Simon stepped in front of her, grabbing her arm. “Let him have the boy.”
She shoved him away from her, hard, and continued.
Just before the horses, just as they put Kit on the horse, she was stopped. Walter grabbed her arm.
“The village will thrive. It’s best for us all,” Walter said.
“Best for you,” she growled. She pushed at Walter’s hold. Then Simon and Bartholomew were there, restraining her. Holding her back from reaching her son.
“They’ll kill you,” Walter said.
“No,” she pleaded.
The soldier she had hit mounted his horse, holding his nose.
The bishop cast one last look at her, a cold stare, before he urged his steed down the road.
Mercy pushed and twisted against the arms that held her as the horses moved down the road, as her boy moved farther and farther from her. A guttural cry welled up inside of her. No. They couldn’t have taken him. This can’t be happening.
When the bishop’s horses were finally out of sight, the village men released her. She jerked forward, but they were gone. Kit was gone. Her entire body shook.
Simon and Bartholomew stepped by her, moving down the road back to their homes.
“This is for the best, Mercy. You must see that,” Walter whispered.
She whirled on him, glaring hatred and fury. She saw nothing except betrayal, desolation.
“It’s for the best.” With a sigh, even Walter left her.
The sun rose behind her and she could do nothing but stand there watching the empty road. They were gone. Kit was gone. Mercy stood for a long time, staring. Waiting for Kit to come running back.
The worst pain she had ever felt pierced her chest. She felt lost in a fog of despondence and dropped to her knees as tears rushed to her eyes. She couldn’t protect him. She had failed.
“You knew who I was.”
Even his voice could not alleviate the despair. Richard. She had put all of her hope in him for nothing. He had not been there when she needed him most. Now, nothing mattered.
“You wanted me to kill the bishop because of what I had already done. Because I had already killed Becket.”
Nothing mattered. “Where were you?” she whispered.
“You used me! Or you planned to. You didn’t care about me. You only wanted me to kill the bishop.”
She turned to him. A shadow against the rising red sun. “Why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t you help Kit?”
“Help you?” he echoed, shocked.
It didn’t matter. In the end, no one had helped her. Her shoulders slouched and she turned away from him to look at the dusty ground. A small footprint no bigger than her hand was outlined by the dirt of the road. Kit’s footprint. She ran a finger along the outline. She hadn’t been able to protect him. Her defeat was total. They had her boy. What could she do? And then, she thought of Abbey. Her friend. Abbey couldn’t live with the fact that they had taken her son.
“Where’s Kit?”
A numbing death washed over her. “They took him.” How could she live without Kit? She stood on shaky legs and stumbled back to the cottage. The bag she had packed for her escape lay open on the ground; the bread loaves had tumbled out into the dust. She moved the curtain aside and stepped into the cottage. Everywhere she looked, she saw Kit. His straw mattress. The table he ate at. The chickens he chased. She gasped a ragged sigh. She collapsed on his straw mattress, clutching her stomach. What was she to do? What was she to do?
And then her gaze lighted on a piece of rope used to corral the chickens. She reached out to it. Abbey had known her anguish. She clutched the rope in her hand. Abbey had given up her life as well as her boy. Because Luke was her life. Just as Kit was hers.
“What are you doing?”
