‘No – we never imagined one would be necessary,’ gasped the Warden, his face ashen.
‘We lied,’ whispered Father Julien, who was on his knees, hands clasped in prayer. ‘And this is God’s judgement on us.’
‘Lied about what?’ demanded Michael.
‘The dagger that killed the Girards,’ said Julien. ‘Of course we recognised it – they are made all around Rouen. But if we had admitted it, you would have accused us of murder …’
It was no time for recriminations, so Michael went to help with the children, while Bartholomew conducted a panicky search of the balcony. But Tangmer was right: there was only one way in or out, and that was locked. Three of the walls were solid stone, while the fourth was the wooden screen designed to keep lepers away from the healthy. The screen was sturdy, and would not be smashed without an axe – which they did not have.
Yet it did flex when Bartholomew thumped it in frustration. He examined the way it had been secured to the wall, and saw someone had been criminally miserly with the nails. There were plenty to anchor it in place where it met the knee-high wall at the bottom, but there were only a few at the sides, and none at all along the top.
‘Help me!’ he rasped, kicking it as hard as he could. The Jacques joined in and so did Tangmer, but their efforts were more frantic than scientific, and were aimed at the wrong spots entirely. Then Michael approached.
‘Stand back!’ he shouted.
He trotted to the back of the balcony, lowered his shoulder and charged, gaining speed with every thundering step. He struck the screen plumb in the middle, so hard that Bartholomew flinched for him. There was a screaming groan as the wood tore free at the top and sides, although the bottom held firm. Then the top flopped forward in a graceful arc to land with a crash on the nave floor below.
Michael was moving far too fast to stop, so his momentum carried him over the wall and out of sight. Horrified, Bartholomew darted forward to see that the screen now formed a very steep ramp, down which Michael was dancing, arms flailing in alarm. The monk reached the bottom and staggered to a standstill.
‘I meant to do that,’ he lied. ‘Now bring everyone down. Hurry!’
No one needed to be told twice. They slid and scampered down the screen like monkeys, grateful that the smoke was less dense below. Confident no one would escape, Joan had not bothered to lock the side door, so everyone was soon outside, coughing and gasping in relief. The Jacques began to scout for signs of their would-be killers.
‘We can douse the flames,’ rasped Tangmer. ‘Save our chapel.’
‘No,’ barked Bartholomew. ‘You must leave now or the rioters will–’
He faltered when there was an urgent yell from Delacroix. The townsfolk had finally succeeded in setting the gates alight, and were hammering through the weakened wood with a battering ram.
‘To the tunnel!’ shouted Bartholomew, hoping Cynric would be able to stage a second diversion with very little warning.
He began to lead the way, aware that the besiegers’ howls had changed to something harder and darker now that victory was within their grasp. He had no doubt that anyone caught inside the Spital would be cut down, regardless of who they were. There would be regrets and shame later, but that would not help those who were dead.
Then there was a crash, and the gates fell inwards. The rioters poured across them, screaming for blood. In the vanguard were Heltisle’s Horde, their faces twisted with hate. The peregrini children whimpered in terror.
Bartholomew stopped running and turned to face them. It was too late to lead anyone to safety now. He picked up a stick from the ground and prepared to fight. Michael came to stand next to him.
‘We nearly did it,’ the monk whispered, his voice heavy with regret. ‘Just a few more moments and we would have been away.’
Suddenly, there was a rumble of hoofs, and Joan emerged from the stables on Dusty, the three knights at her heels. Their appearance through the drifting smoke was distinctly unearthly. All wore cloaks that flapped behind them and masks that hid their faces. Seeing the gate down, and knowing it would be easier to escape that way than coaxing their nervous mounts back along the tunnel, they thundered towards it.
‘Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse,’ muttered Bartholomew, sickened to know they would never face justice.
‘With Joan as Death,’ said Michael. ‘It is an apt analogy.’
But as the Prioress approached the gate, a spark from the burning chapel landed on the cloak she had taken from Amphelisa. There was a dull thump as the oils in it ignited. Suddenly, she was no longer a person, but a mass of bright, leaping flames. She screamed in horror and pain, and Dusty, terrified by the inferno that raged so suddenly above him, took off like an arrow. Those in his path scattered in alarm.
Then there came an unmistakable voice from behind them. It was Cynric, who had grown increasingly alarmed by the length of time Bartholomew and Michael were taking, so had come to find out what they were doing.
‘Satan!’ he howled. ‘It is Satan, straight from Hell!’
‘He is right,’ yelled Isnard. ‘Margery said he was coming to live here. Well, here he is!’
‘Run!’ screamed Cynric at the top of his lungs. ‘He wants our souls!’
Joan was burning more brilliantly than ever, and gave a shriek of such agony that it did not sound human. Heltisle’s Horde turned and raced back through the gates. Their panic was contagious and within moments the Spital was empty, scholars jostling with townsfolk to hare towards the safety of home.
In the distance, louder and shriller than the wails of the mob, was Joan’s voice, as Dusty bore her in the opposite direction. Bartholomew ran to the gates and looked down the road after her. She blazed for what seemed like a very long time before the flames finally winked out of sight.
Epilogue
It was surprisingly easy for Michael and Tulyet to restore the peace following the events at the Spital. Word spread fast that Satan had appeared in the form of blazing Death, and most people fled to the churches, where their priests urged them to pray for deliverance.
Once they had begged the Almighty for mercy, few felt like risking His wrath by indulging in another skirmish. They emerged subdued when dawn broke the following morning, and most went about their business quietly, lest they attracted the wrong kind of attention. A few hotheads declined to give up, but Michael’s beadles and Tulyet’s soldiers quickly rounded them up and locked them away until their tempers cooled.
As soon as it was light enough to see, Bartholomew and Michael went to look for Joan, to retrieve her body before anyone guessed the truth and decided to resume the assault on the Spital. They found her by the side of the road, still smouldering, but identifiable by her size and the Lyminster ring-seal on her finger. They also found Dusty. The horse had managed to throw his rider before she had done him any serious harm, after which he found a quiet woodland glade and began to denude it of grass.
Joan’s nuns collected her charred remains, and arranged to take them home. Michael could not imagine how they would explain what had happened to her in their official report – he was not sure what to say in his own. Magistra Katherine assumed command, and seemed much more comfortable in the role than Joan had ever been.
Leger and his two cronies did not get far either. Their plan had been to ride straight to the King and denounce Tulyet as a traitor, but the road south was so badly rutted that they were forced to dismount and walk. The call to arms meant the whole country was alert for suspicious activities, and three warriors slinking along in the dark shocked the villagers of nearby Trumpington into action. The next day, they presented a trio of arrow-studded corpses to Tulyet, and informed him that the French army was now minus three of its spies.