thirties, and he appeared much younger. His features carried a permanent sneer, but it looked theatrical, as if he thought it gave him gravitas. 'You'll be out of here before the week's through,' he said in a light voice attempting to disguise its upper-middle-class origins.
'Thanks for the vote of confidence.' Mallory hadn't seen anything he couldn't handle.
Hipgrave gripped Mallory's upper arm and spun him round. 'The knights may be temporal but they operate along strict military lines. There is a chain of command. Insubordination is punished. There's no room in the ranks for weak links.'
Miller flinched, knowing that if Mallory remained true to his nature they could both be ejected. But despite a brief moment of tension, Mallory stayed calm and Hipgrave strutted off in front.
'Please, Mallory,' Miller whispered, 'don't ruin this for me. You don't know how much I need it.'
'Give me credit,' Mallory replied. 'I've got some self-control — I'm not a complete thug.'
Their footsteps echoed along empty corridors as Hipgrave led them to the second floor of the old museum and into a large room at the front overlooking the Cathedral Close. Ten camp beds were laid out at regular intervals beneath medieval wall tapestries. Two other men were already billeted there. One of them, a muscular, good- looking black man, was cleaning his boots with furious brush strokes while the other, a rangy white man in his early fifties, knelt in prayer at a tiny altar beside his bed. They rose and faced the new arrivals for Hipgrave's cursory introductions. Daniels was in his late thirties, intelligent, with an air of amused sophistication. Gardener, in contrast, was a Geordie with a rough working- class attitude, long greying hair tied in a ponytail and a face that had the leathery appearance of meat left out for days in the sun.
When Hipgrave had departed, Mallory chose a bed from the remaining ten and lay on it, staring at the ceiling.
'I wouldn't get used to that position if I were you,' Daniels said wryly. He'd resumed polishing his boots with a verve that bordered on obsession.
'They work you hard?'
'We're twinned with a Soviet Gulag. Their idea of downtime is a face- wash with river water and a turnip to gnaw on.'
'Don't listen to him. He's a soft Southern bastard. Drinks wine with his little finger stuck out,' Gardener called over.
'At least I know what wine is, you beer-swelling Philistine.'
'Aye, you whine all the time.'
Daniels walked over to Gardener, brandishing his brush. 'You know, you'd think some of my innate style and breeding would have rubbed off on you after the weeks we've been stuck here, but I'm starting to think you'll remain a troglodyte for ever.'
'You know you're not supposed to use big words around me. Now bugger off, I'm trying to pray.'
Despite their fractiousness, it was obvious to Mallory that a deep affection underpinned their relationship, a clear case of opposites attracting. In his voice and body language, Daniels seemed gay, though Gardener, as far as Mallory could tell, was straight — at least, he sported a worn wedding ring — and they obviously came from different backgrounds. But the camaraderie made him think it might not be so bad there after all.
Mallory and Miller were allowed only half an hour to settle in before another knight was sent to fetch them. He had red hair and freckles and a fastidious manner that irritated Mallory the moment the knight opened his mouth. He had been ordered to give them a wealth of instructions, none of which he was prepared to repeat, so they had no choice but to listen.
'Everything here is based around discipline,' he said, 'to focus the mind. Your day will be mapped out for you, and it's a long day, believe me. This isn't a place for the lazy.'
He marched ahead of them with the stiff gait of a well-drilled military man, which made Mallory's loose- limbed amble seem even more lazy. Miller hopped and skipped to keep up like a pony on a rope.
'The knights, however, have a slightly different timetable from the rest,' the red-headed man continued. 'There's a lot of studying, a lot of training. For most people out there-' He motioned towards the sprawl of wooden huts visible through the window. '-the day begins at six a.m. with prime. That's a full service in the cathedral, plainsong, the works. The prayer and chant continues through the day, seven days a week. Terce at nine a.m., sext at midday, none in mid-afternoon, vespers at the end of the afternoon and compline at dusk. After that, everyone retires to their rooms for the great silence and the cathedral is locked. At midnight everyone rises for the night office, followed immediately by the lauds of the dead. It lasts about two hours in total, and then you're off on the cycle again. You will be expected to attend services when you are not involved with your other duties.'
Mallory glanced at Miller; the younger man was clearly enthralled at the strict routine that left Mallory feeling an uncomfortable mixture of depression and defiance.
'Your routine will be individually tailored, depending on where your strengths and weaknesses lie,' the knight continued. 'For the first week or so, it will mainly centre on physical fitness and weapons training.' He eyed them askance. 'To see if you have what it takes to meet the exacting standards required of a Knight Templar.'
Mallory knew enough about the military mindset to understand what that meant: they could look forward to days of gruelling and unnecessary exercises to see if they had the strength of character to continue. And then Blaine — a military man at some level, Mallory guessed — would begin the long task of breaking their spirit so they would obey orders without question.
'After that period, the physical and weapons training will be confined to the early morning, after prime. Then you'll be studying herbalism for treatment of wounds out in the field. The supply of drugs won't last long and there's no infrastructure to manufacture any more. Astronomy is… difficult.' His jaw set. 'But you'll need to navigate by the stars. And then there's the Bible study and philosophy classes. Those are the main ones.'
He brought them into a large oak-panelled room on the first floor. On one wall was fixed a plain wooden sign carved with the legend: 'Let nothing have precedence over divine office' — The Rule of St Benedict.
At the other end of the room was a heavily fortified door beside a window that opened on to a small office stacked with boxes. The knight hammered on the windowsill to attract the attention of a man with a scar that turned his left eye into a permanent squint. He was introduced as Wainwright, the knights' quartermaster.
'Two uniforms?' he said, mentally measuring Mallory and Miller before disappearing into the bowels of the store. He returned a second later.
'Perfect for a torchlight rally,' Mallory said, holding the black shirt up for size.
'Uniforms are to be worn at all times,' the red-haired knight said. 'And that means all times. Being caught without it means the disciplinary procedure.'
Mallory considered asking what this entailed, but he knew it would only depress him further.
The rest of the day was spent in a process that fell somewhere between induction and confession: names, education, abilities, criminal record, past transgressions, hopes, fears. Miller gave them a detailed account of his relationship with his parents and the breakdown of his romance, the catalyst that had propelled him towards Salisbury. Mallory changed his story several times, often during the same strand, before delivering a complex list of dates, times, names and anecdotes that would have taken days of investigation before it was discovered that it made no sense at all.
'They were very nice,' Miller said afterwards, as they picked their way amongst the huts towards the refectory, a large, newly constructed building a stone's throw from the cathedral.
'When you say nice, do you mean prying, interfering, compulsive control freaks?'
Miller looked at him, puzzled. 'No. Nice. They were nice. Didn't you think they were nice?'
'I worry about you, Miller. You're going to be the first person ever to die of unadulterated optimism.'
Miller sighed. 'I don't know why you came here, Mallory. We're going to be part of something big and good. Something important. All you've done is criticise. You're a cynic.'
'You say that as if it's a bad thing.'
'Look, there's Daniels.' Miller nodded towards the knight sauntering ahead of them; he carried himself with confidence, seemingly above the bustle he passed. Mallory noted how many looked at Daniels with respect, if not awe; was it the uniform or the person? 'Come on, let's catch him up,' Miller continued.
'So how long have you been here, Daniels?' Miller asked as he skipped up beside him.
'Two months.' He eyed Miller's skittishness wryly. 'It was this or the circus.'
'That must be when the call first went out. Where were you?'
Daniels looked bemused at Miller's effervescent questioning. 'Bristol.'
