It was then that Reuben heard the first screams.
People did stupid things when they were drunk. They laughed louder than normal, shouted, and cried. Screams or squealing weren’t unthinkable, but this carried a note of panic. Reuben and Grisham glanced toward the cries, which was in the direction of the castle, but neither gave it much thought. Then a flood of remaining partygoers rushed out the main doors into the courtyard. More yelling and some shoving. An elderly man was pushed to the ground and took his wife with him. He shouted in complaint, but few noticed him; everyone’s eyes were trained on the castle. This was strange but not alarming. It wasn’t until the bell began ringing that Reuben knew something was wrong.
He looked across at Grisham and saw the same concern reflected back.
A moment later they heard someone say the word fire.
By then even the servants were filing out and several of the guards.
“What’s going on?” Grisham shouted as Vince made his way through those gathered in the courtyard to the castle gate.
“There’s a”—he was having a coughing fit—“a fire in the castle. All that straw—”
“Is everyone out?” Reuben asked. “Did the princess escape?” He looked around desperately, but it was impossible to find anyone in the swirling crowd.
Vince was shaking his head as he coughed again. “We can’t get up the stairs.”
Up the stairs…
The queen retired early, too, along with the princess.
The crowd below squealed as a loud crash sent flames out one high window.
“Who’s getting them out?” Reuben asked.
“No one,” Vince replied. “The chancellor ordered everyone to the courtyard. He’s organizing a bucket brigade. All that straw and hay—the place is an inferno.”
“Reuben!” he heard Grisham shout as he ran for the castle. “Damn it! You can’t leave your post!”
Reuben dodged the crowd and sprinted up the front steps. The open doors of the castle seethed a thick black smoke. He took a deep breath and ran in. The last few servants, holding sleeves and skirts to their faces, rushed past him on their way out. Everything was smoky, hard to see, but he saw no flames and felt no heat.
Reuben found the stairs and started up when he met his father coming down.
“Reuben! What are you doing? Why are you off your post? I told you to stay out of the castle.”
“The fire… they said the royal family was trapped and I—”
“Your duty is to stand at the front gate! You’re a soldier now, not a child. You’ll be whipped for desertion—likely discharged. You could even be executed. And don’t expect me to help you. You’re a man now. You’ll accept responsibility for your actions. Now get out of here.”
“But the princess…”
“The princess! You left your post for—” He paused, too furious to finish. “You get back to the front gate right now, boy! That’s an order!”
“But what’s being done to—”
“Nothing. No one can get up there. The royal family is going to die.”
Die?
Reuben couldn’t believe it. He stood dazed, as if his father had hit him again, only this hurt worse and frightened him more.
“No,” Reuben muttered at first. He looked up the steps. He saw no fire, not even much smoke. Something snapped. “No!” he shouted, and tried to get past his father.
Richard shoved him back. “I gave you an order!”
Reuben charged the steps again, only this time he ducked when his father tried to stop him and he ran by.
“Don’t go up there!”
Reuben cleared the steps three at a time. Just as with the squires, years of running errands while Richard Hilfred had stood behind chairs gave him the advantage. When he reached the door to the royal residence, his father was several steps below. He yanked on the big iron rings, but it didn’t open… resistance. It took a moment before noticing the chain.
Why would the doors be chained shut… from the outside?
Reuben was still trying to process that when his father caught up and shoved him across the corridor. “You stupid fool! You just couldn’t listen to your father, could you. I had you posted to the gate to keep you out of this, but you’re as bent on killing yourself as your mother was. That’s fine. I’m done with you. I did my job. You’re a man now—not my responsibility anymore.”
“You… you did this?” Reuben looked back and forth between the door and his father. “You chained the doors. You sealed them in!” His eyes went wide as the realization dawned. “You set the fire! But it’s your job to protect them… Why in Maribor’s name would you do this?”
“I told you not to get attached to them. They’re evil. You can sacrifice your life to protect them, but if you ask one small favor in return, they can’t be bothered. I threw myself in front of swords for him. All the king needed to do was tell the chamberlain that your mother could stay on as a maid. Or he could have let me marry her and we could have lived nearby in any abandoned shack in the city. But no—Amrath couldn’t make exceptions. If he did it for me, he’d have to do it for others. So I had to face your mother and tell her… tell her I had failed. The king killed her, but I had to face her.”
His father sneered at him. “You don’t understand. How could you? You had everything handed to you—by me! I started out as the son of a weapon’s merchant—a merchant! I taught myself to fight. I got myself a position in this castle. I worked my way up to sergeant. You don’t need to understand, boy. And this isn’t the time for it. A wise man taught me that we don’t have to live under their heels. I could fix things so that your mother didn’t die in vain. She’s the spark that lit this fire, a blaze that will burn away the kingdom and usher in a new era… one without kings. And we’ll be part of that—an important part. I didn’t enjoy the things I’ve done tonight, but justice has been served!”
“Things? What else did you do?” Reuben focused on the bloodstained sleeve and his mind flashed to the image of his father leading Rose out through the gate. “What did you do with Rose?”
“It was harder than I thought. Those big eyes, and her having the same name as your mother and all.”
