Chapter 18 ABLAZE
FIONA AWOKE TO shouting.
It must have been loud, for her bower was tucked high into the rafters of the tower house. She usually couldn’t hear the goings-on in the barmkin and on the walls.
The summer games had left everyone exhausted.
After the games had ended, drinking, eating, and dancing stretched on late into the evening.
The MacDonald visit had just added to the excitement.
The clan-chief had disappeared with the laird and his sons into one of the pavilions.
He’d reappeared not too long after before marching away, stony-faced.
In the aftermath, the folk of Dounarwyse had speculated what had passed between them.
Fiona had no idea what time it was, yet judging from her grogginess as she stumbled from her bed and over to the window, it was the middle of the night.
Yanking up the sacking, she peered out.
The oily, choking odor of smoke hit her then, catching in her throat.
Coughing, she leaned against the lintel, craning her neck to see below.
Flames licked the darkness, illuminating the walls of Dounarwyse like a great bonfire.
Something inside the barmkin, outside the tower house, was alight.
The kitchen? The bakehouse?
Cursing, Fiona let the sacking drop and rushed over to where her lantern sat by her straw-stuffed mattress. She pulled up the iron cover, relieved to see that the cresset of oil within hadn’t yet burned out.
She had some light to dress by.
She’d never pulled on her lèine and kirtle so quickly. Hopping on one foot, she yanked on a boot, and then the other. And then, not bothering to tie back her hair, she fled her bower.
A few weeks earlier, Ailean had warned her of the perils of rushing down the steep, narrow spiral stairwell. The tale about his grandmother had been a sobering one, and she’d minded him afterward.
But not tonight.
Urgency beat inside her chest like gulls’ wings as she fled down the steps.
On the way, she joined other servants, like her rumpled and bleary-eyed, who were hurrying downstairs.
Bursting out of the tower house, she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the brightness of the blaze and the intense heat that radiated out from it.
It was as she’d feared. The bakehouse was alight. It had gone up like a torch—its thatch roof crackling. And the sparks had spread. The kitchen roof was now aflame too. And as she moved down the steps, part of the bakehouse roof gave way with a groan of rending timber, crashing inward.
Curses rang through the smoky air.
Fiona coughed again, her eyes streaming now. The smoke billowed out from the buildings, black and acrid. She’d never seen anything like it.
Men and women had formed a line from the castle’s well on the other side of the barmkin and were passing buckets of water.
Lady Tara and her daughters were among them, their faces strained with worry.
They were right to be concerned. The water they were fetching wasn’t enough though to douse those hungry flames.
Chaos reigned. People shouted at each other, blinded by smoke.
Lads dragged horses from the nearby stables.
Other servants chased honking geese and hysterical chickens that had just been turfed out of their roosts from the barmkin.
Fires like this, in such close quarters, were dangerous indeed.
If it spread, it could consume the whole castle.
Pushing her way into the line, Fiona passed bucket after bucket, her panic swelling as the inferno before them built despite their efforts.
Near the front of the line, she spied more familiar faces. Ailean. Lyle. Captain Jack. And the laird himself.
They were all in various states of undress, having clearly launched themselves from their beds.
Ash streaked Rae Maclean’s once snowy-white lèine as he used a long pole to pull away the burning thatch on the bakehouse.
He was trying to prevent more of it from spreading to the kitchen, but with a somersaulting heart, Fiona realized it was already too late.
Sweat glowed upon Ailean and Lyle’s faces and naked torsos as they beat at the flames with wet sacks.
“We need to throw dirt on it!” Captain Jack bellowed. His face was red from the heat, his eyebrows singed from where he’d gotten too close.
“It’s coming!” Rowan shouted back. “The lads will be back with wheelbarrows soon.”
Jack cursed as a column of flames erupted, sending a shower of sparks over the barmkin. Men now beat down sparks that landed on the roofs of the nearby stables, granary, and storehouses. All of them were at risk. “Not soon enough!”
“Where’s Stu?” Essie pushed forward through the jostling crowd, reaching Ailean and Lyle.
Ailean ceased beating the flames and whipped around to face her. “What?”
“Stu.” Her face was taught in the ruddy light. “I can’t find him.”
“He’s taken to sleeping in the spence,” Carrie called out from a few yards distant. Her voice cracked then, panic flaring in her blue eyes. “God’s blood … he’s still in there.”
Shock rippled across Ailean’s face, and then he cut his gaze to where tongues of flame now devoured the kitchen roof. Following his gaze, Fiona’s heart lurched into her throat.
