Once Upon a Historical Christmas, page 4
Mary screamed.
A Knight's Redemption
Catherine Kean
Chapter Three
Smoke spewed toward the wintry sky and cast grayish smog over the town. Flames roared and crackled; hellish sounds.
In the market square crowded with spectators and frantic townspeople, de Lanceau, Lord Rowell, and Lord Westbrook discussed the fire with the sheriff. The blaze, started by toppled candles, had spread quickly down the side street of two-story buildings where shopkeepers had run their premises on the ground level and had lived above with their families.
Some folk would lose all that they owned. A terrible thing to have happened at any time of year, but above all at Christmas.
Holden toiled alongside other squires and men-at-arms to unload the buckets, barrels of water, blankets, and other supplies that had been hurriedly loaded into wagons and brought from Branton Keep.
The wind held a biting chill, but sweat streamed down his face. Beneath his cloak, his garments stuck to his skin.
The wagons finally emptied, Holden dried his brow with his sleeve. Nearby, a line of townsfolk passed buckets of water to the men battling the blaze, while another line handed the empty buckets back to those drawing from the well.
Closer to Holden, the healer crouched beside a woman lying unconscious on a blanket on the ground, a bloody gash across her brow. Her son, no more than four years old, stood crying at her side while clinging to a brown cloth horse.
“What happened to the woman?” Holden asked a man.
“She fell rushin’ out of ’er ’ome.”
“The poor child is frantic,” a woman added. “’E keeps cryin’ fer ’is Mama.”
The gritty crunch of footfalls signaled de Lanceau’s approach. “Squires, help with the water. The rest of you, follow me.”
Holden recognized a gray-haired woman struggling with a heavy bucket in the nearby line; she and her husband, a tanner, had sold leather goods from their premises on the street that was now ablaze. Holden moved in to take her place in the line.
Clearly exhausted, she nodded gratefully.
“Your husband?” Holden asked, shouting to be heard over the din.
“Helping draw the water.”
“I am glad he is all right.”
The woman patted Holden’s cheek then hobbled away to rest against a shuttered shop. He took the next bucket by the handle, passed it to the man on his left, grabbed hold of the next bucket, heedless of the water sloshing down his cloak.
Holden tried to ignore the weeping of the young boy, but the child kept crying. The tanner’s wife tried to comfort him, but the boy shook his head, pointed to the blaze, and wailed.
Holden hated to see or hear children in distress. He still remembered the feeble cries of his infant brother, who’d died in his arms.
After passing the next bucket, Holden broke from the line and went to the boy. His face streaked with grime and tears, the child stared up at him.
“’Twill be all right,” Holden soothed.
“Mama,” the boy cried.
Holden exchanged a glance with the healer, who nodded. “She is going to be all right,” he said.
“Mama.” Sobs wrenching from him, the child pointed to the building.
The woman on the ground stirred. Her eyes flickered open.
“Do not move too quickly,” the healer murmured.
Hearing her son, the young mother reached out her hand, caught his tiny one in hers, and then looked about. Panic filled her eyes. “Anna?”
The healer smiled. “Your husband took her to visit his parents, aye?”
Shaking her head, the woman struggled to sit up. “She…stayed with me.”
The healer’s face paled.
When the mother’s gaze found the burning buildings, she cried out in anguish.
“Who is Anna?” Holden asked the healer.
“Her five-month-old daughter.”
The fine hairs at Holden’s nape stood on end. No wonder the boy was upset. His sister was still inside their home.
“My baby,” the mother shrieked. “Please—”
“I will find her. Which house?” Holden asked.
“Sixth one down from the corner,” said the healer, embracing the distraught young woman.
Holden raced to the line of folk passing water, yanked up his cloak’s hood, snatched several filled buckets, and dumped them over his head to dampen his garments. Ignoring the stares and mutterings of the townsfolk, he ripped off part of his shirt’s hem, soaked the fabric in water then tied it over his nose and mouth.
The firefighters moved to stop him. “Stay back!” they yelled.
