“Think on it. His death might gain us favor with the bishop.”
Mercy snorted. “Nothing can gain us favor with him.”
“We could try.”
Mercy shook her head as she gazed down at the knight. His dark hair was plastered to his head in sweat. His eye was swollen, as was his lip. So many had wished for his death or suggested turning him over to the bishop. He was alone. “A man that has nothing to lose is worth more than death to us.”
Mercy stayed with the knight, dabbing his head and trying to keep him comfortable. He had opened his unswollen eye once or twice in the night and looked at her. She whispered calming words to him. He never spoke of Hellfire again. As she watched him, she thought it might be a good idea if she cut his hair. She had dye in the cottage to disguise his hair. He definitely needed to shave. All of it so others would not recognize him.
Alice stopped in the barn just after dark to inform her Kit was asleep and she would return in the morning. Mercy slept off and on, dreaming of a knight in fire slaying a white dragon.
In the morning, she checked on the knight again, pressing her palm to his forehead and cheeks. The fever had broken. Relief washed over her. He had managed to fight his way through the fever. Now, if he would only open his eyes.
She set about disguising him by cutting his hair in a bowl cut fashion and dying his hair black. It took time and she was careful, washing out the excess in a bucket. It was like painting. She had never dyed anyone’s hair before, but she had cut Dean’s and Kit’s hair numerous times. When she was satisfied with the job, she sat back and gazed at him. He looked different, but she still wanted to shave him. Every little bit would help keep his identity a secret. She would have to return to the cottage first to get fresh water.
She waited until Alice arrived before returning to the cottage, carrying the basin. She emptied it before entering. Kit was already up, hopping from foot to foot anxiously, awaiting her. “Can I go to help the blacksmith?”
Mercy blinked. He was so excited to do work that it caught her off guard.
“He asked for my help! He said he is working on a sword for one of the bishop’s guards. He said I could help pound out the metal because his thumb is hurt! Can I? Can I? Can I?”
Mercy sighed. “Yes. Of course. But remember not to tell Frederick about Joshua. It’s a secret.”
Kit bobbed his head. “I remember.”
“Is Luke going with you?”
Again, a quick nod as he raced for the doorway.
“And remember to take care of the palfrey.”
Kit groaned but bobbed his head and ran out into the rising sunshine.
Mercy returned to the barn with fresh water and food. She tried to feed the knight some broth and ground up carrots. It was important he ate to regain his strength. She was on her knees, leaning over him, pressing some smashed carrots between his lips. If he would only swallow some of it, but most of the ground up mush slid from his mouth uneaten.
She sat back, frustrated, her gaze moving over his face. His eyes were closed, his lashes resting against his cheek. One was swollen closed and turning color. His nose was straight. His jaw covered by a full beard. His thick lips were closed, his lower one swollen with a cut marring the rim. What really concerned her was the fact that he hadn’t eaten. If he didn’t eat or drink, he would perish. He had come so far already, fighting his way through the fever. And she needed him. She scooped up another trencher of the mashed carrots and pressed it against his lips. “Please,” she whispered.
Suddenly, he grabbed her wrist and his eye opened to reveal a deep blue orb. “Who are you?” he demanded in a rough voice.
She gasped at his sudden movement, her free hand falling to the dagger in her belt. “My name is Mercy.”
He sat up without releasing her wrist. “Where am I?”
“Safe. Do not worry,” she said trying to calm him, pushing her trepidation down.
He looked around the barn slowly and then turned his gaze back to her.
She inhaled slowly. His grip was tight on her arm, but it was his eye that left her breathless. It was intense and piercing. “You were in a fight,” she whispered. “I was helping you recover.”
Still, he did not release her.
Her gaze swept his face. His jaw was tight, his face battered, but there was something proud and confident in it. “Please. I want to help you. I’ve been keeping you safe here.”
“Where is here?”
“You are in Goodmont. In my barn.”
“A barn?” he asked with distaste. “A place where you keep the animals?”
