A Knight With Mercy - an Assassin Knights novel Read online

  A Knight With Mercy

  An Assassin Knights Novel

  Book Two

  Laurel O'Donnell

  Table of Contents

  A Knight With Mercy

  Copyright

  Dear Reader

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Enjoy This Book?

  Thank You

  A Knight With Grace - Assassin Knights Book One

  About Laurel O'Donnell

  More Books by Laurel O'Donnell

  A Knight With Mercy Copyright

  A Knight With Mercy Copyright © 2019 Laurel O'Donnell

  www.laurel-odonnell.com

  Published by ODONNELL BOOKS

  Cover design by Art by Karri

  Developmental Edits by Erica Monroe

  Edited by Charmaine Tan

  All rights reserved. No part of this novel may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its author, Laurel O’Donnell.

  The characters and events portrayed in this historical romance novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Dearest Reader –

  Thank you for reading A Knight with Mercy! I’m glad you picked up my novel.

  I want to warn you, this novel contains content that may be controversial and difficult for some readers. My goal in writing this story was not to offend anyone nor demean any victims or survivors, but to tell a tale of love overcoming evil.

  I hope you enjoy Richard and Mercy’s tale. Prepare yourself! Let me take you into a different time. A different place!

  Welcome to my world!

  Chapter One

  1172

  Goodmont, England

  “For the love of my lord William!”

  The words echoed throughout the black darkness. Richard le Breton gripped his sword tightly, knowing what was to come. He wanted to drop the weapon and back away, but his fingers would not open. Suddenly, as he tried to force his fingers open, blood pooled from between them to drip down his arms into the blackness. A balding man with white hair on the sides of his head and an immaculate white robe towered up to an unreasonable monstrous height.

  Richard tossed in his bed, kicking at his covers. He knew that man. The Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket.

  As Richard watched, horrified, and unable to stop it, the top the of the Archbishop’s pristine head split open as if from the blow of an axe, the wound growing wider and wider. Blood was everywhere, turning the black around him into red guilt. Richard tried to pull back, but his feet were stuck in the red liquid; the blood-like tar sucking at his booted feet.

  Around Richard, flames erupted, the heat singing the flesh from his arms. He pulled back, but the fire was everywhere. He looked up at the Archbishop in desperation.

  With half of his head gone, the Archbishop pointed a finger at Richard. “You did this.”

  Richard sat up, his body slick with sweat. He turned his head, gazing this way and that. When his rapid breathing slowed, he wiped at his brow and inspected the sleeve of his tunic in the moonlight, fearful that he would find blood. But there was no marking on his sleeve. Just his body’s reaction to the dream; a dream he often had. He swung his legs from the straw mattress, and the blanket entwined around his legs fell to the wooden floor. He rested his head in his hands, taking a deep breath to calm his madly beating heart before running his hands through his hair, and rising. There would be no further sleep this night.

  He rose, pulled on his boots and secured his belt to his waist. He moved to the door, threw it open and emerged into the hallway. He looked down the stairway at the first floor of the inn where the flickering glow of a warm fire danced on the walls. He walked down the stairs and stood at the bottom, scanning the room. The hearth light washed over empty tables and chairs scattered throughout. When he saw the room was vacant, he let out a long breath and took a seat before the fire. He extended his hands toward the hearth, feeling the warmth against his palms. He couldn’t forget it. The murder weighed heavy on his shoulders even though it happened eighteen months ago. There was no escaping the guilt that followed him like a shadow.

  A young girl walked up to him. Richard recognized her as the innkeeper’s daughter. He had seen the innkeeper giving the girl orders when he had arrived. The child rubbed her eyes as if she had just woken. “Is there somethin’ I can get ya?”

  “No, lass,” Richard said.

  The girl nodded and turned away, disappearing into a darkened back room.

  Richard stared into the snapping flames of the hearth, running a hand absently over his long beard. After the death of Becket, King Henry had advised all four of the knights involved to flee England. Richard shook his head. England. His home. They had killed the Archbishop under King Henry’s orders, and he had advised them to run away. He sighed. He couldn’t blame Henry. The King couldn’t risk being excommunicated and losing favor with his people. At least he had not stripped them of their titles and lands. His friend and co-conspirator, Sir Hugh de Morville, had lands and a castle at Knaresborough where the four knights had lived since the death of Becket. When the Pope excommunicated them in March of 1171, they had done everything to gain an audience with him to beg forgiveness. When they had finally faced him and told him of their remorse, it had done no good. He hadn’t believed they were truly repentant. He had exiled them to Jerusalem for fourteen years.

