THE SECOND LEVEL WAS EMPTY; SO WAS THE THIRD. THAT left only the tower room on the fourth floor. Rhys’s heart turned to lead at the thought of Isolde trapped inside that conflagration, but he did not slow in his mad climb upward. The smoke grew thicker, as dense as river fog, only it was hot and made it nearly impossible to breathe. He had ripped down the curtain to the pantler’s closet, and now he held the fabric over his mouth and nose to keep out the worst of the smoke.
“Isolde!” Where was she?
At the top of the stairs the door to the tower room was closed. But smoke seethed between the frame and the door itself. Without pause Rhys shoved at the thick oak panel. The top gave a little, letting out sheets of a choking black smoke. But the bottom held.
“Isolde? Isolde!” This time he threw his shoulder into it. She was there. He knew it!
The door gave, but only a little. Still, it was enough to see some portion of the hell inside the tiny chamber. Smoke poured out. Flames burning already on the inside of the door frame, licked out into the stairwell.
“Isolde!”
Ducking down to avoid the flames, he threw his whole weight against the door this time. Once. Twice. Again. Then something gave and the door sagged open enough for him to see the pile of fallen stones that blocked its inner swing. God in heaven, the lightning had shattered the very walls of Rosecliffe!
He coughed and stumbled back, overcome by the heat and smoke billowing into the stair hall. He wiped at his tearing eyes but that brought no relief. So he stooped down, took a breath, then charged the door once more. It shuddered and gave, just enough so that he could squeeze into the hell the room had become. “Isolde—”
“Rhys!”
She was huddled in the corner behind the door, struggling to drag the rubble away from the blocked entry, trying to escape even as he’d been pounding down the door. For a moment their eyes held, just one fleeting moment. But so much passed between them. Then she held up a hand and he grabbed it and pulled.
Above them the roof rafters groaned. The fire hissed and spat a shower of embers and sparks and burning ashes. Rhys pushed her through the door, then squeezed out after her.
Already the stair hall had filled with smoke and Isolde slumped over, her slender frame wracked with coughs. Despite his enormous joy at finding her, watching her fight for breath panicked Rhys anew. He had to get her outside away from the fire. She needed fresh air and water. And if she’d been burned—
“Rhys,” she whispered, and only then did he realize the true depths of his fear for her, his terror and now his overwhelming relief. He scooped her into his arms and started for the stairs, but she struggled against him.
“Wait.” She coughed as she reached out to grab the wall. “Wait. The door. Close it—” She broke off, coughing so violently he could not bear it.
“First I must get you to safety.”
“No. Please, Rhys. Close that door, else the entire castle may catch fire.”
Then let it burn
, he almost replied. It was a tempting thought, the complete destruction of Rosecliffe, and a part of him would have rejoiced in the destruction of this symbol of Norman English aggression in Wales. If he could not possess it, then neither would the FitzHughs.
But what of the FitzHugh in his arms? If he hurt those others; then he hurt her. And one truth he had faced in the
terrifying moments just past: he could never hurt Isolde. Never again.
Despite the blinding smoke and unbearable heat, Rhys set Isolde down and turned back to the fire. Somehow, crouching low, he found the door handle. It was hot but he wore gloves, and with a grunt he perked the thick panel shut. It would not stop the fire, but it would slow its spread.
Then fighting for every breath and blinded by the hellish smoke, he groped his way back to Isolde. Though she protested, he lifted her into his arms. Then down the stairs he staggered, both of them sucking in great draughts of air, cold and sharp and healing.
“Are you hurt?” he asked when he could speak. He paused below the third floor, leaning against the outer wall as he looked down at her.
Isolde’s face was pale from shock and smudged with soot. Her eyes were red from smoke and tears, and charred spots caused by the sparks and embers pockmarked her kirtle. But her gaze was steady and her voice, though hoarse and cracked, was not weak. “I am not burned. Not badly. I … My leg … I will be sore. But I am not hurt. Not really.”
