She would not let him goad her. It was her emotions he wanted. “You made me this way, Bertram. I was a child when you took me from my father, my family, and then tried to have your way with me. ‘Tis your fault that I am cold and defiant toward you. I despise you, you wretched fool.”
He whacked her hard across her temple and cheekbone with his palm. She slumped forward. He grabbed her around the waist before she fell from the horse and laughed in her ear that he knew she wasn’t truly sick.
But she didn’t hear.
#
Elias opened his eyes and then closed them for another moment to decide if he ever wanted to open his eyes again. She was sick. Lily was sick. It had finally come to claim her. No. His muscles tensed. He tried to sit up and clutched his head. Who had hit him? Was it Bertram? The innkeeper? Hell.
He looked toward the stairs and called out. No one answered.
He sat up and then pulled himself to his feet with the help of the wall. His head spun and he swayed for a moment. “Lily?” Was that his voice that sounded so broken and hopeless…so on edge—as if he were afraid to scream? He wanted to disappear and hide the way he used to when he was a child. But he wasn’t a child anymore. He’d learned how to face anything.
But this felt too big. If she was dead…he was afraid of losing her.
He hated this kind of fear and had fought his whole life to defy it. But here it was, staring him in the face; attached to the woman he loved more than his own life. He would give it. He would give it in exchange for hers.
“Lily!” he shouted. How long did she have? Had he been asleep for one day or three? He had no idea. It felt like a lifetime.
He had to find her. He had to find someone who could give him answers.
Was it Bertram? Had he found them? How? He had to have been around, somewhere close to have seen them. Was he the other guest? But if he was alone, then where were Clare and little Eddie?
He hurried down the steps and looked around for anyone. There was no one to be found. The innkeeper and his wife were either asleep, dead, or had run away. If they were asleep then they hadn’t seen or heard anything, so there was no point in wasting time going back up and checking their beds. Whether or not Bertram was a guest didn’t matter. Lily was sick and she was gone.
There was no time to ponder things. He lit a lantern, mounted his horse, and followed a fresh set of horse tracks out of the village.
He didn’t sleep but kept on moving. Finally, when his lantern light faded into the darkness, he relented and stopped to rest against a tree until he could track the rider again.
The few hours it took were torturous for Elias. He hadn’t wanted to leave her alone against the pestilence. That was why he’d taken her with him. But he’d left her. He’d left her and it came. Of course, it was Bertram who had taken her. He rode on the back of the plague.
Why hadn’t he killed Elias? Why leave such an enemy alive? Had Lily somehow stopped him from doing it? She was sick. Why wasn’t Bertram afraid of falling ill again?
He had time to think and he was driven mad with the thoughts digging into his head. She wouldn’t be given any of her teas. Bertram would not take care of her and fight for her life. She would have to do it on her own. He knew she was clever and brave, but still, he wanted to be there with her, for her.
He said a dozen prayers for her, and for Simon and the children. They should not have left them. They had other responsibilities now. Simon was a good friend, but he wasn’t a father and a mother and the village healer, along with everything else. It was wrong of them to heap so much on his scrawny shoulders.
He smiled thinking of his lifelong friend. Simon would forgive him—after a week or two of snappy retorts and making Elias suffer through his company.
He wished Simon were with him now, as he had been during so many sieges and battles. He was always there in the trenches with him, like a mother hen, scared and worn, and ready to give his life for Elias in a breath.
When Elias found Lily, he would get her well and take her home whether they found Clare and her babe or not.
He thought of other things, but not her death. Not that. He was too afraid of that.
Finally, the day broke. He stood up, able to see in the soft light. He found the tracks again and followed them.
It was another day for Lily. Was she sicker? Was she resting in a bed somewhere?
He stopped in the next village and his knees nearly betrayed him. West Wickham! He’d been here already! This was where he and Lily…he was going the wrong way! He was going south! Had he been going south for long? He didn’t know which way to go now. Follow the tracks or admit that they were the wrong ones?
He looked south toward Sevenoaks and then north toward the city of London. He took a step north but stopped and kept going the way he was. But why would Bertram take Lily south?
He lost the tracks among the dozens in the area. There were four leading out, going farther south. Which one was theirs? He chose one and continued on. He went—without any food, for he would not stop until he found her.
She had to live. He couldn’t allow himself to think otherwise or he would lose all hope. Lily. She drove him on. He would hold her again, kiss her, make love to her again. He would go mad if he didn’t.
He arrived in Addington, a large settlement at the edge of south London.