“Baby,” Holden shouted. He rushed through thick smoke toward the sixth home, its roof covered in flames.
He dropped to a crouch and crawled in through the open door. Intense heat and smoke enveloped him.
The ground floor had been a children’s clothing shop. He prayed the baby wasn’t upstairs, for the roof was close to collapsing.
His eyes watered, making it hard to see where he was going. The acrid stench of smoke seeped through the wet fabric as he crawled in farther.
His hand landed on a fallen garment, and he skidded sideways, bumping into a rack that toppled over. Righting himself, he forced himself onward. God’s blood, but he’d better find Anna soon.
And then he saw it: the cradle, barely visible behind the shop’s counter. He scrambled over to it. The little girl lay inside. He scooped up her limp body, tucked her inside his cloak, and raced out. Safely away from the flames, he yanked the fabric from his face and fell to his knees, coughing and heaving in breaths of cleaner air.
He was vaguely aware of people shouting his name, of someone taking the child from his arms, of a mug of ale and damp cloths that smelled of herbs being pressed into his hands. He pushed back his hood and slowly moved to sit against the wall of a nearby building. After soothing his stinging face with the cloths, he drank the ale, blessedly cool going down his sore throat. His chest hurt when he breathed, no doubt from inhaling smoke. He closed his eyes, overcome by weariness, but determined to rest for only a moment.
Sometime later, he felt a touch on his arm. He opened his dry, scratchy eyes to see the boy beside him, along with his mother. Gaze solemn, the boy handed Holden the toy horse.
“Thank you,” he croaked, “but I cannot take your toy.”
The mother smiled. “’E wants ye t’ave it.”
“Anna?” Holden asked, his voice hoarse.
“She breathed in too much smoke. But, the ’ealer believes in comin’ days, she’ll recover.”
“Thank God.”
“The ’ealer said ta tell ye she’ll tend ye soon,” the woman said.
Holden shook his head. “I would rather she care for Anna. Please tell her that.”
“I will. And thank ye for all ye did today. I am very grateful.”
The little boy hugged Holden, set the horse beside him then took his mother’s hand as they returned to where the healer was tending to the baby.
Gratitude warmed Holden. No matter his injuries, he’d saved a life; as heroic knights did.
As he studied the blaze—the firefighters appeared to be getting the fire contained—de Lanceau crossed to him, followed by Lord Westbrook. “Well done, Holden,” de Lanceau said.
“Thank you, milord.”
“Take Penley with you and return to the castle. Our healer should look at your wounds before you wash up. Later, we will laud your bravery.”
Pride flared inside Holden, even as his thoughts shifted to events earlier that day. His heart jolted. “God’s blood. Mary.”
***
Seated with her back against the stone wall, Mary shivered in the darkness of the dungeon cell. Sitting on the ground might be foolish, but whatever creature had visited her earlier had long gone.
After standing for what had seemed an eternity, even with jumping up and down now and again, her feet had gone numb inside her shoes and her legs had ached. She hadn’t managed to eat much during the meal, and hunger, combined with exhaustion from little sleep and the day’s stresses, had overwhelmed her. With a reluctant sigh—she’d just have to deal with her father’s anger over her dirtied gown as best she could—she’d sat and looped her arms around her bent legs to draw them in close, and had felt a tiny bit warmer.
When Holden had agreed with his lordship that she’d only be imprisoned for a short time? He had lied.
Wherever he was, she’d hoped he was freezing cold and completely miserable, too.
Dropping her forehead to her crossed arms, she’d listened to the endless silence, prayed for the sounds of the dungeon door opening and footsteps on the stairs that would foretell her imminent freedom.
She’d waited.
And waited some more.
The quietness, though, had continued; unbroken; relentless. The ember of hope that had glowed inside her had sputtered and gone out, leaving behind crushing desolation.
Tears welled in her eyes as she imagined finally being set free. Her father would not only be upset about her gown, but that she hadn’t been strong enough to stay on her feet, as he’d have expected of his flesh and blood. If she fell ill because of her imprisonment, he’d be angry about that, too.
