The door to the yard, like the front door, had been broken open. It was a relief to be outside, to have a way of escape open to the lane behind the house. I looked up briefly at the shuttered windows, then joined Barak as he held his candle over the slumped figure by the gate.

For a moment I hoped that the man was asleep in some drunken stupor, but then I saw the great wound in his head, the pale shimmer of brains. Barak stood up, fingering the talisman inside his shirt. For the first time since I had known him he looked afraid.

'You were right,' he breathed. 'It's a trap. Let's get out of here.'

Then we heard the sound. I hope never to hear anything like it again. It came from inside the house, starting as a moan and rising to a keening wail, filled with sorrow and pain.

'That's a woman,' I said.

Barak nodded. His eyes roved around the yard. 'What shall we do?'

I was torn between the desire to run and the thought there was a woman in dreadful pain inside. 'Is it Bathsheba? It must be.'

Barak squinted up at the shutters. 'She might be pretending to be hurt to draw us in.'

'That sound is no pretence,' I said. 'We have to go to her.'

He took a deep breath, then raised his sword once more.

I FOLLOWED HIM BACK through the kitchen, into the hall. The broken-down old house was silent again except for that slow drip-drip from somewhere.

'The sound came from upstairs,' I whispered. 'God's death, what's that?' I jumped back in alarm as four black shapes scurried along the side of the wall, then shot out of the door.

'Rats.' Barak gave a bark of nervous laughter.

'Why should they be running away?'

The awful moaning began again, a keening wail that broke into choking sobs. I looked up the dark staircase. 'That came from Sepultus's workshop.'

Barak set his jaw and, sword held ready, began mounting the stairs. I followed slowly. Barak held the candle high. It cast our shadows into monstrous forms on the wall.

The workshop door was open. Barak banged it wide, lest anyone was hiding behind it. But the room was silent, although the slow drip-drip was louder. He stepped inside. I followed him, nearly gagging at the awful stench. 'Oh, Jesus,' Barak whispered. 'Oh, our Saviour.'

The room was still bare except for Sepultus's large table. Young George Green was lying sprawled across it. His eyes, wide and still in death, glimmered in the candlelight. His throat had been cut horribly; the table was covered with dark blood that still dripped slowly, one thick drop at a time, to the floor. Sprawled over him, weeping, her arms flung round his body, was Bathsheba, her dress torn and cut and soaked with blood.

Barak was the first to move. He crossed to Bathsheba, who gave a little cry and flinched. He leant over her. 'It's all right,' he said. 'We won't harm you. Who did this?'

I stood beside him as Bathsheba tried to speak. To my horror, when she opened her mouth a foamy trickle of blood spilled out; she too was badly hurt. She tried to speak, but managed only to moan again. I laid a hand on her shoulder, trying not to shudder at the sticky wetness. I tried to see where she was injured, but it was too dark and she would not let go of her brother's body.

'It's all right,' I whispered. 'Don't speak. We'll help you.'

She lifted wild eyes to me, pale and frantic in her bloody face. 'Get-' she tried to speak, blood-soaked spittle running down her chin. 'Get – out – while you can-'

Barak turned swiftly to the doorway, but there was nothing there. The house was utterly silent. We looked at each other. Bathsheba's voice had sunk to that keening moan again. Then we heard a door open downstairs, the parlour, I was sure. A sudden harsh smell stung my nostrils, making me cough. Barak caught it too. His eyes widened. 'Shit,' he shouted. 'No-'

An extraordinary noise came from downstairs, a loud 'whump'. It was followed by a crash as someone threw shutters open. Barak and I dashed to the window. I made out the shapes of two men, running down the street. Toky and Wright. Toky paused and looked back at us and I caught an evil grin on his pale face. He looked at me and drew a finger across his throat. Then he turned again and ran after his confederate.

'Oh, Jesu. Shit.' I turned at Barak's voice. He was standing in the doorway, looking out. I could see the staircase was brightly lit with a red dancing light. There was a blast of heat, a crackling noise.

I ran to the door and stood beside him, hardly able to believe what I saw. The door to the parlour was wide open and the room was alive with fire, brighter than a thousand candles, the entire floor and walls covered in red flames that were already roaring through the open door and licking at the hall. The old tapestry outside caught fire immediately. A heavy, evil-smelling black smoke began rolling across the hall.

'Jesu,' Barak breathed. 'It's Greek Fire. They mean to kill us with Greek Fire. Come on!' He turned to Bathsheba. 'We've got to get out of here. Help me with her!'

I helped him lift Bathsheba from her brother's body. Desperately weak as she was, she tried to resist, she looked at me and I caught a throaty bubbling, 'No.'

'Your brother is dead,' I said gently. 'You can't help him.'

Barak and I heaved her up. As we lifted her I saw fresh blood run down her dress from a great wound in her stomach. The poor creature had been stabbed.

'Hold her,' Barak said. He ran back to the door. The fire was spreading with preternatural speed, the walls of the hallway had caught now and the flames were almost at the bottom of the staircase. The roaring, cracking noise was much louder. I caught a whiff of the thick black smoke and gagged. Barak paused a second, then unbuckled his sword and threw it to the floor. He grasped the workshop door and, with a tremendous heave, pulled it free of its remaining hinge.

'Follow me! Quick, before the staircase goes!'

'We can't get down there!' I shouted, trying to keep Bathsheba's slippery body from falling. She was very light or I could not have held her. She seemed insensible now.

'We can't get her out of the window, and we'd likely break our necks on the cobbles if we jumped! Come on!'

Holding the door in front of him like a shield, Barak stepped quickly across to the staircase and began descending. All the ground-floor walls were blazing now, the flames licking at the banisters, smoke curling upwards, ever thicker. This was it, the thing I had always feared had come to pass. Death by fire, red flames burning the skin from my body, sweating the blood out of me, my eyes melting. The words of a pamphlet reporting a burning returned to me. The kiss of fire so light and agonizing. I stood, paralysed.

Barak turned round and screamed at me. 'Come on, you arsehole! We've only seconds! See, there's the front door!'

His words brought me to my senses. Across the burning hallway I could see the half-open door to the street, a black shape in a red house of fire. The sight spurred me to follow him, dragging the girl with me. I made myself count the steps as I descended. One – two – three. From somewhere outside I heard a cry of 'Fire! Dear God, fire!'

The smoke made my eyes sting and I had to keep blinking, trying desperately to breathe, the air so hot it felt as though it too was burning. Barak and I were both coughing now. I had a terror the staircase would collapse and bury us in burning wood.

Then suddenly I was at the foot of the steps, red flames all around me. I heard Barak scream, 'Run.' I thought I was about to fall, but then a flame licked at my arm, I heard my doublet sizzle and from somewhere I found the energy to leap forward. Then in a moment I was outside, in the street, the searing heat and the smoke gone. Someone grasped me and I fell into their arms. Someone else took Bathsheba's weight and she slid away from me. I was lowered to the street and lay, gasping desperately for air, fearful I would suffocate, every intake of air burning my throat. There was a crackling of flames from the house and all around terrified yells of 'Fire!'