then turns back to me with a snarl. My boot has gashed the skin of his forehead. The pole tilts toward me, shoving me forward so that I have to curl in on myself. I shove back with all my strength. Gilbert lunges toward me and I use both feet to keep him at bay. He bites at the toe of one of my boots, so I use the other to knock teeth from his mouth. The pole tilts back toward me. The nun will not stop shrieking. I set one foot down and shove back against the pole. The tent tilts in Tristan’s direction. Gilbert grabs at my leg. I lean to one side, gather all my strength, and swing my free leg in an arching kick that catches Gilbert in the temple and sends him tumbling to the ground.
Tristan groans and shoves at the pole. More guy lines creak and snap outside. The canvas loses its tautness. Folds of the tent sag toward us. The thick oaken pole pushes against my back, bending me almost double. Gilbert staggers to his feet. Tristan groans again and something at the base of the pole cracks. The full weight of the tent shaft falls upon me. I rotate my shoulders so that the pole is free to fall onto the ground. The candles flutter madly in the far corner.
Candles.
The broken tentpole creaks and falls slowly. The canvas drifts downward, fluttering the candles on the other side of the room. I have time for one more calculation of reason before the darkness descends.
Canvas burns. Tents are made of canvas…
Chapter 9
Gilbert growls in the darkness with what might be frustration. I empathize with him. The thick folds of canvas lie upon us and I can see nothing. I lie on my side, my hands still bound to the fallen tentpole. The nun has stopped screaming, but I can hear her weeping quietly and muttering prayers beside me. Tristan is silent, but I can feel his hands pulling against his ropes. My wrists are bound below his and just above the nun’s. I feel her hands moving too.
“Sister,” I say. “Can you slide your hands off the edge of the pole?”
“I am trying,” she shouts. “They are tied tightly.”
“Try harder,” Tristan says.
“My wrists are at the bottom of this pole,” she says, her fear momentarily forgotten. “You should be a little nicer to the woman who holds your life in her hands.”
The canvas ripples toward me. Gilbert.
“Fair maiden,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “Wouldst thou be a dear and please slide your fucking wrists off the miserable fucking post that we are attached to before Gilbert the demon uses his pox-addled reason to find me and eat my bloody brains! ” I might have failed to keep the panic from my voice. I take three deep breaths and smile. “If you would, my lady.”
“I cannot!” the nun shouts. “The ropes are too tight!”
“Rock back and forth,” I say. “Use your weight to loosen the ropes.”
The nun rocks back and forth. Tristan and I rock too. The canvas rises and falls as we rock. I hear a wooshing sound at the far end of the tent and notice a faint glow through the tent cloth…
…therefore this tent will burn.
We rock harder and the glow brightens.
“Is it…is it getting warmer?” Tristan asks.
I smell smoke.
“I am free!” the nun shouts. She stands, and the fabric rises in a peak around her. The far side of the tent is blazing.
“Run!” Tristan says. “Flee!”
The nun flees.
I watch her tunnel through the canvas, stooping and prodding it upward with her hands until she is gone.
“Tristan, can you slide your hands free?”
“There’s a nail beneath my ropes,” he calls. “I’m caught.”
A hand slips toward me from beneath the canvas. It lifts the fabric, and Gilbert’s ebony eyes stare into mine. I scream. It is a girlish scream, I will admit it. But Gilbert’s sudden appearance startled me beyond words. I pivot on my hip to kick him again and the pole moves with me. Gilbert’s nose shatters. I have an idea.
The smoke makes me cough. I know we do not have much time in here.
“Lean to the right hard
Tristan groans and shoves at the pole. More guy lines creak and snap outside. The canvas loses its tautness. Folds of the tent sag toward us. The thick oaken pole pushes against my back, bending me almost double. Gilbert staggers to his feet. Tristan groans again and something at the base of the pole cracks. The full weight of the tent shaft falls upon me. I rotate my shoulders so that the pole is free to fall onto the ground. The candles flutter madly in the far corner.
Candles.
The broken tentpole creaks and falls slowly. The canvas drifts downward, fluttering the candles on the other side of the room. I have time for one more calculation of reason before the darkness descends.
Canvas burns. Tents are made of canvas…
Chapter 9
Gilbert growls in the darkness with what might be frustration. I empathize with him. The thick folds of canvas lie upon us and I can see nothing. I lie on my side, my hands still bound to the fallen tentpole. The nun has stopped screaming, but I can hear her weeping quietly and muttering prayers beside me. Tristan is silent, but I can feel his hands pulling against his ropes. My wrists are bound below his and just above the nun’s. I feel her hands moving too.
“Sister,” I say. “Can you slide your hands off the edge of the pole?”
“I am trying,” she shouts. “They are tied tightly.”
“Try harder,” Tristan says.
“My wrists are at the bottom of this pole,” she says, her fear momentarily forgotten. “You should be a little nicer to the woman who holds your life in her hands.”
The canvas ripples toward me. Gilbert.
“Fair maiden,” I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. “Wouldst thou be a dear and please slide your fucking wrists off the miserable fucking post that we are attached to before Gilbert the demon uses his pox-addled reason to find me and eat my bloody brains! ” I might have failed to keep the panic from my voice. I take three deep breaths and smile. “If you would, my lady.”
“I cannot!” the nun shouts. “The ropes are too tight!”
“Rock back and forth,” I say. “Use your weight to loosen the ropes.”
The nun rocks back and forth. Tristan and I rock too. The canvas rises and falls as we rock. I hear a wooshing sound at the far end of the tent and notice a faint glow through the tent cloth…
…therefore this tent will burn.
We rock harder and the glow brightens.
“Is it…is it getting warmer?” Tristan asks.
I smell smoke.
“I am free!” the nun shouts. She stands, and the fabric rises in a peak around her. The far side of the tent is blazing.
“Run!” Tristan says. “Flee!”
The nun flees.
I watch her tunnel through the canvas, stooping and prodding it upward with her hands until she is gone.
“Tristan, can you slide your hands free?”
“There’s a nail beneath my ropes,” he calls. “I’m caught.”
A hand slips toward me from beneath the canvas. It lifts the fabric, and Gilbert’s ebony eyes stare into mine. I scream. It is a girlish scream, I will admit it. But Gilbert’s sudden appearance startled me beyond words. I pivot on my hip to kick him again and the pole moves with me. Gilbert’s nose shatters. I have an idea.
The smoke makes me cough. I know we do not have much time in here.
“Lean to the right hard
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