A brutal blow found its mark, and Eamon staggered, a grimace of pain contorting his face as he stood in front of his horse and cart. The leader, sensing the opportunity, delivered a final, fatal strike.
“Eamon!” Callan roared, the bandits fading to a blur. The merchant, his eyes filled with determination, fell to the ground, blade slipping from his grasp.
Fueled by fury, Callan charged the nearest man, the dagger finding its mark.
The skirmish continued as Callan fought, determined to kill them all, but sensing he would not give up until they were all dead, the leader let out a piercing whistle from the cart as the remaining men ran alongside, urging the horse onward, shouting insults as they escaped with their loot.
As the dust settled, Callan rushed to Eamon’s side. The merchant lay on the ground, his breath labored, a pool of crimson spreading beneath him.
“Bastards, the lot of ‘em,” Eamon whispered, a weak smile flickering on his lips. “We took out more than a few, though, didn’t we?”
Callan kneeled beside Eamon. “Aye, we did. Ye fought well.”
Eamon’s gaze met Callan’s, a silent understanding passing between them, and then the merchant slippit awa as his breath faded into the autumn air.
Anger gave way to sorrow for the man so full of life that he had briefly befriended. Callan buried Eamon under a tree where he could look upon the stream as the merchant said he liked hearing the water as it ran over the stones.
He stood head bowed, hand on the stones covering the mound where Eamon now rested.
Now at journey’s end I bid ye farewell
Though cruelly met by bandit’s hand
No more will ye roam afar
Murdered cruelly, though ye meant nay harm
Yer spirit, I hope finds calm
As I remember well your kindness and stories
And lay you here beside this stream for your final rest.
As the clouds cleared, the moon cast its glow across the small clearing, a distant howl echoing through the night, a harbinger of whatever was yet to come.
He’d been traveling for a fortnight, sleeping rough, when Callan stopped at an inn for the night to enjoy a hot meal and a soft bed.
But before he entered the inn, he had words with several English nobles who did not want a filthy Scot under the same roof.
One in particular was concerned Callan would ravish his beautiful young wife. And while Callan would admit the lady was lovely, there was a wickedness deep within her eyes that bade him stay away.
So late that night, when the English bastards were in their cups, Callan deprived the whoreson of his fine horse and purse, riding hard through the night as a chorus of shouts erupted behind him. Arrows whistled through the air, narrowly missing him as Callan leaned low over the horse’s neck, heart pounding in sync with the horse’s hoofbeats.
By dawn, Callan had put considerable distance between himself and his pursuers, enough so he slowed the stolen horse and found a covered spot to rest.
CHAPTER 12
It tookthree agonizingly long days for Lucy and the men to travel to Beverley Priory. The monastery boasted a hostelry to provide lodging for visitors, and even better, it wasn’t far from the purported magical well.
Lucy refrained from snorting. Talking to bees, making pilgrimages to holy wells, those were all fine and good, but talk to a raven or be a little different, and people called you a witch, and talked about you behind your back for years.
During their travels, Lucy told them the story she’d made up about how she was having trouble with her eyesight, mainly difficulty seeing close up. Two of the knights had stories to tell of someone they knew who knew someone who had been cured at one of the holy wells after taking the waters.
Beverley was approximately forty-five miles from York, located in the countryside away from the town. The perfect place for an ambush. The thought had crossed her mind that the letter was a ruse, but the desire to find out was so strongthat Lucy had to go, because if it was one of her sisters, she’d never forgive herself if something happened and she hadn’t gone to rescue her sister.
On the morning of the third day of travel, she told Thomas she had heard pilgrims talking at the inn last night and they said there had been bandits spotted in the area of the well preying on unwary travelers. When he assured her they would be on guard, she figured if her sister was being held captive, then her guards could deal with them.
She read the note again. It wasn’t written in either of her sister’s handwriting, but that wasn’t proof of anything, as a messenger could have written the note for her.
