And that thought made him smile.
A large crowd had gathered around the gallows of Tyburn, and prisoners were already being strung up in neat little rows to die in show form. Nooses hung loose around their necks, and the prisoners balanced precariously on the accompanying tip stools. As if competing with the autumnal harvest festivities, solicitors peddled food and ale to the ever-growing curious crowd, collecting coin where they could.
Owen spotted the staggered seating near the hangman’s platform as his carriage came to a halt. Many nobles were already in attendance, but King Richard was surprisingly absent.
Intriguing.
The carriage door was opened, and Owen waited for his father to exit before stepping out. The bright morning sun flooded his vision, and he quickly placed his hand along his brow to lessen the sting. The prisoner-laden wagons arrived within moments, turning the crowd into a jeering mob.
The barred wagon doors were unlocked and flung open, allowing a wave of bodies to be pulled from within its depths. Boney fingers clutched to the sides, unwilling to face their deaths at the sight of those already awaiting the hangman at the gallows. Weakened and sickly, the fight ended quickly. Those who could walk were marched through the throng of spectators — some attacked, some pushed to the ground — and those who couldn’t stand were carried by the arms to the platform.
Owen’s pace hastened as he made his way to his chair at the platform seating. He chose a seat in the back, not wanting someone to see the pain wrenching his face. Watching what was about to unfold would haunt him for the rest of his days. Women and children were strung up alongside the sick and the old, and what crushed his heart the most was that deep within him, he knew the majority of these people were innocent of the charged crimes.
And he at the root of said charges.
There were no amount of confessions he could attend that would atone for the sins he’d made during his time in service. But there was one he could rectify, and he would ask for forgiveness for the rest of his days for those he could not help.
And then in a moment’s time, there she was. The sun’s rays reflected along matted waves, making the dark hair unmistakable.
The ache in his heart was undeniable.
“Lord Lancaster.”
Owen broke the hypnotic stare of the gallows and turned toward the voice. A guard approached and bent low to speak in the captain’s ear.
“Yes, what is it?” Lord Lancaster answered.
The man seemed hesitant to break the news to the Captain, but did so as duty required. “There are three who are… bereft of life. One of them is the woman rebel leader, the one you asked to be made an example of. What shall you have me do?”
Lord Lancaster scowled as he turned toward the guard. “String them up first and hang them according to the law. I will see them hanged — dead or alive. String them up however you must.”
The guard nodded, and rushed from the seating area.
Owen watched as the man fought his way through the crowd to the hangman. He motioned ceremoniously toward his father and then toward the prisoners. The orders were given.
“Thomas Miller, Abigail Miller, and Catherine Archer, you are sentenced to execution where you will be hanged by the neck until dead and thereafter to be taken hence to the prison in which you were last confined where your body shall be buried within the precincts of the prison. May the Lord God have mercy on your soul.” The hangman repeated the words, as if he’d stated them a thousand times over.
Nooses were placed around the necks of the three unmoving bodies. Several guards struggled to keep the prisoners upright as the crowd booed their discontent, but after a few tense moments, the tipping stools were kicked loose, and the execution completed.
Three bodies swayed slightly with the breeze as the crowd cheered, begging for more to drop. Her light blue kirtle that once rivaled the color of the morning sky now hung in filthy tatters. Her once long locks — now hacked short — tangled with the twisting rope keeping her neck bent in unnatural angles.
No life. Only death.
The hangman called out the sentencing to the crowd once again, and this time an entire row of ten dropped. The gasping and gurgling of the prisoners was drowned out by the roar of the crowd. Owen twisted in his seat, unable to watch.
“Father,” Owen began, waiting for confirmation that he had the Captain’s full attention. When his father leaned closer, Owen continued. “It is done. I am done. I know about the charters issued by the King. I saw this through, but I can do this no longer.”
Lord Lancaster shifted in his seat.
“The charters were not issued by King Richard, were they? They were issued by you. Death sentences, every one of them. You never intended to keep Richard’s end of the bargain and the rebel leaders found out about the ruse, did they not? They planned on seeking an audience with His Majesty, and you could not allow that to happen.” The clipped accusation flowed from his heart like fresh wine. Bold, robust, and full-bodied.
Lord Lancaster’s face shifted into a splotchy mix of ashen and red hues. “Do not speak of such—”
“You did not expect the King to happen upon your charter meeting. Hundreds upon hundreds of innocents died to save your treacherous skin. I have gained audience with the King later this eve. I’m sure he would find your actions interesting.”
Lord Lancaster pursed his lips. His eyes jetted over Owen’s face.
Owen held firm in his accusations. “If you wish to live, you will heed my words. A courrier is set to deliver evidence against you to His Majesty, unless you agree to my terms. I am to leave London this very night. Three separate copies of your treason have been delivered to secret locations, and if you ever try to find me or seek retribution against me, my contacts are under strict orders to deliver their package. Do not think you will be able to act in secrecy, for my informants know you well. You will be sought out, and I cannot guarantee your safety. Have I made myself clear to you, Father?”
