A Knight With Mercy - an Assassin Knights novel Read online

  She placed a bowl full of porridge before him. “It’s what your father taught me. It’s what I know. And it is the right thing to do. I will always help those in need.”

  “What did they need?”

  Mercy looked at Kit. His riotous golden curls stuck up in strange angles from his head. She smoothed them down. “There was a fight.”

  “Was anyone stabbed?” he asked, licking the side of the bowl.

  “Kit! What type of question is that?”

  “That’s what you do. You stop them from dying when they are hurt.” Kit lifted the bowl to his lips.

  Mercy stared at her child, his blonde, unruly hair; his small, pudgy fingers. He thought she stopped people from dying. Kit saw her as more than she was. She could not prevent death, only help heal injuries. She had seen death numerous times and been helpless to prevent it. She should correct him. He should know that even his mother couldn’t stop people from dying.

  He put the bowl on the table and turned to look at her with his large blue eyes.

  Her heart melted. He thought she was more than she was. And for a moment, she would let him believe it.

  “Aren’t you eating?” Kit wondered.

  “I already did.” She couldn’t help bending and pressing a kiss to his curls. “I have to make my rounds. Alice will be here soon. She’ll watch you while I make my rounds.”

  “I don’t need to be watched,” Kit pouted.

  Mercy was glad Walter’s wife could help her. She didn’t want to leave Kit alone, even if he thought he didn’t need Alice.

  “Luke went home?”

  Mercy nodded, taking a bag of instruments and setting it on the table.

  “Are you going to see that magic man?”

  “Magic man?” Mercy asked with a scowl of confusion.

  “Magi…” Kit mirrored her frown as he concentrated on the word.

  And then Mercy understood. He had either overheard her or someone else talking. “Magistrate.”

  “Yes!”

  “No.” She began to sort through the instruments in the bag, mentally going over what she needed. “One of the baker’s wife’s teeth hurts. And the blacksmith hit his thumb on the forge.”

  “That would hurt!”

  “That’s why I’m going to see him.” She pulled the string tight on the bag to close it and knelt before him. “Kit, I want you to stay out of the barn for a while.”

  He looked at her with those innocent blue eyes and blinked. “Why?”

  For a moment, Mercy thought of concocting a story to keep him out of the barn, but she didn’t want to lie to him. She let out her breath in a slow whoosh. “There is a man recovering from the fight in the barn. I’m not certain if he would harm you or not.”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Will he harm you?”

  She smiled gently. “He had no weapons. Only armor.”

  Kit gasped. “Is he a knight?”

  “He is. But it’s important you don’t go into the barn. Not until I get to know him.”

  “Who will protect you?”

  She warmed at his concern over her. They were all each had. She patted her waist where she always kept a sheathed dagger. “I always have protection.”

  Kit huffed in disapproval, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I have a very important job for you.” Kit looked at her dubiously and she continued, “His horse is tied behind the barn. Can you feed it and give it water?”

  His eyes lit. “Is it a warhorse?”

  “No. Palfrey. But it needs someone to take care of it. Can you help me with that duty?”

  Kit nodded grudgingly. “I’d rather clean his weapons.”

  “He had only a dagger.”

  “Can Luke help with the horse?”

  Mercy grinned. “Of course.”

  “And Joshua?”

  Joshua was Kit’s imaginary friend. If anyone knew of his friend, they might call it witchcraft. Or worse. She allowed him the fantasy because Joshua had materialized shortly after her husband, his father, had died. “Perhaps you should keep Joshua away from the horse. He might spook it.”

  Kit nodded in agreement. “Joshua won’t like that.”

  Mercy grasped her son’s small hands, drawing his gaze. “Remember to keep Joshua a secret.”

  Kit nodded, and a strand of blonde hair fell before his intelligent eyes. “I remember.”

  She kissed his head and moved to the door, pausing. She looked back at her son. He was the world to her. And the future looked so dark for them. She loved him so. “Don’t forget about the horse. And remember to be careful. The horse doesn’t know you.” Kit nodded. “And stay out of the barn.”

