Two days earlier William Exmewe had brought Hamo Fulberd to this church. St. Sepulchre was only a short walk from the priory of St. Bartholomew the Great in Smithfield, and they had crossed the market without talking. The noise of the animals filled Hamo with alarm, however, and he put his hands to his ears. When they came up to the steps of St. Sepulchre, Exmewe whispered to him, “I will show you the stage of your action. Come withinside.” Hamo climbed the steps slowly, looking down at the worn stone.
They entered by the west door and Exmewe led him towards the altar of Cosmos and Damian. “This is where you set the fire,” he said. “I will draw your mark for you. Here.”
There were polished floor tiles surrounding the altar, and Exmewe took out a sharp knife used for cutting the lead badges purchased by the pilgrims to St. Bartholomew; he knelt down and neatly cut the shape of a circle into one of the tiles, so subtly that it might have matched its pattern of diamonds and lozenges. “Are you watching this, Hamo? We are not playing blind man’s touch.”
Hamo was looking apprehensively at the Lamb of God upon the altar.
“The wedge goes here.” Exmewe cut another circle. “A small spark can kindle a great fire.”
After the explosion two or three people ran into the church, shouting and calling out for help. One woman cried, “Havoc! Havoc!” Hamo Fulberd was already making his way down the steps and yelling, “Alarm! Alarm! Each man preserve his own life!” It was the ritual shout of danger, uttered by him as if he were an innocent witness of the event.
The miller had been too surprised by the explosion to say or do anything; instinctively he looked up at the Jesse window and, to his relief, it was intact. As soon as he saw Hamo rushing out of the church, however, he rose from his knees and screamed, “Him! Him! It is him!” He was the first finder, after all, and it was his obligation to raise the hue and cry.
He ran out in pursuit, and saw Hamo turning the corner of Sepulchre Alley; he called out “Smite fast!” as a signal to anyone close by, and then ran after Hamo as he passed Pie Corner into the open ground of Smithfield. Two citizens joined him in pursuit and in their sudden excitement were calling out “Slay! Slay!” and “Give good knocks!” Hamo had reached the stalls where the swine were shown for sale, and turned round for an instant; Coke could not see the expression upon his face. Hamo then swerved to avoid a cart and knocked over a wafer-seller; he hesitated, but then ran even more quickly past the bulls and the oxen towards the gate of St. Bartholomew. Coke Bateman now knew his course: he was about to enter the church and there claim sanctuary. The wafer-seller and a farrier now joined them in this fierce chase; the farrier took off his leather apron and whirled it above his head. Their cries mingled with the noise of the sheep and cattle, so that it seemed as if the whole market were in violent uproar.
Hamo could hear them as he passed through the gate, ran down the cobbled path and pushed open the great door of the church itself; he raced down the aisle and then, fighting for breath, slumped against the high altar. He put his head against the cold stone, and wept. He could smell the stone around him; it smelled of forgotten things, primeval stone quarried from the bedrock of ancient seas. The world was of stone.
The constable and beadle of Farringdon Without had been summoned, and informed of the great and cruel offence against the peace in the church of St. Sepulchre. They in turn had called upon the alderman, Christian Garkeek, who was at the time busily engaged in the Custom House where he was controller of the wool custom. They told him that the malefactor was now claiming sanctuary. They also informed him that the prior of St. Bartholomew knew the accused man: he was one Hamo Fulberd, an illuminator in the service of the priory.
“Is he a clerk?” Garkeek had asked them.
“By no means. He is half-witted.”
“Then he can be hanged.” Garkeek looked out at the dock, where several ships were now being unloaded. “Yet my lord bishop may prefer a burning.”
There were now many citizens watching the church; they were ready to take Hamo if he should come out, or to seize him if he should try secretly to escape. The rules of sanctuary were known to them all. While he remained in the church, no man might hinder anyone bringing food or drink to him. He could remain within the safety of the church for forty days, after which he could formally be expelled by the archdeacon. If Hamo wished, however, he could choose to abjure the realm within this period.
As soon as Hamo had claimed sanctuary the prior summoned William Exmewe and the oldest monk to the chapter-house.
“There is a storm of trouble come upon us,” Exmewe said to the prior even as he entered the chamber. “How did the boy fall among abominable heretics?”
“He must needs walk in the wood that may not walk in town.”
“Meaning, father?”
“There was a wildness in him. He was born for grief.”
“Now,” the elderly monk murmured, as if he were in danger of being overheard, “he has become a wolf’s head that everyone may cut down.”
“Do you know what he said when he claimed sanctuary from me?” The prior bit the inside of his mouth.
“What?” Exmewe was quick to ask the question. He could feel the sweat gathering