Lord Lancaster sputtered before finding his words. “I do not understand these insinuations against me, especially from my own son. One would expect more from the son of the Captain of the Guard. I gave everything to you — a bastard! I do not know why you have fabricated these lies! What do you seek to gain by this?”
“Freedom.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cate gasped for a breath.
The air trapped in her lungs burned, unable to be expelled. Nightmarish visions clouded her thoughts, and she violently strained against them. She wanted nothing more than to lash out, but try as she might, she couldn’t gather the strength needed to scream out her pain.
She slipped along the threads of oblivion and a rising fog. Murmurs filled the space between. Her body jolted involuntarily. Faces — blurred figures — muddled her consciousness. The shock of cold water splattered across her face, and she choked, unable to swallow the heavenly liquid.
“Easy now…” a voice soothed.
Cate’s eyelids fluttered. She had heard that sound before, its smooth, womanly tone comforting her at once.
“Is she coming ’round?”
“Not just yet,” the woman answered. “Cate, can you open your eyes?”
A warmth enveloped her hand and squeezed. “I am here for you, Cate. I am here.”
Owen.
Death had its advantages.
Cate inhaled deeply, attempting to recollect his woodsy scent from the depths of her memory. Her heart quickened when a hand brushed along her cheek.
“I need you to come back now, Cate.”
“What hell is this?” She stumbled over the words, barely able to get out a whisper.
“Not hell… not yet.”
“I hanged today.”
“You chose to live today.”
That voice. The washerwoman?
Consciousness flooded her. Her time spent in the dank depths of the prison grabbed at her, and Cate attempted to rise. She remembered praying — asking God if she should heed the
words of the mysterious washerwoman and ingest the tincture of opium, or allow herself to hang for her crimes. Her last memory before waking with a neverending pounding in her head was downing the bitter liquid from the small vial and focusing on a pair of piercing green eyes.
Arms encircled her as Cate struggled against her own movements. Her body wouldn’t listen and involuntarily shook.
“What is happening?” a concerned voice asked.
“The laudanum is leaving her system.”
“Halt the wagon.”
By God in heaven it was comforting to hear him speak. Cate feared it would never reach her ears again. It was Owen, in the flesh, and not some cruel version of her own personal hell. He was truly with her, she was alive… and in his arms.
Open your eyes, Cate. She willed her body to obey. Cate!
Her eyes opened. Then squinted shut. The sun — the bright, magnificent sun — etched flashes and spots against the darkness of clamped eyelids. She blinked away the few spots of wet forming in the corners of her eyes and took in her surroundings. Cate was propped slightly against a warm body in the back of a wagon, which reeked of death and dirt. Several people she didn’t know stared back at her expectantly.
“Water, hand me the water.” A full bladder was thrust into Owen’s awaiting hand, and he pressed the spout to Cate’s lips, allowing her to drink at her own pace. When she finished, he asked, “What else can I do for you?”
“A bath would be lovely,” she lightheartedly quipped.
The wagon—its passengers—waiting patiently for her on the side of a deserted road, grew warm with compassion and love. Birds flitted overhead, darting in and out of the surrounding pine. A dunnock sang its sharp tune close by the front of the wagon, one she’d called to a thousand times before. A smile graced her cracked lips. Her dear, sweet Wallace, making his presence known.
“What grievous ransom did you forfeit to gain the help of Owen Grey?” she asked Wallace.
The Scot sat on the bench seat, cloaked in a tattered woolen cloak. He turned, twisting to see her. “’Twas the opposite, I fear,” he told her. “Ye would’ve hanged if it had been left up to me.”
“I couldn’t have executed the plan had it not been for his help. Your MacKenzie makes for a fine gravedigger. He gave orders as if he’d mastered the craft in years past, so I have been told. I see a new job in his future.”
“I thank you. I thank you all.” Cate’s eyes drifted to Owen’s. “You saved my life.”
“You saved mine, Cate. My life was nothing without you in it. I might be alive, but you taught me how to live.” Owen tenderly traced the curvature of her jaw with his thumb. His lips touched hers, gentle, warm, and forgiving. “And I want to spend the rest of my life doing this.”
“I’m hoping not in the back of a death wagon.” The washerwoman chuckled, bringing Cate back to the present.
“Cate, I would like to formally introduce you to my mother, Nel.” Owen beamed.
“I’m so pleased to meet you, Cate Archer, and under better circumstances.” Nel smiled as a mother would… comforting and full of unyielding love.
Wallace clicked his tongue, breaking the heavy silence. The wagon jolted forward. “Well, we aren’t going to get there by exchanging pleasantries,” he said.
Cate cleared her throat. “Where are we off to?”
