Domning, Denise (37 page)

There was another reverberating explosion. She cried out again, clutching him tightly and burying her face against his chest. "I do not like that sound."

"Ah, my sweet, it is the sound of freedom." He laughed. Four times in an hour's passing, the ballista sent its missile against the wall. But when it finally ended, there was no man atop the keep, so he heard no call. Instead, there was shouting from the south corner of the bailey.

He listened carefully, gathering from the sounds of the voices, more than anything else, that Gilliam had put some sort of bridge in place. No doubt, his brother meant to cross the water and check on his handiwork. Ashby's men would be on the wall above, if not attacking the besiegers, at least keeping their eyes on them.

His wife looked up at him, and he caught his breath at her magnificence. Her hair color was so rich and such a contrast to her creamy skin and dark blue eyes. He stroked her cheek with a gentle finger, then pulled her closer still. She lay her head against his chest, and her trust in him spoke to his soul.

But what if this babe of theirs killed her? The very thought of her death, of the great rending absence she would leave behind, not just in him but in his family and folk as well, made him cold.

Then, again, what if the babe did not take her? It might well be he faced a full and happy life with her. She was so much younger than he, it was more likely he would precede her into death. He would leave her a wealthy widow who would all too quickly be remarried.

That thought rankled. Better that she went first, for he could not bear the idea that another man might hold her. Would she burst to life with desire for her next husband as she did for him? That he should think this way made him laugh.

"What is so amusing?" she asked. "Do I smell burning again?"

He paused to test the air. "Aye, and it is closer now." Then, he grimaced. "I think Gilliam has put a bridge across the moat to see what damage he has wrought. Ashby's men are not sitting so still as I expected they would. They must have succeeded in setting it afire." The smell of smoke grew steadily stronger.

"Oh, sweet Mary," she whispered. "Poor Gilliam."

"Now, who was the one who told me he was no boy to be fretted after," he chided, no longer threatened by her affection for his brother and recognizing friendship for what it was.

"So," she said briskly, visibly forcing her thoughts away from what went ahead outside, "what was it that made you laugh?"

He smiled, still amused by his ridiculous thoughts. "I was thinking it would be better if you died first, for I would surely be a vengeful ghost who would haunt you if you were to remarry."

"Rannulf," she cried, pushing away from him. "That is morbid. Do not think like that."

He only laughed, enjoying his own foolishness. "Nay, not morbid, I am only imagining. Ah, I have the solution for it. We shall both live forever, then neither one of us will have to be alone." When she only stared at him in perplexity, he continued, "Play this game with me. Let me say that it is so. Would you live with me forever?"

She studied his face for a long moment and whatever she saw made her happy. Her eyes brightened, and she smiled softly. "Aye, my love, I would live with you for all time," she replied.

It was only then that he realized what he'd said and why she'd smiled so. There was no escaping it, no holding back. Even his own tongue betrayed him. This love of theirs was right and good, the way it was supposed to be between a man and his wife.

"Many women do not die in childbirth," she said, gently touching her fingers to his lips. He kissed her fingertips. "My mother did not, nor did Temric's. Nor did Queen Eleanor, and she had many children. She is strong and healthy despite her age."

"You are right," he replied, catching her hand and placing a kiss into her palm. "But I would still rather have you with me than trade you for the sake of a legitimate heir."

"But I want our child," she cried softly. "It is my gift to you, proof of my love for you."

"And what proof would you ask of me? Jewels, clothing, lands?" His tone was teasing but not so his heart.

Her eyes were soft and warm. "There is nothing more I want from you that you have not already given me."

She would not make him say it; she would not demand from him the final proof of his feelings for her. If he spoke them, it would be because he had chosen to do so. Would he? He drew a deep breath as his last fears shredded and disappeared. "Wren," he started, the words forming, then falling away to form again.

Suddenly, the door flew wide to crash against the wall. Nicola stood in the doorway, her hair in disarray and dirty charcoal streaks across her face. "Maeve has set the house afire and run. Your brother has breached our walls and is storming across the bailey killing everyone he sees. Even his own men cannot stop him. Hurry, he has sworn to kill my father. Here"—she handed him his sword— "now, come and make good on your vow. You must protect Papa." Then she was gone.

