Angry grumbling sounded in his ears.
When the blinking lights cleared, his gaze found the door over their shoulders. He had to get out. But there were so many of them in the way.
They closed around him and he lifted his arms to protect himself, to block the blows, but they came quickly, one after the other. They landed with dull thumps followed by body aches. When he turned to defend himself, another blow would land on his unprotected side. There were too many. He heard a hiss and wasn’t sure if it was from one of the men or the fire in the hearth. Another painful blow and he clenched his teeth with agony. Was this what he was praying for all these years? To be put out of his misery? Was this his redemption?
A blow to his stomach doubled him over as a hot fire of pain spread from his mid-section through his body.
Was this his end?
He was shoved and then hit hard across his head. The room whirled, spinning as if he were tied to a wheel. Richard was pushed again, and he fell forward to his knee, scraping it on the wooden floor. Was this what the Archbishop endured? His head pounded and his mind returned to the cathedral and the image of Becket on his knees. The thought sent mental agony through him, only enhancing his resolve not to fight back. A punch to his cheek and he tasted copper. Blood.
“Get him!”
The blows fell about him like rain, each landing a stinging agony. He was knocked to the ground, instinctively curling into a ball to protect himself. The kicks began then. Something struck him in his side, knocking the breath from him. He heard men’s voices.
“Evil cumberworld!”
“Murderin’ arse!”
He pulled his arms around his head, uselessly trying to protect himself and secretly wishing they would use a sword to speed it along.
“Stop!” A voice rang out above the clamor of the others. “Stop!”
He lowered his arms from his head, cautiously, angry that someone should stop his punishment. His death.
Faces hovered over him, twisted with smirks of hate. One even landed another blow to his head before he could cover it again.
“Stop!”
He looked out between his arms again. Through a haze of pain and blackness eating away at the edges of his vision, he saw an angel emerge from the throng of hatred and contempt. She had soft skin and a concerned look in her blue eyes. Brown hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders as she bent to him.
Behind her, the men grumbled their protest. “He deserves worse!”
The words rang in his head as the darkness consumed his vision.
“No,” she said, and knelt at his side. “He is our salvation.”
