Her Dark Knight's Redemption. Nicole Locke
she said, one hand raised to stop him. ‘Take me.’
A rustling and she pushed the blankets covering her to the floor.
He was accosted by the sight, by the smell. This was the decay, not the house or the chamber pot or the bloody coughs. The decay was her flesh decomposing while she still lived.
She wanted him to kill her. Before he could check himself, he glanced at the servant.
Her eyes widened as she took in his hesitancy. ‘You...can’t?’
Of course he could. He needed to. It was...the child. He didn’t want to kill in front of her.
‘You’d let me suffer?’
Legs, shredded. Mere holes to her bones. She was no more than a corpse still alive. And she was in so much pain. Why was he caring?
‘No one,’ she repeated, ‘can save me.’
No. No, they couldn’t.
‘I need you to kill me. What will you tell her? That you let me die...in agony?’
For the first time in years, Reynold’s heart sped in indecision. For once, he felt torn between what he should do and what he wanted to do.
He had hesitated killing the servant. He didn’t want to kill this child’s mother. Both were necessary if he wanted to truly protect himself and Grace from his family’s revenge.
‘You have Grace. Now do what—’ a wheezing breath ‘—you came to do.’
Keeping a child wasn’t what he came to do. Cleverly constructed life, carefully planned so his game could be played out.
‘I came to kill you, the servant and the babe.’ He said the words, but there was no heat in them.
‘You won’t kill her,’ she wheezed again. ‘You know...her name. Kill me.’
Grace. The name fit, just as the child fit in his arms. His child. Setting her on a broken chair, away from the rags, far from the spilled refuse. As far away from the stench of decay, from the heap of a crumpled corpse, from the death of her mother.
A child. So young. And though they’d just met, he hadn’t protected her from the darkest parts of his life, from the stench of avarice, greed, fear.
Grace had watched it with her grey eyes. Absorbed it as she would his final act of the night. The act of taking her away from the mother who loved her.
That soft expression, that comforting hand on her bared head and the sobbing from before when she thought her child gone forever. This woman loved her child enough to protect her against him.
He straightened and took the few steps to the bench. Loomed over her as Death with a scythe. This woman, this stranger, laid still. No flinching to flee, no cries of mercy or coughing because her battered soul and body knew their suffering was about to end.
There were no more words to say. There were no answers and the longer the child was in this house, the more chance for her to fall ill. For him as well.
He held the blade up so the glint of the waning moonlight through the windows played with it; so she’d know his purpose. She kept her eyes on him, bent her neck to give him access. To make the blade cut cleaner, more swiftly. This way, if he chose, he could make it painless.
His hand trembled.
The woman’s eyes flashed with alarm, hatred. ‘Do it!’
He adjusted his grip.
‘I intended to keep her from you,’ she panted. ‘Denied forever. Your child. Denied her. Grace.’
His body changed. He had the child, vulnerable, exposed to his family, to the elements. To this woman who couldn’t care for her. But for a greedy servant, he’d never have known she existed. A child. His. A family he wanted and she had meant to keep from him. Hatred coursed and burned in his veins. Familiar. Needed. His hand steadied. Seething rage. Unfettered malevolence and he let this noblewoman see it all.
‘You monster.’ She spat blood. Her head lolled to the side. Her eyes full of anger, of relief, closed. She’d asked for mercy and he gave her death.
‘Yes, yes, I am.’ He raised the knife and held.
The woman before him was already dead.
One stroll through the marketplace and it was all too easy to discover the baker whose loaves were stolen. Gabriel picked his place well if he wanted to escape with four loaves. It was in the busiest part of the market and one of the more luxurious stalls with actual shelves carved like animals. The loaves of bread left were golden, baked from the finest of flours and artfully displayed. The baker’s design was clear though the morning light was dim.
She’d walked past this particular stall many times to smell the honey used in each loaf. Never, ever would she had thought to be in possession of them or how the loaves must have smelled to a starving child.
Why hadn’t Gabriel taken from one of the smaller venders where she stood a chance to negotiate? There would be no negotiating here.
Not with the crowd forming or with the owner waving the loaves. Not with his words describing Gabriel to the watch guards, who even now pointed in different directions.
Gabriel had stolen the fresh loaves while they were being unloaded from cart to stall when it was dark. But it had taken too long to travel from the bridge and now the day was dawning. Early patrons were there and they adored a spectacle as much as fresh bread. Gabriel could never scamper through the market again and they had months to go before the worst of the weather changed.
If caught, he wouldn’t survive again. He’d already lost an ear and, though it was unusual, his hearing in that ear as well. To lose another and possibly never hear anything? She couldn’t suffer it.
It was up to her to make amends. Once she was out of the shadows, the baker would notice his loaves and so would the guards. If they didn’t accept her apology and offer of free work, she’d be sent to gaol, to the gallows, could lose her ear or hand. Any of those scenarios were unacceptable. She had three people depending on her now. She made a promise to return.
However, if she didn’t return the loaves they’d search for Gabriel. He couldn’t hide forever. With one ear missing, he was unmistakable. And since he was a known thief his punishment would be worse.
A child’s future or hers?
There wasn’t a question.
She stepped out of the building’s shadows.
A few hours to return to the house and for Reynold to notify the most loyal of mercenaries of what must be done with the bodies.
By the time morning arrived Reynold was back to staring out of the window at the top of the building. Everything was as it had been before the servant approached him. Everything except the child who slept in his arms. Both of them needed washing. But not yet. Much time had gone by since he left in the late evening and nothing now could be left to chance.
He had to think. To plan, to add another factor to his games. Perhaps the most important one and he was already pressed for time. Time was his only true enemy. Not because of his death. That was a certainty since he’d been born to a father who had killed his brother. Since his own brothers intended to kill him.
Time was his enemy because his plan depended on it. Assignations. Manipulations. Hiding, concealing, enquiring after legends. All these matters required time, a