Page 77 of The Runner
As Cara slept,she saw Ralph enter Willow Manor stealthily through the unlocked servants’ door. He picked up the night candle from the kitchen table and carried it to light his way as he walked through the dark, silent corridors of the great house. He looked around him as his boots trod silently on the cold wooden floors, and Cara could feel the vengeance and envy in his heart. His sole purpose was to enact his plan to destroy Caroline and George’s future.
They would pay for what they had done to him.
In her dream, she was unable to move—frozen to the spot as she watched him tilt the candle flame towards the wooden furniture and wait until it caught fire, before he turned his attention to the next surface. She tried to cry out and appeal to him, but the words made no sound and he carried on, methodically setting the house alight.
Only after he lit several pieces of furniture and saw the flames begin to take hold and lick the wood, did he retreat from the room and hurry back through the wing and towards the servants’ unlocked door. Cara was transfixed and powerless to stop him as he quietly let himself out and the flames spread across the room as everyone slept. She was an observer from three hundred years into the future. There was nothing she could do…
‘The house is on fire!’ Cara shouted, and she shot up in bed.
George fumbled to turn on the light. ‘You’re having a nightmare. It’s okay, darling. It’s just a dream.’ He wrapped his arm around her.
She jerked away from him. ‘No! You don’t understand. Willow Manor is on fire. We have to stop it, or Ralph will burn it to the ground.’
‘Ralph?’
Slowly, Cara emerged from her sleepy haze and slumped back down onto the bed. ‘Oh, my God. It was as if I was there. I saw him set fire to the furniture in one of the drawing rooms. It wasn’t George who did it, after all! But I think it was a premonition.’
‘At the risk of stating the obvious, you’re talking about something that happened almost three hundred years ago, so how on earth can it be a premonition?’ said George. ‘It’s too late to do anything about it now, anyway,’ he said, rubbing his red eyes. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Maybe, but what if it was a warning that George dies in the fire? He didn’t light it, but that doesn’t mean he can’t die in it!’ Cara said.
‘You mean if the timeline has reset and created an alternative future?’
‘I need to see if the book has updated,’ said Cara, as she jumped out of bed, galvanised into action, and haunted by the dream.
She sought the comfort of George’s warm hand as he followed her downstairs.
Was their wonderful present-day life together about to come to an end?
CHAPTER32
Willow Wick, York - Georgiana
The fine whitelinen sleeves of George’s shirt billowed in the early morning breeze as the blade of his sword sliced through the air, narrowly missing Ralph’s shoulder as he side-stepped.
The two men were poised to strike. Neither had fought a deadly duel before and the nervousness showed in their tentative actions. Their boots were covered in mud and the soft ground from weeks of rainfall impeded their progress as they circled each other.
Ralph made a bold swipe at George. He missed sinking the blade into his opponent’s side by a hair’s breadth, but it slit the lace on his shirt instead, which dangled like an unravelled bandage.
George glanced down for a second and cursed; shocked how close he had come to being stabbed.
They resumed their circling once again in the silent woods, like tigers waiting to pounce, each awaiting the right second to strike the killer blow. The onlookers stood like statues; transfixed, not wanting to distract the men whose life depended on the outcome of this duel to the death.
George raised his sword and aimed at Ralph’s torso, who then countered the attack, and they struggled, equally matched in strength as their swords locked. George withdrew his blade and twisted away, and those in the crowd who favoured him, breathed a sigh of relief, but as he prepared to make his next move, the tip of Ralph’s sword slit the soft flesh of his cheek and drew blood.
George gasped but extracted himself and put some distance between him and Ralph while he regained his composure.
Taylor approached the duelling pair and looked at George, whose face dripped blood, which splashed onto his now muddy shirt. ‘I must ask, my lord, will you not consider calling this off?’ He looked from George to Ralph, but soon saw by the murderous expressions on both of their faces that there was little hope of reconciliation.
George dismissed him with a shake of his head. ‘Let us resume, if you are agreed, Knight?’
Ralph nodded without hesitating. ‘I will only call it off if you apologise for the slurs on my honour. Otherwise let us duel to the death.’
‘No chance, for every word was true,’ said George, as he swiped at Ralph with his sword with renewed vigour, even as the blood dripped on his shirt and splashed onto his boots. He realised he must end this soon, for his face was bleeding heavily, his head throbbed, and his right hand was covered in blood, which made it difficult to grip the sword.
George had some friendly fencing experience and decided to trust his gut as he channelled his anger into combat. The long slender blade hit its intended destination, and the crowd saw it flash and heard it slither through the air as it cut into Ralph and he screamed out and bent over, clutching his stomach, his face drained of colour.
The cut on George’s face stung, and the rage in his heart fuelled his fury. Ralph fell to his knees and then twisted onto his back and George pressed the tip of the narrow blade of the sword firmly against him so he wouldn’t be able to escape even if he had the strength. Blood dripped from Ralph’s wound, and he cried out again and begged for mercy.
