By the time he arrived at his father’s manor, he had discovered only the women of the family. His male relatives and all the troops had already been summoned by the king himself. He could find no one to send to the earl or to assist him in his own mission. Timothy could only hope they had been sent north to help with the rebellion and were not searching for Merry even now.
Whatever the circumstances, he was left to do this thing alone. And he must succeed. Too much was at stake this time. He must save Merry and the children. Must for once in his life do something truly honorable and important. Ninth child or not. He had wasted too much time playing at politics.
The good-bye kisses he had given his mother and sisters might have to hold him for many years, but all would be worthwhile once he escorted Merry and the children safely to France.
Except that he still could spot no sign of them.
Timothy crossed over a stream, and there he spied some crumpled leaves along the bank, then noticed a clearing with what appeared to be firewood smashed and strewn about. Ahead, he heard a crackle of branches, and he rushed in that direction.
A bold flash of red and gold gleamed through the dense, darkening forest.
Hadley!
He must draw the man back. He must keep him far away from Merry.
Chapter 29
Timothy hopped down from Spartacus and landed with a thud in the clearing.
He could not risk stealth or anonymity. No time remained. He must protect them at all costs.
“John Hadley, you coward. Is that you skulking about in the woods?” He shouted to the retreating back in the Wyndemere coat of arms. “Come here and face me like a man.”
Once the words were out and the hulking fellow turned back his way, Timothy questioned the wisdom of his decision. Hadley thundered toward him enraged, as Timothy had intended. But what now? Should he draw an arrow on the man? He as yet had no proof of his betrayal, so he clutched the hilt of his sword instead.
John Hadley broke through the branches and snarled in Timothy’s direction. “Who is the coward? Certainly not I. I would say you, Timothy Grey. You, who made a pact with the ghosts in exchange for freedom. Have you shared that tidbit with my father?”
“With your . . .” Timothy could not recall who John Hadley’s father might be. Nonetheless, he would not tolerate such slander against his character. “You have it all wrong.”
“I’m sure my dear Papa Wyndemere would love to hear about it. And once I’ve captured Merry Ellison, I will tell him and ruin your good name. I had hoped to see you hanged, of course, but no time for that now.”
Timothy’s mind reeled, unsure which information to process first. “Wyndemere is your father?”
Hadley chuckled as he drew his sword. “I’m his bastard, truth be told, but still, not so far beneath you as you always imagined.”
Although the man spoke nonsense, Timothy clasped his sword and pulled it from its sheath. “I made no assumptions about you. We got along well enough. What did I do to earn your disdain? Why in heaven did you send that missive to the king?”
Hadley moved two steps closer with a menacing tread. “Ah, you liked that, did you? Thought me an illiterate fool, no doubt, but you couldn’t have been more wrong.”
And Hadley no doubt thought Timothy a weakling, but he knew nothing of the training Timothy’s brothers had drilled into him. He would taunt the man no further though—he had his evidence.
Restraint, his remaining ally.
His opponent brandished his sword as a wry grin spread across his bearded face. “I suppose you have no recollection of threatening a boy in the woods, who did nothing more than catch his dinner. Do not recall stepping on his throat and calling him a worm. Declaring the entire forest yours. But you let him get away—that was your mistake. You are weak, Timothy Grey, and now you must pay.”
Memories flashed through Timothy’s mind. A boy in the forest.
Timothy had thought himself so tough and noble capturing the poacher, until the boy flipped free of his foot, bounded up, and punched him in the gut. It was then that he spied the hungry, wounded look in the boy’s eyes. Hadley’s deep brown eyes. Compassion had washed over Timothy, and he had let the fellow, so close to his own age, run away into the forest with the contraband boar in his hand.
And here that boy stood before him, intent upon revenge, with murder simmering in those same brown eyes.
“That was you? I am so . . .” But before Timothy could get out another word, the man lunged toward him.
A sword flashed toward his face, and Timothy ducked aside just in time.
