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“They are found!”

A new sense of urgency surged through the group, and suddenly, a man staggered through the doorway, his silhouette distorted by the shape of a second body carried on his back. The man dropped to his knees, and Rhys crossed the distance between them at a run. Men and women stretched out their hands to lift the rescued friar while others huddled around the exhausted rescuer.

“What happened?” Rhys came to a stop beside the fallen men.

A stranger at his side shook his head in wonder. “A miracle,” he said. “Two of the friars were trapped inside. A couple men went in after them, but the roof collapsed right after, and we all thought they were surely killed.”

“What of the others? Did they escape?”

The stranger shrugged. “The second rescuer came out a bit ago. Barely breathing, he was. I cannot tell what . . .”

More activity at the entrance interrupted him. Rhys looked up to see two men exiting the chapel, their arms supporting another man dressed in brown robes.

Rhys stepped closer. “Brother Robert!”

At the sound of his name, the friar raised his head. “Lady—” he gasped, barely able to catch his breath. The men who bore him gently lowered him to the ground. “Lady . . .” He tried again, but this time, his eyes were closed.

Rhys looked to the rescuer at his right. “What is he trying to say?”

The man coughed and took a shuddering breath. “It was a woman who brought him out. Someone spotted her yellow gown up against the back pew, and a few of us went in to haul them the last few feet to the door.”

Rhys swiveled around just as one more man exited the chapel, his head low, a small yellow-gowned body in his arms. Several people rushed forward to offer assistance, but her rescuer did not stop.

“Move back,” he cried. “The last of the rafters are shifting.”

From the arched window above the door came the jarring sound of shattering glass. The crowd scattered, fleeing toward the trees. With an almighty groan, the remaining portion of the chapel roof caved and tumbled downward. Mortar weakened by the intense heat finally gave way, and the south wall collapsed, sending stones toppling into the adjacent cemetery. From all around, screams and cries of despair filled the air. Rhys staggered back. A cloud of dust and sparks plumed skyward, and a couple of feet to his left someone stumbled.

“Take her.” The man who had voiced the warning wheezed deeply. “I cannot . . .”

Rhys reached for the woman as the man’s legs buckled. “Over here!” he yelled.

Someone moved out of the shadows to help the gasping rescuer back onto his feet. Another joined him.

“Get him to safety,” Rhys said. “I shall follow behind.”

Carefully securing his hold on the woman, he glanced down. Darkness veiled her features, but her hair spilled over his arm, and he felt the vibration in her chest with every ragged breath she took. The men ahead of him had already disappeared into the gloom, so Rhys crossed the grass to the old oak tree near the graveyard and lowered her gently to the ground.

“Brother Robert.” Her voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

“It is well,” he said. “He is safe.”

He went to pull his arm out from under her, but she took a shuddering breath, then grasped his sleeve as a fit of coughing seized her. He waited helplessly for the coughing to subside.

“Perhaps if you were to sit up, it would help your breathing?”

He felt her give a slight nod, and he slowly raised her shoulders.

“Steady now,” he said, waiting for her to find her balance before moving back.

Her grip upon his sleeve tightened. “Rhys?”

Rhys froze. He had yet to see her features, and her torn, burned clothing was unrecognizable, but with that one word, he knew her.

______________________________

Catrin could not catch enough air. Like a floundering fish, she gasped, fighting through the pain in her chest and throat to simply breathe. She clawed at the arm that held her as panic set in.

“Slowly, Lady Catrin.” His grip around her shoulders tightened, but the man’s voice was calm. “One breath at a time.”