Page 48 of Lord of the Manor

“Get up, Cecily!” He rubbed the back of his head, trying to make sense of what was happening, while his heart thumped madly in his chest.

“What is it? What’s amiss?”

Cruelly deprived of the chance to enjoy his rosy, tousled ladylove first thing in the morning, Allan thrust her shift and kirtle at her.

“Fire! Get dressed—quickly.” He ended this command with a cough. There was too much smoke to be from an ordinary blaze in the hearth—something catastrophic was happening, and they must make all haste to escape.

“What’s on fire?” Cecily’s eyes were wide as she struggled into her clothes.

“I’m not sure, but ’tis too close for comfort.” It smelled like hay or straw at stubble burning time. The thatch? Surely not! How could the roof be ablaze when he’d put the cover on the fire last night? There could be no sparks rising from a dead fire. Mayhap, something had blown across from a neighboring chimney, like the one at the bakehouse, and ignited Cecily’s roof. As he hurried after her down the wooden steps into the main room of the cottage, he promised himself that as soon as he could afford it, he’d replace all the thatch in the village with tiles.

Smoke billowed about them as they reached the floor. “Go straight out the door, Cecily,” he called, reaching for their cloaks. “Shout for help, so the villagers know what’s afoot—aid will come soon enough. We cannot contain this alone.”

To his horror, she hung back, peering at him through the increasingly dense smoke. “What of Charlemagne? What of the treasure?”

“Never mind that. Get yourself out. I’ll see to Charlemagne and the money if I can. Now, just get out.”

His last words were a shout as he pushed her toward the door, then turned back to see what had happened to the peregrine. He heard Cecily unlock the door and felt a waft of heat as the opening drew it downward. If she had any sense, she’d close the door again, lest the cottage become a furnace.

He pulled his neckcloth over his mouth and nose and fumbled his way to the corner where Charlemagne was flapping and screeching on his perch. He untied the jesses, and the bird instantly flew upward and straight through a glowing hole in the thatch.

Allan blinked as glowing curls of red floated to the ground, some of them catching in his clothing and hair. Did he really have time to save the Templars’ gold? If he wanted a stable, happy life with his betrothed, they desperately needed that money.

The heap of fleeces that concealed the cache was already smoking, the wool sizzling with an unpleasant smell of burned sheep’s grease. He plunged his hands into Cecily’s bucket and yanked the smoldering fleeces aside, but he could barely see now for smoke, and it was increasingly difficult to breathe.

Curse it. He couldn’t find the handle to lift the hatch. His blood pounded in his ears as the fire roared and crackled above him. Once it ate into the roof timbers, there’d be no safety below. Still cursing colorfully, he abandoned the attempt, and stumbled toward the door. They’d have to put the fire out, then return for the cache when it was safe to do so. The money would do him no good if he was dead. And if he were dead, he wouldn’t be able to protect Cecily.

The door latch was hot to the touch. He pressed the metal bar up and pulled on the door. Then pulled again.

The door refused to open.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cecily stumbled, coughing, onto the cobbles, her bare feet chilled by their touch. But the cold was welcome—the cold brought her to her senses, casting off the last drugging veils of sleep. This was no dream, no nightmare from which she could hope to awaken. Her home was truly aflame, and she needed to get as far away as possible.

A man grabbed her and hauled her bodily away from the cottage, then ran back to the door, picking up something from the ground. Good—already, other villagers were aware of their plight. They might be able to save the building.

Now at a safe distance, she spun back to look at the cottage. Where was Allan? Where was Charlemagne?

Her heart thundered so hard she thought it would explode, and her fingers shook with fear. Her lungs ached, and she felt sick, but that was not important—she was out now and safe. They were not.

Then, to her enormous relief, she saw Charlemagne swoop down and land on a neighboring roof. He would be too terrified to come to her straightaway, but no matter—she’d recapture him once the flames had died down.

As her eyes remained pinned to the doorway, she became aware of shouts and noise as more people rushed forth from their cottages, carrying buckets of water which were passed from hand-to-hand before their contents were thrown at her cottage. Someone had fetched the long hook that hung up on the wall of the church and had started dragging the burning roof thatch away from the building in an effort to save the walls.

But still, Allan hadn’t emerged, and no one seemed to be looking for him. Of course, everyone would expect her to have been alone. How selfish of her to demand he save Charlemagne and the treasure! His life was too valuable to put at risk—she loved him too deeply to cope without him. Foolish girl! She was about to rush back to the cottage when a painful grip held her back.

“Holy Mary, let go of me. There’s someone in there!” She tugged at the hand that held her, infuriated and horrified.

“Would that be Master Smythe, by any chance?”

Ice flooded her veins—Master Kennett Clark!

“Does it matter who?” she spluttered. “We must save him!” Allan was still not out of the burning building—something must have gone seriously wrong.

“It is Allan, isn’t it? The lucky cur. I’ll go and get him out for you. But there’s a condition attached.”

What? Why should there be a condition? Surely, even a coldhearted knave like Kennett Clark would make some attempt to save him?