Chapter 20

T he scent of smoke as if from a lone campfire. Not so. The sight of smoke as if from a sizable camp. Not so. The sound of ravening fire as if from consumption of something grand. This was so, as verified minutes earlier by a robed man running from the direction of the abandoned abbey that was Amaury’s next stop.

He who claimed to be of the Holy Church told he fled a radical sect of the Free Spirits who tried to force his conversion and now sought to perform an exorcism for which they had no authority. He said unlike the woman bound at the altar whose demon refused to speak, he escaped amid mayhem when toppled candle stands set the chapel alight.

Though Amaury sensed he salted the truth with lies, he could spare no time nor men to secure the monk ahead of saving Fira—were she not lost already. He and his companions spurred into a valley so overgrown the abbey would have escaped notice if not for the fire.

When they cleared the densest trees and thickest foliage, the blaze was not yet all-consuming, but it would embrace the smaller buildings around the chapel once the former collapsed. If anything remained of the Anglo-Saxon abbey, it would be the outer wall.

“Lord, preserve the lady!” Amaury entreated as he urged his mount through an opening in the defensive wall ahead of his men and the boy.

The chapel that was once a sanctuary had been transformed into a foreshadowing of hell. Its walls yet stood, but numerous planks this side glowed red and flames shot from high windows as if from the jaws of mythical dragons.

Though Fira’s fate looked hopeless, he continued onward.

God help her for leaving the inn, he silently entreated as he urged his mount nearer the chapel despite the wary beast beginning to resist the reins. And God help me for causing my enemies to trespass on her family’s lands. I should not have answered the longing to be near my son when patience and singular focus would have prevented this.

He would castigate himself further as done often since setting out to retrieve Fira, but it was time to rescue whatever could be saved of her.

Moments later, feeling heat like that of a fireplace fed by an immense yuletide log and tasting and smelling the smoke of things reduced to flakes on the air, he reined in.

As he dismounted, he shouted for his men to wet cloths and cover their lower faces before searching for a way into the chapel, then soaked a piece torn from his tunic in puddled water and told Donal to secure the horses at a safe distance and remain there.

Seeing argument in the boy’s eyes, he barked, “Now!” and ran with the others to the end of the chapel toward which fire moved, certain any trapped inside would retreat there.

Soon they discovered the only exit on the altar side was a single window that had provided light for the corner room. However, for its rusted grill remaining fixed to the frame, if any had sought to tear it away, likely they succumbed to smoke. Still, Amaury was going in.

To ensure he was heard, he lowered the wet cloth and ordered, “Two horses, Donal!” then refusing to waste time that could be the difference between life and death, he commanded his men to aid in dislodging the grill whose fasteners he hoped were fixed in rotting wood.

As the boy ran for horsepower that could be needed to yank off the bars, Amaury and his men gripped the grill. Amid swirling smoke, each braced a foot against the wall and threw their weight back.

Were there any give, it was too slight to register, meaning little rot here and the fasteners went all the way through the wood.

“God’s rood! God’s eyes! God’s tongue and teeth!” Amaury growled, then told his men to try again.

As they renewed their efforts, he heard the clop of advancing hooves behind, then from within the room the sound of metal dragged over planks and a man’s barked cough—or possibly that of a woman close to succumbing to smoke.

“Hold!” he ordered his men, then shouted past a raw throat, “Lady Fira Wulfrith!”

Was the cry preceding another cough that of a woman? he questioned as he retrieved a coil of rope from the saddle of the nearest horse. When he began threading an end through the bars and one of his men secured the other to the beast, he glimpsed movement in the room whose fiery light was muted by smoke.

“It is Amaury, Fira!”

The only response more coughing, he finished weaving the rope and passed that end to his other man to secure it to the second horse. Looking back at the smoke-filled room, he saw greater movement. Then something also of iron—was it a candle stand?—struck the grill, causing it to shift slightly.

“Ready?” Amaury shouted over his shoulder.

“Nearly!” Donal answered as the grill was struck again.

Hearing a woman’s sob, Amaury cleared his throat. “I am here, Fira!”

The clatter of iron told she dropped the candle stand, then she was gripping the bars with bloodied hands, her ash-streaked face blurred by smoke. “Methinks him dead,” she rasped. “Terribly so.”

He nearly asked of whom she spoke, instead closed fingers over hers. “Fira?—”

She gave another cracked cough that might have bent her double were he not holding to her. Swaying like a drunkard, she narrowed her eyes as if to see him better. “God help him, he must be dead.”

“Ready!” Donal shouted.

“I must release you to remove the grill,” Amaury said. “Step to the side and?—”

“Some prayers answered.” She drew a wheezing breath. “I was near certain you and God…abandoned me. But He delivered you here, aye?”

He hesitated, said, “I believe He works through me. Now I will loose you and you will step to the side.”

She coughed again, muttered, “Hurt…so weak…if I fall…”

“Loose one hand, and I will hold the other as you turn to the side. Once the wall is at your back?—”

The rest of his words were lost beneath the rumble of what he guessed a portion of the roof collapsing. As she cried out, the flames leapt higher, thrusting light down the corridor’s throat, giving color to her disarrayed hair, and revealing a room filled with stored items. And was that a man sprawled on the threshold? He whom the lady said must be dead? One of her persecutors?

