The Devil in green

October passed like the tolling of a funeral bell. In the brethren's makeshift dormitories and the stone chambers of the knights' barracks, the nights crept by with bone-aching cold barely kept at bay by rough blankets. The days were bright and crisp, the wind whistling through the gothic architecture lowering over them with an unsettling character that hinted at sentience. Every night the attacks on the gate continued unabated. Every day brothers would creep up to the walkway to look desperately towards the city centre, knowing things were looking back at them, daring them to venture out into the seemingly empty street beyond. And over it all hung the oppressive presence of the Adversary, felt more than seen, but unmistakably there, watching, waiting, cold and hateful.

Within the cathedral compound, tensions rose at the realisation that the siege was not going to end, while the leaders hadn't yet identified a suitable plan to get them out of the predicament. Rations were tightened, and although there was an ample supply of water from the river, with winter just around the corner they all wondered how long they would be able to last.

Arguments broke out as tempers frayed, and it took all the ministering skills of the elder brethren to maintain the peace. Blaine had suggested posting the knights around the compound to keep order, but word had come down from Cornelius that he didn't want them used against their own; the knights had to remain pure in their ideals as an instrument of the Church.

To the majority of the brethren, Cornelius became an elusive figure, confined to his sick bed in the bishop's palace, tended by Julian and a small band of helpers, with reports of his condition occasionally sent down as if from On High. 'Temperature raised, but doing fine.' 'Fever broken.' 'Took the air in the palace garden this morning,' and the like. Rumours circulated as to what exactly was the root of his illness — everything from pneumonia and cholera to a brain tumour — but they all knew at heart it was his age. Whatever the hopeful spin placed on his condition by Julian, there was a dismal acceptance that he couldn't have long left.

In the upper echelons of the Church leadership, meanwhile, manoeuvrings for the succession continued in some quarters with unseemly openness. Stefan appeared to be the leading choice of one faction, though he professed no interest in the job, preferring 'only to serve'. His supporters were happy to class themselves as hardliners, culled from the evangelical communities of Southern England and Unionist enclaves in Scotland. Stefan, however, kept his own views close to his chest.

Both Hipgrave and Miller recovered quickly under the able if curt treatment of Warwick in the infirmary. Exhaustion and hypothermia had been the only ailments afflicting Hipgrave, who had spent the days since the attack on Bratton Camp wandering randomly around Salisbury Plain. He had taken a blow to his head that had left him with a mild concussion, just enough to addle his thoughts before the weather took its toll on him. Blaine didn't put him through the mill of the Inquisition — it would not have been right for a captain of the knights to be seen to be doubted in current circumstances — but Hipgrave had been questioned extensively about what had happened. His ordeal had wiped away many of his memories of that night, but he still found it within himself to blame Mallory, Miller, Daniels and Gardener for the failure of the mission.

'They were cowards,' he told Blaine in front of the other four. 'They ran at the first sign of danger, left me to deal with it on my own. Whatever happened to that poor man was their fault, and they should be punished accordingly.'

Gardener protested, but Blaine silenced him angrily. Later, however, the four of them found it telling that for such a disciplinarian, Blaine didn't mete out any punishment. Hipgrave's outburst managed to sour any residual sense of camaraderie they all might have felt with him after the horrific experience they had shared that night. And it was a time when Hipgrave needed them. His dislocation at the mysterious transformation of the cathedral had been acute, and he'd made a fool of himself trying to convince everyone he spoke to of the change. Even Blaine eyed him with suspicion. Yet Hipgrave couldn't bring himself to talk to Mallory and the others for fear it would diminish his leadership.

But a strong bond was forged amongst Mallory, Miller, Gardener and Daniels. They were outsiders in a community that was already outside of society, the only ones who could see the truth. Gardener made a grudging reconciliation with Mallory, though he 'owed him a bloody big punch in the face'. Whatever doubts they had about each other had to be overridden if they were going to survive in a place that continually tested their sanity.

Mallory spent much of his time attempting to piece together some overarching mystery he was sure lay behind the scenes. The others were not convinced. 'Hello? Are you lot blind?' Mallory said after one particularly heated debate. 'We were lured out of the cathedral by two ghost-clerics who disappeared the moment they'd got us where they wanted us. And then we were let back in-'

'What do you mean?' Gardener snapped. 'We nearly got torn apart when we fetched Hipgrave.'

