Sanctuary of Roses

above.

Mayhap he should have availed himself of Rosa’s offer, else he would not have made such a fool of himself upon the wall with Lady Madelyne…and likely he would be sleeping soundly instead of watching the rain trail off from its brief, thrashing downpour.

Clean wetness filled the air, tingeing his nostrils and cooling his bare chest as he leaned on the bottom of the arrow slit and looked out over his domain. Yet, in the darkness, he could see only the perfect oval of the nun’s fair face, upturned to him with wide eyes, darkened by the night shadows. And her lips… Jesù …they were full and wide—made for kissing, he’d thought in one absurd moment before he’d remembered who she was.

Even now, his own mouth twisted in disgust. Madelyne was the daughter of his dearest enemy, as well as a woman prepared to embrace religious life. She could have no idea that her innocent beauty was enough to make a man hot with desire…even a man who had not touched a woman other than the occasional whore or serving wench for seven years.

Gavin pushed himself away from the window and folded his arms over his chest, pacing to the fireplace to stoke up the smoldering blaze. The sooner he turned the woman over to Henry, the better off he would be.

He poked at the charred logs that glowed with orange embers, releasing sparks and tiny tongues of flame. The short rainstorm had cooled the summer night and his chamber had become chill, yet he was not yet ready to seek the warmth of his bed.

When he received notification of where the royal court would be stopping for the next months, he would pack up his guest—and her erstwhile maid—and take them to Henry himself. And then, he would never have to see the woman with her calm gray eyes again.

The king would likely make her a royal ward, keeping her under his care or that of the queen in order to control the actions of Fantin de Belgrume. It was well-known of de Belgrume that he had greatly mourned the loss of his daughter and wife, and verily he would be more easily brought to heel knowing that his daughter yet lived. Mayhap the king might even find a way to relieve de Belgrume of his fiefdom, thereby putting an end to the madman’s resources.

Gavin nodded to himself and replaced the long metal pole he’d used to tease the fire, refusing to give credence to the niggling guilt at the back of his mind. She would be better off at court, he told himself, ignoring the echo of her own explanation as to why life in the abbey afforded her more freedom. A woman such as she— beautiful, with lands aplenty through her father—was not meant to while herself away in an abbey.

Peste! He stalked over to the window again. What did he care of her future? He had a task to do—to bring her father under control—and the king expected nothing less of him to do so. If he felt guilt by taking her from the solace of Lock Rose Abbey, that was merely a sign of his own weakness and an uncontrollable factor in his doing his duty.

He stared unseeing over the world below, catching out of the corner of his eye the impression of dawn starting to lighten the sky. The cool tang of rain-filled air had evaporated, to be replaced by a bitter acridity of smoke. Gavin sniffed, frowning, then turned his attention to the town below.

Where the darkness should have yielded only the faint gray outlines of cottages and huts, a yellow glow flickered on the west side of the town.

* * *

By the time Gavin reached the village, crowds of peasants and men-at-arms had gathered in the streets. Three of buildings were ablaze, and sparks and flames leapt and jumped with such vigor on the gusty wind that ’twas only a matter of time until the next buildings caught afire. Though dawn was beginning to give natural light to the sky, shadows danced eerily over the faces of women and children who stood to one side of the street, watching as the men threw bucket after bucket of water onto the flames.

Soot and black smoke whorled from the buildings, mingling with the moist air and choking the bystanders and fire fighters. Gavin pushed his way through the crowds of people to join his men near the blaze, quickly taking a place at the front of a line that passed the leather buckets to and from the town well.

Clem stood next to him, handing him dripping pail after dripping pail. He swiped at his sweating face with a thick arm, smearing black ash over his cheek and temple.

“’Twas lightning struck the house here,” he told Gavin as he whirled to shove a full bucket into his lord’s middle. He turned away to get another, then spun back to take the empty and pass on the full. “It must have smoldered below the roof for some time, else—” He turned away again, then back, “the rain would have put it out.”

Gavin grunted in agreement, forbearing to point out that the brevity of the storm, fierce as it was, had likely contributed. The thatched roofs of the peasant homes were particularly susceptible to such dangers. It had happened more than once in this village alone—lightning had struck, passing through the roof into a house, setting the interior ablaze before anyone realized it.

“Did all get out safely?” he asked Clem, slamming an empty bucket into the man’s hand.

“Aye, I believe so…although—” He turned back as Gavin turned toward the fire in the rhythm they had established, then they returned face to face. “Robert the Cooper has a bad burn.”

A sudden wind blustered, sending ash and smoke billowing into the faces of the fire fighters. Gavin ducked, holding up an arm to ward off the black fog. Something stung him fiercely on the shoulder, and he slapped a hand there to brush away the sparks that landed on his bare skin. He cursed himself for neglecting to pull on a sherte before leaving the keep, but there was no time to stop now.

“This way!” A voice shouted, and the mass of fire fighters stumbled, shifting several steps in one direction to move out of the wind’s changed path.

The buckets kept coming, but the wind would not allow them to gain an advantage. Soon, the walls of the first building collapsed inward, sending up a shower of sparks and ash. A spray of orange coals scattered over Gavin, stinging like tiny needles that he didn’t have the time to brush away. Already, a fourth building was beginning to smoke in the hay-like thatch of the roof.

With a shout that had grown rough because of the sooty air, Gavin pointed at the coil of smoke coming from the building. He beckoned for two of the lines of bucket-passers to turn their attention to this new danger, then, with a quick nod to Clem, he slipped out of his own position and started toward the group of women and children.

Pointing to the wife of the smith, he said, “You—Sally—get you those children who are old enough, and whatever women can be spared from watching the young ones, and throw water on this house next. If we have God’s luck, we shall keep it from spreading further.”

He was just about to return to his place in line when an agonized scream reached his ears.

He turned to see a woman running toward the fourth of the burning buildings. “My son! Barden! My son!” She would have dashed into the blaze had Gavin not thrown out an arm and caught her around the waist.

When she looked up and recognized him, even that did not stop her from struggling to get free. “My lord! My son’s home! My son and his wife!” she shrieked—a mournful, wailing cry that tore at Gavin’s heart. “I cannot find them! They are burning!”

“They are there?” he asked, looking at the building, gauging how badly it was burning within. His glance flickered over the mass of people that worked as one body, passing buckets and tossing water. It was unlikely that Barden and his wife had not been awakened by the activity. Thus, if they were within the house, they were most certainly dead. “Stay you here.” He started toward the house.

“My lord—” her shriek of mingled gratitude and horror followed him as he started toward the small home.

Gavin was near enough to feel the blistering waves of heat from the building next door when a hand closed over his arm. He shook his arm to loosen the grip, and turned in annoyance to see a familiar, soot-covered face. “Lady Madelyne!” he exclaimed, stopping. “What are you doing?”

“Nay, my lord, you cannot go in there!” she tightened her grip on his bare arm, seemingly heedless of the sweat that made her fingers slip. She was dressed in a long, stained gown, with the bulk of her hair pulled back into a thick braid. Sweat dripped down her own face, which was flushed from exertion and speckled with ash.

“I must see to her son,” he said simply. “’Tis my duty. I am the lord, and I am foresworn to protect my vassals.” He started away again.

“Nay! My lord!” Moments later, she was after him again, carrying a bucket of water. “Wait.”