A Killing Season

Chapter Thirty-Three

Thomas threw the rock.

As if propelled from David’s sling toward Goliath, it flew straight, striking the baron’s nephew in the back of the head.

Leonel crumbled. His weapon dropped from his hand and clattered on the rocks.

Thomas raced to the three men. Bending down, he confirmed that the baron’s nephew was alive but unconscious. Then he grabbed the fallen sword and slashed the ropes binding Hugh.

The knight staggered to his feet, briskly rubbing feeling back into his feet and hands. “Why did you do that, Brother? I am no friend to you.”

Thomas fell to his knees by Raoul’s side. “You are my prioress’ brother and Richard’s father.”

Frowning, Hugh picked up one sword, dropped it into his scabbard, and knelt by the baron’s son. “Surely he does not live.”

“He breathes but has lost much blood. The bolt hit him high enough he may survive if we can get him to Sister Anne for care.” He grunted as he began to lift Raoul. “I need help, Sir Hugh. We must get him out of here before the tide comes in and drowns us all.”

A sudden noise startled them, and the knight leapt to his feet, spun around, and drew his weapon.

Leonel was running to the cave entrance.

Hugh started after him.

“Let him escape!” Thomas shouted. “Either you capture him or we save Raoul.”

Hugh hesitated, then turned back.

Hoisting the unconscious man between them, the two struggled to edge Raoul through the narrow entrance to the cave.

Outside, the sea lashed the shore with increasing fury and had almost reached the hidden cave. As they stumbled across the pile of loose rocks and onto the small remaining strip of beach, long fingers of water stretched out to them like claws of a ravenous beast. Once Hugh slipped, caught himself, and the men staggered on.

Panting, they reached the mare Thomas had taken to higher ground.

The other horse and Leonel had vanished.

With the last of their strength, they raised Raoul and draped him across the mare. Hugh mounted, then turned to Thomas, reaching out a hand to pull him up behind.

“Go!” Thomas shouted. “I can run fast enough to reach the path, but my weight will overburden the horse and slow you down.”

Hugh paused as if to argue.

“Go!” Thomas screamed.

The knight turned the dark mare toward the rising path. She leapt forward without further urging.

Thomas held his breath and watched mare and rider climb steadily to the top of the cliff. When they were well out of the way of the incoming sea, he exhaled.

Now he looked down at his feet. Water swirled around his ankles and sucked at the sand underneath him.

He had lingered too long.

Thomas stumbled forward, his feet finding little purchase in the liquefied earth. Willing himself not to panic, he knew he still had a chance to flee to the path and safety once the water receded. The opportunity was also brief. If a high wave caught him, he would drown.

He fell, sliding to his knees in the wet sand. Staggering upright, he murmured a plea to God for the strength needed to save himself.

A wave struck the shore. From the hissing sound, he knew it was weak and resisted the temptation to look back. The sea howled behind him, and he dared not slow. The next wave would surely have greater force, and he would not survive it.

Suddenly, his feet went out from under him and he splashed into a shallow muddy pool.

Desperate, he reached out, grabbed a piece of driftwood, and clawed his way forward, not caring that his fingers bled with the effort.

Then he found rougher ground and pulled himself upright. With a roar of defiance, Thomas stumbled and ran until he was halfway up the road. Only then did he turn and shake a bloody fist at the sea.

Gasping for breath, he watched the waves strike the base of the precipice below like a maddened viper. Exhaustion swiftly claimed him, and he began to shake with previously denied terror. Sweat stung his eyes, but he had nothing dry to wipe it away. Instead, he raised his face to the sky and let the heavy mist cleanse him.

Now he turned his back to the cove and began the final ascent to the top. It was not far, but he felt as if it were as distant as London. Determined not to give in to weariness, he concentrated on not slipping in the mud.

When he reached the crest, he stopped and peered into the thin woods. He could hear nothing over the roar of the incoming tide below, and the mist swirled too thickly to see any shape more than a short distance away.

There was no sign of Hugh, Raoul, and the mare.

At least the three had gained the crest of the cliff, he thought, and sighed with hope. It was likely that the they were riding through the forest and back to the castle.

But where was Leonel?

If the baron’s nephew were wise, the monk thought, he would be on his way to some port where he could seek a boat to take him to the continent. A man with his experience could sell his sword. Many mercenary leaders cared little what innocent blood might have been shed with the weapon as long as it was sharp.

Had Thomas been less weary, he would have grown hot with anger at the failure to exact justice for Baron Herbert’s dead sons. Instead, he looked down at his wounded hands as if they had failed him and walked back to the edge of the cliff. Perhaps all he should ask of God was that Raoul survive. He waited to see Sir Hugh cross the narrow isthmus to the castle.

The fog was too dense, and he could see little except the precipice edge when he approached it. Then the mist parted like a curtain moved by an unseen hand. Looking across at the fortress, Thomas froze at the sight.

A lone rider galloped toward the castle gate.

Thomas squinted to see more clearly. Was that his prioress’ brother? What had happened to Raoul?

But the horse was light in color, and Thomas realized it could not be Sir Hugh. The knight was riding a dark horse, and, with the weight of two men, the beast could not move quickly. Surely they were still traveling through the forest, but Leonel had left the cove before them. The rider must be the baron’s nephew.

Thomas stared in disbelief. “Why return to the castle? The man should have fled.”

Just as the rider reached the narrowest part of the road, a company of mounted soldiers clattered across the drawbridge toward him. There was no room for the man to pass through them, and the troop did not slow their swift pace.

The pale horse reared, slipped and fell backwards, rolling over onto its side in the middle of the road.

Throwing himself free, the rider landed on the sloping edge of the sheer cliff.

With the roar of the surf, Thomas could hear nothing but knew Leonel must have screamed.

Clutching at air, the baron’s nephew slid off the edge, flailing and twisting as he plunged toward the sea. Then his back struck a rock. Chiseled sharp by wind and tides, it pierced Leonel’s body through like a well-aimed lance.