The Beloved One (40 page)

"You sure everyone's out?" Charles managed, through retching coughs.

"I think so; Lucien just sent riders off to Ravenscombe to call out the villagers, we need all the help we can get!"

"What about the other door, from the ballroom to the main wing?  Did anyone close it?"

"Bloody hell —"

"'Sdeath, we've got to shut it so the fire doesn't spread down the corridor to the main part of the castle!"  He shouted to the bucket brigade, standing outside now but still feverishly hurling water at the door, around whose edges sinister tongues of flame were already licking.  "Stop!"  He ran forward and grabbing arms and shoulders, manhandled people away from the door.  "The main building!" he yelled, trying to be heard over the shouting, frightened guests.  "
The main building!
"

They looked at him uncomprehendingly; then, Charles yanked the last of them back just as a huge ball of smoke and flame exploded every window in the ballroom and hurled shards of glass and wood everywhere.  The force of the blast threw him against Gareth and both brothers went down, but Charles was instantly on his feet, hauling the bucket brigade to theirs, never stopping to consider that by pulling them away from the door, he had just saved their lives.  Calling them to him as he had once done his soldiers, he ran back around the burning building, his feet slipping on broken glass, never slowing as he tried desperately to reach the other door before the fire did.

He charged in through a servant's entrance and sprinted headlong back toward the ballroom.  Every step brought him closer to the fire roaring behind the door — it was shut, thank God,
thank God
— like a furnace in hell.  Behind him, the bucket brigade came running, some with sooty faces, one or two men cut and bleeding.

"Soak the door, and then the hallway!" Charles shouted.  "Start a line from here to the moat. 
Move!
"

Gareth was right behind him.  Frantically, they both grabbed buckets, each load of water hissing up in steam as it hit the smoldering door, working against time, working against fate, and then Lucien was there, shouting to be heard over the terrible roar of the fire on the other side of the door.

"Gareth!"

"What?  Lucien,
get outside
!"

