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Chapter Twenty-Six
The two men entered the room, gazing down upon him without speaking. Jackson gazed up at them in a daze. He didn’t know anymore what was real and what wasn’t.
He squinted up at them. Were they the enemy on the battlefield? Had they come to finish him off once and for all?
“Water,” he whispered entreatingly. “Have mercy.”
The two men laughed at his discomfort. “There ain’t no water for you,” said the small weasel-like man. “The time has come. It’s curtains for you, squire.”
“Let’s get him to his feet,” said the larger man. “Have him ready for milord.”
They grabbed Jackson and hauled him to his feet. His head lolled, violently spinning. He felt like every bone in his body was broken or bruised. He started to slip. The men tightened their grip. And then the door opened again.
It was Cardigan. He was gripping a small knife with an elaborate mother of pearl handle. It glinted in the dull light of the hallway beyond.
“Ah, good,” said Cardigan, nodding with satisfaction. “You have him ready. Leave us now, for you have done your part. I will catch up with you in two days’ time with your reward.”
The men chuckled and slinked away.
Jackson glared at him. The traitor. It always came back to him. His heart filled with despair, as the man slowly approached with the knife. What an inglorious end. Sickeningly, he remembered exactly where he was and what was happening. He wasn’t in Spain on the battlefield. He was about to be killed in this foul house in the bowels of London.
Cardigan ran the cold blade of the knife down Jackson’s face in an almost caressing way. He contemplated the man propped up like a broken doll before him.
“The wound did not heal well,” he said slowly, looking at Jackson’s right cheek. “How you survived at all is beyond me. I had strict instructions that you be finished off that day.”
Jackson’s head lolled back. “That is the problem with not doing your own dirty work, Cardigan,” he hissed. “Unpredictable things happen on the battlefield. You should have done the deed yourself rather than running off like the coward you are.”
“No matter,” said Cardigan, giving him a dazzling smile. “All good things come to those who wait. The time is nigh. Say your prayers for you are about to meet your maker.”
He raised the knife, ready to strike.
Jackson took a deep breath, waiting for the stab. The end had indeed arrived. He couldn’t even fight it. He didn’t have the strength. He was like a lamb that had been led to the slaughterhouse. He fervently hoped it would be over and done with quickly and his suffering done.
I am sorry, Patricia, he thought, his heart filled with pain. I am sorry that I never told you how much I loved you. I am sorry that I can never hold you in my arms again. I am most sorry that I must leave you at the mercy of this monster.
Suddenly, the door burst open. Two men rushed in, one with a raised pistol. The other had a large knife. Jackson gasped. It was Lord Nathan Reynolds and Lord Simon Reading! How did they know he was here?
Lord Reynolds aimed the pistol straight at Cardigan’s head. “Drop the knife,” he said slowly. “Do it now. For I tell you that I shall not hesitate to kill you.”
Cardigan hesitated. And then he dropped the knife, fleeing out the door. The two hired thugs looked shocked, scrambling after their paymaster. Jackson slumped to the floor, staring at the scene in astonishment. It was pandemonium.
“After him,” yelled Lord Reynolds, in hot pursuit.
“We will be back, Merriweather,” cried Lord Reading, over his shoulder. “Stay strong. Your wife is on her way back with the Watch…”
And then they were gone.
Jackson stared after them; he was so astounded by the suddenness of the ambush, his head reeled. Desperately, he focused on the last thing that Lord Reading had said.
Patricia is on her way. She is bringing the Watch.
His heart lurched. It was his wife, who had facilitated his rescue. She must have entreated Lord Reynolds to help; Eleanor was her good friend, after all. And Lord Reading had come along as well.
She had done this for him.
He slumped onto the floor, shaking violently, staring at the door.
She was coming. She was coming.