Then she wound her arms around his neck. “Once again you have saved me, Rhys. I can never repay you.”
Rhys shook his head. He did not want her gratitude. In truth, he could not bear to speak of this at all, for he could not abide the thought of how close she’d come to death. He trembled to even imagine it.
But she persisted. “Once more you have saved my life.” Her face was very close to his. Her eyes were serious and dark, yet very, very clear, and he was suddenly aware of his heart pounding in his chest. He wanted to look away from her. The fire seethed two floors up, a raging inferno such as only the devil could relish. But outside in the bailey another sort of hell awaited him. For he must now face her family, his avowed enemies.
Yet he did not fear either of those hells nearly so much as he feared the power this slender, disheveled woman held over him. God held his soul in his hands; the FitzHugh brothers held his life in theirs. But Isolde … Isolde held his heart. He did not fear death, neither the death of his body nor his soul.
But if she did not love him completely—if she should turn away from him and go to them—then his heart would break. It would stop beating and he would cease being a man. He would cease being anything.
His hold on her tightened, and unable to contain his emotions, he squeezed her against his chest. “I cannot live …” His voice faltered. “I cannot live without you.”
Isolde heard the anguish in Rhys’s voice, and she recognized the battle he fought inside himself. Had he been any other man, the pain his admission caused him would have sent her into a downward spiral of despair. Why could he not love her with joy instead of regret?
But Rhys was not like any other man. For him to admit his feelings for her was to let go of a lifetime of hate. It was that which was tearing him apart.
Yet he had said it. He could not live without her.
Her arms tightened around his neck. “I knew you would come for me. I knew you would. Though I could hear the fire eating away at the roof, and the stones creaking and moving in the walls—” She broke off as a coughing spasm struck. Then she smiled up at his dear, smoke-smudged face. “Even with all that, I knew you would come.”
Their eyes held, and she saw him swallow hard. He did not respond with words, but then, Isolde did not need words to know the truth in his heart. He started down the stairs once more and Isolde relaxed into his strong embrace. Whatever would come, they would face it together. She laid her head against his shoulder and smiled, for despite the fire and chaos, and the problems that beset them from all sides, she felt the first blossoming of a tremendous happiness. “I cannot live without you either, you know. So I suppose we must either agree to stay together, or we both must die.” She smiled and rubbed her hand along the neckline of his mail shirt, seeking the touch of his warm skin. “I know which of those two choices I prefer.”
He looked down at her. “As do I—”
He broke off when her anxious father met them midway between the second floor and the main hall. Randulf FitzHugh rushed up, blanching at the sight of his daughter in Rhys’s arms. “Is she hurt? Isolde—”
“I am unharmed, Father. Truly. Rhys has saved me—”
“’Twas he who put you in this danger,” Randulf countered. He drew his sword out with an ominous slither and held it at the ready. “Put her down.” Then, to Isolde, “Can you walk?”
Rhys started to lower her to her feet, but Isolde clung stubbornly to his shoulders. She glared sternly at her father. “No. I cannot walk.” She turned a smile on Rhys. “Please, will you bring me to my mother?”
At that very moment Josselyn scurried up the smoky stairwell, a
couvrechef
held across her mouth. She dropped it when she spied the trio. “Oh, my! Isolde! Rhys, you have her!” Her eyes met with her daughter’s, and though they did not speak, Isolde somehow knew that her mother understood. Gesturing urgently with her hand, Josselyn said, “Bring her into the yard. Hurry, Rand. We must fight the fire. Jasper has formed a water line.”
Isolde saw her father’s fury at Rhys. But her mother had reminded him of the fire. Though the threat to Isolde had eased, the threat to Rosecliffe had not, and his eyes turned anxiously up toward the tower.
“The door is closed but the fire has consumed most of the roof,” Rhys told him as he came down three steps. “Unless you intervene swiftly, it will soon burn through the door.”
