'It's all right,' I whispered. 'Don't speak. We'll help you.'
She lifted wild eyes to me, pale and frantic in her bloody face. 'Get-' she tried to speak, blood-soaked spittle running down her chin. 'Get – out – while you can-'
Barak turned swiftly to the doorway, but there was nothing there. The house was utterly silent. We looked at each other. Bathsheba's voice had sunk to that keening moan again. Then we heard a door open downstairs, the parlour, I was sure. A sudden harsh smell stung my nostrils, making me cough. Barak caught it too. His eyes widened. 'Shit,' he shouted. 'No-'
An extraordinary noise came from downstairs, a loud 'whump'. It was followed by a crash as someone threw shutters open. Barak and I dashed to the window. I made out the shapes of two men, running down the street. Toky and Wright. Toky paused and looked back at us and I caught an evil grin on his pale face. He looked at me and drew a finger across his throat. Then he turned again and ran after his confederate.
'Oh, Jesu. Shit.' I turned at Barak's voice. He was standing in the doorway, looking out. I could see the staircase was brightly lit with a red dancing light. There was a blast of heat, a crackling noise.
I ran to the door and stood beside him, hardly able to believe what I saw. The door to the parlour was wide open and the room was alive with fire, brighter than a thousand candles, the entire floor and walls covered in red flames that were already roaring through the open door and licking at the hall. The old tapestry outside caught fire immediately. A heavy, evil-smelling black smoke began rolling across the hall.
'Jesu,' Barak breathed. 'It's Greek Fire. They mean to kill us with Greek Fire. Come on!' He turned to Bathsheba. 'We've got to get out of here. Help me with her!'
I helped him lift Bathsheba from her brother's body. Desperately weak as she was, she tried to resist, she looked at me and I caught a throaty bubbling, 'No.'
'Your brother is dead,' I said gently. 'You can't help him.'
Barak and I heaved her up. As we lifted her I saw fresh blood run down her dress from a great wound in her stomach. The poor creature had been stabbed.
'Hold her,' Barak said. He ran back to the door. The fire was spreading with preternatural speed, the walls of the hallway had caught now and the flames were almost at the bottom of the staircase. The roaring, cracking noise was much louder. I caught a whiff of the thick black smoke and gagged. Barak paused a second, then unbuckled his sword and threw it to the floor. He grasped the workshop door and, with a tremendous heave, pulled it free of its remaining hinge.
'Follow me! Quick, before the staircase goes!'
'We can't get down there!' I shouted, trying to keep Bathsheba's slippery body from falling. She was very light or I could not have held her. She seemed insensible now.
'We can't get her out of the window, and we'd likely break our necks on the cobbles if we jumped! Come on!'
Holding the door in front of him like a shield, Barak stepped quickly across to the staircase and began descending. All the ground-floor walls were blazing now, the flames licking at the banisters, smoke curling upwards, ever thicker. This was it, the thing I had always feared had come to pass. Death by fire, red flames burning the skin from my body, sweating the blood out of me, my eyes melting. The words of a pamphlet reporting a burning returned to me.
Barak turned round and screamed at me. 'Come on, you arsehole! We've only seconds! See, there's the front door!'
His words brought me to my senses. Across the burning hallway I could see the half-open door to the street, a black shape in a red house of fire. The sight spurred me to follow him, dragging the girl with me. I made myself count the steps as I descended. One – two – three. From somewhere outside I heard a cry of 'Fire! Dear God, fire!'
The smoke made my eyes sting and I had to keep blinking, trying desperately to breathe, the air so hot it felt as though it too was burning. Barak and I were both coughing now. I had a terror the staircase would collapse and bury us in burning wood.
Then suddenly I was at the foot of the steps, red flames all around me. I heard Barak scream, 'Run.' I thought I was about to fall, but then a flame licked at my arm, I heard my doublet sizzle and from somewhere I found the energy to leap forward. Then in a moment I was outside, in the street, the searing heat and the smoke gone. Someone grasped me and I fell into their arms. Someone else took Bathsheba's weight and she slid away from me. I was lowered to the street and lay, gasping desperately for air, fearful I would suffocate, every intake of air burning my throat. There was a crackling of flames from the house and all around terrified yells of 'Fire!'
At length my breath returned. I sat up groggily. Ahead of me the Gristwoods' house was ablaze from end to end, flames roaring through every window. The roof had caught too and the fire had already spread to the neighbouring house. People had spilled from the alehouse and from all the houses in the street. They were running to and fro with terrified faces, calling for water, desperate to save their homes from this sudden, terrible outburst. I thought: thank God there's no wind. I saw Barak was sitting beside me, retching and coughing. Next to him lay Bathsheba, still as death. Barak turned to me, his face black and all the hair on one side of his head gone.
'You all right?' he gasped.
'I think so.'
A man in a watchman's jerkin, carrying a staff, bustled over to us. His face was alive with fury. 'What have you done to set the house on fire like that?' he shouted. 'Wizards!'
'We didn't do it,' Barak croaked. 'Fetch a physician – there's a woman hurt here.'
The man looked at Bathsheba, his eyes widening as he saw the blood covering her. I shook my head, the tumult of shouts and running feet seemed to have taken on a strangely distant, echoing sound.
'What have you done?' the watchman breathed again.
'It was Dark Fire,' I said. 'The rats knew.'
Then the noise of the fire and the shouting faded away, and I blacked out.
Chapter Thirty-two
I REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS slowly, as though swimming up from a dark lake. When I opened my eyes I thought for an awful moment I was blind. Then my eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness and I realized I was in an unlit room, at night. There was an open window to one side of the truckle bed I lay on, just visible as a slightly lighter square through which a hot breeze sighed.
I could not remember what had happened or where I was. I tried to sit up to see more of my surroundings but my body was seized with pain and I lay down again with a groan. My back was agony and I had a smarting pain in my left forearm. I realized I was thirsty, a terrible dry thirst; when I swallowed it was like gulping down thorns.
I became aware of a smell. Burning. Fire, I thought, and everything that had happened at Wolf's Lane flew back into my mind. I tried to sit up again and shout, but the effort was too much and I nearly passed out. For a few seconds I lay there in terror. Had the fire spread to wherever it was I had been taken? Then I lifted my right arm to my nose. The smell of smoke was coming from my shirt. I lay back, breathing heavily and painfully. I must gather my strength, then try to call out for water, find out where I was. The thought came that I had been arrested for starting the fire, put in prison. Where were Barak and poor Bathsheba? That awful tableau of the girl leaning over her dead brother, the pair of them boltered in blood, returned and I let out a harsh dry sob.
There was an unexpected sound from the window, a soft chirruping. Other birds joined in and as I lay there the sky began to lighten, turning from dark blue to greyish white. I made out the steep outlines of roofs and realized I was on the upper floor of a house somewhere. The sun appeared, at first a little dark-red orb but very soon, as the mist burned away, a fierce yellow ball.
As the light grew I studied the room I was in. It was sparsely furnished: just the bed I was lying on, a chest and on the wall a big cross, Christ hanging with agonized face and gaping wounds. I stared at it in puzzlement for a moment, then I remembered; it was Guy's old Spanish cross, I was at Guy's.
I lay back with a sense of relief. I must have slept again, for when next I stirred and looked around the sun was high, the room hot. My thirst was unbearable now. I tried to call out but could manage only a croak. I leaned over,