Reminding himself he needed to get fresh air in her lungs, he commanded, “Turn to the side!”

“I do not want to…burn,” she entreated. “I was born this way…not evil.”

“This I know. Now loose a hand, turn your back to the wall, and go to your haunches.” When she remained unmoving, he said forcefully, “Do it, Fira Wulfrith who beat against these bars rather than yield.”

“I did,” she croaked, then pulled a hand from his and did as bid.

Extending his arm into the room, he kept hold of her other hand until she lowered, then sprang to the side and shouted, “Pull!”

The rope tautened, the beasts strained, and now a tremendous crack of wood as the grill and lower portion of wall came free. And was followed by a rush of smoke.

Having already inhaled much through the cloth, he coughed coarsely. Then leaving his men to get the horses under control, their sudden forward movement spurring them onward, he lunged into the room. It being all cloud except for light at the corridor’s mouth, he had to feel the unresponsive Fira into his arms.

Silently beseeching the Lord it was not too late—that she vigorously expel the smoke infecting her lungs—he curled her body into his chest and ran from the chapel.

As he cleared the thickest smoke, Donal appeared at his side and, stretching his legs long to keep pace, said, “Raoul and Georges have gone to the front of the chapel.”

“For what?” Amaury demanded.

“We heard a man call for help.”

One of her persecutors, he thought, angered over aiding one who surely reaped what he sowed. But as when he saw someone on the threshold of the room that was to have been this lady’s tomb, he told himself what mattered was saving her. If his men rescued one who had done this to her…

Insight into what happened will better aid her, he counseled his protective—and vindictive—side.

Once free of all but the haze, he eased her to the ground beside the outer wall and commanded, “Get the blanket from my pack, Donal.”

Seeing the lady in sunlight gave him pause for a moment. There would be time later to vent rage over her state of near undress and bruised and bloodied body. And more dangerously they would vent if she must be put in the ground the same as several miners at Caen who succumbed to dust in their lungs before they could be extracted from a collapsed mine.

Just as when Amaury and others sought to save their fellow captives, he searched for a pulse in her bruised neck. Detecting none nor movement about her chest, he pinched her nose closed and bent toward her sooted mouth. As his lips touched hers, she wheezed, then flung her lids wide. Heavily veined green eyes met his an instant before she began coughing.

Amaury flipped her and thumped her back.

As she hacked so hard he feared she would expel blood, Donal returned. “Master Argent, what was done her that she bleeds there?” he exclaimed.

With dread, Amaury followed the boy’s gaze to the lower half of her chemise. Blood as if… Might it be her menses? If not…

“Les blessures de Dieu!” he erupted and wrenched the blanket from Donal and whipped it over her. Hands shaking, he resumed thumping her back and silently chanted not only for him but her, Be oak, be stone, be iron .

Moments later, he realized he should have had the boy bring drink—further evidence though most of his thinking had straightened since the keelhauling, great and terrible emotions could warp it. “Bring my wineskin, Donal, then a report of Raoul and Georges.”

The lad was back just as Fira’s coughing resolved.

Amaury took the skin, and when Donal set off again, said, “I have you, Fira.”

Slowly, her lids rose. “For how long?”

He hesitated. “As long as it takes to return you to your family.” He raised her and set the spout to her lips. “One sip at a time.”

She jerked her chin. And gulped.

When he withdrew the skin, she whimpered and turned her face into his chest, then the tension went out of her.

So greatly was he disturbed by her breath warming his abdomen, he was relieved when Donal returned with one of his men. Peering up at his fellow Frenchman, Amaury prompted, “Georges?”

“The one who lives is adamant he is of the Catholic faith. Since death draws nigh, you should speak with him now.”

When Amaury looked to Fira, Donal said, “Georges and I will remain with her.”

Hoping for insight that would benefit the lady, he inclined his head. “I will speak with him.”

I live. Determinedly…tenaciously…blessedly.

He died. Cruelly…horrendously…mercilessly.

Fira need not open her eyes to confirm it. All was behind her lids, settling in furrows where memories sowed themselves and, she imagined, near The Gloaming’s den for being a kindred spirit—rather, kindred torment.

I hurt, she acknowledged as she had no right for being nearly whole unlike those who, at best, would be put in the ground. Then what remained of gaping holes would be filled with dirt soon tramped by those unaware a lost soul lay below.

As would have been my fate had not God and Amaury proved faithful to this lady who should have feared rather than been thrilled by an adventure. Though I could not have raised the candle holder a third time, the mess of me survived.

“For what?” she said, her graveled voice sounding a man’s.

“Fira?” It was Amaury, his scent beneath that of smoke inoffensive though much was perspiration.

She shook her head, hopeful he would leave her be.

Breath sweeping her brow, he said, “As all that can be done has been done, we depart the abbey.”

She should care but could not for remembering what she did in her bid to escape Edgar’s fate that was the same as those he had not known would take him into the precipice with them.

As if they, not I, were demon-possessed, she thought. A herd of pigs going down…down…

“A bag was found containing your garments, spectacles, purse, and boots, Lady.”

Again she should care and could not. But later. Much later.

“As there is a village two leagues to the east, we go there.”

Should care…could not…later…

Tightening about her waist and shifting beneath her revealing she was in his arms atop a horse, she breathed, “Amaury.” And that was all.