Chapter Eleven #2
It was late in the afternoon, the rain continuing to hound them inside a dense stretch of woodland where Bram first noticed signs of life where trees had been cut in large numbers.
It hadn’t been done recently, he noticed, mayhap years ago.
Great oak stumps, weathered silver with age, rose here and there among younger, greener growth.
He picked up a slim and overgrown trail and eventually encountered a broad patch of earth blackened as though fire had once scorched it so thoroughly that even time had failed to erase the mark.
The clearing itself formed an almost perfect circle, unnaturally regular amid the surrounding woods, and several low grassy mounds stood nearby where nothing heartier than bracken seemed able to grow.
He slowed the gelding as they walked around the blackened earth.
“What is it?” Anastasia asked, following his gaze.
“A collier worked here,” was his guess.
“What’s a collier?”
“A man who burns timber for charcoal.”
“That’s a... profession?”
“Aye. Virtually every blacksmith, armorer, ironworker, and many households depend on it. Ordinary firewood doesnae burn hot enough to smelt iron or produce quality steel. Charcoal does. Smiths pay well for it.”
“Oh, and they do this alone in the forest?”
“?Tis where the trees are,” he said simply.
“Colliers at Craig na Coille live for weeks or sometimes months deep in the woods. They cut hardwood—ash, oak, and beech—stack it into great dome-shaped piles, cover it with turf and earth, then burn it with very little oxygen. It needs to smolder and nae blaze. The process takes days, and the collier canna abandon it. If there’s too much air, the entire pile will become ash.
Too little air and the wood doesnae carbonize properly. ”
He urged the gelding forward again, following what remained of the old trail from the clearing. The blackened earth gave way to more cut stumps, then to a shallow rise, and beyond it Bram caught sight of something half hidden amongst hazel and alder.
The roof had sagged with age, much of it now covered in moss, and one wall leaned noticeably outward, but the little structure still stood.
Its walls were built of rough fieldstone no higher than a man’s chest, with timber rising above them to support what remained of the turf roof.
The doorway gaped darkly, lacking any door at all, while a small opening near the roofline served as a smoke vent.
Bram reined in.
Anastasia stared at the lonely hut, rain dripping steadily from the end of her nose. “Does... does someone live there? Is this where the collier stayed when he worked?”
“Like as nae.” Bram studied the place carefully, determining that it had been years since fresh smoke had stained the vent.
He saw no horse droppings or fresh footprints.
The sparse path leading toward the hut had all but disappeared beneath grass and weeds.
“At one time, the charcoal burner might have dwelled here,” he said at last, “but nae for some time, I’d wager. ”
Anastasia turned her head against his chest, looking back at him. “And we’re going to rest here for a while? Get out of this ever-living rain?”
A short, unexpected laugh burst from him, for all the wishfulness she’d allowed to color her query.
“Aye, this will serve.”
***
Anna settled herself upon the hard-packed earth floor of the little hut and leaned her head back against the wall, which proved to be nothing more than slender twigs and woven branches plastered long ago with mud that had since cracked away in countless places.
The shelter was little better than a glorified basket, she decided.
The growing wind seemed determined to find every gap in the walls, and judging by the number of cobwebs draped from the rafters and stretched between the timbers, she was certain they shared the place with a thriving population of spiders.
Bram had swept many of the webs aside upon entry, swiping his hand left and right, but there remained enough to keep her from leaning too comfortably against any wall.
Still, it was dry, and after hours spent riding through the relentless rain, dry felt positively luxurious.
Cold was unpleasant enough, but rain seemed to carry a chill that seeped beneath clothing, beneath skin, and settled somewhere deep inside a person’s bones.
Already she could feel the warmth of the little fire slowly driving that miserable sensation away, and though the hut smelled faintly of damp earth, old smoke, and something vaguely musty, she found herself absurdly grateful for it.
Bram had remarked, in that matter-of-fact way of his, that the rain offered one advantage at least. Smoke would cling low beneath the trees and disperse before anyone at a distance was likely to notice it.
