wheeled too late, his curved blade just nicking his young attacker’s cheek, and then the longsword caught him through the belly and impaled him against the wall.
The child who’d never killed before blinked in shock. It didn’t feel real. It felt like the force of surprise and his own momentum had carried the thing, not him. But now he’d lost both, and try as he might, he couldn’t pull out the sword.
A liquor jug hit him full force in the back of his head, knocking him off his feet.
“Bloody hell! Poor Humboldt! Killed by a marauding child!
And he was to marry his heiress next month.” It was the blond man.
“Aye. A pity. And not how one wants to be remembered,” the handsome one said to sniggers all the way round.
He scrambled backward on his elbows and heels, desperately feeling for the dropped sword he’d seen earlier. The moment he found it he jumped to his feet. He pointed it at them, holding it steady. “Let her go!”
“Do you know what I’m going to do with that sword, boy?” the rat man whispered. “I’m going to slit you from throat to belly, and fry your entrails.”
Caroline, still struggling in Harris’s grip, managed to loosen his chokehold on her throat. “Run, Robbie! Please run! Run!” his sister screamed.
“I’ll let her go, lad, if you say so,” Harris said with a leer, and then he lifted her high in the air and flung her hard against the wall.
He had always been reserved and she the merry prankster. Sister, boon companion and best friend, she was his strength, her charm and personality both larger than life. But when she hit the wall and slid to the floor in a broken heap, she was so small…so fragile. She looked at him a moment, willing something from him. He whimpered, taking one step back as they advanced toward him, and then his sword clattered to the ground and he ran. He looked back one more time before he reached the doorway, but she was gone.
He ran and ran as they shouted behind him, out of the house and back into the night. He fell on his knees when he could go no further. People were coming, running toward him, their torches bobbing in the dark. A great screaming pain tore through him, rising through his blood and nerves, seizing his throat and ripping his heart. He threw back his head, letting loose a wounded-animal howl.
“JESUS!” H E WOKE WITH A LOUD GASP, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.
“You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.
THE SECOND ROYAL MESSAGE, commanding his presence at Whitehal , came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force.
Men who saw the war and Charles the First’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth. They had once hailed Cromwel as a second Moses, leading God’s chosen people to the promised land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and
The child who’d never killed before blinked in shock. It didn’t feel real. It felt like the force of surprise and his own momentum had carried the thing, not him. But now he’d lost both, and try as he might, he couldn’t pull out the sword.
A liquor jug hit him full force in the back of his head, knocking him off his feet.
“Bloody hell! Poor Humboldt! Killed by a marauding child!
And he was to marry his heiress next month.” It was the blond man.
“Aye. A pity. And not how one wants to be remembered,” the handsome one said to sniggers all the way round.
He scrambled backward on his elbows and heels, desperately feeling for the dropped sword he’d seen earlier. The moment he found it he jumped to his feet. He pointed it at them, holding it steady. “Let her go!”
“Do you know what I’m going to do with that sword, boy?” the rat man whispered. “I’m going to slit you from throat to belly, and fry your entrails.”
Caroline, still struggling in Harris’s grip, managed to loosen his chokehold on her throat. “Run, Robbie! Please run! Run!” his sister screamed.
“I’ll let her go, lad, if you say so,” Harris said with a leer, and then he lifted her high in the air and flung her hard against the wall.
He had always been reserved and she the merry prankster. Sister, boon companion and best friend, she was his strength, her charm and personality both larger than life. But when she hit the wall and slid to the floor in a broken heap, she was so small…so fragile. She looked at him a moment, willing something from him. He whimpered, taking one step back as they advanced toward him, and then his sword clattered to the ground and he ran. He looked back one more time before he reached the doorway, but she was gone.
He ran and ran as they shouted behind him, out of the house and back into the night. He fell on his knees when he could go no further. People were coming, running toward him, their torches bobbing in the dark. A great screaming pain tore through him, rising through his blood and nerves, seizing his throat and ripping his heart. He threw back his head, letting loose a wounded-animal howl.
“JESUS!” H E WOKE WITH A LOUD GASP, doubled over and clutching his midsection, trying to catch his breath. His dreams of Caroline were the worst. They had none of the distance of memory, none of the detached quality of his other nightmares. They hurled him back in time, forcing him to relive that night, a frightened child who failed his sister, over and over again. He groaned and went to the sideboard to pour himself a drink.
“You needn’t ride me quite so hard, Caro. I’m doing the best I can,” he said to the empty room. But she never stopped. In the light of day he could push such thoughts and images away, but other than the occasional glimpse of a cheeky grin, violet eyes and a muddy face, blood and horror hounded him most every night. He wished he was one of those lucky souls whose dreams did not pursue them when they woke. He wondered what her thoughts would be if she knew he had lost her home.
THE SECOND ROYAL MESSAGE, commanding his presence at Whitehal , came two days later and was almost as great a shock as the first. Robert could imagine no reason for it, other than suspicion regarding his possible involvement with enemies of the crown. Some of those who fought for parliament during the English civil wars were fanatics. The Fifth Monarchists had been a powerful force.
Men who saw the war and Charles the First’s execution as a prelude to the start of a golden age where Christ and his saints would reign on earth. They had once hailed Cromwel as a second Moses, leading God’s chosen people to the promised land. Just three months past they’d launched an uprising in London resulting in a bloody street battle and
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