Carrie was right. The lad liked to have a space of his own to sleep in.
The spence, the larder where their fresh food was stored, sat at the back of the kitchen.
It had a heavy wooden door to ward off rodents and thick stone walls to keep out the summer’s warmth.
Her pulse went wild. She’d heard Essie tease Stu a few days earlier that he slept like the dead.
She swore that if someone didn’t shake him from his bed every morning, the boy would sleep the day away.
Did he realize a blaze raged around him?
Ailean dumped his sack into a fresh pail of water, wetting it anew, and then, slinging it over his head and shoulders like a cloak, he dove for the open doorway leading into the kitchen.
“Ailean!” His father roared. “What the devil are ye doing?”
“Wee Stu is trapped inside!” Essie’s voice carried shrilly above the roar of the fire and panicked voices. “The smoke may have already choked him!”
Nausea washed over Fiona. The cook was right. Even from a distance, the oily smoke burned the lungs. Up close, it would be poisonous. She kept passing buckets though. They couldn’t stop. Not until the blaze was doused.
More shouting drew her attention then. The lads had arrived with the wheelbarrows. Now, along with pails of water and wet sacks, they had something else to fight the flames. Men started shoveling the dirt, tossing it onto the kitchen roof. However, smoke was now billowing from the open doorway.
“Ailean’s been gone too long.” Kylie’s voice cut through the din. Fiona twisted to see that the laird’s wife had joined them, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her brown hair wild around her face. “Someone has to—”
At that moment, a tall figure erupted from the kitchen, a small, limp figure in his arms. The now smoking sacking over his head and shoulders fell away as Ailean staggered across the cobbles.
Relief gusted out of Fiona, the sensation so strong that her knees wobbled.
Taking another pail of water, she didn’t hand it on this time. Instead, she broke out of the line and rushed over to where Ailean sank to his knees at the bottom of the steps leading up to the tower house. Coughing violently, he lowered Stu to the ground.
The lad was unconscious, his face pale. But he was breathing.
Dropping to her knees next to them, Fiona scooped up water in her hands from the pail and splashed it upon Stu’s face. She then rolled him onto his side, away from the fire and the worst of the smoke. He needed to drag fresh air into his lungs.
“He was lying on his pallet in the spence,” Ailean wheezed. “The smoke must have gotten to him.” Reaching out, he grabbed the boy’s hands, rubbing them. “Come on, lad … wake up!”
A heartbeat followed, while chaos raged around them—and then Stu’s eyelids flickered.
He began to cough.
“That’s it!” Ailean gently slapped and rubbed the lad’s heaving back. “Breathe!”
Relief barreled into Fiona then. Sitting back on her heels, she realized that people had clustered around them. Essie. Carrie. Tay. And some of the other kitchen servants, their faces all strained with worry.
“He’ll be all right.” Ailean waved them away. “Return to the line … we’re not out of the woods yet.”
And they weren’t.
The dirt was helping, but the flames that still devoured the bakehouse hadn’t yet finished wreaking havoc. They couldn’t let it spread.
Ailean turned to Fiona then, their gazes locking. “Stay with Stu … make sure all is well,” he said, his voice rough from inhaling smoke. “I need to rejoin the others.”
Fiona nodded. “I will.”
“What caused the fire?”
Stu’s voice was raspy, weak, yet his eyes were wide as he gazed at the smoldering ruin of the bakehouse and the smoking kitchen roof. The dirt they’d thrown on had put out the flames.
“Who knows, lad,” Ailean replied, reaching out and placing a hand on his thin shoulder.
“We always keep the fire in there burning overnight … but something might have rolled out.” He paused then, shaking his head.
“Sometimes, all it takes is an errant spark.” His attention slid to the blackened roof of the kitchen.
The dirt had arrived just in time; they’d managed to save that building at least. However, the smoke damage was serious, and the roof itself would need to be completely rebuilt.
“The important thing is … that no one was hurt,” Fiona said then. “Ye had us all worried, lad.”
“Aye,” Ailean agreed roughly, glancing over at her. She stood to Stu’s right, her wild blonde curls a halo around her face. Warmth ignited in his chest as his gaze lingered on her. She’d been a great help, arriving when she had with the water and helping him rouse Stu.
He appreciated her practical approach. Her steadiness and lack of panic. Fiona wasn’t a lass to stand by, wringing her hands and wailing. No, she was one to get stuck in and help.