Pulling Odin around, he turned to far more urgent matters, the burning of his beloved Bush and the safety of those inside it. Sick with concern for Nesta, he urged the horse along to the corner of the tavern and scattered the now sullen crowd so that he could reach the gate in the fence that led to the yard. The original rioters had now been diluted with ordinary citizens who were both agog with excitement and concerned with controlling the fire. Most were men, but there were a few women of all ages and, although it hardly registered, given the turmoil in his mind, he saw that one of them was the thin woman with the wry neck that Gwyn had said was sister to a harlot.
Thankfully, as the inn was on a wide patch of waste land, created by previous fires some years ago, there was less risk of the conflagration spreading, though sparks and burning straw borne on the wind could still travel many yards and set other roofs on fire. Some men were running with leather and wooden buckets, water slopping from their sides, but it was a futile gesture given the height and size of the roof.
Sheathing his sword, de Wolfe slid from the saddle and in a lather of anxiety rushed through the gate into the back garden of the Bush. The rear part of the roof was not yet on fire, as the arsonists had thrown their torches up from the lane in front, but smoke was starting to wreathe up from under the eaves. There were a dozen men in the yard, several struggling with buckets from the well and he saw the two serving maids standing outside the kitchen-shed, sobbing and wringing their hands.
‘Where’s your mistress?’ he roared, shoving aside anyone who got in his way as he made his way to the back door.
‘Gone inside, she went after the old woman!’ screeched Adele, pointing at the door. ‘And Edwin is in there, too.’
John ran to the doorway, from the upper part of which black smoke was now staring to waft lazily upwards. Keeping his head low, he dashed inside, wondering where in hell Gwyn had got to and now desperately worried about his mistress’s safety. Mercifully, the first thing he saw through his stinging eyes was the large figure of Gwyn, shepherding out Nesta, both of them covered in smuts and coughing like a pair of sick horses. Grasping her by her other arm, he steered her to the back door and fresh air. The two serving maids ran forward and helped to carry her off to the security of the kitchen-shed, which certainly, until the back of the inn caught fire, was beyond immediate danger.
‘I’m well enough, John,’ Nesta gasped between coughs. ‘But where is Edwin? Please find him!’
Gwyn had slumped to sit on the ground, coughing violently and gasping. He had black smudges on his face and bits of straw, some still smouldering, stuck in his dishevelled hair. ‘Give me a moment, Crowner, to get my breath back — then I’ll be with you!’ he wheezed.
‘You stay there until you’ve recovered!’ commanded John. ‘But have you seen the old potman?’
‘He’s still in there somewhere,’ croaked his officer. ‘And that mad old woman.’
De Wolfe crouched low and dived below the coils of smoke now billowing from the back door. Almost on all fours, he scuttled into the large taproom that occupied the entire ground floor. Tables and stools had been overturned when the patrons had jostled their way out at the first shouts of ‘Fire’. Although at ground level the air was relatively clear, he heard a crackling noise and saw that the tinder-dry planks of the ceiling that formed the floor of the loft were burning in the centre, where a patch of flaming thatch had fallen as the roof began to give way. As he desperately looked around for any sign of the one-eyed potman, part of the ceiling fell in a shower of sparks and stirred up the smoke so that great wreaths eddied down to the ground. He knew he could not survive in that and tried to hold his breath. At that very moment, he saw a leg sticking out from under a fallen table and, tugging at the foot, slid the owner from under it. Almost on his bottom, he scurried backwards, hoisting the leg, his eyes running and aching and his lungs almost bursting. Just as he thought he would either faint or have to let go, he felt the weight lighten as someone crawled in beside him and grab the other leg. Not until they reached the patch of daylight that was the back door could John’s bleary eyes see that, of course, it was the faithful Gwyn, still coughing and snorting like a grampus. At the door, other hands helped them out and a moment later, they staggered up to lean against the wall of the brew-shed as two other men and a woman tended to Edwin. He lay on his back having his face wiped clean of thick soot with water from one of the fire-buckets by an iron-smith, who was one of the regulars at the Bush.
‘Is he still alive?’ wheezed John.
‘Yes, he’s poorly, but I think he’ll do,’ said the smith, feeling the heartbeat of the old man.
‘Did you see any sign of Bearded Lucy in there?’ persisted Gwyn, who was rapidly getting his breathing back to normal. ‘I’ll swear I saw her by the ladder to the loft.’
‘She’s supposed to be in here, dammit!’ grunted John, his own heart thumping like a war-drum. He slapped a hand against the brewing-shed, which was supporting him.
Gwyn hauled himself off the wall and stumbled to the door of the hut, opened it and looked in. ‘She’s not here — but I need a drink to wash the ash from my throat.’
He stuck his head into the nearest open tub and drank the half-brewed liquid like a horse at a trough. Seeing an empty jug near by, he dipped it in and came out to give it to de Wolfe. The coroner took a deep draught, then spat it out on the ground. ‘God, that’s horrible! Now I’m going to see Nesta.’ He stumbled across to the kitchen-hut and, wiping his running eyes, leaned against the door-post to look in at Nesta, who was sitting on a stool, crying. Her two maids hovered behind her solicitously, trying to comfort her.
‘All that work, John, in vain! My Meredydd’s efforts at first, then all your help, going up in smoke!’
‘We will see it built again, Nesta!’ he assured her, using the Welsh tongue that they habitually spoke. ‘The stone walls will stand, we can have a new floor and roof on them within weeks.’
He looked over his shoulder and saw that there were still people milling about outside the yard gate. ‘Where the devil is Ralph Morin and his men-at-arms! That crowd is still there and that bloody priest! Keep yourself quiet in here, don’t show yourself at all.’
He pulled the door shut and moved towards the back of the inn, but now black smoke was belching out of the rear door and there was no chance of getting inside to look for Bearded Lucy. Gwyn had rapidly recovered and, grabbing his arm, de Wolfe hustled him towards the side gate. ‘I don’t trust this damned mob, especially if that bastard canon is still among them.’ Drawing his sword again, he first checked that Odin was safe and was relieved to see that the horse had wandered across the waste ground and was unconcernedly cropping at some rank grass and weeds, well away from the crowd around the alehouse.
‘Let’s get around to the front again,’ he commanded, and stalked around the side of the building, pushing aside anyone who got in his way. The original few dozen agitators were now well outnumbered by more reasonable citizens, but there was still a lot of shouting and abuse with scattered scuffles going on. As the coroner and his officer forced their way towards the front door, there was a ragged cheer, mixed with cat-calls, as the crowd saw a posse of soldiers come trotting around the corner from Smythen Street. Led by Ralph Morin on foot, also waving a large broad-sword, there were a dozen soldiers with pikes and staffs, Sergeant Gabriel bringing up the rear, brandishing a fearsome ball-mace.
They dived into the mob, roughly pushing them aside, and soon split them up into smaller groups, men-at-arms separating each faction. The castle constable thrust his great bulk through them to stand alongside de Wolfe. He stared in astonishment at the stricken tavern. ‘There’s no saving this now, John,’ he rumbled in his deep voice. ‘Has everyone got out? Where’s Nesta?’