I FOLLOWED HIM BACK through the kitchen, into the hall. The broken-down old house was silent again except for that slow drip-drip from somewhere.
‘The sound came from upstairs,’ I whispered. ‘God’s death, what’s that?’ I jumped back in alarm as four black shapes scurried along the side of the wall, then shot out of the door.
‘Rats.’ Barak gave a bark of nervous laughter.
‘Why should they be running away?’
The awful moaning began again, a keening wail that broke into choking sobs. I looked up the dark staircase. ‘That came from Sepultus’s workshop.’
Barak set his jaw and, sword held ready, began mounting the stairs. I followed slowly. Barak held the candle high. It cast our shadows into monstrous forms on the wall.
The workshop door was open. Barak banged it wide, lest anyone was hiding behind it. But the room was silent, although the slow drip-drip was louder. He stepped inside. I followed him, nearly gagging at the awful stench. ‘Oh, Jesus,’ Barak whispered. ‘Oh, our Saviour.’
The room was still bare except for Sepultus’s large table. Young George Green was lying sprawled across it. His eyes, wide and still in death, glimmered in the candlelight. His throat had been cut horribly; the table was covered with dark blood that still dripped slowly, one thick drop at a time, to the floor. Sprawled over him, weeping, her arms flung round his body, was Bathsheba, her dress torn and cut and soaked with blood.
Barak was the first to move. He crossed to Bathsheba, who gave a little cry and flinched. He leant over her. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We won’t harm you. Who did this?’
I stood beside him as Bathsheba tried to speak. To my horror, when she opened her mouth a foamy trickle of blood spilled out; she too was badly hurt. She tried to speak, but managed only to moan again. I laid a hand on her shoulder, trying not to shudder at the sticky wetness. I tried to see where she was injured, but it was too dark and she would not let go of her brother’s body.
‘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.