vines clung to it, empty of flowers but for a few ragged blossoms. James was close enough to overtake her in one or two strides, but he paused, ready to snatch her away from there if need be. Behind them, the gate and some dry vines crackled as they burned, and smoke and sparks drifted overhead. But the fire had not yet reached this corner.
A white rose clung to the highest part of the vine, a swirl of pale petals in the light of the fire and the moon. The girl stretched her hand upward to reach it.
James stepped forward and plucked the rose for her, laying it in her open hand. Despite the heavy odor of burning wood, he caught a drift of the rose's delicate fragrance.
Isobel lifted the bloom to her face to breathe in its scent. "My mother treasured these roses," she said. Her voice was soft and hoarse, and tears glistened in her eyes. James waited, expecting angry accusations from her. But she seemed calm as she ran a fingertip along the edge of the rose. "The garden was all that we had left of her," she said.
"I am sorry," he murmured. "I did not know."
She gave a hollow, hoarse little laugh, surprising him. "The siege destroyed this garden before you set your fire, Border Hawk." She glanced around. "We stripped everything edible, even the flowers. This rose bloomed but days ago. Eustace wanted me to add it to the soup, but I refused." She gazed at the pale blossom, and her lower lip trembled.
She puzzled him, so gentle and sad when he had expected anger from her. But they did not have time to pluck roses, with a fire raging beyond, and a hundred English at the gates.
"Isobel, we must go," he said, quiet but firm.
"You did not give me time to say farewell," she murmured, "before you loosed that fire arrow. Let me have the chance now."
James sighed and shoved his fingers through his hair in a gesture of regret. He had been quick to act on his decision to fire the castle; perhaps too quick, but they had little time to spare. He had not meant to cause her this sort of grief.
He remembered his own mother's garden, a haven of scent and color that had provided hiding places for James and his older brother, and created pleasant memories. But it was gone now, burned, as this garden would be soon.
"When I was small, my father brought back the first of these rose bushes from a Crusade," Isobel said. "He said my mother had sweet magic in her fingers for making roses." She smiled. "The garden was always full of roses—white, pink, and red—from spring until fall. When she died, he buried her in our chapel, so that she could be near her roses, and near us, always." She pointed beyond the garden wall, where a small chapel roof jutted up, its clay tiles bright in the firelight. "Dear God, if the fire reaches the chapel—" she said.
"I have already told my men to soak the chapel roof with water to protect it," he said. "I do not burn churches."
She nodded. A tear pooled in her eye and hovered there.
James felt a compelling urge to touch her—a hand to her shoulder, a finger to that shining tear, some gesture of comfort. But he held back, fisting his hand against the craving.
And he waited, silent and still, while a slender, ebony-haired girl cradled a pale rose in the midst of destruction.
In some detached, philosophical part of his mind, long ago trained by scholarly monks to see the symbolism in all things, he realized that heaven and hell existed in perfect duality here in this ravaged garden, in the gentle, lovely girl, in the pure rose, and in the darkness and the inferno that surrounded them.
A blaze that he had caused.
"Isobel," he said. He felt emotion constrict his throat, but went on. "Years ago, I lost my own castle when the English set it afire. Those—those who were inside were killed—my kin, my men, my—" He stopped.
She glanced at him. "You know how I feel," she said softly. "You suffered even worse. And yet you set Aberlady afire."
"Aye," he said gruffly.
"I know you had no choice," she
A white rose clung to the highest part of the vine, a swirl of pale petals in the light of the fire and the moon. The girl stretched her hand upward to reach it.
James stepped forward and plucked the rose for her, laying it in her open hand. Despite the heavy odor of burning wood, he caught a drift of the rose's delicate fragrance.
Isobel lifted the bloom to her face to breathe in its scent. "My mother treasured these roses," she said. Her voice was soft and hoarse, and tears glistened in her eyes. James waited, expecting angry accusations from her. But she seemed calm as she ran a fingertip along the edge of the rose. "The garden was all that we had left of her," she said.
"I am sorry," he murmured. "I did not know."
She gave a hollow, hoarse little laugh, surprising him. "The siege destroyed this garden before you set your fire, Border Hawk." She glanced around. "We stripped everything edible, even the flowers. This rose bloomed but days ago. Eustace wanted me to add it to the soup, but I refused." She gazed at the pale blossom, and her lower lip trembled.
She puzzled him, so gentle and sad when he had expected anger from her. But they did not have time to pluck roses, with a fire raging beyond, and a hundred English at the gates.
"Isobel, we must go," he said, quiet but firm.
"You did not give me time to say farewell," she murmured, "before you loosed that fire arrow. Let me have the chance now."
James sighed and shoved his fingers through his hair in a gesture of regret. He had been quick to act on his decision to fire the castle; perhaps too quick, but they had little time to spare. He had not meant to cause her this sort of grief.
He remembered his own mother's garden, a haven of scent and color that had provided hiding places for James and his older brother, and created pleasant memories. But it was gone now, burned, as this garden would be soon.
"When I was small, my father brought back the first of these rose bushes from a Crusade," Isobel said. "He said my mother had sweet magic in her fingers for making roses." She smiled. "The garden was always full of roses—white, pink, and red—from spring until fall. When she died, he buried her in our chapel, so that she could be near her roses, and near us, always." She pointed beyond the garden wall, where a small chapel roof jutted up, its clay tiles bright in the firelight. "Dear God, if the fire reaches the chapel—" she said.
"I have already told my men to soak the chapel roof with water to protect it," he said. "I do not burn churches."
She nodded. A tear pooled in her eye and hovered there.
James felt a compelling urge to touch her—a hand to her shoulder, a finger to that shining tear, some gesture of comfort. But he held back, fisting his hand against the craving.
And he waited, silent and still, while a slender, ebony-haired girl cradled a pale rose in the midst of destruction.
In some detached, philosophical part of his mind, long ago trained by scholarly monks to see the symbolism in all things, he realized that heaven and hell existed in perfect duality here in this ravaged garden, in the gentle, lovely girl, in the pure rose, and in the darkness and the inferno that surrounded them.
A blaze that he had caused.
"Isobel," he said. He felt emotion constrict his throat, but went on. "Years ago, I lost my own castle when the English set it afire. Those—those who were inside were killed—my kin, my men, my—" He stopped.
She glanced at him. "You know how I feel," she said softly. "You suffered even worse. And yet you set Aberlady afire."
"Aye," he said gruffly.
"I know you had no choice," she
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