Rannulf leapt to his feet, dragging Rowena up with him. "There is not time for you to dress," he said brusquely, jamming his feet into his shoes, then struggling into his shirt. "Damn, I am stuck, help me. And she left me no shield."

His wife dropped her gown and whirled to help him with his shirt. "You are still too sore to use one if she had. Now, go. The fire is getting closer. I can smell it."

He went quickly down the stairs ahead of her, sword at the ready. First, he would see his wife safe, then lend Ashby what help he could. But by the time they'd left the stairs and entered the hall, the room was already thick with smoke and with the screams and shouts of the folk trapped within it. Flames leapt in the roof above them, nibbling at the rafters. The fire rumbled in the thatching as it consumed the dry reeds; its ravenous hunger would barely leave them time enough to save themselves.

Servants were massed in panic at the backs of Ashby's men. These soldiers had opened the barred door to escape the burning building only to meet Gilliam's forces. Steel flashed and flew as those inside sought to break out, while those outside fought to hold them within.

There was no escape for them in that direction. Across the room a small group of serving men were hewing themselves a new doorway. Suddenly they broke through. The chunk of severed wall dropped to the bailey far below them.

The building drew a roaring breath, its death rattle, as air rushed into it. Fire exploded through the thatch, sending down bits of burning reed to set alight the rushes on the floor. In that brief instant, flames appeared in a dozen places along the walls.

He took two steps toward the new exit, but Ashby's folk turned, enmasse, and surged toward it, blocking their route. Flames appeared above the hall door and licked their way down with incredible speed. The portal became a ring of fire, driving Ashby's soldiery back inside. Those still outside the door retreated. Save one.

Taller than all the rest, he entered the room with his sword flashing about him. He chopped his way into the panicking crowd. "Gilliam," Rannulf called to him. The young knight did not hear him, so intent on murder was he. He swung his blade with grim efficiency, felling one man, then another, then a woman, oblivious to the danger around him.

"Wren, nay," he bellowed. She had stepped away and instantly froze at his scream. A whole section of flaming roof dropped to the floor before her feet. Now they could not reach either the door or the open wall.

"Come," he said, and grabbed her by the arm to limp as quickly across the room as he could. He went left along the tower wall to where the master's chamber lay. Within that room was a window. It would be quite a leap, but better broken bones than death. And there would be just time enough to make use of it.

The smoke grew denser as they crossed the hall. Another area of reeds fell away, and he saw that flames were well progressed into eating away the rafters. There was a peculiar squealing sound, and the wall near the door crumbled. Above him a huge timber groaned in agony.

If the roof fell in on them, they would have no chance at all. His breath seared in his lungs and made him cough. Suddenly Nicola appeared out of the smoke. She was dragging a coil of rope with her. Then there was Gilliam, almost within hand's reach and nearly on the girl's heels. He tried to call out, but could only cough.

The smoke swirled again, and his brother was gone around the corner. He stumbled after them, still holding his wife firmly by the arm. Here, in the ell, there was neither fire nor smoke, but it would be only moments before it reached them.

The clash of steel to steel brought him to sharp attention. "Stay behind me," he barked hoarsely to Rowena. She coughed her answer. He pushed open the half-closed door in time to see John, swathed in bandages and barely able to stand, much less to firmly close his hand around his sword hilt, fall to Gilliam's blade.

"Traitor," his brother ground out, his words colder than ice, "you've died like the scum you are."

"Nay," Nicola screeched, and launched herself at her father, but not to kneel beside him in mourning. She grabbed the man's sword and threw herself in bold attack against the big knight. His brother's sword was already drawn back for a killing blow.

"Gilliam," Rannulf shouted in warning, "do not hurt her."

"Murderer," Nicola screamed, as his brother whirled in disbelief to face him.

"Drop that sword, girl," Rannulf snapped, his own blade flicking out. But, instead of sending the weapon flying from her fingers as he had expected, she met his movement with a well-honed turn that nearly cracked his wrist. "What—" he cried out more in surprise than pain.

