He bounded to one side and ran down the nave, his sword flashing in the light from the stained-glass windows. ‘Shit!’ Barak said. ‘Come on.’ He ran after Wright and I followed, as fast as I could, down St Paul’s Walk. Wright had paused, his way was blocked by a large family party heading for the door to the roof. Even if he slashed his way through them, Barak would have time to reach him and strike him down.
Wright turned and ran for the door. An elderly couple had just reached the bottom of the stairs; the woman yelled as Wright thrust her aside and began running up, Barak at his heels. I ran after them, my robe billowing around me. By the time I neared the top of the staircase I could scarcely breathe, my throat was burning as it had after the fire and for a second I tasted smoke. I saw the open door to the roof ahead, a rectangle of sky.
I raced up the last few steps. The breeze, colder and stronger here, struck my burning face. Ahead of me was the broad flat roof, the great wooden spire thrusting five hundred feet into the sky. Over the low parapet I saw all London laid out before me, the river curling like a snake, dark grey clouds looming right overhead now. Frightened strollers stood crouched against the parapet, staring at Barak. He had Wright at bay, his back against the steeple, sword held up as Barak circled. Wright was big and fast, but Barak was younger and faster. I ran over to join him, standing between Wright and the door to the stairs, holding my dagger just beyond reach of Wright’s sword. Behind me, people began running for the door.
A mocking smile appeared on Barak’s face. He waved a beckoning hand at Wright.
‘Come on, bully, it’s all up now. You shouldn’t have left your mate Toky at home. Drop the sword and come quietly. We don’t want you dead, just got some questions Lord Cromwell wants answered. Answer him nicely and he’ll make you rich.’
‘No, he won’t.’ Wright’s voice was deep and heavy. ‘He’ll make me dead.’ His eyes darted between Barak and me; I could see he was calculating whether he could rush me and get to the door. My stomach clenched with fear at that thought. But I would not let him escape, not now, no matter what the cost. I took a firm stance. Wright saw my resolution and his eyes roved between us wildly; he knew he was trapped.
‘Come on,’ Barak said. ‘If you tell Lord Cromwell all, you may be spared the rack, eh?’
Then Wright jumped away from the steeple; not at me but away from us both, further out on the roof The move took us by surprise. Barak jumped after him and I followed, helping him edge the big man towards the parapet to trap him again. Wright looked over his shoulder at the dizzying drop. He ran his tongue over his lips, swallowed, then spoke again, his voice suddenly high-pitched with fear.
‘I always vowed I’d never hang! I vowed it again when I saw that man in the yard.’
‘What!’ Barak paused, his sword held in mid-air. I guessed what Wright meant before Barak and made a grab for his arm but he had already leapt onto the parapet. I believe he would have jumped anyway, but in glancing round at me he lost his balance and fell over. He vanished into the great void without even a cry. We ran to the parapet, but by then Wright had already hit the ground. He lay there a hundred feet below, his face a white blob, blood from his smashed body spreading slowly out across the yard.
Chapter Forty-three
BARAK PULLED ME FROM the roof and hustled me down the stairs. At the cathedral entrance a number of people who had already run down were talking excitedly to some cathedral officials; as we neared the door a woman ran in screaming that a man was fallen from the roof. The officials raised their hands and bade them speak quietly, concerned above all with not interrupting the archbishop’s sermon. We slipped out unnoticed.
Barak led me at a half-run into the maze of alleys round Foster Lane. He stopped at last near the Goldsmiths’ Hall, leaning against the wall of a candlemaker’s shop where a moon-faced apprentice stood in the doorway calling out, ‘Tallow candles, farthing a dozen!’ over and again. I collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath.
‘Take off your robe,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll be looking for a man in lawyer’s garb.’
I pulled it off, bundling it under my arm. Barak straightened his doublet and looked around. The apprentice ignored us, calling his master’s wares and occasionally pushing a lock of sweat-soaked hair back from his face.
‘Come on,’ Barak said. ‘There’ll be a hue and cry out soon. Bishop Bonner will be furious, a sword fight in the cathedral while the archbishop himself was preaching.’
‘It’ll be a murder hunt. And I’ll be identified - a hunchback lawyer will be easily remembered. They’ll be looking for a bald young man too. Here.’ I gave him my cap - his own had fallen off during the struggle in the cathedral. He put it on.
‘Thanks. I have the earl’s seal, but we haven’t time to argue with thick-headed constables.’
I wiped my brow. Over the roofs I could see the upper storeys of the Guildhall. Was it really only a fortnight since I had stood there as a respected barrister? Before Joseph came and set me on this dreadful, frantic journey?
‘What now?’ I asked wearily. ‘The warehouse?’