Hadley regained his footing and thrust his sword several times in Timothy’s direction, toying with him. “So what? So pathetic?”
“Sorry.” Timothy lowered his sword, hoping that his words might be enough. “I am so sorry. I misjudged you, but once I understood, I let you go.”
“And that was your mistake.” Hadley swung his sword at Timothy again.
Timothy swiveled out of its path. This time he assumed a crouch and prepared to fight.
“You misjudged many things, Timothy Grey. My goodwill, for one. And I can’t say much for your timing either. I had dreamed of making you watch your sweetheart die, and now I must kill you before you get the chance. More the pity, that.” Bitterness dripped from every word.
Hadley circled Timothy, hatred seething in his eyes. Had he been resenting Timothy, plotting against him all this time? Timothy could not fathom such bitterness. But then the realization hit him—Lord Wyndemere treated Hadley like a pesky insect while honoring Timothy at his right hand. Little wonder the man detested him.
Hadley struck, but Timothy deflected his blow.
He must gather his thoughts. Recall his training. Again and again their swords clashed. Timothy’s arm reverberated with the shattering strikes, even as his mind attempted to sort the situation.
This man was after Merry. He must stop him!
Hadley’s sword slashed his left arm and sent fire shooting through it. In that moment, fire flowed through Timothy’s veins to match the burning in his arm. He dove at Hadley. “Leave her alone! Whatever you believe I have done to you, leave Merry and the children out of this.”
He slashed at his enemy again and again, but Hadley matched each strike. He ducked to the ground and rolled away from Timothy’s attack.
Staring up at him, Hadley laughed, low and evil. “Never. I will never let them get away.”
He bounced back to his feet and came at Timothy again. This time Timothy stood poised and ready. Something about the angle of Hadley’s swing drew Timothy’s eye. In a flash, he struck back, sending Hadley’s sword flying in a streak of silver toward the bushes. He wrapped his foot around Hadley’s leg, pushed him to the ground, and pressed the tip of his blade into Hadley’s neck.
The man stared up at him, red-faced and panting. Panic seized his features. Hadley held his hands before his face. “I didn’t mean it. Any of it. He just makes me so crazy. You don’t understand. Your father always accepted you.” Hurt and desperation flashed through Hadley’s eyes. Not unlike the moment when Timothy had let him go ten years earlier.
Emotions warred within Timothy. Anger fought compassion with the same ferocity of the battle moments ago. He pushed against his sword. Felt the spongy resistance of Hadley’s flesh against the tip.
Choking back the awful sensation, he instead pictured Merry, hanging dead from the castle walls, in hopes of fueling his hatred to the point that he could administer the final thrust. Drive home the deathblow to this scoundrel.
But Timothy could not.
He pinned his gaze to Hadley’s—this man who had been so hurt, so wounded. He saw no more hatred in his eyes. Only fear. He pulled back his sword an inch.
And in that moment, Hadley’s eyes flashed and hardened. “Weak!” he shouted as he shoved the sword aside with his arm.
Timothy was so caught off guard, he flew to the side with his sword and crashed to the ground. In that brief mom
ent, Hadley leaped to his feet and dove at Timothy. Timothy raised his arms to fend the man off. The air swooshed from Timothy as Hadley slammed atop him.
Then nothing.
Even as Timothy tensed himself for the scuffle, the man barely moved. He lay atop Timothy, moaning. A heavy weight. Timothy rolled him off and knelt over him. Saw his sword caught between them, plunged into Hadley’s side.
The man twitched and groaned for breath as Timothy withdrew his sword. He watched a puddle of blood form.
Timothy’s stomach soured at the sight. “This didn’t have to happen. Your hatred did this.” His sword felt weighty in his hand. He knew he should strike a final blow and ensure the man’s death—stab him straight through his hard, dark heart. But this day had seen enough violence, and Timothy’s heart had not the capacity for murder.
