Page 17 of So Close To Heaven
The world felt cold.
And then a misting rain began to fall.
“Casualties?” Mathar inquired.
Alaric shook his head, peripherally aware of Ivy clasping his hand over her waist now. “Nae yet. The lads are searching.”
“Then where are the sisters?”
Alaric’s gaze swept the scorched yard again. “Gone before the fire, if they had any sense. Or... taken.”
Mathar spat into the mud. “Burning nuns now, are they?”
“They’ve burned worse,” Alaric said flatly. “Churches. Crofts. Children.”
Mathar gave a grim nod. “Aye. Nae longer content to fight men with swords, so they make war on the blessed and meek.”
A silence followed, broken only by the soft hiss of rain striking charred stone.
“They dinna go quiet,” Mathar said at length. “Mistress Barbara would nae have.”
No, she wouldn’t have, Alaric silently agreed. His father’s aunt was as ferocious as he understood Longshanks to be.
They sat and stared for several moments in silence, until Ivy broke it, her voice faint.
“Were you expecting to drop me off here?”
“Aye.”
“And now?”
Alaric didn’t answer, save to curse quietly under his breath.
Chapter Five
Rain had doused the worst of it.
Though soot still clung in streaks to the stone walls, and the scent of charred wood lingered faintly in the damp air, what had remained of the fire itself had died. Smoke no longer rose from the ruined chapel, and what remained of the convent stood in quiet surrender beneath the fine mist that drifted through the trees.
The part of the convent where Ivy now stood was built entirely of thick, ancient stone, the walls so wide she could sit inside the windowsills. It had likely been the heart of the convent when it was first raised, fortress-like, weathered by time but still strong. The corridors were narrow, the ceilings low, the architecture Romanesque, with rounded arches and vaults of simple elegance. It was colder here, and darker, but solid, utterly untouched by fire.
Outside and elsewhere, however, the damage was obvious.
The central courtyard, once surrounded on all sides, was now open to the night sky. Charred beams lay scattered where wooden cloisters and storage sheds had stood. Roofs were gone. The walls of the refectory and dormitory had been constructed more hastily, clearly added over the years, timber mixed with wattle and daub, practical for expansion, but no match for flame—Ivy wouldn’t have known all that, but had overheard Alaric remarking as such to others who’d come inside as well.
It smelled like wet ash and cold stone. Beneath that, she caught faint traces of wax and wool and old lavender, like ghosts of lives once lived here, the kind of scent that clung to old trunks in forgotten attics. Her breath fogged faintly in the rain-dampened chill, and she pulled the thick wool blanket tighter around her shoulders. Moments ago, she’d brought up the hoodof her jacket to cover her head. Her body ached in strange places—her back, her hips, even her arms, likely from the hard day’s ride.
Nearby, Alaric was still speaking with the grizzled older man she’d noticed earlier—who seemed to be of some importance as he was often by the laird’s side—and several others in low tones. Ivy edged toward the corridor to listen.
“Was a proper compound once,” said the older man, scanning the damage. “Old heart still stands, by some miracle. Rest was additions. Too much timber. Nae enough foresight.”
“Too many years of peace,” Alaric murmured grimly. “Or fools who thought the English would respect the sanctity of nuns.”
The older man, bearing a nasty scar on his face, snorted. “They’ll burn anything. I doubt they stopped to ask whether God was watching.”
Alaric's gaze swept the surviving structure. “The old wing—she’ll hold. Stone’s too thick to breech without siege. We can post watches at the halls and entryways, and around the perimeter. It's defensible, for a time.”
“Aye,” said the older guy, nodding. “Might serve us a few days. Let the lads find their ease, patch their boots—the wounded can rest—and we’ll send scouts in every direction, dig out the truth of what happened here.”
