Heart of Gold by May McGoldrick

don’t let her be hurt. “Mary!” she called at the top of her lungs. The shouts of the jostling men drowned out her words. She felt the crowd move. They were moving closer to the fire, and she let herself become part of that moving mass. Glancing around her, Elizabeth saw the friar a short distance behind. They were separated, but he was still there.
    One instant she was blocked by a wall of human bodies all around, the next she was in the front row, preparing to throw the water on the burning blaze. It was her tent. The heat from the blaze was scorching the skin of her face, and the roar was deafening. Throwing the water on the flaming material, she took a step closer, then put an arm over her face as she prepared to run inside. Above her, she could see the fiery roof of the tent flapping in the grip of the wind. Beside her someone was chopping at one of the lines that held the shelter up.
    If the tent collapses, Elizabeth thought wildly, Mary will be trapped in the flames. She started forward.
    A hand from behind gripped her arm, holding her back. She cringed at the pain that suddenly shot down her arm from her injured shoulder. She squirmed, yanking herself free. The hand took hold of her again. She turned her head to see the one holding her. It was the friar. He was shouting, but Elizabeth could not hear him at all. Following his eyes, though, as he turned his head, she could see the cloaked figure standing amid the crowd of onlookers.
    Mary.
    Elizabeth let him draw her back into the crowd. Working her way toward her sister, she gave one last look in the direction of what remained of the tent. Mary was alive. Elizabeth rejoiced at the thought, wondering in the next moment how her sister had escaped. But as they pushed through the crowd, a lump rose in her throat at the idea of having lost so much. Glancing at the burning tents around her, she considered the losses that others were suffering. And she wondered if this had all started because of what she’d witnessed.
    Nearing the place where Mary was standing, Elizabeth was opening her mouth to call out to her when a massive arm struck her brusquely on the side of the head.
    “Make way,” the rough voice shouted as the giant knight cleared his own path through the swarm of humanity.
    Elizabeth stumbled to the side as Peter Garnesche passed by. She stopped dead, gaping after him. Sir Peter strode to a group of three soldiers who were busily surveying the faces in the crowd. Nodding his head curtly as he spoke, he said something to them that Elizabeth, though only a few paces away, could not hear. Then, turning sharply, he shoved his way through the crowd to another group of his men. His face was dark and smudged with soot, and his hard eyes darted from one face to the next as he went.
    They’re looking for me, Elizabeth thought in a flash of panic as she exchanged a quick glance with Friar Matthew. The priest’s brow furrowed with anxiety.
    Elizabeth tugged the hat down further over her eyes and peered over to where her sister stood. As she did, she saw Mary, the cloak of her hood pulled low, turning and melting into the crowd beyond.
    Elizabeth saw Garnesche’s men approaching. They were everywhere, searching the faces of everyone they could lay hands on.
    It was then that Friar Matthew took charge. “Pretend you can’t breathe, Elizabeth. Your sister is safe. Now we have to get you out of here.”
    She looked at him wide-eyed.
    “Double over.”
    Seeing the soldiers only a few paces away, Elizabeth followed the friar’s order instantly. She knew the ploy of dressing as a man might not work with the Englishman’s cronies. After all, Sir Peter had seen and recognized her wearing the Highlander’s clothes the night before. And the still fresh wound on her cheek was sure to give her away. Garnesche had seen that cut, as well, and Elizabeth was certain he would have mentioned it as an identification mark for his men.
    “Clear the way. Out of the way, there,”