuity.” Wilmot said that last bit slowly, savoring the unfamiliar word on his tongue. He must have overheard it somewhere.
“I’m just here to see my father,” Archie spat back. He clearly had no wish to fight Wilmot, but the blacksmith wasn’t about to give him a choice. He was enjoying himself too much.
“Yer poor father was so ashamed of the son he’d raised that ‘e dropped where ‘e stood when ‘e learned of yer killing spree. Dead as a door nail, ‘e was.” The blacksmith smiled gleefully, baring crooked teeth stained with tobacco. Archie’s stricken expression told him everything he needed to know, and he savored his brief moment of triumph, having blindsided Archie with news of his father’s death. Frances doubted that Horatio “dropped where he stood,” but if Wilmot was going for a fatal blow, he’d succeeded. Archie looked shattered, all fight gone out of him.
“There’s a goodly price on yer head, and I mean to collect it,” Wilmot announced.
He charged Archie again and landed a hard blow on Archie’s cheekbone. Archie staggered and nearly fell, but regained his balance quickly and backed away from the blacksmith. Blood welled beneath Archie’s eye and began to flow from a cut made by Wilmot’s heavy silver ring. The blacksmith struck out again, but Archie ducked out of the way and punched the man in the chin, hitting him from beneath and managing to unbalance him for just a moment. Wilmot let out a roar of rage and threw himself at Archie, knocking him off his feet. The two men tumbled into the dirt, a tangle of limbs as they struggled, grunting with effort. Archie had his hands around Wilmot’s throat, but the blacksmith’s neck was too thick for Archie to do him any actual harm. Wilmot clearly had the upper hand, and Archie knew it. He tried to press his thumbs into Wilmot’s Adam’s apple to cut off his air supply, but Wilmot punched Archie in the side again and again, forcing Archie to release the pressure on his neck.
Archie was on the ground, gasping with pain, his strength ebbing as he tried to fight off a man twice his size. While Frances stood frozen with indecision, Archie managed to bring up his knee and kick Wilmot in the groin, which gave him a few seconds’ reprieve, but completely sent Wilmot over the edge. Wilmot’s eyes rolled in his head, and he roared like a wounded animal. He grabbed Archie by the throat with his left hand and straddled him, pinning him down. Archie gasped for breath and tried to throw the man off, but his efforts were in vain — he was helpless.
Wilmot paused and grinned at Archie, his smile a grimace of victory as he released Archie’s throat. Archie was panting, his face white in the moonlight, the blood on his cheek a black smudge, but there was nothing he could do to dislodge the blacksmith who was sitting on his chest.
“Fortune seems to be spreadin’ ‘er legs for me tonight. I get the reward whether ye’re alive or dead,” Wilmot informed him, his tone gloating. “And I will take great pleasure in killin’ ye, ye worthless whoreson.” Wilmot bent down lower and whispered into Archie’s ear, his voice still loud enough for Frances to hear. “And after ye breathe yer last, I will mount yer whore and ride ‘er till she bleeds.”
Archie seemed to find some last reserve of strength born of unbridled fury. With a roar, he managed to throw the blacksmith off and jumped on top of Wilmot, pounding his face like a madman. Archie’s fist became slick with Wilmot’s blood as he continued his frenzied assault, but Wilmot was still the stronger of the two, and tossed Archie aside like a rag doll. He was on Archie again in seconds, blood from his broken nose dripping into Archie’s eyes.
Frances cried out in terror when she saw the glint of a dagger in Wilmot’s right hand. Archie howled with pain as the knife found its mark. She couldn’t just stand there, she had to do something, or Archie would surely die. Frances dropped her valise and sprinted into the smithy. As her eyes adjusted to the crimson light of the dying fire, she stared around wildly, frantically searching for anything she might use as a weapon. Her eyes stopped on a hammer lying next to an anvil. The hammer was heavier than Frances expected, but she grasped it with both hands and hefted it outside. Archie was still fighting back, but his shirt was soaked with blood, and his forehead was beaded with sweat. The blacksmith held the dagger to Archie’s throat, ready to finish the job. He was breathing heavily, the lower part of his face covered in blood from Archie’s beating. Wilmot spat out a glob of blood-tinged saliva and grinned at Archie.
“Mayhap I should keep ye alive for a little while longer; so that ye can watch me enjoying yer wife. She is a pretty little thing, I’ll grant ‘er that. I hear she’s used to rough treatment. She might even enjoy it. ‘Twill be like old times,” he cackled. “And then I’ll pass ‘er on to Mark Watson. Friends should always share in their good fortune.”