Somewhere within the hut the charcoal burner had left behind a stack of kindling, dry enough beneath the sheltering roof to catch after what had seemed an eternity of Bram coaxing reluctant sparks into flame.
He had no lighter, no matches, nothing from the camping aisle at Walmart.
Just practiced hands, patience, and friction.
She knew in a million years she could never create fire from nothing the way he just had.
She’d removed her jacket the moment the fire had begun giving off real heat.
It no longer resembled the crisp ivory denim she’d packed only days ago for what had been intended as a perfectly ordinary vacation.
Mud stained both sleeves, one cuff had torn, and the whole thing hung heavy with rainwater as she draped it over a protruding branch that had worked itself loose from the woven wall.
She wished she possessed the sort of adventurous spirit that would allow her to remove her skirt as well and let it dry beside the fire, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to sit there in nothing but her underwear while Bram occupied the same tiny hut.
Her T-shirt was damp rather than soaked, a small mercy beneath the heavy jacket.
Her legs were chilled, goosebumps lingering despite the growing warmth from the fire.
Bram, apparently unconcerned by such modesty, had arrived at much the same conclusion regarding his own clothing.
Once the fire was established, he’d stripped off his linen shirt without ceremony and hung it beside her jacket, exposing the broad, powerfully built frame she’d already spent too much time with earlier.
Anna let her gaze drift sideways before she looked again.
The muscles beneath his skin shifted as he reached to adjust the kindling upon the fire, and she found herself studying the effortless strength in the movement, wondering how many years of hauling swords, shields, timber, and whatever else medieval men hauled had shaped a body like that.
Her gaze drifted to his chest when he turned slightly, and she regarded him for another moment with considerably less guilt about her own staring, not after the way his gaze had all but devoured her bare legs earlier.
Of the three Band-Aids she’d so carefully arranged across the deepest part of the cut only hours before, only one remained where she’d placed it.
The other two had surrendered completely to the hours of relentless rain.
One hung crookedly from the edge of the wound by a single corner, while the other had peeled away entirely and now clung limply to its detached partner.
She reached for her crossbody purse, grateful all over again that it had been strapped to the remaining horse rather than the runaway mare. Digging through its contents, she found the little red first-aid pouch, unzipped it, and withdrew the remaining three Band-Aids.
“Here,” she said, leaning forward and extending them to him. “You should replace the Band-Aids.”
He turned more fully and looked down into her hand before consulting his shoulder.
“Tis fine,” he said. “Nae bleeding at the moment. Save them.”
Anna shrugged and returned the Band-Aids and the pouch to her purse. Frankly, she was too weary to argue with him—it was his shoulder, his blood.
And though she knew she might only be disappointed, she searched through her purse again, wondering if by any chance, she’d forgotten about another granola bar—hell, even a piece of gum would suffice right now.
She was parched and hungry, her throat dry.
She was, as expected, disappointed—nothing edible remained.
But her rummaging showed her the little empty box from the film of her instant camera, which she used to store the developed pictures.
She withdrew the box, hoping for a reminder of the world she’d lost—anything to lift her spirits.
She opened the flap and pulled out the small stack of photographs, smiling at the first one she saw, taken on her first afternoon in London.
It was Big Ben rising above the Houses of Parliament beneath a surprisingly blue sky, the top of a red double-decker bus caught along the bottom edge because she’d been too slow taking the picture.
Behind it was one of Tower Bridge, followed by a shot of the Tower of London that had come out slightly crooked.
She found another of the flowers spilling from window boxes outside a pub where she’d eaten lunch, and then one of herself standing beside the Thames, taken by an older woman from Ohio she’d met on the walking tour.
Her hair was blowing across her face and she was laughing at something the woman had said, while the London Eye rose unmistakably behind her.
Anna lingered over that one.
Three days ago.
It seemed impossible that only three days had passed since she’d stood there worrying about whether she’d have enough time to shower and change before dinner.