Return to Me - By Morgan O'Neill Page 0,65

of oars in the water. Lucius was rowing toward them. They unsaddled their horses, set them free, and climbed into the boat.

“Welcome aboard,” Lucius whispered. “The freedom ship and her crew await.”

• • •

The door shut and Placidia stood mute in her bedchamber. How dare he! How dare Sergeric come here and tell her she would not be allowed to attend her husband’s funeral mass!

Shaking with rage, she turned to Elpidia.

“We shall honor the king before the Lord, right here,” Elpidia firmly stated. “Our prayers will be heard. By God, Sergeric’s will not, for his words will fly straight to hell.”

Grief supplanted rage and Placidia thought back to her last moments with Athaulf. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she realized there was one thing yet to do, one more thing before they prayed.

She went to her sewing kit and withdrew her shears. “Help me, Elpidia. It is time I honor my husband as a true Visigoth queen.”

Her old nurse nodded, took the shears in hand, and began to work.

• • •

King Sergeric left the cathedral and stepped into the bright sunlight with Bishop Sigesar at his side. The High Holy Mass had been packed with the bereaved, mourning the loss of King Athaulf and his children. Outside, the streets were just as congested, the people silent in their sorrow.

He squinted, shading his eyes as he looked about, congratulating himself on thinking to keep Placidia at the castellum under heavy security. Neither the Visigoths nor the people of Barcino had much liked it when he’d forcibly brought her back to town, along with her protector, Wallia, and his men, all bound at the wrists and trudging behind their horses. He’d later gotten word she had shorn her hair, as if she were a Visigoth! Had she been seen in church after that, she would have elicited even more sympathy, perhaps to the point of causing a riot.

But that had not happened, for she was locked up. Sergeric was confident he had made the right moves in that and all other matters before him. He’d even put forth a huge sum of his own coin as a bounty for Athaulf’s assassin.

Assassin. Where the hell had Eberwolf gone off to, anyway? Seven days and he’d still not resurfaced. Neither had any trace of the children he’d murdered. This ongoing mystery was giving Sergeric sleepless nights. He wanted to be done with it, knowing many in Barcino were convinced Eberwolf had acted on Sergeric’s command, despite his insistence the mimi had been Honorius’s plant.

As his personal guard surrounded him, Sergeric bowed to the bishop, thanked him, and then moved down the steps. The crowd parted before him, still silent, although their eyes spoke of anger and hatred.

Refusing to show any hint of the nervousness he felt, Sergeric held his head high and kept his gaze forward as he made his way toward the castellum.

Once he’d turned a corner and the cathedral was out of sight, a creeping sense of dread pricked at the base of his neck. He shrugged it off, but the sensation only grew.

The utter silence, the pulse of anger pouring off the people who filled every street along his route, was palpable and disturbing.

It’s the heat, he told himself. It’s just the heat.

Pearls of sweat formed across his upper lip and he licked at them, hoping the oppression might be eased at last by a thinning of the crowd, or maybe a breeze from the sea.

The next street. The next street will be better.

Turning the corner, the road was blessedly empty of people and ablaze with sunlight and color. Sergeric sighed with relief. He was nearly to the castle.

Suddenly, the sense of dread he’d felt earlier became overwhelming. He could no longer fight the urge to turn, and spun around to face the threat, whatever it was.

Eyes wide, Sergeric realized too late that his guard was gone, evaporated into the crowd who swarmed to cut off any further advance. A glance told him Visigoths made up the angry mob, his kin, his people, bent on revenge.

They pressed in on him, silent, eyes glinting with fury. He knew. They knew. Words were not necessary. He would die for the crimes they were sure he’d committed. Crimes he would have committed, given the chance. He tried to back away, but felt hands shove him forward, into those he faced.

“No!” he screamed as they pressed in on him.

“No!” he screamed again, as pain seared his body, as hands gripped, pounded, tore at his