“Don’t you lay a finger on her,” Archie snarled.
“Or what? Ye’ll kill me?” the blacksmith laughed.
Frances didn’t wait to hear any more. She approached Wilmot on silent feet and lifted the hammer. Her arms trembled with the effort, but she gathered all her strength and bro
ught it down hard on Wilmot’s head. There was a sickening crunch as iron met bone. Wilmot lost his balance and fell on top of Archie, roaring with pain, but he was still very much alive and conscious. Frances had a few seconds to strike again before Wilmot regained his bearings. She struck again as hard as she could, and then again and again. Wilmot’s head split like a ripe melon. He seemed to shudder for a moment before going completely still, his lifeless body sprawled on top of Archie.
Frances threw the hammer to the ground and went to Archie. His eyes were wide with shock and gratitude. It took both of them to push the blacksmith’s body off. He was even heavier in death than he’d been in life. The man’s face was slack and his sightless eyes reflected the light of the moon. Frances tried not to look at him, but couldn’t help staring at the man she’d just killed. She began to shake, her teeth chattering in her head as the reality of the situation finally sank in. Frances fell to her knees next to Archie, who tried to sit up, but couldn’t manage it on his own. His face was glistening with sweat, and his skin was unnaturally pale. He was shaking violently.
“Archie, are you badly hurt?” she sobbed.
“Yes,” Archie breathed. “Help me, Franny.” It took all of Frances’s strength to help Archie to his feet, but he could barely stand.
“Can you walk?”
Archie mutely shook his head. Even if he could walk, Horatio’s farm was at least two miles away. Archie would never make it there. He seemed to be bleeding in more than one place. The blacksmith stabbed him several more times while Frances was searching for a weapon. The few moments of indecision had cost Archie dearly. Archie leaned on Frances and took a few tentative steps, but the effort nearly made him pass out.
Frances looked wildly around. She needed to hide him before someone who’d been woken up by the commotion decided to investigate. The smithy was on the outskirts of Cranley, but not far enough that no one would have heard the scuffle. Frances leaned Archie against the wall where he was lost in shadow and grabbed their things from the road. Archie’s breathing was shallow, his eyes closed as he leaned against the wall for support.
“Franny, take me to Everly Manor. We can hide in one of the outbuildings,” Archie mumbled as he slid down the length of the wall.
Frances grabbed him about the waist. “Put your arm around me. Come on, Archie. One step at a time.” Archie did as he was told, but Frances sank under his weight. He was barely conscious. The uphill walk to Everly Manor seemed impossible. Frances swallowed a sob as she tried to move Archie forward only to stop after two steps. Going to Everly Manor would only forestall the inevitable. How long could they hide in an outbuilding? They would be quickly discovered once Wilmot’s body was found in the morning. Archie was leaving a trail of blood in the dirt, and someone only had to follow the blood to find them.
And now she was a murderess too. It would be the gallows for them both. They’d reached the end of the line. No place in Cranley was safe, and there was absolutely no way they could get to London. They had a few hours at best, and then they would be apprehended and turned over to the authorities. They would either hang her right after the assizes, or allow her to live long enough to give birth, and then hang her. Their baby would have no chance of survival if no one claimed it, and no one would, since neither of them had any family to speak of.
Frances looked around wildly. There was only one place they could go— the church. It was closer than the manor house, and they could claim sanctuary, much good would it do them. Archie would die if he didn’t get help, and even if she managed to stop the bleeding and get him through the next couple of days, they would go hungry unless Reverend Snow showed them mercy and brought them food and drink. Some people managed to remain in sanctuary for months, but they had people on the outside willing to help them. Either way, they would have to emerge sooner or later and face the king’s justice. The villagers would not allow them to escape, not this time. Jacob Wilmot was not well liked, but he was one of them, and his death was yet another nail in the coffin which was already nailed shut. Frances knew that Archie would try to take the blame to spare her and the baby, but her life was forfeit anyway. She had no wish to go on, not without him. With men like Jacob Wilmot and Mark Watson around, she didn’t stand a chance on her own, even if she were allowed to leave. The villagers would tear her to pieces. No, she would stay with Archie until the end, and then die alongside him if it came to that. At least she would be dying on her own terms.
