“Or what?” Richard demanded. “Will you kill her? Killing is a sin.”
“You should know.” The bishop grinned. “Other guards will be here soon. They will have heard the fighting. I can’t lose.”
Desperation washed over Mercy. She gazed at Richard. They had been so close. No! She had to do something! Mercy’s hands tightened over the staff and she shoved it. But the bishop pulled it tighter against her throat making her gape for breath.
“You would kill her in retribution for the sin I committed?” Richard’s hands tightened around the hilt of the sword.
“You will not win. Sinners are not victorious,” the bishop proclaimed.
A dull clunk. The bishop loosened his hold and Mercy shoved the staff from her neck, ducking out of the bishop’s hold. She stumbled forward into Richard’s waiting arms and looked back at the bishop.
The bishop was on one knee and Rafe stood behind him with the heavy cross from the altar in his hands.
The bishop turned to Rafe as Richard took a step forward.
Rafe lifted the cross again and smashed it against the bishop’s face. Bishop Devdan dropped to the ground.
Richard raced to Rafe and stood before him protectively. He stared at the bishop on the ground, his sword at the ready.
The golden staff rolled from the bishop’s fingertips down the stairs and across the stone floor until it came to a stop in the middle of the room.
Mercy ran to Rafe and pulled him against her, holding him tightly. The boy struggled for a moment and then his shoulders slumped. He began to sob quietly, trembling as he stared at the bishop’s body.
The cross fell from his hands to land softly on the floor.
Mercy turned Rafe from the grisly sight and murmured soft words to him as she steered him across the room. She glanced back at Richard, horrified and relieved.
“It’s alright,” he whispered. “We need to get out of here.”
Mercy nodded and began toward the door. They would have to go out the front door. Richard would never fit through the small opening in the crypts.
Richard followed them.
Mercy glanced back to see Richard standing over the bishop, glaring at him with a snarl.
“With any luck, they’ll say I did this. I’ll gladly take the blame,” he said.
The bishop’s white robe was stained with red. A trickle of blood was beginning to flow down the stairs. “Not all men of the cloth are holy,” Richard whispered. “Monsters come in all forms.”
“Richard,” she called.
He lifted his gaze from the bishop and looked at her. The twisted repulsion left his face as he stared at her, dissolving into wonder and appreciation. He hurried after them.