It was their turn to share a look. The two men were eye to eye, with Isolde in Rhys’s arms between them. She was the only thing that stood between them, preventing their mistrust of one another from spilling over into violence. Very likely she would have to play that role for a goodly while. But not forever, she vowed.
She reached out and caught her father’s hand. “Be careful, Papa. I do love you so.”
“As I love you, child of my heart,” he gruffly responded.
“Come,” Josselyn urged. But she was smiling at Isolde when Rhys hurried past. And she kept smiling at her husband when they were alone. “Yes. Be careful, my dearest heart, for I love you very much.”
The bailey was in complete chaos. Yet amid all the frenetic activity, there was some semblance of order. At the well a team of boys hauled water just as fast they could. Women rushed forward with every bucket and pot and pail to be found.
Men streamed into the hall, ferrying the precious water to the source of the fire. And above it all, the sky rumbled and groaned. Lightning lit the gloomy sky and crashed in the forest beyond the walls, causing everyone to jump.
Was the world coming to an end? Isolde had been so grateful to be rescued; so happy to hear Rhys’s grudging admission of his feelings, and so relieved to know he and Jasper had not completed their battle, that she’d not recognized the true gravity of the situation. Now, when Rhys set her down on a keg near the gatehouse, she looked up and gasped.
Flames leaped from the roof of the tower, tall and brilliant against the dark sky. Burning embers showered down upon the castle walls and yard and ancillary buildings. A trio of women with wet rags ran about, stamping out the burning splinters, crushing the seething embers. A small blaze had started in the kindling barrel near the kitchen, but two youths swiftly doused it. But the fire in the tower raged on, so hot she could feel the blast of it against her cheeks.
When winter’s heat shall cold defeat
.
The children’s verse sprang suddenly into her head. The third prediction. Was this what it referred to, a fire so large it chased the chill from winter itself?
“Will you not help them?” It was Newlin who spoke, startling Isolde. But he stared at Rhys, and for once the bard’s wandering eyes focused together. “Will you not lend your strength to saving Rosecliffe Castle? ’Tis a fine and worthy place. Strong and well built.”
Beside him Tilly stood, and for once the old minstrel was unmistakably a woman. Her wiry gray hair appeared softer than usual; her expression was gentler. “’Tis the people within that make a place fine and worthy, be it castle or a humble cottage.” She smiled at the young man with whom she’d travelled so long. “Help save it, my boy. Keep it fine and worthy.”
Isolde told herself she would understand if Rhys chose not to assist the efforts to save the castle. The fire was not of his doing. Indeed, he’d already done more than could be expected, for he’d risked his life to rescue her. And he’d not yet recovered from his own injuries.
When he looked down at her, however, and when he sighed, then gave her a wry half-smile, her heart leaped with
joy. “I will return to your side,” he said. “There is much that yet remains unsettled between us.” Then he was gone, racing to the well, grabbing up a pair of buckets and plunging back into the smoke-filled hall.
Another streak of lightning split the sky and Isolde flinched. But there was delay before the thunder shook the ground, and even then it was muffled by the fat splattering of raindrops.
Rain!
Within seconds the heavens let loose a torrent. With a roar it came down, a cold, stinging onslaught, yet nevertheless gladly received. Once again the people in the bailey scampered for protection from the elements, into the kitchen and alehouse. Into the stables. They peered from beneath the laundry shed and shrank back against the outer walls.
Beneath the gatehouse, Isolde rose to her feet and joyfully held her hands aloft to catch the rain on her fingers. A swirl of wind blew the cold downpour in her face, and the rain mingled with hot tears of gratitude.
“Was it you who caused this?” she shouted to Newlin above the drowning drum of the rain. “Did you bring the rain—and the lightning before that?”
The bard smiled his old sweet smile and shook his head. “I have powers of observation,” he demurred. “I see things that others are prone to overlook, and on occasion I share my opinion or, perhaps, impart a little advice. But command the weather? This I do not do. No more than I direct the actions of others.”