Pat McIntosh - The King's Corrodian

‘Fire,’ he said, flinging back the clothes, groping for his outer garments. ‘There’s fire in the convent. I must go and help.’

‘Mercy on us, we’ll be burned in our beds!’ said Jennet. Alys straightened the bedclothes and swung her legs out of bed, feeling for the tinder box on the stool beside her. When she had a light she went to the chamber door and peered out.

‘There is nothing to see on this side of the building,’ she reported. ‘The fire is in the convent itself, maybe? Socrates, quiet!’

‘What is it, mem?’ Nory’s voice. Gil dragged on the leather jerkin he had ridden in and stepped into his boots.

‘Fire somewhere in the convent,’ he called, and bent to buckle the straps. ‘You men rouse yourselves, we can lend a hand.’

Crossing the outer chamber he ordered the dog to stay and unbarred the guest-hall door. The night was cloudy, with only a few stars showing, but there was a red glow rising from behind the hall, over in the priory. The bell was still ringing, and as he emerged into the raw cold the lay brothers appeared, trotting in a tight disciplined group, rakes and hay-forks at the port and Brother Dickon recognisable at their head in the eerie light.

‘Aye, maister,’ he called across the courtyard, ‘we’ll likely be glad o yir help.’

Gil let the door slam behind him and followed, through the narrow passage by the library into the main cloister. A towering column of red-lit smoke full of sparks was visible from here, not rising from this range of buildings but beyond.

‘The infirmary!’ said one of the lay brothers. ‘Ser- Brother Dickon, it’s the infirmary!’

‘Aye, lad,’ said his superior. ‘I’ve een in my heid.’

In the small courtyard by the infirmary building there was panic and disorder. Prior Boyd and another elderly man were planted stock-still in the middle of the courtyard, the one praying aloud, the other lamenting incoherently. About them friars ran to and fro shouting, their black and white lit wildly by the leaping flames which issued from the windows of the infirmary. The fire burned with a greedy sound, a snapping and crackling and roaring, and a heat which struck the face and hands. Someone was hauling on the handle of the draw-well, making the wooden mechanism squeal, while someone else hastened with a bucket.

Brother Dickon halted his troop at the entrance to the courtyard and assessed the situation.

‘Dod, Archie, Tammas, get across and help them deal wi the roof,’ he said decisively. ‘Jamesie, Eck, go and get a bucket chain together. Maister, will you come wi me? I need to learn if that laddie got out.’

‘My thought and all,’ said Gil rather grimly.

‘Rattray?’ said Prior Boyd when Brother Dickon grasped his sleeve. ‘Why, no, I- Our Lady protect him! James? Did Andrew get out?’

‘Andrew?’ His elderly companion turned a horrified face to the flames. ‘Oh, David! Oh, Our Lady forgive me! I never — I never thought-’

‘Where is he lodged?’ Gil demanded.

‘Along at the end,’ said the elderly friar, wringing his hands. ‘By the last window, in a wee cell by himself. Maybe he heard me shouting,’ he said hopefully. ‘Maybe he heard me shout “Fire!” or the bell or that.’

Gil did not pause to answer him, but plunged towards the burning building. It was a timber-framed structure of three bays, the red roof-tiles now cracking and shattering in the heat, the upper floor beginning to catch. The last window disgorged a furious blaze, flames licking out and upwards like dancing devils.

At his shoulder Brother Dickon bawled, ‘We’ll never get into that, but he might ha got out the cell. Here, maister!’

He produced a length of rag from under his scapular, and then another, dunked them in a passing bucket of water, handed Gil one. Tying it about his face, Gil followed him into the blaze, with a quick silent prayer to St Giles for protection.

He would have nightmares about it for years, he thought afterwards. The wet cloth helped, but the smoke bit at his eyes, obscured everything, and groping through a strange building amidst flames and roaring heat seemed to take more courage than he had known he possessed. Sparks and flakes of burning wood fell past him, a table in flames appeared before him and collapsed as he moved round it. Strange smells caught his throat, even behind the wet rag, as the infirmarer’s stock burned.

He kept as close as he could to Brother Dickon, who suddenly dropped to his knees. Gil knew a surge of alarm, but the older man crawled forward, feeling from side to side, and he realised that the air was clearer near the ground and got down likewise. For what seemed like forever they searched the outer chamber in this way, the flames crackling round them, burning debris falling like snow, but when Brother Dickon opened a door in the far wall a great gout of flame rushed out, with a roar like a lion’s. The Dominican rolled over, away from the door, and scrambled to his feet, half crouching.

‘Run!’ he bellowed, and stumbled back the way they had come. Gil rose, coughing, and followed him, and suddenly a dark shape loomed before them, one of the other lay brothers, grasping an arm of each with strong hard hands, pulling them towards the door.

They lurched choking from the building just as the far end collapsed with a great crash, flames shooting up into the night sky. Someone threw a bucket of water over Gil, which was when he realised that his hair and his hose were smouldering, and someone else held another bucket so that he could drink palmfuls of the water to soothe his throat.

‘Did you find him? Did you find him?’ It was the elderly Infirmarer, his hands shaking in the firelight.

‘No, Faither,’ said Brother Dickon hoarsely by his side. ‘We went as far’s we dared, and no sign o him. I doubt he’s never got out o his cell.’

‘But was he locked in?’ Alys smeared more green ointment on Tam’s brow. ‘Or had he perhaps had a sleeping draught?’

‘No to both.’ Gil tipped his head back against the upright back of the settle. The two women had lit the fire again and it was warm here in the guest hall; he was already beginning to think of the place as a refuge. At his feet Jennet knelt over a pannikin of wine, swirling it in the firelight to infuse the spices she had added. ‘Father James seems to have panicked, and simply run out of the building shouting “Fire!” It’s fortunate that someone in the dorter heard him, or it could have spread to the main range.’

‘It was burning fiercest at that end the building,’ observed Nory. ‘Where they said he was lodged, I mean. I doubt maybe it started there. Likely the laddie was owercome by the smoke and never knew what was happening, poor chiel. God send it was quick.’ He crossed himself, and Dandy did likewise.

‘We’ll hope that,’ said Tam, and flinched as Alys anointed another burn.

‘Or maybe it was the Devil carried him away,’ said Euan in portentous tones, ‘like the other one.’

‘Mercy on us!’ Jennet exclaimed. ‘There must be something badly amiss wi this place, maister, that the Devil can come and go as he likes! Should we maybe no leave here and lodge wi the Greyfriars?’

‘This fire was very different,’ said Gil. ‘The one which consumed Pollock was confined to one place, almost as if it was in a brazier, and the rest of the house is near undamaged. This one has destroyed the entire infirmary, like an ordinary house fire, and a fierce one at that. If you lads hadny been here I think it could have been worse. Father Prior may be a great scholar and a famous preacher, but he’s no man for quick action.’

‘Aye, the Infirmarer was fair lamenting his ointments and simples,’ said Nory. ‘He hardly kent which to grieve for the more, all his way of life gone up in flames or the young man that was trapped.’ His tone was disapproving.