London - Edward Rutherfurd [142]
Ralph’s jaw dropped. “Which friends?”
“The man who makes armour. Alfred, yes? And also a little man with a round head. No nose.” She laughed. “Maybe they think you won’t catch them, but you will.” Then, giving his head a kiss, she happily announced, “I go to my father now,” and was gone.
In the silence that followed, nobody spoke. Hilda, staring down at her embroidery, felt her mind in a whirl. How the girl had seen the two men with Osric she had no idea. What it might mean, she dared not think. At last, she glanced towards Ralph.
He was sitting very still, staring at the fire. He seemed to have forgotten her, but his face was working, as though in pain. How could he have overlooked that link? Yet it was so obvious. Barnikel the friend of Alfred. Alfred the friend of Osric. Osric, the wretched little serf he had found in the Tower cellars. The Tower cellars, where the arms were stored. The Tower cellars, for which Alfred had made the locks.
And suddenly he saw it. How they had done it, he could not imagine. Nor why. But now, jumping up from his seat, he cried out aloud:
“The devils. I know what they’ve done. I know where the arms are hidden!”
“Where?” asked Henri quietly.
“The Tower itself!” Ralph shouted. Then, to Hilda’s terror, he added: “I’ll go there now.”
And he rushed out of the house, followed by Henri.
Hilda ran swiftly. In the darkness, it seemed to her that she flew. Past the long shadow of St Paul’s she ran, then down the western hill towards the Walbrook.
She knew she must hurry. It might even be too late. But whatever the risks, even if there were spies watching his house, she knew where she must go.
She must tell Barnikel. He would know what to do.
So great was her urgency, she scarcely noticed that the fire which had started earlier had now been spread by the wind all the way along the line of the West Cheap and was attacking some of the houses on the eastern hill.
Nor did she notice something else much stranger. As she ran down the hill, other feet were running softly not far behind her.
She crossed the little bridge over the Walbrook and started along Candlewick Street. It was empty now. She was panting so hard that she could hear nothing else. Her chest was hurting. Reaching the London Stone, she paused for a moment to catch her breath and heal the stitch in her side. She leaned forward, her hands on her knees.
The strong hands took her completely by surprise as they suddenly grabbed her, pinned her arms, and threw a cloak over her head. Before she had time to scream, they were dragging her swiftly into an alley.
The job was easier than Osric had thought. He had soon established a rhythm. First he took all the arms out of the chamber and across to the grille. Letting them down into the drain was not as hard as he had imagined; it took only half an hour. After this, he dragged them in bundles down the black passage until he reached the faint outline of the grille in the riverbank.
Two hours after he had entered the cellar, he was ready to load the arms on to the boat.
Only one thing had surprised him. Each time he had come down the passage towards the grille, it had seemed to him that the sky outside was lighter. Though he had somewhat lost track of time as he worked, he knew it was still only the first half of the night. It could not possibly be the light of dawn he was seeing. So when, finally, he stepped out on to the mud, he received a shock.
Blown by the wind, the fire that had begun on the western hill had developed a huge and terrible life of its own. Not only were the wooden buildings of London tinder-dry; not only was there a wind behind the leaping flames; but once it reaches a certain critical point, a great fire creates a wind of its own. So it was that on this night in the autumn of 1087, the huge fire had taken hold. Crackling and roaring, it had