  Mercy picked up the bag from the table. “I’ll be home soon.”

  When Mercy returned from checking on the villagers, it was just after noon. She had been anxious leaving Walter’s wife, Alice, with the knight. She had been more anxious leaving her son with instructions not to enter the barn. It was too tempting for a young boy.

  When she rode up, Alice, a thin, elderly woman with gray hair tied back into a braid, was pacing before the barn, wringing her wrinkled hands.

  Mercy dismounted, fear tightening her stomach. “What is it? Is Kit hurt?”

  Alice shook her head, a lock of grey hair falling free from the braid. “A fever. The knight’s burning up.”

  Mercy shoved the reins of her horse into Alice’s hands and hurried inside the barn, rushing to the back stall where the knight had been resting. Sunlight shone through a slot of wood on the wall, casting the knight in a subdued light. She dropped to her knees at his side and pressed her hand to his forehead and then his grizzled cheeks. He was overly warm.

  “Alice!” she called.

  Alice hurried in.

  “Get more blankets. Use the ones from my room. Bring a bucket of water and some cloth.”

  Alice nodded and hurried out of the barn.

  Mercy quickly checked his wounds, making sure there was clean cloth covering them for protection. When he began to toss his head and groan, Mercy placed her hand against his cheek, whispering, “It will be alright. Quiet, now.”

  Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, pinning her to the spot. His hand caught hers, holding it tightly to his cheek. “Hellfire!” he whispered.

  Startled, Mercy could only gaze in horror at his utterance.

  “Hellfire,” he said softly, and seemed to settle back.

  Scowling, Mercy eased her hand from his hold and adjusted the blanket over his chest.

  He shoved the cloth from his chest and began to toss his head again.

  Hellfire? Was he seeing something she couldn’t? The uttered word sent chills down her spine. Was he closer to death than she realized? No. She would not let him go without a fight. He was their only hope. Her only hope.

  Alice entered holding a blanket, and a basin on top of it. Mercy stood and took the basin from her to settle it beside him. She dipped some cloth into the water and wrung it out before placing it across his forehead.

  “Maybe we should let him die,” Alice stated.

  “Alice!”

  “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 h
im.

  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?”

  “I thought it better to keep you hidden from the men who attacked you.”

  He looked at her with a scowl, his gaze slowly moving over her face. He touched his forehead gently. Then, his hand swept by his chin and paused. It slowly moved to his hair, feeling the shortened length with his fingers.

  “I had to cut and dye it,” Mercy explained quickly. “As a disguise against the men who attacked you.”

  “I do not need to hide from men.”

  A grin slipped over her lips and she quickly pushed it away. “You were in no condition to fight them.” She eased her wrist from his hold. “Can you eat?”

  He glanced down at the floor, the furrow never leaving his brow.

  “It’s important to keep your strength up.”

  He turned, attempting to swing his leg from the straw, but winced and clutched his side.

  Mercy put her hand on his arm, partly to stop him and partly to help him. “You need to heal.”

  He shook his head slightly, the scowl deepening.

  She quickly picked up the flask from the ground and held it out to him. “At least drink.”

  He took the flask and drank deeply.

  It relieved her to see him follow her instructions. She watched his throat work as he swallowed. He would be hungry soon.

  When he handed it back to her, there was gratitude and suspicion in his one open eye. Specks of ale sparkled on his lips.

  For a surprising moment, Mercy couldn’t look away.

  “The fight… I… I don’t remember it.”

  Mercy’s eyes widened in shock. “You mean you don’t remember who beat you?”

  “No.” He looked around the floor as if the answer was hidden there. “No. I don’t remember… anything before waking up here.”

  “Nothing?”

  He was silent for a moment. Then, he shook his head, his black, chin length locks swaying with the movement. “Nay.”

  Tremors of apprehension raced down her spine. She nodded, to herself as well as him. “That is common with head injuries. Your memory will return.”

