London - Edward Rutherfurd [143]
As he emerged from the tunnel, it was the noise that Osric noticed first. A dull, continuous roar coming from the city. Only as he reached the boat and turned round did he see it.
It was an astounding sight. Hissing, crackling, sending up explosions of sparks, the fire was leaping up like a single flame round the rim of the curving slopes above. Here and there a flare suddenly rose as though some huge, unseen dragon was lurking behind the hill, breathing flames as it devoured the city. And looming up before this encircling ring of fire was the great, black shadow of the Tower.
It was a striking picture, but he had no time to look.
Ignoring the flashing and spluttering flames on the hill above, he dived back into the blackness of the tunnel.
Ralph hurried down the hill. Below him, lit by the flames, stood the huge mass of the Tower.
His progress had been delayed. Twice as he hastened across the western hill he had been forced to pause to direct people who were trying to contain the fire. Whatever his faults, he was a man of action. Using a chain of men from the garrison at Ludgate, he had attempted to save a house by passing buckets of water from a well. “Douse your roofs,” he had cried to the people in Poultry. At the Walbrook stream, he had made another concerted attempt to hold the fire. But even as they watched, the great red monster had flown hissing and spitting across a hundred-foot gap from one thatched roof to another. Finally realizing that it was useless, he had hurried on through streets of panic-stricken people, feeling the flames behind him as he ran ahead of their roar towards the great, grim silence of the waiting Tower.
In a few bounds, he was up the wooden staircase. With hardly a glance back at the encircling flames, he strode through the doorway into the main hall, calling for the guard.
There was no sound. He went through the chamber, heading towards the stairs to the cellar. There was a torch burning in an iron bracket, but no guard. Ralph cursed. No doubt the fellow had gone to look at the fire. Seizing the torch to light him on his way, he unlocked the door and went down the spiral stairs.
At first, as he gazed around the chamber and the main western cellar, he saw nothing.
Then he noticed the open drain. So that was it. Taking up a position with his sword, he waited for someone to come up. Nobody did. He waited a little more, straining to hear. After a while, fearing that perhaps the conspirators might already be making their escape, he cautiously lowered himself down. Holding the torch in one hand and his sword in the other, he advanced along the passage.
More than half the weapons were stowed away. It would not be long now before the loading was done. After that Osric had one trip back up the passage to make sure he had not dropped anything. The tide was starting to come in. So much the better. It would be easier to get the heavy boat off the mud.
He was just bending over the boat, stowing some spears, when he heard a sound behind him, turned, and saw the familiar, long-nosed face of Ralph Silversleeves emerging from the passage.
The Norman straightened up and smiled. “Alone, Osric?” he asked. Then, glancing around: “I think so.” Seeing Osric’s astonished face, he calmly went on: “You are arrested, Osric, in the name of the king,” and, advancing across the mud, he pointed his sword at the little fellow’s midriff. “You thought you could deceive me with your friends, didn’t you?” he hissed. “But soon, perhaps in there,” he jerked his head towards the Tower, “you are going to tell me all about it.”
The flames were leaping higher than ever above the slopes. From somewhere behind All Hallows there was a great crack and a billow of flame. The red flashes lit the Norman’s face, half pale, half in brutal shadow.
It was now that poor Osric made his foolish move. Scrambling into the boat, he snatched for a weapon. A moment later, his face ghostly white, his eyes larger and more solemn than ever, he faced