“No!” she said through her clenched jaw. “I will not call him!”
He tried to pull her up to her feet, but she kicked him and clawed at his arms. She tried to pull another one of her blades from his belt but he raised his hand to strike her.
Little Eddie called out her name from outside.
She resumed her wild kicking. Bertram let her go and took a step toward the door to fetch the babe.
Lily ran to the wall where her first knife had landed. She yanked the blade free and aimed at the back of Bertram’s hip. This time, the blade met it’s mark. Blood gushed from him and he collapsed to the floor.
Run. She turned and shot off like an arrow from a taut bow. She ran outside, quickly caught up with little Eddie, and scooped him up in her arms. She ran back to Bertram’s horse, mounted with the babe and took off.
South. She wanted to find Elias and bring little Eddie home. His mother had been struck down by the pestilence. Was the babe going to fall ill as well?
No. She would look after him, Annabelle, and Charlie, and anyone else who needed her.
And right now, little Eddie needed food. She made a quick search for the market, found it and bought a few apples, two loaves of fresh bread, and some of water.
From the way he was bleeding, Bertram would die from his wound. If he didn’t, and if he ever came near her or the children again, she would kill him without hesitation. And the bishop? What would be done about him? Lily would kill the bishop, too, if she had to.
She had little Eddie! Oh, but poor Clare. Her victory was bittersweet. Her heart was heavy. She missed Elias and his eyes always on her. She missed Richard, and Joan, and all her friends.
She couldn’t break down now. The boy needed her. How long had he sat on the floor crying for his mother who could no longer answer him? Oh, she couldn’t think of it.
They reached the road just as the rains began—and Bishop Edmundson’s men arrived.
#
Elias saw the last of the bishop’s soldiers entering the village and wondered what the hell they were doing here. Hadn’t Lily told him that Bertram was the bishop’s cousin?
He followed them, staying far behind, clearing the rain from his eyes so he could keep them open.
He’d found hope that Lily wasn’t dead when, while leaving Addington, it came to him that he’d been so forlorn over her that he hadn’t realized Alex had told him Bertram had gonenorth. He also wasn’t aware of what day it was. Alex had said Chisholm had gone north, alone. But after Bertram had taken Lily in Beckenham, he’d gone south, hadn’t he? Either Elias was traveling the wrong road or Alex had seen Bertram going northtoBeckenham a few days agobeforehe’d kidnapped Lily, not after. It didn’t mean for certain that she was still alive. But it was a thread of hope—and he took it.
He’d turned his horse around, back to West Wickham, where he’d lost Bertram’s horse’s tracks. He would find her. He didn’t allow himself to doubt it. Just as he hadn’t let himself doubt he would get her through the pestilence alive. Until he saw her pale and vomiting and then woke up alone. He’d faltered and allowed fear to show its ugly head.
He swiped the rain from his eyes again. Or were they tears? The bastard Bertram had to be here. Lily had to be with him. Alive. He felt ill with worry over her. He’d left her…no! He shook his head, defying fear. If she lived then the fear was useless. If she did not live, fear would come anyway. Why let it come now? It had been how he entered every battle. If he thought about it for days before, fearing the battle, all it did was eat away at his confidence. When he lived through a battle, which he always did, fear was proven worthless. Aye, the sickness was strong but Charlie had recovered, as well as Father Benedict and others. It was possible. She could do it.
The soldiers broke off into groups. Elias followed a handful of them into the inn and listened from a secure place, cloaked in shadows while they questioned the innkeeper about a man fitting Bertram’s description traveling with a child. A boy.
Little Eddie? But what about Lily and Clare?
The innkeeper hadn’t seen a man with a child and sent them away, complaining that they likely brought with them the pestilence. The soldiers threatened to take him outside and beat him senseless, but the innkeeper didn’t care and swatted his broom at them.
When the soldiers, six in all, began pushing the innkeeper back and forth between them, Elias stepped forward. He didn’t try to say anything but dragged his claymore out of its sheath and cut four down before the other two realized there was only one of him.
He moved with unleashed power, speed, and sublime precision, getting the task done quickly and efficiently.
He swung his bloody sword across one of the remaining men’s necks while the man was in mid-swing, his blade pointed at Elias’ chest.
Elias backed up a step and then turned to the last man standing, his comrades’ blood splattered across his face.
“Why are ye here?” Elias demanded and then followed the soldier’s eyes, down the hall to where little Eddie stood. “For him. The bishop wants him dead.”
“And ye came here to see the duty done, aye? To a wee boy.” He didn’t give the soldier a chance to answer but swung his heavy blade. The last soldier tried to block but he wasn’t quick or strong enough, and he ending up losing his head.
After a moment he heard her voice.
“Elias?”