Owen smirked, a glint of mischief sparking in his eyes. “Cate, my love, have you ever been to Manchester?”
“I have heard there is a handsome viscount in Manchester with estates that rival those in London,” Cate teased.
“Yes,” Owen nodded. “With a bath so big it rivals the ocean. He would give his lady the stars, if she so wished it.”
Indeed.
~~~~
Cate crumpled the parchment in her fist. The outcome was what she had expected, and she did not know why she had fooled herself into believing anything would have changed. She paced the foyer, the heels of her shoes clicking along the freshly polished floor with every step.
“What troubles you, my love?” Owen paused in passage.
“A courier.” Cate thrust the paper against his chest. “Pardoned. Every single one of those bastards.”
Taking the parchment from Cate’s twisted fingers, he smoothed the edges to read it. His eyes darted along the lines, and his lips pursed into a thin scowl line. “I gave fair warning this would happen.”
“All of those innocent people will never find their peace. There will be no justice for them.”
“So we will continue our goodwill, and we will send coin and food and supplies to those in need. The trade routes have long been established, and thanks to your people, the forest and villages are safe again.” Owen stepped closer to Cate and placed his hands on her shoulders. He massaged the knots forming along her muscles and squeezed. “You have done great things, Catherine Grey, and I aim to see it continued. Let us not let the fate of the damned keep us from doing what we know is right.”
Cate smiled up at her husband. She slid her arms around his middle, letting his warmth calm her insides. She breathed him in deeply, knowing she couldn’t take a single moment for granted. She had been blessed with a second chance at life — with the man she loved — and she would not see a moment wasted.
With every new sunrise, adventure awaited.
THE END
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Return to Me
Chapter One
Warriors
Galhaven, Engel
Autumn
Covered in a thick blanket of darkness, Brynn was trapped between the snares of restless sleep and dreaming. Indistinct shouts bounced from wall to wall. The echoes of pounding hooves reverberated through her as horses raced through the courtyard. She searched the space around her for the cause, but found nothing. A horse shrieked in the distance, turning her dreams into a twisted nightmare. Fierce wind blew against her face, roaring as if the skies were to rain in hellish fury. Her older brothers barked orders to one another. Three black ravens circled the sky.
Searching the vast emptiness surrounding her, Brynn pawed the air. Desperate to find her brothers, she sought their frantic voices. Something was terribly wrong. She urged herself to move forward, but heavy wind gripped her shoulders, pinning her against the darkness. A strong gust violently shoved her away from the aberrant visions of her brothers.
Brynn fell to the balcony floor with a thud, which startled her from restless sleep. Gathering herself, she realized the terror was no dream. Men with torches ran beneath her balcony shouting commands. Servants chased after their masters, trying to keep pace.
Swollen drops of rain spattered across Brynn’s face. A storm approached. Could her father’s men be strapping down the area in preparation? No, there was far too much commotion below. A different kind of storm was brewing.
Making her way to the stairs, Brynn clutched her quilt tight around her chilled body. She reached the spiral stairwell and started her descent, one stone at a time. Brynn paused just as the entrance doors to Galhaven Manor flung open in furor. Brynn stepped back and tucked into the shadows. Armed guards burst through escorting four massive men. Brynn spotted her brothers, Michael and Marcus, at the center of the madness. Her betrothed, Julian, followed behind with a sword drawn. Her father, Bertram, waddled not far behind.
The strangers towered above those who confined them. From thei
r sheer size, Brynn knew they outweighed and could easily outmaneuver any Engel in the manor. Underneath the grime, muscle, and leather was the unmistakable sight of pale yellow hair. As dirty and matted as it was, she knew who the intruders were.
Archaeans.
Archaeans in the manor.
Her stomach roiled, twisting and curling into tight knots as she fought to keep its contents down. She’d never actually seen an Archaean before, but legends of battles in centuries past flowed through her mind. Archaeans were fierce warriors from the north. They spoke no language any civilized citizen from Galhaven understood. Their only purpose was to spill the blood of their enemies — her people, the Engels. They were born and bred for it. There was no reasoning with them, no mercy. The warriors had come to kill them all, and her father allowed them into their home.
The fool.
The people of Galhaven feared Archaeans, and for good reason. Villages caught between the borders had been all but abandoned over the years. The two realms never ceased to be at war.
An Archaean was arguing with her father, but she couldn’t make out the muffled words. One of the warriors — a tall beast clad in leather — pointed to the warrior who favored his injured arm. A crudely fashioned sling immobilized him from forearm to shoulder. The one speaking with her father was tall and broad — a truly wondrous sight. Never before had she seen such an abundance of restrained strength in just one man.
“Brynn! Why are you out of your chamber?” said a familiar voice from behind.
Brynn clutched her chest then the wall to keep from tumbling down the stairs. “By the gods, Magda — you gave me a fright!” She tugged on the nursemaid’s sleeve. “What’s happening?”
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