part0027

A rledge had galloped the entire way to the next abbey on his map, and where he hoped his friends had spent the night. The horse was a gamechanger. It was sturdy enough to carry his slight frame plus the heavy Bible, as well as his supplies.

Though his poor body wasn’t used to the abuse, as riding a horse was a rare occurrence for him at the abbey.

He was paying the price, though he had no choice. He had to warn his friends of the men that were pursuing them, regardless of what Ceolfrid’s instructions had been.

“They left perhaps two hours ago at a leisurely pace,” informed the abbot that had hosted his friends. “With your horse, you’ll easily catch them by midday.”

He had thanked the man then continued his pursuit, the sun high in the sky. He was certain he would be upon them any moment now, and the thought had him slowing. He glanced at the saddlebags carrying the Bible, then the horse that carried them. If these men were thieves, they might steal his horse, and that meant they would have the Bible. That couldn’t be allowed.

Yet what could he do?

He continued forward, his mind puzzling out the problem.

He brought his horse to a halt then dismounted, making sure he was alone. He hauled his robe over his head, then took the saddlebags off the horse, draping them instead around his neck. He tossed the robe over his head then drew it down his body and over the saddlebags. He appeared ridiculous, though at a distance or in the heat of an exchange, he might simply pass as overweight.

He struggled back on the horse, the creature not pleased with the new weight distribution, then finally urged it forward, soon at a gallop, the heavy Bible slapping against his stomach, something he would be paying the price for tonight.

Shouts ahead, including cries for help, had him slowing rather than charging forward as his fantasies had suggested he would. He cautiously rounded a bend in the road and gasped in horror at the sight that lay before him. The half-dozen men on horseback, swords drawn, had Ceolfrid on his knees, the tip of a blade pressed to his throat, the others, his dear brothers, all dead or dying on the blood-soaked road.

Ceolfrid bowed his head, making the sign of the cross, then pointed to the back of the cart. Two men jumped in and the box containing the Bible was opened, one of the men holding it up in triumph. The man holding Ceolfrid ran him through.

Rage surged through Arledge’s stomach at the unnecessary act, when a horse whinnied behind him.

“And who might you be?”

He turned to find one of the men from yesterday, his sword drawn, obviously a lookout he had missed, his count of those attacking his friends one too many.

The man looked at him, askance. “I recognize you. You’re the monk from yesterday. I thought you said you didn’t know of your friends there.”

The blood drained from Arledge’s face as all strength left his body. “I—I don’t know—”

The man’s blade thrust forward, into Arledge’s stomach, the pain instant and overwhelming.