The Devil in Green (52 page)

'Looks like it's a cremation for us,' Mallory said. 'And I'd got my eye on
such a lovely headstone.'

Gardener grunted, 'I think—'

'I know what they're doing,' Mallory snapped. 'Get your arm around
Hipgrave. And I just want to say that if these are the last moments of my
life, I really am pig-sick I'm spending them linked to you two.'

There was some communication between the captain and the guard
who had moved out of sight near the North Gate. A second later, the
guard reappeared and shouted, 'Now!'

Mallory and Gardener moved as fast as they could; Hipgrave's heels
didn't even touch the ground. The Blues raised their weapons. Mallory
kept his vision trained directly ahead. The buildings on either side passed
in a blur, still swathed in shadows, the dawn light only limning the edges.

Halfway along the street, the shadows became movement on either side.
Still Mallory didn't look. Fear would take the strength from his legs, threat
would deflect his single-minded purpose and there would be little point in
standing and fighting. Drained from the night's exertions, his breath
burned in his throat.

The smell of something that had lain in damp soil rose up around him.
He had the fleeting sense of fluttering wings, frightened birds in flight, of
red brake-lights, of a striking cobra and a dog's snapping jaws.

Fire rained down all around them. Heat seared past Mallory's cheeks,
brought starburst trails across his vision. The air was thick with the
suffocating stink of burning tar.

Something lashed past the back of his neck, the backwash of air
suggesting great weight, barely missing him. The sense of pursuit lay
heavy on his back, relentless, drawing slightly closer with each second.

Twice he almost slipped on the slick flagstones as they turned into High
Street, only righting himself at the last instant. Gardener kept pace,
but Hipgrave swung wildly, threatening to overbalance them. The Blues
retreated apace, still firing.

And then they were at the gates. The Blues backed in, leaving a small
tunnel at their centre. Mallory and Gardener didn't stop until they heard
the gates swing shut with a resounding clang, and then came the thunder
of something heavy slamming into it.

They dropped Hipgrave unceremoniously. Gardener bowed his head in
silent prayer, but Mallory looked up to the lightening sky, breathing deeply
in relief.

But then he saw the grim faces of the Blues and the growing desperation
of the brethren making their way to prime, and he realised the enormity of
the trial that lay ahead for all of them.

'Everything that happens is just and fair to the gods, but humans regard some
things as just and others as unjust.'
-
Heraclitus

October passed like the tolling of a funeral bell. In the brethren's makeshift
dormitories and the stone chambers of the knights' barracks, the nights
crept by with bone-aching cold barely kept at bay by rough blankets.
The days were bright and crisp, the wind whistling through the gothic
architecture lowering over them with an unsettling character that hinted at
sentience. Every night the attacks on the gate continued unabated. Every
day brothers would creep up to the walkway to look desperately towards
the city centre, knowing things were looking back at them, daring them to
venture out into the seemingly empty street beyond. And over it all hung
the oppressive presence of the Adversary, felt more than seen, but
unmistakably there, watching, waiting, cold and hateful.

Within the cathedral compound, tensions rose at the realisation that the
siege was not going to end, while the leaders hadn't yet identified a suitable
plan to get them out of the predicament. Rations were tightened, and
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.