“What did you do to Rose?”
“I did what I had to. And so will you. A lot of people are going to die tonight.” He gestured at the door. “No one will be the wiser, and a whole new world will follow. You keep your mouth shut and I’ll be in a position to take care of you, of us. Now get back to your post and never tell anyone that you even came up here.”
Somehow Reuben’s sword got out of its scabbard and into his hand. “Get away from that door.”
The castle was glowing when Hadrian approached. The whole place flickered like a jack-o’-lantern with too many candles inside. A crowd had formed around the outer walls, peering up across the moat as flames spit sparks out windows that fell in red streaks, sizzling in the water. The big elm growing near the north side of the keep had caught fire about midway up, and as Hadrian watched, one of the branches broke free and crashed through an upper-story window.
He pulled his cloak tight, covering the dark bloodstains as he entered the crowd of spectators. Lots of people were on hand with more coming. Folks awakened by the light and the noise, gathered in their nightclothes to stare up at the castle, their sleepy faces illuminated by the wash of firelight.
He worked his way toward the front gate only to discover the line of carriages was gone, and there was no sign of Royce. The rose-marked coach had vanished with the rest and he had no idea where. Royce never told him the plan, but Hadrian imagined it included taking Exeter somewhere secluded, somewhere no one would think to look. But what if Exeter hadn’t taken the bait or if Albert hadn’t been able to find him at the party? Did Royce set the fire? Did he burn down an entire castle just to smoke out one man? Was he capable of that?
If a bug bites you, you don’t bite it back, his friend was fond of saying. You crush the life out of the thing so it never bot
hers you again. And if you do that to an insect that can’t cause any serious harm, why would you do any less to an enemy who will almost certainly come back and kill you if you don’t?
The worst part about Royce and his arguments was that all too often Hadrian couldn’t think of an answer to such riddles, even though he knew there should be one.
With nothing to do, and feeling both physically tired and emotionally drained, Hadrian joined the rest of the crowd watching the spectacle. It had been a few years since he had seen a castle burn. This brought his total to five, but this was the first time he wasn’t at least partly responsible. He wondered how many had died—and if Albert was one of them.
He hoped there was an alehouse still open in the city. He would need to drink in order to sleep. Hadrian stood there, smelling the odor of smoke. Funny how it brought feelings of warmth and safety, like a campfire or cozy hearth—but the only thing cooking tonight were men.
“Well, look at you,” Richard Hilfred said, a little smile growing on his lips as he saw the sword in Reuben’s hand. “That’s good. About time you stood up to me. I was wondering how long it’d take, but this isn’t the time or the place. This is serious. Now get back to your post.”
Reuben, who had never before raised his voice to his father, raised his sword. “I said get away.”
His father must have seen something new in his son’s eyes because he drew his own weapon.
Reuben swung.
He didn’t want to kill his father; he just wanted him away from the door.
Richard blocked.
Reuben swung again and again. His father slapped the attacks aside.
“You’ve learned somewhere. That’s good,” his father said casually. No fear, no concern. Then, as if tiring of a game, he struck Reuben’s blade hard near the hilt. The sudden vibration snapped the sword from Reuben’s grip. The pretty blade that the prince had given him clattered on the stone, and his father kicked it away.
“Hilfred!” They both turned to see the chancellor running to the top of the stairs, his sword in hand. Percy Braga glanced at the door, then at father and son.
“He’s sealed the royal family in!” Reuben declared. “My father is a traitor.”
“I see that,” Braga said, his sight taking in Richard’s drawn sword and the one on the ground.
The chancellor advanced on both of them.
“Lord Braga, I—” Richard began.
“Run—get help!” Braga shouted at Reuben, and swung his blade at Richard.
Reuben’s father barely had time to get his own up to save himself.
Reuben wasted no time leaping his way down, throwing himself to the bottom. He scrambled to his feet and raced for the front door. Bursting out into the courtyard, he shouted, “The royal family has been locked inside! The chancellor needs help! At the top of the steps to the residence.”
The crowd outside remained huddled against the cold, staring back at the upper windows of the castle that belched smoke.
No one moved.
“The chancellor needs help!” he yelled again.
Having had time to sink in, his words caused the closest guards, Vince and Grisham, to run forward. The rest continued to stare. Reuben gave up and ran to the woodshed. Inside he found the axe, sunk in a piece of wood, where he had left it the day before. With a slap and yank, he pulled it free.
By the time he returned to the front door of the castle, Chancellor Braga, Grisham, and Vince were coming out, coughing and reeling. “No one else go in!” Braga ordered. “The fire—” He coughed. “The fire has spread.”
“The boy said it was regicide,” someone from the crowd shouted.
The chancellor nodded. “Sergeant Hilfred confessed that on orders of Lord Exeter, he set the fire. Lord Exeter was working with Hilfred, of the castle guard, to kill the royal family in order to take the throne for himself. As chancellor, I judged him a traitor.” The chancellor raised his blood-soaked sword. “And executed him.”
Reuben stopped. My father—dead? He ought to feel something. He didn’t.
He looked up at the castle. Smoke was rising from the windows and billowing out the front door where he could just make out a flickering glow.
