although there was an ample supply of water from the river, with winter just around the corner they all wondered how long they would be able to last.
Arguments broke out as tempers frayed, and it took all the ministering skills of the elder brethren to maintain the peace. Blaine had suggested posting the knights around the compound to keep order, but word had come down from Cornelius that he didn't want them used against their own; the knights had to remain pure in their ideals as an instrument of the Church.
To the majority of the brethren, Cornelius became an elusive figure, confined to his sick bed in the bishop's palace, tended by Julian and a small band of helpers, with reports of his condition occasionally sent down as if from On High. 'Temperature raised, but doing fine.' 'Fever broken.' 'Took the air in the palace garden this morning,' and the like. Rumours circulated as to what exactly was the root of his illness — everything from pneumonia and cholera to a brain tumour — but they all knew at heart it was his age. Whatever the hopeful spin placed on his condition by Julian, there was a dismal acceptance that he couldn't have long left.
In the upper echelons of the Church leadership, meanwhile, manoeuvrings for the succession continued in some quarters with unseemly openness. Stefan appeared to be the leading choice of one faction, though he professed no interest in the job, preferring 'only to serve'. His supporters were happy to class themselves as hardliners, culled from the evangelical communities of Southern England and Unionist enclaves in Scotland. Stefan, however, kept his own views close to his chest.
Both Hipgrave and Miller recovered quickly under the able if curt treatment of Warwick in the infirmary. Exhaustion and hypothermia had been the only ailments afflicting Hipgrave, who had spent the days since the attack on Bratton Camp wandering randomly around Salisbury Plain. He had taken a blow to his head that had left him with a mild concussion, just enough to addle his thoughts before the weather took its toll on him. Blaine didn't put him through the mill of the Inquisition — it would not have been right for a captain of the knights to be seen to be doubted in current circumstances — but Hipgrave had been questioned extensively about what had happened. His ordeal had wiped away many of his memories of that night, but he still found it within himself to blame Mallory, Miller, Daniels and Gardener for the failure of the mission.
'They were cowards,' he told Blaine in front of the other four. 'They ran at the first sign of danger, left me to deal with it on my own. Whatever happened to that poor man was their fault, and they should be punished accordingly.'
Gardener protested, but Blaine silenced him angrily. Later, however, the four of them found it telling that for such a disciplinarian, Blaine didn't mete out any punishment. Hipgrave's outburst managed to sour any residual sense of camaraderie they all might have felt with him after the horrific experience they had shared that night. And it was a time when Hipgrave needed them. His dislocation at the mysterious transformation of the cathedral had been acute, and he'd made a fool of himself trying to convince everyone he spoke to of the change. Even Blaine eyed him with suspicion. Yet Hipgrave couldn't bring himself to talk to Mallory and the others for fear it would diminish his leadership.
But a strong bond was forged amongst Mallory, Miller, Gardener and Daniels. They were outsiders in a community that was already outside of society, the only ones who could see the truth. Gardener made a grudging reconciliation with Mallory, though he 'owed him a bloody big punch in the face'. Whatever doubts they had about each other had to be overridden if they were going to survive in a place that continually tested their sanity.
Mallory spent much of his time attempting to piece together some overarching mystery he was sure lay behind the scenes. The others were not convinced. 'Hello? Are you lot blind?' Mallory said after one particularly heated debate. 'We were lured out of the cathedral by two ghost-clerics who disappeared the moment they'd got us where they wanted us. And then we were let back in-'
'What do you mean?' Gardener snapped. 'We nearly got torn apart when we fetched Hipgrave.'
'You've seen what's out there. Do you really think they couldn't have stopped us if they'd wanted? Jesus, they could have wiped us out in the blink of an eye. They let us back in,' Mallory stressed. 'They made a pretence of stopping us so we wouldn't be suspicious, but that was it.'
There was a long silence while Mallory's theory washed over them. It was Daniels, fiddling with his eye-patch nervously, who spoke first. 'Why would the Adversary want to get us out and then let us back in — all of us, because we came back on three separate occasions?'
'And what's it got to do with all the new buildings appearing?' Miller asked. 'There has to be a connection, right?'
The silence lasted longer this time, and none of them had any answers. But they knew that the only way of uncovering what was happening, and what it meant for all of them, was to work together.
It was October the twenty-eighth. Mallory and Miller had been despatched to the kitchens to see Gibson, whom Mallory had dubbed the Canon of the Pies. The place had been transformed along with the rest of the building and was now the size of half a football pitch, with a low, vaulted roof like a wine cellar supported by stone pillars. Woodburning ranges ran along one wall, drawing on the huge but limited supply of timber that had been amassed. Giant bubbling pans sent clouds of steam scented with spices and herbs drifting across the ceiling. The room echoed with the sound of clanging lids and chopping knives as twenty or more cooks and assistants prepared the day's meals.
Sweat beading his ruddy face, Gibson moved amongst the activity, chuckling at some joke no one else knew; his frame appeared as massive as ever despite the limited rations, nor had he lost any of his celebrated larger- than-life humour. With one podgy hand outstretched, he lumbered across the room to slap both of them on the shoulder in greeting. 'Jolly good you could make it down here,' he said, as if they had ambled along of their own accord. Laughter rumbled out like an avalanche as a vat of bubbling turnips steamed up his large-framed spectacles. Cleaning them on his robes, he motioned to a large door against the far wall. 'The stores are through there, dear boys,' he said theatrically. 'Mr Blaine suggested you might be able to help us with the conveyance of several large sacks of potatoes. I keep my little workers here so busy, they never do find the time to do those necessary chores.' He wagged a chubby finger at Miller. 'And no potatoes means no hearty meals to keep you boys big and strong.'
'Straight away, sir,' Miller said brightly. Gibson appeared pleasantly amused by this.
As they headed down some steps into the basement stores, Mallory muttered sourly, 'Do you have to be so deferential? You should have offered to stick a brush up your arse so you could sweep the floor while we're hauling and toting.'
'It doesn't hurt to be polite. Besides, it makes people smile.'
Mallory snorted. 'Great. I get spud duty with Jesus' little ray of sunshine.'
'You can be very hurtful sometimes, Mallory.' Miller sniffed.
'No. This is hurtful.' Mallory cuffed him around the back of the head.
'Ow!' Miller flashed him a black look and jumped a foot to his right to avoid another blow.
There was a fast movement at floor level when they swung open the storeroom door on to the dark interior. 'Rats,' Mallory noted. 'The way things are, they'll be in the stew soon.'
'How long do you think we can keep going?' Miller asked. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the storeroom was vast, but in the great space the haphazard piles of sacks and crates appeared insignificant.
'I'm not looking forward to Christmas dinner.'
'If we stand firm, whatever's out there might just give up and go away,' Miller suggested hopefully.
Mallory began to investigate the sacks in search of the potatoes. 'I love an optimist as much as the next man, Miller, but you've seen what we're up against. Those kinds of things don't give up, ever. They'll hang on until we're worn down.'
'I don't understand why this is happening. We've not done anything wrong.'
'That's always a matter of perspective.'
A look of curiosity crossed Miller's face. 'What did you do before the Fall, Mallory? Sometimes you sound like a historian, sometimes a philosopher, and sometimes…'
'Yes?'
'… sometimes you act like a yob at closing time.'
Mallory let out a belly laugh. He plucked a potato from a sack and tossed it in the air. 'The only hope we've got is if our great leaders come up with a plan… a counter-strike… anything… that works. Do you have any faith in that?'