As a chill surged through him, Timothy glanced down to his left arm. Blood flowed from a burning wound and coated his sleeve. The warm sticky stuff dripped over his hand, and he held it before him in the twilight.
Through his fingers, he again spotted the trail leading into the woods, though darkness had nearly fallen. Merry’s or merely Hadley’s? His face buzzed and pulsed in an unfamiliar manner. He could not follow. He must seek medical attention, or he would be no help to them at all. And so Timothy pressed his hand against his wound and stumbled in the direction of the village while he still could, with faithful Spartacus following at his heels.
“Weak,” the single, garbled word called out to him from Hadley’s dying form.
“Better than hateful.” He called over his shoulder. Better than dead, he thought but did not say. Although by the ringing in his head, Timothy assessed he might not be long behind the man. He would have no life with Merry in France if he could not get this bleeding stopped in time.
Chapter 30
Merry held the gasping, blue-tinged Wren upon her lap in the corner of a strange cottage. The scent of dust and mold pushed in upon her, but at least they had found a place to stop, undetected, for the moment. Allen had joined them not long after their escape, and they had run directly east through much of the night toward the port at Bristol.
As a fog rolled in, Wren’s breathing had eased for a short time, but by midday her malady had flared once again. At long last Cedric had discovered this cottage in the forest, and hope had blossomed for a moment—but only until they entered the dank, abandoned place.
They had outrun their enemy for the time being, but how could they outrun this more insidious threat? Merry’s herbs were long gone. She held the child near a steaming pot of water, but there was nothing else she could do. Weariness enveloped her. Between running, lack of sleep, and so much worry, she had no more reserve of strength from which to draw. With whatever last drops might be left within her, she willed herself not to collapse crying on the wee child.
Between her loud, wheezing breaths, Wren managed, “No wo-wee . . . Ma-wee.” Another rasping intake of air, and then, “Sunshine men . . . here.”
If only that were enough. Merry forced a smile as the image of the child in her lap quavered through her unshed tears. She swiped at them, hoping Wren did not notice.
Wren wrapped her arms around Merry’s neck. Before Merry knew what she was about, the small hands pulled the string from her tunic and clutched onto her crucifix. Merry had nearly forgotten it was there.
“He . . . love you.” Wren wheezed. “He . . . here.”
The chant of prayers reached to Merry from where Allen led the huddled mass in the corner of the crumbling cottage, and she felt compelled to join them. “Father God,” she whispered. The words were oddly comforting against her tongue. Tears that she could no longer hold at bay rolled down her face. “If ever you loved me . . . if ever you cared, if indeed you are even there, please, heal this child.”
Wren cuddled the crucifix against her cheek and a beatific smile crossed her face. The girl took a deep wracking breath in. Did not release it. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her lips faded to an alarming shade of grey.
Merry’s breath stuck in her chest as well, as if the life would seep right out of her along with Wren’s. Pain ripped through her. As her stomach tied into sick, aching knots, she took several attempts to find her voice, then shrieked, “Wren! No!”
Allen rushed to her and tore the child from her arms. Lifting her lifeless body high over his head he shouted. “In the name of Jesus. By His power, by His blood—child, live!”
The group banded round and reached to where she lay in Allen’s two strong hands, raised almost to the ceiling. Prayers poured from their mouths.
Merry collapsed in the corner, pressing her feet away from the awful scene, which she could barely see now through the downpour of tears marring her vision. She shoved her fist into her mouth to stifle her screams. Somehow she must find a way to be strong for them once they realized the truth.
Helpless. Powerless. Hopeless. The words bellowed in her head.
She could do nothing for Wren. Just like she could do nothing to save her family on that awful night two years ago.
Then, not fully understanding how or why, she sensed more than saw flashes of white-hot light swirling around Wren’s limp body.
Merry gaped. Did she hallucinate? Had it come to that? The swirling energy formed into a thick streak and entered Wren’s body, where it coalesced into a tight, bright, shining star before shattering into a million sparkling diamonds shimmering about her.
