Tom Harper: Siege of Heaven

In an instant, the sullen resignation in the room turned to panic. The monumental stones of the monastery’s foundations might be immune to fire, but the ramshackle wooden superstructures that Pakrad had built on it would burn like kindling. The Varangians turned to the walls and heaved with all their might on the ringbolts; they flexed their wrists and tried to pull the ropes apart with brute strength. Nothing would give. The smoke thickened; through the hole in the ceiling I could see sparks and embers dancing on air in the night sky. If a single one fell on the dry-baked straw roof. .

‘At least we won’t be tied up much longer,’ muttered Aelfric. He had lifted his hands to his mouth and was trying to gnaw through the bonds like a rat. He spat out a wad of fibres. ‘If the roof drops on us, it’ll burn these ropes clean through.’

‘And us with them.’ I had found a corner of stone that protruded from the wall and was rubbing my wrists against it, trying to saw through the rope. It did not even dent it.

With a squeak and a bang, the door flew open. A murky, light filled the corridor beyond like dawn, though we were still hours from sunrise: one of Pakrad’s men stood silhouetted in its glow. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes wild with surprise; he had not even had time to put on armour or helmet, but the long, curved knife in his hand was steady enough. He took two steps into the room, towards the nearest prisoner — but whether he came to execute or to free us we never learned. Shouts from the corridor stopped him mid-stride. He turned back to the doorway, but his way was blocked, and this time the man who stood there had not forgotten his armour. He wore the coned helmet of the Franks, though with sackcloth hanging from its rim so that only his eyes were visible, and a loaded crossbow was wedged to his shoulder.

I did not know who fought this battle but it hardly mattered: we were merely spectators. The guard sprang towards the door, then seemed to halt, caught like a spark on a breeze. The crack of the bow still echoed around the chamber as he staggered back, clutching his breast where the bolt had struck, and collapsed. The knife dropped from his hand and skidded across the smooth-worn floor.

The Frank stared into the room. Eight pairs of captive eyes stared back in silence. Behind the sackcloth veil, I felt his eyes fixed upon me as he slowly put the curved end of the bow on the ground, held it down with his foot and leaned over to haul the string back into position. Even in that brief motion, he seemed to fade before me. Tears stung my eyes and I felt ashamed. Was this how I would face my death? At least Sigurd would not see me: through all the commotion he still lay unconscious under his blanket, eyes shut. Though he, too, seemed to be fading away from me. Is this how death comes, I wondered, the world gradually thinning to a mist as we recede from it? Warmth suffused my body; my head felt light, while at the door the knight loaded his bolt.

A ball of fire fell like a star from the sky and I looked up in horror. Death was reaching out for me, but it would not be the quick passage I had hoped for. A gaping hole had opened in the roof, fringed with a jagged halo of burning straw spreading ever outwards as it devoured the thatch. Flames licked high above it.

Whether the Frank with the crossbow decided the fire would do his work for him, or whether he simply did not see us in the smoke and darkness, I never found out. He loaded his bow, then turned and disappeared down the corridor. In the madness of those moments I almost called him back so I could die quickly, but he would not have heard me. And I would die soon enough.

Ash and soot rained down on us, as if we sat in the grate of an enormous hearth. Across the room, I could see one of the Varangians stretching forward like a horse pulling its reins, still trying even now to escape. The swirl of smoke and flame made illusions of the world, so that for a second I could almost imagine that he had managed to free himself. Shadows rose above him so that he seemed to be standing; they moved across the room, shifting and turning as if ducking away from the falling embers.

A hot shard pressed against my wrist, searing flesh already chafed raw by my bonds. The roof-beams had started to burn, and a piece of debris must have fallen on me. I screamed and squirmed, trying to dislodge it, but it had a will of its own and would not go away. It writhed against my skin; it slithered back and forth, so I could almost imagine it was eating away at the ropes that bound me.

‘Get up.’

The smoke and tears that clogged my eyes had all but blinded me. Now I forced my eyes open and looked up. One of the Varangians was standing over me. His bonds were gone, and in his hand he held the long-bladed knife Pakrad’s guard had dropped.

‘Am I dreaming?’

‘You will be if we don’t hurry. Come on.’

One by one, he knelt in front of the others and cut the ropes that bound them. I followed through the heat and flame, trying to coax life into limbs that smoke and despair had left numb. Last of all, we came to Sigurd. His face was peaceful, and he seemed to be sleeping beneath his blanket. We cut through his shackles as carefully as we could, then I gently slapped his cheek.

‘Can you hear me?’

He groaned, but did not open his eyes.

In a torrent of confusion and haste, I beckoned two of the Varangians over. They slid their arms under his shoulders and lifted. As Sigurd rose, the blanket slid away leaving him entirely naked, but there was no time to dress him. Choking and coughing, we stumbled out into the corridor. Aelfric was the last through the door — and not a second too soon, for an instant later the makeshift beams gave way and the entire roof crashed down into our gaol. A cloud of sparks and burning straw blasted out through the door like dragon’s breath, blackening the stones and singeing our heads.

Two of Pakrad’s men lay dead in the passage, pierced with crossbow bolts, but there was no sign of any enemies living. Looking up into the sky, I could see that the ancient monastery had become a cauldron of fire. Even the stones seemed to burn.

‘This way.’ A dark blizzard of ash and soot assailed us as we staggered down the passage into the old monastery church. At least here there was little for the fire to take hold of, and the remaining portion of the stone roof might shelter us from the burning missiles raining down. We hurried into its shadow.

‘Where now?’ I bellowed in Aelfric’s ear.

‘Up there.’

In the curved bay at the end of the church, a high window looked out to the east. Its lower half had been blocked in with stones and mortar, but there was still enough space at the top for a man to squeeze through. If he could reach it.

‘How do we get there?’

‘On the shoulders of better men.’ In a niche in the southern wall, a life-sized statue of the prophet Daniel watched over the monastery’s desolation. Rain had smoothed his features to the primordial canvas of the first man, birds had fouled him, and white pock-marks on his chest showed where Pakrad’s men had used him to practise their archery, but he still stood. No wonder: it took six of the Varangians just to pry him from his alcove and drag him to the space under the window. I watched the door, praying the invaders would not drive Pakrad’s men back to this place. It was hard to believe any could have survived the inferno, though every so often the hot wind still carried the cries of men and horses to my ears.

A thought struck me. ‘What’s on the other side of that wall?’

But there was no time for doubts. One of the Varangians made a stirrup with his hands and lifted me up; another kept the statue from toppling over as I scrabbled for balance on its shoulders. From that height, I could just stretch my hands to the rough lip where the window opened. A day and a half in bondage had left my wrists raw and my arms numb; there was little power in them, but somehow I managed to keep my grip and haul myself up: first my chin, then my chest, and eventually my whole body. Urgent shouts from below spurred me on, though I did not have the strength to care what they were saying.