The morning mist didn’t dissipate as Hurley had come to expect it to. It was nearly midday and still it looked like he was leading a phantom army through a fog of gloom. It was so bitter and damp riding on these high pastures that Hurley’s chest rumbled with a nasty cold.
But neither the mist nor the nagging wheezing in his chest could dampen his excitement.
Today was the day.
He imagined how they must appear to anyone watching them approach—especially in the fog. He imagined how they would appear to Donovan—an avenging army materializing from the mists of hell.
Hurley smiled thinly, his army marching solemnly in two defined columns around him. Never complaining, never flagging in their forward march to their goal. To their Commander’s goal.
He caught sight of a flash of color and he saw that one of his Centurions was wearing the dead gypsy girl’s bandana. Hurly frowned. The man was technically out of uniform and Hurley knew he should reprimand him but he hesitated. It was a trophy from a kill and he could see the value of that.
There would be many more such trophies today. The thought triggered a buzz of excitement in his chest that ended in a fiery coughing fit. He hated demonstrating weakness in front of the men. Cursed the fecking Irish weather that made him look—even for a moment—less than he was. By the end of the day he would show his men without any doubt exactly how strong their leader was.
The rain picked up, sluicing a cold gust of air down his collar that made him shiver.
If on the other hand, he thought sourly while his frustration curdled in his empty stomach as he rode in the downpour, they didn’t make it to the convent today, he would kill Chezzie in the slowest possible way he could think of.
If they didn’t make it to the convent today they would be forced to kill and eat the pony that they’d taken when they’d captured the girls and their wagon. A flush of annoyance crept over him at the thought of the debacle the night before with the girls. For a moment, with everything seeming to go seriously sideways, it had almost felt like things had gotten out of control.
But by the morning, the marching lines were as straight as if nothing had happened. And while it was true that one of his brave Centurions had a broken jaw from his attempt to bed the gypsy and they’d ended up losing both girls as a result, they did at least gain the pony and cart. He glanced at the man wearing the bandana around his neck.
Let the crows feed on the girls’ bodies in the ditch and in the woods. There was no doubt they would have been more trouble alive than they were worth.
An hour later, the rain slowed to a gentle but constant sprinkle. Even in the cold Hurley’s wet saddle pad steamed from the heat of his horse. The marching men had stopped. Hurley pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode to the head of the column. Chezzie stood in a ditch off the main road as if attempting to slip into the woods. As Hurley approached, he saw the prisoner was still bound and tied by a long rope to his handler, but pointing to something in the woods.
The young Centurion holding the prisoner’s rope turned and snapped to attention at Hurley’s approach.
“Commander, sir,” he said. “The prisoner has found the opening to the path through the woods.”
Hurley glanced at Chezzie who stood with shoulders slumped and his eyes on the ground as though fully expecting to be shot where he stood now that his usefulness was over. The sight nearly made Hurley smile.
He twisted in his saddle and motioned for the two columns to enter the woods.
“Single file,” he shouted.
He pulled his horse back to let the men go before him, congratulating himself on his self-control by not racing ahead of them. He caught the eye of the prisoner’s guard. It appeared Chezzie wasn’t the only one wondering if the end of the line had arrived for the prisoner.
Hurley shook his head and watched the guard turn and drag Chezzie down the path into the woods.
Plenty of time to tie up that loose end, Hurly thought. Especially if this proves to be the wrong path. Would hate to repay the man with a quick death when leading us a merry chase requires so much more.
He patted the neck of his horse and cleared the rumbling in his chest with a vociferous hacking before hocking up noisily onto the ground. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and watched his men become swallowed up by the mist and the woods. His heart was racing with expectation and excitement.
Two more miles by woodland trail.
They would arrive at the hidden convent within the hour.