Then all went silent and still.
Merry watched and waited in awe.
With a sharp intake of breath, Wren stirred to life high above them. She pulled up her dangling head and bent her limp body, as if attempting to sit and look around.
Allen brought her to his chest and hugged her tight, as the children crashed in upon them in one huge embrace.
“What wrong?” asked Wren, confused, with not a hint of rasp to her squeaky little voice.
The children cheered, laughed, and cried as they enfolded her again in a massive hug.
“My dear Wren, Jesus has healed you.” Tears streamed down Allen’s face now, and he did nothing to hide them.
“I tell Ma-wee Jesus here,” said Wren.
Robert leaned over to kiss her baby head. “Yes, poppet. Jesus is here. Like I’ve never felt Him before.”
Wren laughed. “He a sunshine man.”
The knots in Merry’s stomach finally released. Forcing herself from her hideout in the corner, she stood and joined the group, resting her chin upon Sadie’s head from behind and wrapping her arms around a clump of children.
She had witnessed a miracle, but she did not understand, was not ready to put the pieces together. Surely such a monumental event must mean something. Did it mean God lived and dwelt among them after all? But she could not reconcile that concept with the shattered remnants of her life.
The next afternoon, Merry trudged through the alleyways of Bristol, Wren dangling merrily from her back once again. But the closer they came to their destination, the more Merry struggled. This journey had sapped her of so much, yet it had given her so much in return. She should have been rejoicing at the sight of the water in the distance, rejoicing at the weight of Wren hanging from her back, but still she wrestled with thoughts of leaving her home, and perhaps even worse, of leaving Timothy Grey.
She could not falter in her plan, though. Somehow she and the children would slip away without him. And when he arrived at his aunt’s home and found them gone, no doubt the wise woman would speak reason to his befuddled mind. As befuddled as Merry’s own.
Wren sang the happy cuckoo song over Merry’s shoulder, but Merry’s heart could not catch the mood. She had witnessed a miracle on this trip, no doubt, but it raised so many questions. Where had God been when she had needed Him most—two years ago when her family perished? She still could not understand, but it seemed, perhaps, Timothy was right. God had been with her and the children all along.
Scanning their innocent, healthy faces, she could almost m
ake sense of it. If God dwelt in heaven, He would want to protect these children, oppressed on every side but full of joy. It almost made sense . . . for a moment. And then she thought of her mother’s kind, beautiful face gone from her these two years, and the logic of it flitted away on the wind.
They continued weaving through dim, narrow passageways between the homes and shops, toward the fresh breeze and the squawk of gulls. For now, they must stay out of sight. But upon the open sea, they could breathe more easily once again.
“Look,” shouted Abigail. “Boats just ahead.” Everyone shushed her, but her excitement proved contagious among the younger children as they pressed about her, gazing into the distance.
Henry sniffed at the air. “I smell fish.”
“We’re close. Let us prepare ourselves,” said Allen, lowering Gilbert to the ground from his back.
Merry handed Wren to Sadie and took off her sack and weapons. The thatched roofs of two homes stretched over the alleyway, nearly touching over their heads, creating a dark tunnel for their transformation.
They had worked out their plan along the way. The older girls huddled about Merry, concealing her as she pulled on the apricot gown. She fingered the embroidered collar with a wistful smile. God bless Matilda. They would never have gotten this far without her assistance.
Meanwhile, Allen pulled on the rich, fur-trimmed tunic and finely woven leggings they had stolen long ago for just such a purpose. Since she could not introduce herself to a ship’s captain as Lady Merry Ellison, they would assume the identities of Lord and Lady Gilly, escaping the fighting in the north with a contingent of servants in tow. Hopefully they would be far out to sea before the captain took note of the unusual number of children in their entourage.
Out to sea. Her stomach churned at the thought of leaving England. Timothy must be scouring the forests between Farmingham and his aunt’s castle even now. She hated to have deceived him so, but truly, it was for the best.
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