‘Yorkists!’ he screamed.
The tired Lancastrians picked up whatever weapons they could, forming themselves into a shield wall. A party tried to bar the door but the Yorkist soldiers burst in. The battle began again and the cathedral filled with the sound of scraping steel and the shrieks of wounded and dying men. No quarter was asked and none given. Sir Raymond, with his back to a pillar, fought off two Yorkist bowmen. Their quivers were empty but, armed with spear and sword, they came at him like two wolves snarling and jabbing. Sir Raymond despatched both, one with a thrust to the chest; the other stumbled over his companion’s corpse, and Sir Raymond took his head off like a gardener would snip a rose. The head rolled down the nave whilst Sir Raymond drew away from the blood- gushing, severed neck. The fighting was frenetic. Individual duels and hand-to-hand combat now ranged the whole length of the nave.
Sir Raymond was about to help Somerset when the great bell of the cathedral began to toll. From the sanctuary came a procession of monks led by their abbot carrying his crucifix in one hand, a handbell in the other. He banged the steel cross on the paving stone and began to clang the bell. The sound of fighting died away. Men locked in deadly combat stepped back and stared in awe at the might of the Church. The Abbot was dressed in full pontificals — a gold chasuble inlaid with mother-of-pearl and, on his head, a mitre of the same texture. He rang the bell again.
‘This is God’s house!’ his voice boomed through the church. ‘And you have stained it with the blood of your brothers. So, hear this. Any man who lifts his hand in anger is accursed, bound and tied under the most dreadful sentence of excommunication!’
His words created a chilling pool of silence.
‘Cursed be he,’ the Abbot intoned, ‘who disobeys my decree! Cursed be he in life! Cursed be he in death! May he die unshriven and remain outside the pale of Christ’s mercy!’
He handed the bell to one of the monks. Beaufort came forward and knelt before him.
‘Father Abbot, we seek sanctuary.’
‘The abbey does not have the right to give sanctuary to rebels and traitors!’ a Yorkist shouted.
The Abbot stared down at Beaufort. Sir Raymond, who had walked across to join the Duke, heard the Abbot’s whisper.
‘He speaks the truth. My Lord of Somerset, for I know it is you, I cannot give you sanctuary here. Edward of York has won the battle. He is our crowned king. His lawyers will say you are traitors and have no right to shelter here.’
‘Are we to be slaughtered like cattle?’ Somerset snarled.
The Abbot lifted his head. ‘Sanctuary or no, no man has a right to draw his sword in God’s house. My Lord of Somerset and his party are my guests here. The rest will withdraw or suffer the rigour of excommunication!’
The Yorkists protested but the Abbot’s stern face, as well as the realisation that the Lancastrians would fight to the death, gave them wiser counsel. Muttering threats, the Yorkists collected their wounded and dead, then left. At the Abbot’s request, the Lancastrians piled their own weapons in a heap in one of the transepts. Lay brothers brought wine and bread from the refectory whilst the infirmarian and his assistants moved amongst the wounded. Somerset went to sit on a bench just near the rood screen. He put his head in his hands. Sir Raymond sat beside him.
‘Father Abbot was right,’ the Hospitaller began. ‘Edward of York will show us no compassion.’
Beaufort lifted his head. ‘The Queen must have been captured,’ he declared. ‘The Prince is dead. Warwick is dead, the House of Lancaster is finished. Sickly, white-faced Henry Tudor, what hope does he have?’ He offered the wine cup cradled in his hands to the Hospitaller. ‘Sir Raymond, before we die, I would ask you one question? Why did you, a knight of the Church, support Margaret of Anjou?’
‘I thought you’d win. I really did and, if you had, my Lord of Somerset, I would have asked for your help in hunting down a demon.’
Sir Raymond got to his feet and walked into the lonely Lady Chapel. He was kneeling on the prie-dieu before the statue of the Virgin when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned and almost fainted as he recognised his brother, Otto. Further down the transept, crouching in the shadows, was a small boy, fist to his mouth, dark eyes rounded in a pale face.
‘Otto!’ He clasped his brother. ‘Otto!’
He felt his brother’s arms but his brother stared impassively back.
‘Look at me, Sir Raymond! Stare into my eyes!’
The Hospitaller did so, his heart skipped a beat, his blood ran cold. The hair, the face, the arms, the body, these were his brother’s — but those eyes! The same hateful stare as that Byzantine princess.
‘You!’ he whispered. ‘You!’
He would have collapsed but the hermit helped him to sit on the cushioned kneeler of the prie-dieu.
‘You have been hunting me,’ the hermit declared. ‘Otto has gone. I am here. I see through his eyes. I speak through his tongue and his heart beats for me.’
Sir Raymond turned away.
‘How?’ he asked weakly.
‘Have you not read your Scriptures?’ the hermit mocked gently. ‘How the demons can enter a man and make their home there?’
‘But why?’
‘That is not for you to know.’
‘No, why do you hate us?’
‘I do not hate you, Sir Raymond. Truly, I thank you. You rescued me from the vault but then you failed me. You broke your pledge and let me be taken. What is worse, you pursued me and sent others hunting me along the highways and byways of Europe. I will not be interfered with!’
Sir Raymond saw the fury blazing in the hermit’s eyes.
‘I am not some rabbit or fox to be hunted. Always remember, Sir Raymond: when you declare war on Hell, Hell declares war on you.’ Lifting his finger he brushed some of the blood from Raymond’s face and licked it carefully.
‘Here in God’s house!’ Raymond felt his courage return. ‘You dare to come into God’s house!’
‘Have you not studied your Scriptures, Sir Raymond?’ the hermit taunted again. ‘Read the Book of Job. Satan is allowed to come before the throne of God and, according to the Gospels, even into the presence of Christ.’ The hermit gestured at the paintings on the wall. ‘Do you think we are like that, Sir Raymond? Dirty little imps with the faces of monkeys and the heads of goats? Don’t you realise we are pure spirit, powerful, brooding for all eternity? We have not withdrawn from Heaven, Heaven has unjustly withdrawn from us.’ He would have touched Sir Raymond’s face again but the Hospitaller flinched. ‘Heaven and Hell are the same. Think of that before you die.’
‘And the boy?’ Sir Raymond asked. ‘Another of your victims?’
‘More sacred than life itself,’ the hermit replied. ‘He is nothing to you.’
The Hospitaller got to his feet, refusing to be cowed.
‘There are others,’ he said.
‘Ah, you mean the Preacher?’ The hermit shrugged. ‘I will take care of him as I have taken care of others. Once he is dead the hunt will end. Farewell, brother!’
The hermit, turning on his heel, walked back through the shadows and collected the boy.
Sir Raymond went back to his prayers. He felt cold as if his heart had turned to stone. He did not care about his companions or their endless speculation. Instead he prayed, preparing himself for death. When the Yorkist captains returned later in the day with warrants for their arrest, Sir Raymond did not struggle as the others did, but allowed his hands to be lashed behind his back. He was pushed out of the main door, blinking at the strong afternoon sunlight.
Just beyond the abbey close a great table had been set up, covered by a green baize cloth. Behind the table soared a black-draped scaffold. On it stood the executioner, his face masked, a huge two-sided axe in his hand, one foot resting on the block and, beside that, a great wicker basket. The townspeople thronged about, held back by a line of archers wearing the royal livery. Each prisoner was taken before the table, Somerset first. Two men were seated there. Richard, Duke of Gloucester, and his henchman John Howard of Norfolk, their faces still bearing
