"Molly, listen. It sounds like people are shouting."
She cocked her head to the side, and then swung her legs over the side of the bed. "I hear it too," she said, padding across the room to the window. As soon as she opened the shutters, the noise came clearly to them both. She leaned out recklessly, heedless of her nudity, and then whirled back toward Justin. "Jesus God, fire!"
~*~
People were stumbling out of their houses into the street, some of them dressing as they ran. A few carried buckets. All looked alarmed, for the fear of fire was a primal one for city dwellers. None needed to ask for directions; they had only to follow the spiraling smoke.
As soon as she realized the fire was burning on the waterfront, Molly broke into a run, with Justin right at her heels. When she lost a shoe, she kicked the other one off rather than stop to retrieve it. To their right was the tavern, shuttered and silent. By now she was panting, but she did not slow down, for ahead of them the sky was an unearthly shade of orange.
"No, Jesu, no!" Molly's scream was swallowed up by the roar the fire. Cinders and ashes were raining down upon the street, and the scene was bathed in eerie light, as if night had become day. People were milling about, shouting and gesturing, but not much was being done to fight the fire. One look and Justin understood why. The warehouse was already engulfed in flames.
"Bennet!" Molly lunged forward, only to be stopped by a burly man with a smoke-blackened face. She fought him until Justin caught her, grabbing her wrists and dragging her back.
"Molly, it is too late!"
"No!" She sobbed and scratched his hands, coughing as the wind blew smoke into their faces. It was so hot that breathing had become painful. More embers were being sucked up into the sky, and heads followed their drifting path, watching in horror as they were wafted toward other homes. Molly still resisted as Justin sought to get her farther away from the flames. There was a rumble and the roof collapsed in a shower of sparks and cinders.
"No!" Molly gave an anguished cry, but she no longer struggled against Justin's restraining hold. "Bennet!"
Chapter 9
August 1193
Chester, England
The wind had carried embers onto the roof of A dockside alehouse, and people hastily formed a bucket brigade, taking water directly from the river. The warehouse had been set apart from the other buildings, deliberately buffered by open space. Piers's neighbors had thought it a shameful waste of good land and speculated that he wanted privacy for his illegal dealings. They benefited now from the isolation of the warehouse, and although people across the street were dragging what belongings they could from their houses, it was soon apparent that Chester would be spared a conflagration.
The city sheriff, Will Gamberell, arrived on the scene and took charge, sending his men into the throng of spectators to find witnesses. By now the crowd was a large one, and it was obvious from their murmurings that many of them had known Bennet. Several women began to weep, and Justin assumed they were his friend's bedmates. He had never felt like this — utterly numb, aware of no pain or grief, only an overwhelming sense of unreality. He watched the sheriff, the wailing women, Bennet's blazing tomb, and it was as if he were unable to accept the evidence of his own eyes and ears. He kept waiting to wake up.
Molly was sitting on an overturned wheelbarrow, her eyes never moving from the hellfire the warehouse had become. She did not speak, and when Justin sought to coax her into leaving, she did not seem to hear him. Her flame-lit face was expressionless, empty of emotion. Although he had his hand on her shoulder, it seemed Justin that she had gone away, gone where none could follow.
After a while, the sheriff walked over. His eyes flicked to Justin, speculative and suspicious before shifting to Molly. "This is likely a waste of breath, but if you know anything about this, now is the time to tell me. Who hated your brother enough to want him dead?" She did not react, and he said impatiently, "Do you understand what I just said? This fire did not happen by mischance, a candle knocked over. It was deliberately set."
Justin drew a breath sharp as a blade. "You are sure of that?"
"The first men to discover the fire said it was burning at both doors, front and rear, and it looked like kindling had been used to get it going. There was a trail of straw across the yard, that wheelbarrow had been left behind, and the air reeked of tallow. Now mayhap this was meant as a warning for Piers Fitz Turold. But it may well be that your brother was the quarry in this hunt. It was no secret that he slept there at night."
Molly gazed at him impassively, saying nothing, and the sheriff turned away with a muttered oath, sounding more vexed than surprised by her lack of cooperation. A stir at the end of the street heralded the arrival of the Earl of Chester and Lord Fitz Alan and their men. Chester nodded in acknowledgment to Justin as their eyes met, and he then beckoned to the sheriff. After a brief inter rogation, he withdrew, apparently satisfied that the city was not in danger. Thomas de Caldecott was one of his escorts. He, too, noticed Justin, stopped abruptly, and then mustered a polite wave before hastening after his lord. Fitz Alan lingered at the scene, letting loose a barrage of brusque questions that soon had the Chester sheriff bristling. To the east, the dawning sun struggled to break through the clouds of grey smoke. Once the alehouse fire was safely doused, a number of its rescuers pushed their way inside to celebrate their success. The crowd was dwindling rapidly.
Justin slid his arm around Molly's waist and got her onto her feet. "Come on, Molly-cat," he said gently. "Let's go home."
She looked at him blankly. "No one has called me that for so long…" Tears welled in her eyes, began to spill down her cheeks, and Justin drew her close. The shoulder of his tunic was soon wet and he could feel her body trembling, but she made no sound, and he'd never seen anything as heartrending as this mute, dazed grieving, silent and wholly without hope.
~*~
People soon started turning up at Molly's cottage: neighbors carrying kettles of soup, fresh-baked bread, and clay pitchers of ale, Bennet's friends and alehouse customers, a few tearful young women with heavily powdered faces and swollen eyes. The parish priest stopped by, too. He was very young and clearly had little experience yet in consoling the bereaved, his fumbling for words of comfort painful to watch.
To them all, Molly offered courtesy, but little else. She spoke rarely, nodded occasionally, but all the while her eyes were turning inward, her dark, dilated pupils reflecting no light at all, hers the unfocused, vacant stare of the newly blinded. Justin stayed by her side, ignoring the curious glances of the mourners, holding Molly's hand tightly, as if the clasp of flesh and blood and bone could somehow serve as a lifeline for them both.
People did not tarry, soon found excuses to slip away, and at last they had all gone but Berta, the alehouse serving maid. As Berta puttered about the cottage, wiping away tears with her sleeve, Molly looked up at Justin, and for the first time in hours, he felt that she actually saw him. "When they find his body," she whispered, "will you…"
"I'll take care of it, all of it," he said huskily and refused to let himself think about what he'd just promised to do,
"I want…"
"What, Molly? Tell me."
Tears were brimming in her eyes again. "I want," she said in a small voice, "to get drunk, so drunk that I never have to sober up…"
So did Justin. He craved oblivion at that moment as he'd never craved anything in his life. He knew Molly had never fancied the taste of ale, but it was all they had and he was pouring out a cupful for her as Berta finally ceased her aimless meandering and went over to answer another knock at the door. A moment later, she let out such a bloodcurdling scream that Justin spilled hail of the ale into the floor rushes,