Frances got her arm more securely about Archie and began to walk him very slowly in the direction of the church. Their progress was laborious, and she breathed a sigh of relief when they finally passed beneath the arch of the lych-gate and out of sight of the village. It took Frances another half hour to get Archie into the church and down the steps to the crypt. She spread her cloak on the floor and helped him lie down before running back up to get some water from the baptismal font. Jesus would just have to forgive her. Frances cleaned the wounds and bound them as best she could. The bleeding seemed less now that Archie was lying down, but he was cold and clammy to the touch, and his lips were dry as he tried to speak.
“Franny, save yourself,” Archie whispered. “Leave me and go. Get to London. There’s enough money for you to live on comfortably for a long time. You can remarry after I’m gone,” he added.
“Stop talking daft nonsense, Archie,” Frances admonished him. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”
“Franny, I need to know that you and our child are safe. I can die a contented man then. Please, go.”
But Frances wasn’t listening. She was looking frantically around the crypt as the light of the candle she’d taken from the church cast eerie shadows on the walls. Bruce the Knight looked as if he were moving, but Frances knew it was just a trick of the light. Frances got to her feet and walked around the perimeter of the crypt, searching, but no matter how hard she looked, nothing looked like a door. But the passage had to be here somewhere. Neve and Hugo had left and didn’t come back. It still worked; she just needed to figure out how to open it.
“Archie, how does it work? How do you open the passage?” she asked as she knelt by his side. She should have asked Neve when she had the chance, but Archie’s mind had been made up, so there seemed no point. Now, that was the only way out.
“Archie, how does it work?” she repeated more urgently, shaking Archie’s shoulder to keep him from losing consciousness. “It’s our only hope.”
“Six-petalled flower,” Archie mumbled. “Press the center.”
Frances got to her feet and began to search every inch of wall in the crypt. The walls were heavily carved, the flower and vine motif repeated all through the crypt.
“Next to Bruce,” Archie croaked.
Frances made her way to the far end of the crypt and began searching by the sarcophagus of Bruce the Knight. It couldn’t be behind him, so had to be either at his head or feet. Frances finally located what she was looking for. It was the only six-petalled flower anywhere, the rest only had five. Her heart pounded with fear and excitement, her breast swelling with hope. Whatever they found on the other side had to be better than this. Perhaps someone would help them, and then they’d look for Hugo and Neve. All she had to do was get Archie up and through the passage, if it opened, and then out the other side.
“Archie, we must go,” Frances pleaded, but Archie was unconscious. Frances put her ear to his chest. Archie’s heartbeat was faint and erratic, his breathing shallow. He didn’t have long.
“Archie, please,” she wailed, trying to rouse him, but Archie wouldn’t budge. She tried to lift him, but he was a dead weight in her arms. There was no way she could manage to get him through the passage on her own.
“Oh, Archie,” Frances begged. “Please wake up. We need to go.” Frances suddenly felt overwrought. The events of the evening crashed over her like a tidal wave, and something inside her simply shut down. She sank to the floor and curled up next to Archie before falling into a dreamless sleep.
Surrey, England
Chapter 53
I walked slowly toward the church, my basket swinging over my arm, the heads of the roses swaying lightly as if nodding in agreement. It was early in the morning, the village of Cranleigh just coming awake, the residents preparing for another workday. I liked this time of day; it was a time when the mist began to dissipate, and dew sparkled on every leaf and stalk of grass. The sky was a riot of color, bands of fuchsia and peach streaking the heavens, the sun fading from a ball of shimmering scarlet into an orb of gold as it rose majestically into the sky. It was also a time when no one was in the graveyard, and I could have a little privacy while I visited my daughter’s grave. Passersby wouldn’t understand why a modern woman came to stand by an ancient grave every day and left an offering of yellow roses, but those few moments alone with Elena brought me peace. Time and space didn’t matter when it came to a love between a mother and child; it remained unbroken.
I hadn’t told Hugo I’d been visiting the grave every day, but I think he knew. He’d been there as well. We never spoke of what happened when Elena died, never returned to that awful time when we blamed ourselves and asked over and over if we’d done the right thing, but now that we were here, in the future, it was hard to justify not having grabbed Elena and brought her to a place where she might have been saved. We should have done it, should have risked everything to save our little girl, but it was too late for recriminations, and I had never been one to lay blame. We were both at fault, and we would both live with that knowledge for the rest of our lives.
Comes The Dawn (The Wonderland Series: Book 5) Page 28