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“Aye.” Rhys turned. The fire in the distance still burned brightly, and a sudden dread filled him. “As do I.”

Chapter 15

The smoke was so thick Catrin could taste it. Above her head, the rafters were on fire. Sparks shot from the popping wood, raining down on the pews below. Most of the chapel was shrouded in darkness, but the orange glow overhead created grotesque shadows that moved in time with the flames.

Dropping to her hands and knees, she crawled forward along the chapel’s central aisle. The flagstones were hot, and she tugged at her sleeves, covering a portion of her hands with the thin fabric. Up ahead, men’s voices echoed off the stone walls, their origin impossible to ascertain in the swirling smoke. Then there were more footsteps and a crash as something fell away from the wall.

Catrin coughed, trying to breathe through the damp fabric around her face. A cry for help sounded to her right, followed by an answering shout from somewhere behind her. She veered off the central aisle, following one of the pews until she reached the narrow walkway along the south wall. Blinking back the tears forming in her stinging eyes, she peered into the darkness. Left or right? Which way should she go?

“Over here!”

The voice was faint, so she knew she was close. Turning left, she continued crawling until suddenly her fingers touched coarse fabric, a foot, and she felt movement to her right.

“Brother Robert?” Her voice was hoarse.

“Yes. Yes, ’tis I.”

Catrin reached out, and a worn hand clasped hers.

“I thank God you are come,” he whispered brokenly. “Brother John has fallen and I . . . I cannot lift him. My leg . . . what little strength I had is gone.”

“Here!” Catrin croaked. Her voice was not much louder than Brother Robert’s, but she tried again. “I have found them. Come quickly.”

Over the creaking and shifting of timber, she heard the shuffle of feet and a thud. At her back, vibration skittered along the pew, and suddenly, a shadow appeared beside her.

A man’s rasping voice called out. “They are at the south wall.” He coughed badly. “The smoke . . .” he managed. “’Tis worsening. We must all leave before the roof collapses.”

“Take Brother John,” Catrin rasped. “If Brother Robert can crawl, I can guide him out.”

Brother Robert shifted slightly. “I will crawl.”

A fearsome crack rent the air, and all at once, the rafters above the sanctuary gave way. Slate tiles crashed onto the flagstone floor, and sparks flew in a whirling pyre. A burning timber fell across the altar, and the altar cloth ignited. Catrin cowered against the pew. A cloud of dust hung in the air, thickening the already opaque blackness.

“Go!” the man said. He reached past her, grasping a fistful of Brother John’s robe and pulling him closer. “I will bring Brother John.”

“Take hold of my gown,” Catrin said, guiding Brother Robert’s hand to the hem at her feet. She felt the fabric tighten under his grip, and she started crawling back the way she had come.

Slowly, she inched her way along the south wall. The heat coming from the sanctuary was intensifying, and although Brother Robert’s breathing was becoming more and more labored, his grasp on her gown continued. Moving ever closer to the back of the chapel, Catrin kept her head low, using her fingers to feel for the ends of the benches, praying that there would not be too many more before they reached the door.

Every once in a while, she heard a bang or a distant voice, but beyond the eerie glow of the ever-encroaching fire, nothing was visible. She could only hope that the man who had found them had mustered the strength to carry or drag Brother John to safety. She was beginning to doubt her own ability to get out when she was assailed by a racking cough. Dropping to the floor, she tried desperately to catch her breath.

“Over here! I see them!”

Suddenly, hands were reaching out, dragging her forward, and Brother Robert’s grip came loose.

“No!” She mouthed the words, but no sound came out. “Brother Robert. Do not leave Brother Robert.”

As if in answer to her silent plea, a voice called out. “I have the friar.”

Relief left her limp, and she allowed herself to be carried the remaining few feet to the door.

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Rhys leaped from the wagon, grateful that he’d been able to ride the last portion of the road to the friary with the cobbler, who was returning after delivering the first of the injured to town. Although the report the man had given him was grim, nothing could have prepared Rhys for the sight that met him when they rounded the final bend. The refectory was gutted. A third of the chapel roof had caved into the chapel itself, and through the windows and missing rafters, flames from within the building hungrily licked the outer walls.

People hovered in the half-light where the orange glow emanating from the friary met the darkness of the woodland. The bulky shapes of wagons and barrels littered the area, and three or four people continued to run the short distance between the well and the broken building, making every possible attempt to douse the flames. A spirit of devastation hung over the scene as heavy as the smoke itself.

The largest cluster of people stood by the chapel’s entrance, and as Rhys watched, a shout rang out.