De Wolfe ran close behind the galloping Cornishman until they halted before the closed front door. A score of neighbours and gawking sightseers were clustered there, shouting and gabbling, but with no apparent plan of action.
‘Is anyone inside?’ roared de Wolfe above the clamour of voices and the crackle of flames from the back. He knew that most of the houses in Waterbeer Street were let as lodgings and several were known to be brothels, so the occupants tended to be a shifting population.
Gwyn pushed at the stout oaken door, but it was barred from inside.
‘Around to the yard!’ snapped John.
The house, typically tall and narrow, was very close to its neighbours on either side, but on the right there was a passage wide enough for a person or a handcart to get through. They pounded down it, ignoring a shower of sparks that a gust of wind sent at them. A handful of people stood at the back, including Theobald, one of the town constables. Also, to John’s surprise, the robust figure of Brother Rufus was there in his black robe, gazing up like the others at the upper floor.
‘It’s the bloody steps that are burning!’ yelled Gwyn. Like John’s own house, a substantial wooden staircase rose from the yard to a balcony that gave access to the two solar rooms at first-storey level. It was burning briskly, and the flames were spreading across the part of the balcony supported on beams projecting from the house wall. Someone up there was screaming, regularly and repetitively. It was a woman’s voice, but no one could be seen on the balcony.
As no one on the ground seemed keen to launch a rescue, de Wolfe jabbed Gwyn in the back and ran across to stand under the end of the balcony that was not on fire. A pair of thick posts ran up from the ground to take its weight, braced by a series of cross-beams.
‘Here’s a ready-made ladder! You go round and see if you can batter in that front door, while I shin up this way.’
Reluctant to leave his master to the more dangerous job, Gwyn hesitated, but a steely look in de Wolfe’s eye made him shrug and lumber back down the passageway. They had been in many tighter corners than this over the years and, with a little thrill at a rerun of their old adventures, he felt sure that the coroner could look after himself.
By now, de Wolfe was climbing the cross-braces, ignoring the twittering protests of Theobald, who had run across as soon as he had seen what the coroner was doing. De Wolfe yelled at him to stay where he was. ‘No need for extra weight on this thing — the damned lot will fall down once the fire spreads a bit more,’ he yelled.
Once on the slatted planks of the balcony, the fire and smoke were almost overpowering, but thankfully the breeze blew them away from him. The screaming was still coming from behind the nearest of the two doors that opened off the platform. Without hesitation, de Wolfe raised his foot and crashed his boot against it near where the inside latch would be. The flimsy fixing gave way, the door flew open with a bang and the screaming stopped. He dodged a wave of flame as the wind momentarily changed direction, and dived for cover into the room. Though it was dark inside, the reflection of the flames outside gave enough flickering light for him to see two frightened occupants — a sight that almost felled him with surprise!
Cowering against the wall, alongside a disordered bed, was a young woman clutching a crumpled blanket around her, which failed to hide the fact that she was naked beneath it. On the other side of the bed, frantically pulling on a pair of long woollen hose, was Sir Richard de Revelle, the King’s sheriff for the county of Devon.
The room was filling with a strangely scented smoke through the open door. A quick glance backwards showed that the fire was creeping rapidly along the boards of the balcony and had almost reached the threshold.
‘We’ve got to get out fast!’ snapped de Wolfe, putting aside his astonishment in the urgency of the moment.
‘I can’t go out there,’ hissed de Revelle, frantically. ‘not with her and those people watching down below!’ By now he had pulled his tunic over his head and grabbed his shoes.
For a split second, de Wolfe exulted that his brother-in-law was, once again, in a tight corner, but the vision of Matilda rose up in his mind’s eye and he knew he had to do something fast to save her shame, if not her brother’s.
In the further corner of the room was a curtain-covered doorway. He sped across and pushed his head through the opening. Beyond was a small passage leading to the room opposite. In the dim light, he could just see a pair of hinges and a ring set in the floor. When he pulled it open, he found he was looking down into a similar passage behind the front door. Thunderous blows told him that Gwyn was busy forcing it open. There was no ladder in place, but this was no time for such luxuries.
He dodged back into the upper room and pulled Richard to the trap-door. ‘Drop down there and hide somewhere. When Gwyn gets the front door open, slip outside and pretend you’ve just arrived to investigate the fire.’
The desperate sheriff swung down, his hands gripping the edge then dropped. The fall was too low to cause him any damage. Dropping the trap and rushing back into the bedroom, John unceremoniously grabbed the woman, who had started to scream again. He slapped a hand over her mouth and wrapped a sheepskin from the bed-coverings over her blanket. ‘Come on, my girl! Out of the door and keep going!’
He bundled the terrified wench on to the balcony, then pushed her to the right, a wayward pulse of flame singeing the curly wool of the sheepskin, as they ran the few steps to the further end. He hoisted her over the rail on to the upper cross-member, and a dozen faces gaped up at them from below as the girl felt with her bare feet for the lower bars. Halfway down, both sheepskin and blanket fell off her and the bemused audience gaped as she scrambled stark naked the rest of the way to the ground. The constable threw the fallen coverings back over her shoulders and led her across the yard, away from the fire, as de Wolfe shinned more expertly down from the balcony.
Several onlookers had found leather buckets and large pottery jars, which they filled from the well in the yard and threw on to the fire — to no avail, for with a crash and an explosion of sparks, the burning balcony collapsed as the supports burnt through. This removed the danger of igniting the whole house and brought the flaming timbers down within reach of the water carriers.
Meanwhile, John had hurried over to Theobald and the girl, who were huddled against the wall of the next house. He saw that she was moderately attractive and under the smuts on her face, her lips and cheeks were reddened with rouge. It was time for urgent action if he was to save the sheriff from shame and dishonour. ‘Are you from the Saracen, girl?’ he asked, in a low voice. She nodded. ‘Then say nothing to anyone, d’you hear? Nothing as to who was with you. Do you understand?’
The tone of his voice penetrated her shock and she nodded again, her teeth chattering with delayed terror. John turned to the constable. ‘Take her back to the Saracen straight away and see that she speaks to no one — especially the landlord, Willem the Fleming. Stay with her, get her some clothes and drink. I’ll come down to talk to her within the hour.’
Mystified, but obedient to the coroner’s commands, the constable led the young harlot away, swathed in a blanket. After a quick glance to see that the fire was now no longer a threat to the house or its neighbours, de Wolfe hurried round to the front, where a large crowd was now thronging the narrow street. He found Gwyn blocking the doorway.
‘What in hell’s name is going on, Crowner?’ he growled. ‘I found the sheriff lurking inside. How did he get there?’
De Wolfe groaned — things were getting out of hand. ‘Let me past, I’ll speak to him. Say nothing to anyone outside.’
Inside the dark passageway, he found de Revelle skulking inside the doorway to one of the lower rooms, which appeared to be vacant lodgings.