“What about the king? The queen?” Vince asked.
Braga shook his head. “The doors to the residence are chained and the fire has spread. The royal chambers are a death trap. All that straw in the castle is catching. It’s too late to save them. You can’t even get up the stairs. It’s suicide to try, and by now”—he hesitated—“by now, they’re all dead.”
All dead.
Rose, his father, his mother, and now—All dead.
NO!
Reuben ran again.
“Stop him!” Braga shouted as Reuben raced for the open door. Vince was there and tackled him to the ground. Reuben got to his feet, wrestling with Vince, who held him from behind. “There’s still time! We just need to—”
“No, my boy.” It was an old man, white-haired and frail, dressed in a cleric’s robe who spoke. He stood with the rest watching the castle burn. His voice so fatherly—not like his own father but how Reuben always imagined a father ought to be. “It is too late. You’ll just kill yourself trying.”
“Let me go!” Reuben shouted.
“Can’t do that, kid.” Vince held him fast.
“I’m not your kid! I’m not anyone’s kid anymore.” While Reuben had gotten better with a sword, he was still an expert with an axe, and just as when Horace had grabbed him, Reuben jabbed backward hard with the butt of the axe. He caught Vince in the stomach, driving the air from the man, who folded, letting go. Before anyone else could grab him, Reuben plunged into the dragon’s mouth that had once been the front door of the castle.
She can’t be dead!
This was less speculation and more wishful thinking on Reuben’s part. He wanted to believe it—he had to believe it. He’d lost everything else. He refused to lose her.
Fire was on the stairs. Piles of straw burned and ignited the long banners hanging from the high walls. They in turn led the flames to the wooden ceiling. He dodged around scattered piles and returned to the chained door. At the foot lay his father in a pool of blood. He looked pale, his face against the floor.
Reuben swung his axe, hitting the door. He struck it repeatedly but made little progress against the solid oak. He would never get through. He switched and struck instead at the chain—at the lock holding it. Sparks flew with each kiss of the axe, but iron didn’t split like logs.
It was hopeless.
He dropped the axe and kicked the door with his foot. He looked down at his father and screamed at him, “You bastard! How could you do it?”
Do it…
Reuben spun and looked at the chain.
“You did do it, didn’t you?”
He fell to his knees and searched his father. He knew where to look, and in the third pouch on his father’s belt he found the key. Reuben slipped it into the lock and prayed to Novron as it turned. The latch clicked and the shank released. Reuben tossed the lock, ripped the chain from the rings, and pulled the doors open.
Smoke plumed out and Reuben doubled over in a fit of coughing. Bending over was good. There was better air near the floor. He could actually see the smoke moving in layers, thicker at the ceiling. He lay flat, breathing low, and looked ahead. The tapestry in the hall burned with multicolored flames.
He sucked in a solid chestful of hot air and crawled forward.
He had never been in the royal residence, the solar, as it was called. He had no idea which door led where. It hardly mattered, as he was nearly blind due to the smoke. He found the first door and shoved it open. Inside was a clean pocket of air. It was the king’s private chapel. Standing, he took another breath and moved on. The next door he threw open was a bedroom.
He could see clearly because not only was there little smoke but also outside the window a tree was burning and light flooded the room. A dresser, a wardrobe, a gown carefully
draped across a cushioned love seat, and on the bed, a figure wadded in a twisted pile of blankets and quilts. Arista’s auburn hair spilled across the pillows. He shook her awake as he began to pull her from the bed.
She jerked away. “Stop it!”
He tried to grab her again but she kicked and scratched as he tried to catch hold.
“Please, Your Highness, you must come with me.”
She blinked and coughed; then she saw the burning tree outside the window. An instant later, she screamed.
“The castle is burning. We have to get out of here,” he said.
Outside, a portion of the tree snapped free and crashed through the bedroom window, throwing sparks and glowing bits of wood across the floor, across the carpets.
She still fought, still screamed, swinging at him with her little fists, but Reuben ignored her. He pulled the blanket from the bed and threw it over the princess’s head. Then gathering her up in his arms, he ran from the room.
He barreled down the corridor that had become a tunnel of flame. The fire on the steps had lessened, having run out of fuel, but the wooden ceiling—the floor of the upper story—was ablaze, and the flames spread out across the entire breadth of the reception hall. He leapt to the main floor and charged out of the castle. He stumbled and fell before the mass of nobles, soldiers, and servants.
Hitting the ground and released from his grip, Princess Arista threw off the blanket and scrambled away. She looked back up at the castle and clarity finally reached her. “Mother!” she screamed. “Save my mother!”
Reuben looked around.
No one moved.
“Save her!” the princess screeched, her cheeks flushed and glistening as she knelt on the grass in her white linen nightgown.
Still no one moved.
“We can’t, Your Highness. It’s too late.” The bishop was there again with his gentle, comforting voice, and it was then that Reuben realized he preferred the harsh barks of his father. The bishop’s tone was tainted, poisoned. His willingness to concede defeat before the battle was over sickened him. Why is everyone in such a hurry to mourn those who might still live?
The Rose and the Thorn Page 24