  Fourteen years. Richard’s shoulders sagged. He was on his way to the coast to seek passage to Jerusalem now. He wished he could do it all over again. He would never have harmed the Archbishop. But he could not take it back.

  The door swung open and a group of men, farmers by the looks of their dirty tunics and breeches, entered. One nodded toward him. “There he is.”

  Tingles raced along Richard’s spine.

  “Is it him?” another asked.

  Richard stood. He faced the men as they entered the room. “I want no trouble, friends.”

  One of the farmers spit on the floor. “We’re no friends of yers, ya murderin’ giglet.”

  Richard turned toward the stairway as one of the farmers rushed to block his path.

  “It’s him,” the innkeeper said to the farmers.

  “Ya killed the Archbishop.”

  Prickles raced across the nape of his neck. How could he deny their accusations? He had been hiding from the fact for years.

  When he didn’t deny it, the crowd of men murmured unhappily. Dangerously. “It is you! Blackguard!”

  “Ya’ll burn in hell!”

  His body jerked forward as someone shoved him from behind. He stumbled forward but caught himself on a chair before he could go down to his hands and knees. More unhappy grumbling sounded in the room as he straightened. He turned to face them, and a solid blow to his chin spun his head back.

  “Devil spawn!”

  Pain pulsated from his jaw, and he put up his hands up in submission. When one man wi
th dark hair and crooked teeth came toward him, he brought his hand back for a blow. Suddenly, he froze, staring into the farmer’s dark hateful eyes. These were innocent men. He had sworn to protect the innocent. It was part of his oath as a knight. He had made that mistake once. He would not do it again. His hesitation was enough. The hateful eyed man raised his fist and swung landing powerfully against Richard’s jaw. Another blow to his head knocked him sideways, and the room swirled. Bright flashing lights blinded him for a moment.

  Angry grumbling sounded in his ears.

  When the blinking lights cleared, his gaze found the door over their shoulders. He had to get out. But there were so many of them in the way.

  They closed around him and he lifted his arms to protect himself, to block the blows, but they came quickly, one after the other. They landed with dull thumps followed by body aches. When he turned to defend himself, another blow would land on his unprotected side. There were too many. He heard a hiss and wasn’t sure if it was from one of the men or the fire in the hearth. Another painful blow and he clenched his teeth with agony. Was this what he was praying for all these years? To be put out of his misery? Was this his redemption?

  A blow to his stomach doubled him over as a hot fire of pain spread from his mid-section through his body.

  Was this his end?

  He was shoved and then hit hard across his head. The room whirled, spinning as if he were tied to a wheel. Richard was pushed again, and he fell forward to his knee, scraping it on the wooden floor. Was this what the Archbishop endured? His head pounded and his mind returned to the cathedral and the image of Becket on his knees. The thought sent mental agony through him, only enhancing his resolve not to fight back. A punch to his cheek and he tasted copper. Blood.

  “Get him!”

  The blows fell about him like rain, each landing a stinging agony. He was knocked to the ground, instinctively curling into a ball to protect himself. The kicks began then. Something struck him in his side, knocking the breath from him. He heard men’s voices.

  “Evil cumberworld!”

  “Murderin’ arse!”

  He pulled his arms around his head, uselessly trying to protect himself and secretly wishing they would use a sword to speed it along.

  “Stop!” A voice rang out above the clamor of the others. “Stop!”

  He lowered his arms from his head, cautiously, angry that someone should stop his punishment. His death.

  Faces hovered over him, twisted with smirks of hate. One even landed another blow to his head before he could cover it again.

  “Stop!”

  He looked out between his arms again. Through a haze of pain and blackness eating away at the edges of his vision, he saw an angel emerge from the throng of hatred and contempt. She had soft skin and a concerned look in her blue eyes. Brown hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders as she bent to him.

