Dunford was a busy village, the main road lined with merchants and buyers. It was crowded, and she stepped to the side of the candle maker’s shop to watch the throngs of people in the street, some riding horses, some on carts, many on foot. Mercy realized she would never find Thomas if he didn’t want to be found. There were too many places for him to hide.
She stopped at the apple merchant’s wagon.
He smiled as she approached, and held out an apple. “I have not seen the little runt today.”
She handed him a coin and took the apple. “Thank you.”
Then, she remembered the merchant told her that Thomas must live on the north side of the town. She headed back toward the church. She happened to glance back at the town to find the apple merchant speaking with two soldiers. Shivers of apprehension raced down her spine when the merchant pointed his cane at her.
She turned and hurriedly moved away from the main street. The crowd thinned and she expected the soldiers to come after her at any moment. She cut through a farmer’s wheat field, chancing a glance over her shoulder. The street remained empty. She breathed a small sigh of relief. She was being foolish. They didn’t know her in Dunford. Who knew what the merchant was speaking with them about. She needed to focus on her mission of finding Thomas. She neared a farmer’s house made of wattle and daub. It was quiet except for a bird chirping. The golden field of wheat swayed gently in the breeze.
A child would need protection from nature, from the rain. Perhaps she should search for a run down, empty house? Or a cave?
She heard the clank of a blacksmith’s shop as she came to the house. It stopped suddenly when the pounding of hooves sounded. Instinctively, Mercy ducked behind the mud wall of the farmer’s house. After a moment, as the sound grew, she chanced a look around the side of the house.
A dusty cloud rose from the road and Mercy could see two horses galloping along it. They stopped at the edge of the field of wheat where she had entered. A path of crushed wheat led to her. They glanced toward the farmhouse and she pulled back. They must be looking for her!
Father Stephen had led Richard through the cathedral. There had been no sign of any children, only glassy-eyed saints staring at him with recrimination. The longer he stayed, the more uneasy and anxious he became. He interrupted Father Stephen’s tour. “May I see the monastery?”
Father Stephen’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you searching for something in particular?”
Richard studied a statue of St. Paul, a bearded prophet holding a sword in one hand and a bible in the other. “I am considering a life in the holy order,” he lied. The saints were already looking at him with displeasure. What was a little lying in a cathedral in comparison to his past sins?
Father Stephen’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “You should speak with Abbot Luke. He can guide you better than I.”
Richard nodded but immediately regretted his words. He wanted as few people as possible to know he was here. He was afraid someone would recognize him. As they walked toward the front of the cathedral, down the corridor, he heard muted talking. Nothing wrong with that in a cathedral or monastery. But then, he heard something that made him pause. He reached out and clasped Father Stephen’s arm.
The clink of armor echoed through the corridor.
“I would like to pray for direction before I speak to the Abbot.” He stepped back, casting a wary eye down the hallway.
“Of course.” Father Stephen turned.
Richard wished he had a sword. If this was the bishop’s soldiers, he would have nothing to defend himself with. His best options were to stay hidden or run. He couldn’t help Kit if he was in the dungeon…or worse.
He returned to the cathedral and paused, glancing back down the hallway before he entered. He expected knights to come rushing down the corridor to apprehend him. He was being foolish, he knew. How would they know he was here? Unless… His gaze snapped to Father Stephen.
“You wanted to pray…?” Father Stephen encouraged uneasily.
Furious, Richard grabbed him and slammed him up against the wall. “Do you know who I am?”
“You are Richard!” Father Stephen exclaimed.
Richard pushed his face closer, snarling, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes! Yes! Sir Richard le Breton! Yes! I know.”
“You contacted the bishop. You told the soldiers.”
“I sent word to the bishop. Yes!”
Richard growled softly. He should have known the church was no sanctuary for him. But it wasn’t him he was concerned about. “Mercy. Is she in danger?” His fingers curled into the Father’s robe.
“No,” he said quickly. “I would never do that to her.”
“You already have. She is searching for her son! The bishop took him from her. If he knows I’m here, he knows she is.” Richard tossed Father Stephen aside and hurried into the cathedral. There had to be another way out. He paused and looked back at the Father who was slowly standing. “How do I get out?”
Father Stephen appeared frail and shaken, frightened. He pointed to the altar.