"
Gareth!
"  Pointedly ignoring Charles, Lucien yanked Gareth out of the line.  "Listen to me!  The king is still upstairs with Andrew, do you hear me? 
The King and Andrew are still upstairs!
"

~~~~

The king, his three attendants, and Andrew had all been up on the roof, examining Andrew's Contraption, when the fire broke out.  They never heard people screaming two floors below.  Never knew what was happening down in the ballroom.  By the time they did know, it was too late.

"I say, Andrew, I
am
looking forward to seeing your invention in action!" the king was saying as he watched Andrew crank back the giant catapult and position the flying contraption for its impending display.  "The medieval catapult idea is most ingenious, what?  So let me make sure I understand this.  All you have to do is strap yourself into the harness, release that lever, and bang, you're off, eh?"

"Well, yes . . . something like that, Your Majesty.  Perhaps you'll come back down to my laboratory, where I can show you the drawings so you may see exactly how it works?"

The little group headed back toward the stairway that led down to Andrew's laboratory just above the ballroom.

The king sniffed and drew out his handkerchief.  "Speaking of medieval, I really must speak to your brother about updating his kitchens.  I fear his chimneys must not be ventilating properly.  What a damned lot of smoke is in the air tonight, what?"

They went down the stairs, opened the door to Andrew's laboratory, and froze.

The room was hot.  Unnaturally, terrifyingly, unbearably hot.  And as Andrew, horrified, looked around, he heard an angry, rushing roar, faint shouts from people outside, and saw that all around the room, ominous black fingers of soot were creeping up the walls.

"Dear God —"

At that moment, a giant explosion rocked the building itself, throwing them all to their knees and sending row upon row of volatile chemicals and solutions crashing to the floor.  Flames burst forth and Andrew knew only one thing:

He had to get the king out.

Now.

He grabbed the old wool coat he often wore when it was chilly up here, threw it over the king's shoulders, and, apologizing for manhandling him, helped him to his feet.  The attendants assisting His Majesty on the other side, they all made their way toward the door.

"By God, Andrew, if this is your idea of a joke I am
not
amused!"

"I can assure you, Your Majesty, this is no joke.  The building's on fire and we must get you out!"

Already the room was clouded with smoke, and Andrew dared not think of what would happen when the gases from his burning chemicals mixed and began filling the air, dared not think what must be happening below, dared not think about his poor, poor flying machine on the roof just above, dared not think of anything beyond getting the king out of here, down the stairs, and to safety.

He reached the door.  Found it shut and barred.  Damn!  The explosion must have sent the bar he used to keep Lucien out when he was working, crashing down.  His eyes stinging with smoke, unable to see what he was doing, he tried to remove it but it was stuck fast in its slots.  He threw his weight beneath it and shoved with all his might.

Horrible, noxious fumes came roiling up from behind him.

We're going to die,
Andrew thought — and at that moment, the bar gave beneath his frantic shoves, the door crashed inward, and a figure came stumbling in through the smoke.

It was Charles.

"You can't get out that way!" his older brother shouted.  "The stairway's on fire!"

Charles, who'd instinctively charged up the stairway before Gareth could even react to Lucien's words, now stared past Andrew.  Somewhere off in the billowing, poisonous smoke behind him, bottles were exploding, great timbers were beginning to crash down, part of the floor already starting to give way.  Charles sank to his knees, crawling through the smoke as he fought to reach the stricken king.

"Your Majesty!  I beg you to forgive me for suggesting such a thing, but please, get down, get down on your knees and crawl!  The air is cleaner down here, cooler, and you'll be able to breathe better!  Now follow me!  We've got to get you out of here!"

With an arm around the king to support him, the three attendants coughing and gasping just ahead and beside him, Charles, on his hands and knees, fought his way back to the door.  Great torrents of dense black smoke were rushing back up the stairway from which he'd just come but if they were lucky, they might be able to get back through before the fire entirely blocked off their escape.

He could hear Lucien downstairs, somewhere beyond the smoke, shouting for him.

"Charles!  This way!"

"God help me, I can't see, I can't breathe," the king cried, "I can't breathe!"

Charles, with the attendant's help, managed to get the king down the first step, then the next.  The fire, growing hotter by the second, baked him through his hot clothes, seared his nose, sinuses, trachea and lungs with every agonizing breath.  He half fell, half stumbled down each step, trying, as best he could, to shield the king from falling debris as he went.  A chunk of burning wood glanced off the back of his neck, branding his skin like a hot poker; beneath his gloved hands, the stone was blistering hot.  And there, finally, just visible through the smoke, he could just see Lucien and Gareth, charging up to meet him.

"Well done, Charles, well done!" said Lucien, leading the coughing, gasping king out of the stairwell and to safety, the heavy woolen coat slipping from the royal shoulders.  Charles, coughing violently and unable to see beyond the burning agony in his eyes, felt Gareth grab him and half-carry, half-steer him out of the stairwell and into the smoky but untouched corridor, still under siege by a rapidly growing bucket brigade.

Lucien, who had relinquished the care of the king into his gathering entourage, turned back toward the stairway, frowning.

"Charles, where is Andrew?"

"Right behind me —" he was seized by a racking spell of coughing and sank to his knees.  "He . . . came down the stairway . . . right behind me."

"No, Charles.  He did not."

Charles dragged open burning, watering eyes, shook his head to clear it, and stared at Lucien.  His brother's face had gone very still.  Very pale.  And then Charles saw something in that black stare that he'd never thought to see, something that was reflected in his own suddenly cold bones.

Fear.

"I'm going back in after him," Gareth vowed, spinning on his heel.

Lucien's hand shot out and seized Gareth's shoulder.  "No.  You stay here with your brother. 
I'm
going back in."

Gareth's eyes were wild.  "'Sdeath, Lucien, the whole stairway's on fire, you'll be killed!" he cried, struggling to tear free.

"I will not leave Andrew in there, and I will not allow you to risk your life in an attempt to save him.  You have a wife and family to think of, Gareth.  I do not.  Now do as you're told, damn it!"

He shoved Gareth away from him, sending him sprawling to the floor.  As Gareth stared up at him in hurt surprise, the duke of Blackheath turned his back on both brothers and strode quickly toward the closed door, determined to meet his own death, if need be, with all the courage and dignity that had marked generations of ancestors before him.

"Lucien," Charles gasped, trying to stagger to his feet.  "Wait. 
Wait
!"

But Lucien did not wait.

Charles was on his feet.  Gareth was right beside him.  The two younger brothers exchanged glances; then, as one, they ran toward Lucien, who never turned around, who ignored them as he did the heat and choking black smoke that came surging down out of the stairwell as he opened the door.

Charles seized the duke's elbow, yanked backwards with all his strength, and hurled him violently into Gareth's waiting arms.  The force with which he threw Lucien tumbled both his brothers to the floor.

"Hold him there, Gareth, and don't let him up," Charles ordered, his eyes blazing into Lucien's as he donned the wool coat that had been on the king's shoulders, seized a pail of water from one of the bucket brigade, and raising it high, poured it over himself.  "And if he tries to follow me, hit him. 
Hard.
  Do you understand me?"

Gareth's eyes gleamed.  "I understand perfectly —
captain
."  And then, restraining Lucien with one arm locked around his neck, he watched Charles walk away, his pride and admiration in his brother renewed.

But Charles never saw it.  The dripping coat pulled up and over his head, he was already through the door and heading back up through the smoke.