  He lifted his gaze to her.

  For a moment, she saw vulnerability and something else. Something she knew well. Concern. “Worry about recovering. Don’t worry about this.” She began to collect used cloths and folded them, placing them in a pile. As she worked, she became aware of his stare and turned to him. “You need your strength.”

  “It is disconcerting not to be able to remember.”

  She paused her work to look at him.

  He stared down at his fist which he was clenching and releasing. “How long have I been here?”

  “This is the second day. I think it’s a good sign that you have regained consciousness.”

  “This fight… how did it start?”

  “I’m not certain. I wasn’t there when it began.”

  He scowled at his fist. “When I look into my past, I only see darkness.”

  Her heart leapt in sympathy. He saw darkness in his past and she saw it in her future. She placed a hand over his fist. “It will be alright.”

  He stared at her hand. “Was I alone?”

  “Yes,” she said softly. “But you are not any longer.”

  He slowly lifted his gaze to hers.

  Gratitude and something warm simmered in his eyes. She gasped slightly and pulled her hand away. Unnerved by the connection, she gathered the cloth and flask. She began to rise. “I’ll bring you some porridge.”

  He caught her hand. “That sounds good.”

  His touch was warm and gentle, kind almost. She looked down at his hand wrapped around hers. It engulfed hers in a tenderness that filled her empty soul.

  Suddenly, a little whirlwind flew in and she heard a cry, “Let go of my mother!”

  She stumbled back when he released her. “Kit!” she called.

  The knight had Kit at arm’s length, holding Kit’s balled hand away from him and the boy’s shoulder.

  Kit swung his free hand, hitting the knight’s arm. “He has a dagger!”

  “Kit!” Mercy called, reaching for her son. She grabbed his shoulders firmly, pulling him away from the knight. “He was not hurting me! He doesn’t have a dagger! Stop!”

  Kit stilled his fight and looked over his
shoulder at her, confusion in his blue eyes.

  “I’m alright,” she insisted.

  “I’m not here to harm your mother,” the knight said.

  Kit straightened.

  “Why are you here?” Kit demanded of the knight.

  The knight’s swollen lip curled in amusement. “Apparently, to heal.”

  “Come on, Kit,” Mercy said, taking the child’s hand. “I was going inside to get some porridge for our guest.” Mercy led him out of the barn. When they neared the cottage, she paused. “I told you not to go into the barn.”

  “You need protection,” Kit replied. “He is a strong knight.”

  Gratitude and fear overwhelmed her. They looked out for each other. She hugged him fiercely. “He’s too weak to hurt me.” She pulled back to look at him. “Besides. I have my own dagger.”

  Kit scowled. “What happens when he gets stronger?”

  Mercy thought about this. “We’ll put him to work mucking out the stalls.”

  Kit grinned. “As payment for eating our porridge?”

  Mercy smiled and messed his curls. “Aye. But you can’t attack him like that.”

  Kit shrugged as he entered the cottage. “Joshua was right behind me. And his dagger is bigger than yours.”

  Mercy’s heart sank. It worried her that Kit felt embolden because of a pretend person. “Will Joshua be here long?”

  Kit paused in the doorway to look at her. One of his blonde curls fell into his blue eyes and he brushed it aside. “He goes home at night.” He said it matter of factly, as if it was apparent to everyone.

  It wasn’t time yet to tell him the truth about Joshua. Not yet. He might need Joshua to help him if she couldn’t… Her chest tightened and she refused to finish her thought. “You know that Joshua can’t really help you, even if he has a big dagger.”

  “Because he is smaller than me?”

  “Because you must depend upon yourself.”

  “And you.”

  Again, that tight burning agony filled her chest. She looked down. “And me, yes.”

  “But not that knight.”

  She glanced back at the barn. It was a shadow against the rising moon. It was strange that she was telling Kit not to trust the knight when all her hopes were with him. “I am hoping we will get to know him enough to trust him, but right now you shouldn’t.”