Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

Withypoll didn’t move. As Josselin stood gasping in great lungs of air, I seized his dagger and knelt down at Withypoll’s side, suspecting trickery. He lay with the right side of his face upon the flagstones, eyes open, body unmoving. His sword lay where it fell, well out of reach.

I touched the dagger against his cheek. ‘Are you dead?’ I whispered into his ear.

He mumbled something I couldn’t hear. I leant down closer to his mouth, holding the dagger firmly. His eye moved, focussing upon the end of my nose. His lips moved, and a froth of red blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He tried to speak again but failed, then he stopped breathing and his eye dulled. A knot unwound itself deep within my belly and I felt a surge of immeasurable happiness. Then his hand jerked up and seized my wrist. I threw myself to one side, heart pounding.

Josselin roared loud, leapt forward to retrieve his knife and plunged it into Withypoll’s belly, twisting it until Withypoll lay finally still.

Josselin straightened and turned to Arlington, holding up his blood-smeared palm. ‘Well, then. The killer is dead, but not the villain. Will you take back your sword or shall I cut you down where you stand?’

Arlington spread his palms and blew out his cheeks. ‘I will take my sword, if you be so generous.’

‘We don’t have time,’ I shouted to Josselin. ‘We have to leave, else we shall all die.’

Fire covered every wall as well as the roof, eating steadily through the dry Yorkshire timber. It was only the immense size of the cathedral that meant we could still breathe, but not for much longer. Lead dripped from the ceiling in lethal red globules, splashing onto the floor and smashing the stone.

‘Come on, Josselin,’ I urged, but he ignored me, stood with legs crouched, ready to do battle with Arlington.

‘Your letter,’ I whispered into Josselin’s ear. ‘It will be lost.’

‘Go to the Bishop’s residence,’ he whispered so Arlington couldn’t hear. ‘Go to his office and look amongst his papers.’

My heart sank even further down my bowels. ‘The Bishop of London is involved?’

Arlington cocked his head, trying to listen.

‘No,’ replied Josselin. ‘The Bishop is old and blind, yet he allows no others access to his private correspondence. It was a perfect place to hide the letter. Look for the royal seal.’

Arlington stepped forward, glancing at the ceiling. Josselin scuttled like a great spider, holding his sword in front of him with both hands.

‘We haven’t long, Josselin,’ Arlington warned, placing one hand behind his back.

‘A curse to he who will not obey the Lord’s commandments,’ Josselin replied, face contorted in hatred.

‘Aye, well may God turn your curse into a blessing.’ Arlington caught my eye and pointed at Dowling. ‘Your choice, gentlemen,’ he called. ‘If you stand aside, it’s treachery.’

‘I saved you last time,’ I retorted. ‘Little good it did me.’

‘I humbly beg your forgiveness,’ said Arlington, eyes fixed upon Josselin’s swaying torso. ‘Accept my regrets, and I assure you it will not happen again.’

Josselin lifted his sword and brought it down in a chopping motion towards the older man’s neck. Arlington swivelled on his toes, avoiding the blade. He stepped aside to give himself room before lunging at Josselin’s chest, but Josselin threw himself out of the way.

I watched aghast, uncertain what to do. The fire burnt so loud I couldn’t hear their grunts, nor even the sound of their swords clashing. Dowling grabbed my hair in his fist and shouted in my ear for us to depart, but I was loath to leave Josselin to Arlington’s mercy.

Josselin lunged once more at Arlington, but tripped before he could connect. Arlington opened his mouth wide then brought his blade down heavily across Josselin’s back. Josselin tried to lift himself upon his knees, but failed, crouched afront of Arlington like an old horse, head bowed.

Arlington bared his teeth in cruel satisfaction afore adjusting his breeches and raising his sword two-handed for the final blow. Just as he prepared to swing the sword I picked up a fallen piece of masonry and threw it at his head. He let his sword fall clattering to the floor, and staggered like a drunk, squinting through the smoke as if to see what hit him. My hand burnt, for the rock had smouldered beneath a thin coating of lead. He turned to face me, blood pouring down the

right side of his head, arms dangling loose at his sides. His mouth opened and his knees buckled, and he fell face forwards onto the stone floor.

I dashed forwards to where Josselin lay prone. I rolled him onto his back and Dowling lifted his head. A thin layer of soot coated his long nose and gathered among his eyelashes. His eyes dulled, yet looked upon us with peaceful tranquillity. He appeared sane at last. A thin line of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. I shook him gently, but his eyes closed.

‘I thought he loved me,’ he whispered.

‘We must go,’ Dowling shouted. ‘If it is not too late already.’

The smoke descended and lay thick all around so I could see barely twelve inches in front of my nose. ‘The Bishop’s residence is on our way out,’ I yelled, edging forwards into the black inferno.

Dowling grabbed my sleeve, coughing. ‘We don’t have time.’

I shouted above the din. ‘If that letter burns, they will execute us both and Lucy besides.’

‘We shall all be executed, anyway,’ Dowling grumbled, pulling me forwards.

I crouched down in an attempt to avoid the thickening swirl of choking, black smoke and wished I knew this building better. I knew the door to the Bishop’s residence nestled somewhere in the wall back up the nave, beyond the Little North Door. We ran as fast as we could, avoiding the slow-moving river of red metal trickling across the floor. The cathedral writhed in agony, the sound of its bones cracking echoing all around.

Dowling found the door to the Bishop’s residence. Great clouds of smothering smoke billowed from within when he opened the door. I staggered backwards and stopped where I stood. Dowling looked over his shoulder to find me, his face as black as Josselin’s. I willed my legs to move, but something within me cried out in fear.

‘It’s just the hall,’ Dowling cried out. ‘Beyond is clear.’

He grabbed my sleeve before I could protest and hauled me forwards, coughing and spluttering as loud as I. We emerged into an office, bookshelves lining the walls. Through streaming eyes, I saw an ancient chair and large desk, the back of the desk riddled with small drawers, each with its own handle. Papers protruded from the cracks. We pulled all the drawers open and spread the papers upon the desk, looking for the royal seal.

Dowling stood triumphant, letter held up high. ‘Here!’

I grabbed it from his hand and plunged it deep into my jacket pocket. Already the broken seal felt sticky, the room hot as an oven; the smell of burning leather filled my nostrils.

Back out in the nave I saw nothing but fire and smoke away to our left, back where we left Arlington and Josselin. The river of lead grew thicker now. A mighty piece of timber fell from above, flaming as it fell, followed by a great splash of molten metal. The stone pavement cracked and the floor beneath our feet shook and trembled. An almighty roar bellowed from the depths as the floor to our left fell in, revealing the crypt below. New flames soared high above our heads. The fire raged below, consuming the piles of books and cloth stored beneath. A wall of flame barred our passage out, towards the portico. Another beam of timber collapsed with a deafening shriek, and hurtled from high above, showering us with a deluge of sparks.

Dowling roared and pushed me into the fire. ‘Go, Harry.’