Walter gave a curt chuckle. “The one that got whooped at the inn.” He handed the basin back to her. “You should bind him.”
Mercy shook her head. “No. He’s too weak. He’s no threat to us.”
Walter shook his head. “Don’t trust him, Mercy. You’d be wise to hand him over to the bishop.”
“No,” Mercy said stubbornly. He was their last hope. Theironlyhope.
“He’s got a one-way pass to Hell. All the knights who killed the Archbishop do. Don’t get involved with him.”
Unfortunately, Mercy needed his help. She had stopped the men from killing him, he owed her.
“Think of your boy. Think of Kit.”
“Iam. He’s who I’m doing this for.”
“What will you tell Kit?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She looked down at the basin. “He doesn’t have to know.”
“He’ll find out. You can’t keep this a secret. The bishop will find out, too.”
“I just need time. Time for the knight to recover.”
Walter shook his head in disapproval. “A few of the men in the village already know you have him. This is dangerous for you.”
“I have to do it, Walter. There is no other choice.” Her insides tightened in desperation, in fear. “I only have eight days. And Abbey has less. What else can I do?” Her voice broke. “I won’t give Kit up. I won’t.”
Walter nodded, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Alright. For now, we’ll keep him a secret. We’ll think of something.”
Mercy agreed. “Thank you.” But the anxiety and fear were back, simmering inside of her. She would not give up her child.
After Abbey left for her home with her son Luke, Mercy stayed up. She was hopeful. For the first time in a long time, she had hope. Real hope. She stirred the pot of porridge simmering over the fire in the hearth, waiting for Kit to wake. She tried to think of something to tell the men of the village. Her worst fear was that one of them would tell the bishop. She had no doubt he would punish her for keeping the knight a secret.
A noise startled her out of her reverie, and she turned to find Kit entering the main room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He was a thin, energetic boy of only four, almost five summers. Five summers. Tremors of unease snaked down her spine.
“Mum?” Kit called.
“Here, Kit,” she answered.
“Why are you up already?” he asked, taking a seat at the table.
“Someone needed my help.”
“You are always helping someone.”
She placed a bowl full of porridge before him. “It’s what your father taught me. It’s what I know. And it is the right thing to do. I will always help those in need.”
“What did they need?”
Mercy looked at Kit. His riotous golden curls stuck up in strange angles from his head. She smoothed them down. “There was a fight.”
“Was anyone stabbed?” he asked, licking the side of the bowl.
“Kit! What type of question is that?”
“That’s what you do. You stop them from dying when they are hurt.” Kit lifted the bowl to his lips.
Mercy stared at her child, his blonde, unruly hair; his small, pudgy fingers. He thought she stopped people from dying. Kit saw her as more than she was. She could not prevent death, only help heal injuries. She had seen death numerous times and been helpless to prevent it. She should correct him. He should know that even his mother couldn’t stop people from dying.