Oh, mercy, but instead of tormenting herself with what she couldn’t control, she should draw strength from the knowledge that Holden hadn’t gotten a kiss from her. She hadn’t compromised what she believed to be right, and she would not give in.
Not to him.
Not ever.
As she blew on her hands to warm them, a faint creaking noise came from across the dungeon, followed by a draft that swirled over the floor. Her pulse quickened. She struggled to move her stiff limbs and stand upright.
Voices, muffled by the cell door, sounded in the dungeon. Then a brisk rap on the door that made her jump.
“Mary?”
’Twas not Holden’s voice. Penley’s, mayhap?
Metal scraped in the lock, and the door opened. Oh, thank God. Relief rushed through her, so intense, her knees threatened to buckle.
Shivering still, she squinted in the bright light of a flaming torch, held by Penley. Keys jangled while they were hung back on the wall peg, and she saw Holden, a short distance away.
Hugging herself, she walked out of the cell.
“Are you well?” Holden croaked.
What had happened to his voice? Had he shouted so much while reveling in the hall that he’d gone hoarse? Well, she hoped he was hoarse for days.
He moved into full brightness cast by the torch. What she’d thought were shadows on his cloak were singe marks and streaks of grime. His hair was matted, his face reddened as though scorched by the sun, and he reeked of smoke.
“What happened to you?” she asked.
He coughed, grimacing as though it hurt. “Fire.”
Did he mean a bonfire, lit as part of the Lord of Misrule celebrations? The kind of fire around which men gathered to sing bawdy songs and drink themselves witless?
Holden had been carousing, while she’d been locked in the darkness and cold.
The torment inside her stirred a wave of dizziness. With a groan, she pressed her hand to her forehead.
“Mary,” Holden said hoarsely. “Are you all right?”
Of course not! I am cold, hungry, worn out, and altogether fed up with you. But, she’d not say that aloud. “I am fine,” she said, even as Penley shifted the angle of the torch.
“Your lips are blue, milady.” The sympathy in the ginger-haired squire’s tone made her want to burst into tears.
Stay strong, at least until you are out of the dungeon.
Mary clenched her hands. ’Twas unlikely that when she left the prison, she’d be able to avoid her father. The thought of facing him made her even more lightheaded, but once he’d berated her, she’d slip away to a quiet spot for a good cry. “If you will excuse me—”
She started forward, but Holden blocked her. An intense ache gripped her. Was he going to demand the kiss she hadn’t given him in the hall? Would he be so wretched?
His lips parted, as though he was about to speak.
“Please. Step aside. I must go warm up.”
“Then you can join in the celebrations,” Penley said. Before she could say a word, he added, “Holden is a hero.”
Shock jarred through her. “A hero?” Surely Penley didn’t consider what Holden had done to her to be heroic?
“All of the squires battled the blaze in the town, but he ran into a burning home.” The ginger-haired squire sounded proud. “He risked his life and saved a baby, just like the most gallant of knights.”
She wanted to despise Holden…but he hadn’t been drinking around a bonfire. He’d been fighting a fire. He’d saved a child’s life. How could she not admire him for that?
Anguish swirled inside her to form a maelstrom of heartache and confusion. She pressed her hand to her mouth to suppress a sob, and the dungeon spun around her.
“Mary!” Holden rasped.
“She is going to swoon!” Penley cried.
A shrill ringing noise filled her ears.
Darkness rushed in.
***
As Mary’s eyelids fluttered closed, Holden lunged forward and slid his arms around her waist. No way in hellfire would he let her crumple to the floor. She’d endured more than enough for one day—and more bravely than he’d ever expected. He’d meant to ask her favorite hot drink, so he could have one made for her, but hadn’t managed to voice the question before she’d fainted.
He pulled her in against him, her bosom to his chest, the side of her face resting against a singed patch on his cloak. Her hair smelled faintly of flowers, and he wondered, with a flicker of desire, how ’twould feel to bury his fingers in her silken tresses, tilt her head up, and kiss her right now.