~~~~

It was like stepping into a furnace.

Smoke clogged the stairwell and banked down and around him.  Already, the ancient panelled wood of the stairway was charring, and by the time Charles got halfway up the stairs, it was on fire.

"Andrew! 
Andrew!
"

No answer.

He held the wet coat over his head, trying to give himself a pocket of air to breathe, trying to keep the blinding, stinging, smoke from his eyes.  Growing dizzy, unable to see, he reached out to get his bearings.  Just as quickly he jerked his hand back, cursing with the pain.  "Andrew!  By God, where are you?"

He charged up the rest of the stairs.  Behind him, flames were already licking, blocking the way out, chasing him up the stairway.  The heat intensified, sucking the water from his coat, baking him inside of it.  His earlobes must surely be on fire.  His eyebrows were shrinking up into tiny singed knots. 
By God, Andrew, where the devil are you?
  Had his brother bolted back into the laboratory and barred the door?  Had he fled to the roof, desperate to save his precious flying machine?  Had he jumped out a window to dubious safety?

Please, God, let me get to him in time!

He ripped open the door to the laboratory, staggered inside, and slammed it shut behind him, trying to buy just a few more seconds, knowing that way of escape was now permanently blocked.

"Andrew!"

Nothing but the savage roar of the fire, all around him.

"An-
dreeeeeew
!"

It was like being blind all over again, only a hundred, thousand, million times worse.  Coughing, wheezing, unable to see through the smoke, Charles fell to his hands and knees and began feeling along the floor, so hot now that it was roasting his palms through his gloves.  Horrible, toxic chemical fumes mixed with smoke and pushed into his face, up his nose, trying to drive him back, trying to drive him toward unconsciousness and death.  He shoved a fold of the damp coat against his face, strained the air through it, and continued searching the floor, his palms blistering, his knees screaming with the agony.  And there!  His desperate hand found a leather shoe; a silk-clad calf.  A still arm.

"Andrew!"

Whether dead or merely unconscious, his brother didn't answer him.  Cursing, Charles grasped Andrew around the shoulders and began dragging him across the floor toward where the windows must surely be.

Slow, painful progress.  The terrible roar of the fire, the crash of falling timbers beyond the door, sections of the floor going up in colored flames, weird, horrible, chemical smells.  Chunks of burning plaster rained down from above, and his nostrils flared with the acrid stench of singed hair, smoldering clothes.  His lungs contracted with the heat, refused to expand, and his eyes, his nose, his throat began to close up.

We're not going to make it.

He couldn't breathe.  He couldn't see. 
Keep crawling!
  Dizziness made him reel. 
Keep crawling, damn you!
  His chin struck the floor as he fell, his lower teeth clipping the tip of his tongue.  Blood filled his mouth.  He dragged his head up, dragged himself up, kept going,
keep going!
, one elbow locked around Andrew's chest as he pulled himself along with one hand and burning knees, unable to hear even his own cries of pain, of desperation. 
It's no use.
  A burning timber crashed down ten feet from his face, brilliant orange through the black smoke.  He shoved his face into his sleeve, trying to draw breath. 
Keep going!
  But there was nowhere to go, no way out, and when he fell a second time, then a third time, he knew he was fighting a battle he could never win.