"You are alive," Gilliam bellowed in joy.

"Behind you!" he yelled as the tall girl swung the long and well-balanced weapon with a precision he could not comprehend. "Disarm her and hurry with it, or we will all die."

The young knight turned with incredible speed and met his attacker's blade. Although he pushed her back, she thrust out again, displaying skill and considerable training in her smooth movements.

"Wren, get that rope," he commanded, as his brother gave an unholy roar of laughter and met the girl's blade once again.

His wife dashed across the room and grabbed up the rope. Gilliam gave his sword a careless twist to tap the tip of it against his opponent's ungloved wrist. She screamed in pain and rage, but loosed one hand in reaction. Another small movement of his hand, and her father's blade flew across the room.

"Here goes the roof," Rannulf shouted above the ever growing thunder of the fire. By the time he'd taken the few steps to the window, smoke was billowing down at them. To Gilliam he said, "I want the girl," to his wife, "tie it to both handles. That way if it comes after us, it will be too wide to pass through the window. Quickly now, or we will all be roasted alive."

His brother's mailed hand snapped shut about Nicola's arm as he glanced above him and saw the smoldering ceiling. The girl writhed and screamed against his hold, but it did not affect him in the slightest. There was a low creaking, tearing sound from the hall as yet another section of roof collapsed. Again, that rafter groaned.

"Nay," Rannulf commanded Rowena, "loop it to the left through the other handle and then back again. If it makes the rope too short, we will drop."

"Murderer," Nicola raged against Gilliam's hold, her free hand scratching and clawing at his mailed glove. When she realized the futility of it, she dropped to the floor, making herself a dead weight. "Nay, I will not leave. Let me die with him. Murderer! He could barely rise and yet you killed him. Oh, Papa," she cried, her free hand clutching at her father's fingers. "Let me stay."

Rannulf yelled back at his brother as he tossed the now fastened rope out the window. "Do not let her go, Gilliam."

"You are fortunate, traitor's daughter," his brother said, grabbing the tall girl up by the waist. She kicked and writhed, but he only threw her over his shoulder. Her fists beat against his steel-clad back.

"Go," he said to his wife, who stood atop the trunk. He opened his mouth to reassure her, but she only nodded and slipped down the rope with amazing agility. Above him the roof exploded in flame. A burning bit floated down to rest atop the tangled bedclothes. They smoldered just an instant, then a tongue of flame appeared. "Go," he said to Gilliam. "Do not argue, you must bear her as you do it."

His brother shot him a broad grin. "I can manage, old man, now that I know you are alive." And he was gone.

Rannulf felt the blood trickle from his thigh where he'd torn his wound afresh. He grabbed up the rope, threw his sword to the ground below, then turned to lower himself out the window. He had only dropped beneath its sill when there was a massive explosion. Great, blazing daggers of flame shot out of the window and through the low-hanging roof. He was thrown away from the building. Rather than hit the wall, he released the rope and dropped to the soft turf below. Stars blinked into life before his eyes at the impact.

"Jesus God," he heard Gilliam say. "What was that?" When he turned his head to look, he saw that the concussion from the explosion had knocked his brother back and sent Nicola sprawling next to him. The girl lay facedown sobbing into the grass.

"Rannulf," his wife cried, scrambling over to him. "Sweet Mary, you are bleeding again."

"Aye, but I still live, and nothing has been broken, although I will now have bruises atop my bruises," he gasped out. "Let me lay here just a moment and catch my breath. Where did you learn to climb like that?"

She shot him a look both shamed and proud in the same instant. "When I was young and still at Benfield, I enjoyed climbing trees. I especially liked hanging upside down from the branches."

He laughed out loud. "With your gown hanging down over your face as well?"

"Nay, it does not do that if you wad it up and stuff it between your knees." Her grin was smug.

"Wren, I cannot even envision you doing something so frivolous," he said, his laughter making him cough up all the smoke he'd taken in. He grabbed her to him, holding her atop him in an embrace that was amusement, love, thanksgiving, and joy in one. "By all that is holy, I am glad I lived long enough to discover that about you."