  Behind her, the men grumbled their protest. “He deserves worse!”

  The words rang in his head as the darkness consumed his vision.

  “No,” she said, and knelt at his side. “He is our salvation.”

  Chapter Two

  Mercy Brooker looked down at the wounded knight. Walter, her good friend and nearby neighbor, had helped her move him here, to her barn, where she tended his injuries as best she could while he was unconscious. Cushioned on a bed of straw and covered with a blanket, he was as comfortable as she could make him. His face, framed by brown, wavy hair, was barely recognizable. Discoloration had set in around his left eye and the opposite cheek. His lower lip was cut and puffy. She had removed his tunic to check for further wounds but had found none. She had checked for broken bones, but there were none. She had done all she could for him and yet, he had not regained consciousness. Blows to the head were the most dangerous. She had seen many die from such injuries. And she needed him to live.

  “He doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to be anyone’s salvation.”

  Mercy scowled at the woman standing beside her. Abbey Webb, one of the villages finest weavers, was her closest friend, more like a sister to her. “He’ll be fine,” Mercy reassured her, but she wasn’t certain he would be. “When he recovers, he’ll be a strong knight ready to defend us.”

  “He killed the Archbishop. Do you think we should put our faith in him?”

  “We have no one else.” Mercy picked up the bloody cloth and the water basin and turned with Abbey to return to the cottage. She stopped in the doorway to look back at him. A beam of moonlight shone in through a gap in the side wall. The muted light fell over his face. The color around his eye was darkening. His lip was extended and swollen. But there was something about him. Something strong and strangely hypnotic. Maybe it was because she was putting all her hope in him. Maybe because he had come in answer to her prayer.

  She chuckled softly, self-mockingly. She was desperate. It was foolish to put all her hope in one man, one man who might not survive the night.

  Abbey reached for the door to exit, but Mercy caught her hand. “Don’t worry, Abbey. We’ll find a way to save Luke.”

  “You have to give him to the bishop,” Abbey whispered. “He could be our salvation.”

  “That’s not the answer, Abbey.”

  Abbey yanked her hand from Mercy’s hold. “It is! Maybe the bishop won’t take Luke then. Maybe…”

  Mercy shook her head. “Do you really believe that?”

  Abbey looked down. “I have to. He’s coming for Luke in three days. I have to believe we can stop him.” She shook her head. “What else can we do?”

  Mercy stared at her friend. “Stick to the plan. Can you do that?”

  Abbey looked doubtful. “Then what is the knight for?”

  “To defend us, if we need him. To fight for us.”

  “He’s unconscious! He’s in no shape to fight.”

  Mercy looked back toward him. “He’ll get better.”

  “But if we give him to the bishop –”

  “Abbey, the bishop will take the knight and then take Luke, and all of our hope will be gone.”

  Abbey sighed and her shoulders sagged. “I can’t lose Luke. I don’t know what I would do.”

  Mercy wrapped her arms around her friend, holding her tightly. “I’ll be right there with you.”

  Abbey nodded but worry creased the lines in her forehead.

  Mercy followed her out of the barn, closing the door softly behind her.

  Walter, her friend and neighbor, greeted them outside. He had a hand on his back, rubbing it gently. He swiped a strand of his gray hair from his forehead and straightened when they emerged. “We should have left him at the inn.” He took the basin of water from her hands.

  She looked at Walter. She patted his arm with affection. “You did fine.”

  “I’m sorry. Truly, I am. If I had my way, I would have left him in the woods to die.” He ran a hand through his grey hair as he tucked the basin beneath one arm. “You’re alone here, Mercy. I don’t like leaving him here.”

  “We’ll be fine. You can go. You need to get some sleep before dawn.”

  Walter scowled. “I’ll check back after dinner on the morrow.” They walked to the doorway of the cottage. Abbey entered ahead of them.

  Mercy thought of her patient. The knight. One of the four knights who had attacked and killed Archbishop Becket. The townsmen had attacked him ruthlessly, even though she doubted they knew which knight he was. It didn’t matter. Most of the men thought all of the knights should be dead for attacking the Archbishop. “Do you know which knight he is?”

  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. Their only hope.

  “He’s got a on
e-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.”

  “I am. 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.”