He could have her kiss, and she wouldn’t even know it had happened. Not until he told her.
But, such a kiss could never be as good as one claimed when she was awake. He wanted her fully aware, unable to deny that their lips had touched—and that he’d kissed her well.
“What do we do now?” Penley sounded worried.
Mary’s breaths warmed Holden’s neck, but the fine silk of her gown was ice cold against his hand. “We must take her to the keep.”
Penley groaned. “Her sire is going to be furious.”
Aye. “He is still in the town, and so is Lord de Lanceau,” Holden said. “With luck, we can fix this before they get back.”
The ginger-haired squire shook his head. “You and I may spend Christmas in this dungeon.”
“You are not in any way responsible,” Holden said firmly. “’Tis entirely my fault. I will accept all blame.” Crouching slightly, he put his right arm under Mary’s knees and lifted her into his arms. “Get the door, will you?”
Penley hurried across the chamber.
As Holden crossed to the stairs, he glanced down at Mary in his arms. So lovely. He’d like to tell her so, once she was awake, but she’d probably not believe him.
After today, she might not want to see him ever again. Her father might forbid him from getting anywhere near her. Regret weighed upon Holden, for he’d made a damned mess of things. But, he would do his best to make matters right.
Leaving the dungeon, Holden headed across the bailey toward the keep; the draping swath of Mary’s gown brushed his legs while he walked. Stable hands paused in their work to stare, but he ignored them. Penley ran on ahead to hold open the door to the forebuilding.
With Penley a few steps behind, Holden climbed the forebuilding’s stairs. He dreaded what would happen once he reached the hall, but every aspiring knight faced tests of courage. This was one of his.
Upon reaching the vast room, he saw Lady de Lanceau sitting by the fire, embroidering, several wolfhounds dozing at her feet. “Milady,” he called, heading toward her.
She glanced at him. Her smile faded as she rose, startling the slumbering hounds. “What happened?”
“The dungeon—” Holden’s voice cracked.
“Mary was in there all of this time?”
Clearing his scratchy throat, Holden nodded. “Milady, I did not mean—”
“You went to fight the fire.” Lady de Lanceau’s gaze pierced his. “Did you not ask anyone to let her out?”
Holden shook his head. Never had he felt more unworthy of being called a hero. “I am sorry, milady. I did not…think—”
“That is obvious.” She caught Mary’s hands. “Her skin is like ice.” She summoned a maidservant. “Build a fire in one of the guest chambers. Prepare a bath for her. Hot fare as well.”
“At once, milady.” After curtsying, the young woman hurried off.
As though noticing his arms were shaking from fatigue, Lady de Lanceau motioned to the bench nearby. “Sit her here. Men-at-arms will take her up to the chamber.”
Holden carefully set Mary down on the bench, turning her so that her upper body slumped on the table. Straightening, he coughed several times, his eyes watering as he faced Lady de Lanceau again.
A hint of sympathy touched her gaze. “You need a bath yourself, and to see the healer. Is anyone else from the castle injured?”
“I do not know, milady,” he rasped. “Penley and I were ordered to return early. Lord de Lanceau and the rest of the men should be back soon.”
“’Twas a bad fire in the town?”
He nodded. “’Twas becoming contained, though, when we left.”
“Holden was a hero.” Penley grinned. “’Tis why his lordship sent us back early. Holden dashed into the blaze and saved a little girl.”
Lady de Lanceau’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “Did he, indeed? Well, that was very chivalrous of you, Holden. Since you were a hero, I will try not to be too angry when I tell his lordship of Mary’s condition.”
Holden winced. “Milady—”
“Go. Visit the healer and request a bath, if you like. I will see that Mary is well cared for.”
***
“Are you feeling better?” Lady de Lanceau asked, her eyes softened with concern as she sat in the oak chair beside the bed.
“I am. Thank you.” Mary put her mug of mulled wine on the bedside table. As soon as her ladyship—such an awe-inspiring woman—had entered the chamber, Mary had started trembling. Determined not to spill wine all over the fine bedding, she’d forsaken the drink for now.
