the corner.
The mood was not helped by the repeated collapse of the tunnel under the wall, killing two diggers. Accusations of incompetence were levelled; why couldn't the bishop do something about it? Food was running out; there was no time for failure. On the surface, Stefan took the criticism with humility and stoicism, but behind the scenes, subtle and worrying changes were taking place. Unable to carry out their true role, the knights were ordered to patrol the cathedral, dampening down disputes and reporting back to Blaine the names of any troublemakers. Most took this job reluctantly, but some, most notably members of the Blues, accepted it with unfortunate relish. The Inquisition of Heretical Depravity took an increasingly active role overseeing the 'questioning' of the active dissenters. Their offices in the shadowy heart of the new buildings came to be feared, and the inquisitors themselves were only discussed in whispers in case comments were reported back to them.
But the creeping repression was the least of their worries. As December crawled along and a bitter chill set in, the nightly attacks increased in intensity and lasted longer, sometimes until first light. For some reason, the hordes outside had become more successful; walls were repeatedly damaged and much of each day was spent carrying out repairs with rapidly diminishing resources. Against it all was the constant background of fear that the murderer within the cathedral could strike at any time. Nowhere was safe; no one was safe.
Chapter Twelve
'Things continually shift between being united by love and divided by strife.'
The snow started again on December the sixth, floating down from a grey sky just before prime. It was a display of such ethereal charm that it prompted even the depressed and hungry brothers to raise their heads from their struggle and enjoy the moment. By lunchtime, a thin coating had transformed the cathedral and its bleak gothic buildings into a fairy-tale palace, glowing soft and white. Across Salisbury, the rooftops gleamed; everywhere sound and light took on a new quality.
And still the snow fell. By mid-afternoon, brothers were hastily assigned to clear the paths, the crunch of their boots and the scrape of their shovels echoing around the compound. Afterwards, they gathered in the shelter of the west front, stamping and steaming, ruddy-cheeked and bright-eyed, cracking jokes and swapping tales.
Mallory watched them as he returned from a patrol around the bishop's palace, quietly marvelling at how something as simple and natural as a snowfall could have such a transformative effect on human nature. Briefly, they had forgotten the Devil at the gates, though the oppressive nature of the threat had unbalanced several minds in recent days, especially after the horned shape had been glimpsed once again hovering over the city. The apocalypse, they all felt, was now sickeningly close.
The snow provided a break, too, from his own thoughts as they continually turned over the many facets of the mystery without finding any connecting factor; but he was close to a solution, he knew that. A little further on, he spotted Gardener crouching down in the middle of the lawns, occasionally swinging his arm back and forth. Mallory realised he was surreptitiously feeding the birds a few bits of dry bread left over from lunch. In their increasingly dire situation, some would have considered it wasteful, but Mallory found it oddly touching: Gardener, gruff, hard-faced, occasionally unpleasant, locked in a moment of simple sacrifice for lesser creatures.
He watched until the Geordie had finished, then was overcome with a devilish idea. As Gardener trudged away, Mallory rolled a snowball and hurled it with devastating aim, hitting Gardener squarely at the base of his skull. Gardener whirled, eyes blazing, but when he saw Mallory his face went blank. Mallory had a sudden sense of his miscalculation until Gardener dipped down, rolled a snowball and launched it with one lightning move. It struck Mallory in his chest, showering snow across his face.
For a second, everything hung, and then they both exploded with raucous laughter, leaping into a frenzied bout of snowball-throwing. Within moments, they heard a whoop as Miller and Daniels ran up. Gardener and Mallory hit them both before they were halfway across the lawns.
For the next fifteen minutes, they forgot all the pressures of the daily strife in complete childlike abandon. Mallory joked, 'Stay on Daniels' blindside!' while Miller darted back and forth among them, whirling snowballs as if he were crazed. By the end, when they were all covered in white from head to toe, even Gardener was laughing. They collapsed into the snow, exhausted but still in high spirits.
Three members of the Blues walked by, watching their ridiculous fun with disdain. One of them sneered that they were bringing the knights into disrepute, following his comment with a whispered disparaging remark that brought mocking laughter from his colleagues. Mallory gave them the finger, while Miller threw a snowball in their direction. The Blues rounded, spoiling for a fight until the ringleader calmed them and led them on their way.
'Wankers,' Mallory said.
'No sense of humour,' Daniels added. 'Always a bad sign.'
Suddenly something struck Mallory, so obvious that he wondered why he hadn't considered it before. 'Why are they called Blues?' he asked. The blue flash on their shoulders had set them apart from the very first.
No one knew, but after his conversation with James, Mallory had an idea. Their very existence, all the mysterious missions on which they regularly embarked, had something to do with the Blue Fire: they were an elite squad in more ways than one.
His thoughts were interrupted by the acrid smell of smoke drifting across the compound accompanied by the sound of crackling fire. Filled with curiosity, they made their way around the side of the new buildings to its source near the gates, where a large bonfire was sending up thick black clouds.
'What are they wasting all that fuel for?' Daniels asked.
It was only then that they saw the lines of brothers emerging from the cathedral with armfuls of books, some ancient with crumbling spines, many shiny leather-backed volumes, even modern pamphlets.
'The library,' Mallory said. 'He really did it, the Nazi.'
'Ah, they're only books,' Gardener dismissed
Mallory turned on him. 'They're not only books. They're ideas, thoughts, beliefs-'
Gardener interrupted with a shrug. 'That's right, but they're not our ideas, thoughts, beliefs.'
Mallory knew there was no point in arguing. He turned back to the sad sight until he noticed three figures watching the bonfire across the way, almost obscured by the drifting smoke. When it cleared for a moment, he saw it was James, his face drawn, shoulders hunched, standing between two upright, characterless young men who were clearly inquisitors.
The red flames contrasted starkly with the white of the snow. He watched for another moment, then trudged slowly back to the dormitory alone.
An hour later he was called to a fight in the refectory. Two brothers were brawling over the size of their portions at dinner. It was a stupid argument — there couldn't have been more than half a carrot in it — but in that claustrophobic atmosphere tempers frayed easily. One of the men had received a broken nose. The lower half of his face was stained red, and it was Mallory's job to escort him to the infirmary while giving him a caution. Miller was taking the other one for a dressing-down before one of the inquisitors.
As they left the refectory, the broken-nosed man was sullen and depressed; he'd lost his dinner in the scuffle and there would be nothing more until the thin gruel they laughingly called breakfast. Mallory didn't have the heart to deliver the caution Blaine had outlined for such occasions, so they walked in silence.
When they arrived at the infirmary, they were surprised to find the place in disarray. Warwick's surgical utensils were scattered across the floor, the contents of some herb jars had been emptied and the operating table was upended. Warwick sat on a chair in one corner, white-faced and uneasy. He was surrounded by two stony- faced Blues and a tall, weasley inquisitor who was brandishing Warwick's clockwork radio.
'It's not mine, I tell you,' Warwick protested.
