‘Where is Sarah?’ he asked, when he saw the man’s eyelids flutter.
‘Upstairs,’ whispered Dalton. There was another creaking groan as something else readied itself for collapse. The flames roared louder still, and Dalton spoke again. ‘Live … I saved … her and …’
But Chaloner knew Dalton would not live. The wound had pierced a lung, and blood was frothing through his mouth. He also knew that if he took the time to drag the vintner outside, he would never be able to fight his way back to help Sarah and Leybourn. He ignored the desperate scrabbling of Dalton’s fingers and prepared to crawl on.
‘No!’ gasped Dalton, distraught. ‘Do not … leave …’
‘Take him out,’ Chaloner ordered Thurloe.
He did not wait to see whether Thurloe obeyed. He located the stairs, took a slow, careful breath through the waterlogged cloth, then stood and ascended as fast as he could. The smoke was so thick he could not see his hand in front of his face, and he was soon light-headed from lack of air. He dropped to his knees, and began to cough. He groped his way along the upper hallway, trying to recall from the arrangement of windows outside how many rooms there might be. He decided there were two – one on each side of the house – with a further two on the floor above.
An orange haze through the grey-white indicated the chamber to the left was already blazing, while the door to the right was closed. He reached up to the latch. It was cool. He tried to open it, but his fingers were thick and clumsy. Someone collided with him, knocking him to the ground. It was Thurloe, staggering and disoriented. He shoved Chaloner out of the way, stepped back, and crashed into the door with his shoulder. The latch splintered, and the door flew against the wall with a resounding crash that was, even so, barely audible above the deep thunder of flames.
The smoke was thinner inside the room. Thurloe gripped Chaloner’s shirt and hauled him in, while Chaloner slammed the door behind them, hoping to exclude the fumes for a little longer. The room contained a bed and several large blanket chests, but not Sarah or Leybourn. Chaloner sagged in defeat, knowing that if they were anywhere else, they were doomed. The desperate journey had been for nothing, and he could tell by the growing warmth of the door against his back that he and Thurloe would not be leaving the way they had entered. Even in those few moments, the fire had claimed the hall to the point where it was impassable.
‘You should have helped Dalton,’ he said hoarsely to Thurloe, who was gasping at his side.
‘I tried, but a great gout of blood flew from his mouth – something ruptured when I moved him. What now? We cannot go back the way we came.’
Chaloner assessed their situation through smarting eyes. Clothes and bedcovers had been dumped on the floor, as if someone had been rummaging through the chests in a hurry – Sarah, making a rapid selection of clothes, so she could leave her husband and go to her brother. But there was something odd. Surely, she would not have wasted time closing and latching them again, especially when half their contents were strewn across the room? Chaloner staggered towards the first one, and unfastened the lid. Leybourn’s white face gazed out at him. While Thurloe searched for Sarah, Chaloner tugged the gag from the bookseller’s mouth and cut through the rope that bound his hands and feet.
Leybourn hauled himself upright. ‘Christ in heaven! Dalton was going to leave us here to burn!’
‘We might burn yet. The stairs have gone, and the only escape is through the window.’
‘Knotted covers,’ croaked Leybourn, lurching towards the bed. ‘In a rope.’
Thurloe had freed Sarah, who flung herself into his arms, sobbing her relief, although not for long. She was made of sterner stuff and soon pulled herself together, wiping away the tears to leave smudges across her cheeks. She coughed. ‘The smoke is getting thicker.’
‘It is unbreathable in the hallway,’ said Thurloe. He flung open the window, then staggered back as there was a sharp crack. ‘Bennet!’
‘Surely not!’ cried Sarah. She edged towards the window. ‘I can see a bandage around his head.’
‘It is me he wants,’ said Thurloe. ‘If I go first, he may leave the rest of you alone. And anyway, he cannot pop away at survivors indefinitely. Someone will stop him.’
‘They will not,’ said Chaloner, who had seen the way the onlookers had scattered when Bennet had appeared with his gun. ‘They are too frightened of him. Besides, it is not just you they want. Snow is waiting for Sarah, and Bennet hates me as well as you.’
There was another roar, and the door began to smoulder. Then flames licked up it, and Chaloner saw the smoke in the bedchamber drift towards the crack under the lintel. The fire was greedy for air, and it would not be many moments before the fragile barrier disintegrated, and the room would be full of flames.
‘Hurry with your rope,’ he instructed Leybourn. He took a chair and used it to smash the window, glass and frame together. Immediately, there was another crack, and a chunk of plaster was gouged from the ceiling.
Thurloe shoved him to one side. ‘Do you want them to hit you? What are you doing?’
‘Preparing for a clear shot. Give me your gun.’
‘Wait,’ shouted Sarah. She snatched up one of her discarded dresses. ‘You only have one chance, and you will certainly miss if he is shooting at you at the same time. I will distract him.’
She waited until he nodded that he was ready, then hurled the dress out of the window. Bennet fired almost immediately. Simultaneously, Chaloner aimed and pulled his own trigger. A second later, a bullet slapped into the wall, missing him by no more than the width of a hand.
‘They must have several guns each,’ said Thurloe, ‘which is why they do not need to reload.’
‘Did you hit either of them?’ asked Leybourn, as he ripped and knotted blankets with hands that shook with fear.
Chaloner peered out of the window, then jumped back when two more shots sounded. One tore into the jagged remnants of the window frame, while the other cracked into the wall outside. Meanwhile, the door was burning more brightly. ‘Unfortunately not.’
‘We could just throw ourselves out,’ suggested Leybourn, tying one end of his rope to the bed. ‘We may survive the fall, assuming Bennet does not shoot us as we drop.’
Chaloner took the dagger from his sleeve. He held it by the blade, then stepped forward and hurled it to where he could see Snow leaning across the garden wall. It glinted as it sped towards its target, and then was lost. He heard the sound of jeering. The flames were almost through the door. He retrieved the knife from his boot and hurled it towards the laughter with all his might, more from frustration than any genuine attempt to hit anyone. The taunting cries stopped abruptly.
‘You got one,’ said Thurloe. He coughed. ‘Snow, I think. Bennet is running away.’
‘Quickly,’ said Chaloner, grabbing Leybourn’s rope. ‘Sarah.’
She did not waste precious time arguing about priority, but scrambled on to the window sill, and clambered down the rope, hand-over-hand, like a sailor. She released it and dropped the last few feet, to give the others more time. Leybourn was next, slower and more clumsy.
‘Go!’ shouted Chaloner to Thurloe, before Leybourn was more than halfway down.
‘You first,’ said Thurloe. ‘Hurry.’
Chaloner began to climb. Then there was a low, ominous roar, and he knew the door had finally given way. He looked up, waiting for Thurloe to appear. He did not.
‘No!’ cried Sarah. She reached for the rope, her face twisted into an agony of grief. ‘John!’
Chaloner hauled himself upwards, reaching the sill to see the room full of flames. Thurloe was lying on the floor. Raising one hand to protect his face, Chaloner forced himself back inside the chamber and grabbed the inert body. He cursed his clumsy hands as he knotted the blanket around Thurloe’s chest, then straddled the sill, heaving the older man out of the window like a sack of grain.