Mystic Warrior (14 page)

Murdoch nodded as if he understood what she did not. “I had already planned to take you away. Now there is more reason. But first, we must rid the village of a plague of rats.”

Lissandra sighed her regret at having the decision to leave made for her. She began to move about the room, gathering their scattered belongings. “Jean, tell your mother the herbs I've planted are valuable. Someone must tend them.”

The boy nodded fearfully. “You are going? What will happen to us?”

“You will follow the lessons LeDroit has taught you. You will carry water from the river for the fields if it does not rain. You will share the houses that have new roofs until others can be mended. In time, you will be fine.”

She hoped. She disliked abandoning anyone in need. But her duty was to Aelynn.

She sensed Murdoch's suppressed rage that he could not complete the task he'd set himself, but there was no help for it, not when others might be threatened by their presence. Even the villagers would fear them if she and Murdoch used their terrifying gifts to drive off a troop of soldiers. Truly, Aelynners were not meant for this world—

Midthought, it struck her—Murdoch had actually conceded to her logic and agreed that
he
must leave. The situation must be dire indeed.

“Follow behind us,” Murdoch told the boy. “Slip away only when we are close to the village and it is safe.”

The boy nodded worshipfully. “What will you do about Père Antoine, monsieur?”

“Nothing saintly,” Murdoch retorted.

For better or worse, the Warrior had returned.

Murdoch clenched his fists on the mare's reins and did his best to ignore the goddess of justice perched beside him. His inner turmoil shielded him from Lis's righteous anger, but not her beauty as the evening breeze blew strands loose from her moonlit braid.

She'd succeeded in forcing him to face his past ambitions when all he'd wanted to do was hide from the results. When he'd first arrived in France, he'd been filled with idealistic notions of freeing the downtrodden from the yokes of tyranny. At first, he'd aided the rebel cause from within the powerful court. After it became apparent he could not save France entirely on his own, he'd attempted to work within the system forged by the revolutionaries.

It had been nine months since he'd ridden into Paris, escorting recalcitrant Bretons who'd denounced the glorious new government. Nine months since his stomach for revolution had been purged in blood . . .

 

Wearing the blue uniform of the Breton
fédérés
instead of that of the king's men he'd worn more than a year before, Murdoch led two coaches carrying a fractious priest, a few defiant aristocrats, and several tradesmen accused of counterrevolutionary crimes. His men drove the coaches and rode alongside in an orderly manner. Their long march from the far reaches of France would end at l'Abbaye prison in Paris, where these plotters against the new government would be tried for their crimes.

 

After that, he'd changed his politics and his tactics, hoping to save lives instead of take them. He'd spent these last months rescuing innocent prisoners from the bloody mobs of Paris, sneaking in at night, risking his life again and again to carry out those who had been incarcerated for being born into the wrong family or for not crossing the right palm with gold. And still, all his erratic strength and mighty weapons hadn't been enough. Would never be enough against the unremitting tide of violence.

When he'd inadvertently set fire to an entire village, he had been forced to admit that he and his weapons were as damned as the Revolution was. He'd thought to set warfare aside and seek peace.

Only for Lis's sake would he take up a sword again. He didn't know where he'd go after this. He hated abandoning his task here, but once he rid the town of its infestation of human rats, he would have to set Lis on a ship for home.

“You can run faster than this cart can roll,” Lis murmured, jolting him from his reverie. The boy rode obediently behind them on his pony and couldn't hear their conversation.

“I can't leave you alone,” he growled back.

“You'll need your weapons if we're to have any chance of winning. There are more than a half dozen soldiers guarding the prisoners.” She grasped the reins in front of his hands and tugged to slow the horse. “Just don't let anyone see you run. It raises too many questions.”

“As does flinging men into trees?” He regretted the sarcasm after the words were said. She wasn't objecting to his weapons. He was the one who had reservations about their use.

She didn't appear to take his sharpness personally. “Exactly. I'll let the horse pull ahead around the bend. The shrubbery will hide you.”

Murdoch had to believe a woman who could mentally geld a man could take care of herself for the few minutes it would take for him to run into the village. He leapt from the cart the moment it turned the bend. Landing on his feet, he entered the shrubbery before the boy could see him. He reached town within minutes and raced through the shadows he knew well, approaching the priest's humble abode from alleyways, moving silently. Opening his mind, he could feel the apprehension of the people hiding behind closed doors. Most were women and children and old men who were terrified of what might happen to their sons and husbands and fathers. And the priest. The bloody tales from Paris had reached even this isolated area, giving them good cause to fear the fate of any prisoner the committee took.

The priest's cottage was left unlocked, as always. Murdoch slipped through the kitchen door, knowing the place would be empty. In his head, he pictured a sword, and his nose led him straight to the priest's Spartan bedroom. The neat cot hid nothing, but the bare floor . . .

Using the kitchen knife he'd stuck in his belt, Murdoch pried at an irregular crack in the boards. In moments, he'd found the mechanism that opened the trapdoor. Lighting a candle, he leaned over the hole and caught the gleam of metal. The priest was hiding an arsenal.

Finding his leather scabbard among the hoard, Murdoch strapped it on before spreading the remainder of his loot across the floor. His weapons had been made to his specifications, so they stood out in this pitiful collection. Claiming his most prized possession, he stood with legs akimbo and with both hands swung the golden hilt of his well-balanced saber. It felt like a natural extension of his arms. He shoved the sword into its scabbard, adjusting to the weight on his hip, then inserted his rapier into his belt.

Swinging his arms and working through the tension in his muscles, he practiced whipping out both weapons and slicing them through the empty air. He hadn't exercised his skill since the fire, but the motions were ingrained in him from a lifetime's experience.

He scanned the rest of the hoard, found a knife more suited to his needs than the kitchen blade he carried, then hastily returned the remaining weapons to their hiding place.

He could hear the pony cart arriving on the edge of town. The boy would be riding off to his mother, leaving Lis alone.

Weapons in place, Murdoch hastened toward the front door and slipped into the street. Others peered out from behind closed shutters. He had an urge to call to them but refrained. The fewer who were involved, the better off everyone would be. He just wished he could stuff Lis in a cupboard and keep her safe until this fight was over.

She would no doubt knock him over the head if he tried. That she was here at all still shocked him unutterably.

Lashing the reins of the horse, guiding the cart, she sat tall and proud, like a warrior queen riding to battle in her chariot. Her silver-blond braid reflected the moonlight. She'd chosen to pack the petticoats and gown that offended her, and concealed her lightweight Aelynn garments beneath a cloak. The loose clothing would be easier for kneeing groins, Murdoch suspected.

He strode with confidence out of the shadows, realizing he understood Lis better than he had known. He stepped up on the cart and surprised her with a swift kiss on the mouth.