'You've seen what's out there. Do you really think they couldn't have stopped us if they'd wanted? Jesus, they could have wiped us out in the blink of an eye. They let us back in,' Mallory stressed. 'They made a pretence of stopping us so we wouldn't be suspicious, but that was it.'

There was a long silence while Mallory's theory washed over them. It was Daniels, fiddling with his eye-patch nervously, who spoke first. 'Why would the Adversary want to get us out and then let us back in — all of us, because we came back on three separate occasions?'

'And what's it got to do with all the new buildings appearing?' Miller asked. 'There has to be a connection, right?'

The silence lasted longer this time, and none of them had any answers. But they knew that the only way of uncovering what was happening, and what it meant for all of them, was to work together.

It was October the twenty-eighth. Mallory and Miller had been despatched to the kitchens to see Gibson, whom Mallory had dubbed the Canon of the Pies. The place had been transformed along with the rest of the building and was now the size of half a football pitch, with a low, vaulted roof like a wine cellar supported by stone pillars. Woodburning ranges ran along one wall, drawing on the huge but limited supply of timber that had been amassed. Giant bubbling pans sent clouds of steam scented with spices and herbs drifting across the ceiling. The room echoed with the sound of clanging lids and chopping knives as twenty or more cooks and assistants prepared the day's meals.

Sweat beading his ruddy face, Gibson moved amongst the activity, chuckling at some joke no one else knew; his frame appeared as massive as ever despite the limited rations, nor had he lost any of his celebrated larger-than-life humour. With one podgy hand outstretched, he lumbered across the room to slap both of them on the shoulder in greeting. 'Jolly good you could make it down here,' he said, as if they had ambled along of their own accord. Laughter rumbled out like an avalanche as a vat of bubbling turnips steamed up his large-framed spectacles. Cleaning them on his robes, he motioned to a large door against the far wall. 'The stores are through there, dear boys,' he said theatrically. 'Mr Blaine suggested you might be able to help us with the conveyance of several large sacks of potatoes. I keep my little workers here so busy, they never do find the time to do those necessary chores.' He wagged a chubby finger at Miller. 'And no potatoes means no hearty meals to keep you boys big and strong.'

'Straight away, sir,' Miller said brightly. Gibson appeared pleasantly amused by this.

As they headed down some steps into the basement stores, Mallory muttered sourly, 'Do you have to be so deferential? You should have offered to stick a brush up your arse so you could sweep the floor while we're hauling and toting.'

'It doesn't hurt to be polite. Besides, it makes people smile.'

Mallory snorted. 'Great. I get spud duty with Jesus' little ray of sunshine.'

'You can be very hurtful sometimes, Mallory.' Miller sniffed.

'No. This is hurtful.' Mallory cuffed him around the back of the head.

'Ow!' Miller flashed him a black look and jumped a foot to his right to avoid another blow.

There was a fast movement at floor level when they swung open the storeroom door on to the dark interior. 'Rats,' Mallory noted. 'The way things are, they'll be in the stew soon.'

'How long do you think we can keep going?' Miller asked. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, he could see that the storeroom was vast, but in the great space the haphazard piles of sacks and crates appeared insignificant.

'I'm not looking forward to Christmas dinner.'

'If we stand firm, whatever's out there might just give up and go away,' Miller suggested hopefully.

Mallory began to investigate the sacks in search of the potatoes. 'I love an optimist as much as the next man, Miller, but you've seen what we're up against. Those kinds of things don't give up, ever. They'll hang on until we're worn down.'

'I don't understand why this is happening. We've not done anything wrong.'

'That's always a matter of perspective.'

A look of curiosity crossed Miller's face. 'What did you do before the Fall, Mallory? Sometimes you sound like a historian, sometimes a philosopher, and sometimes…'

'Yes?'

'… sometimes you act like a yob at closing time.'

Mallory let out a belly laugh. He plucked a potato from a sack and tossed it in the air. 'The only hope we've got is if our great leaders come up with a plan… a counter-strike… anything… that works. Do you have any faith in that?'

'I have lots of faith, Mallory.' Miller attempted to shoulder the sack, but he wasn't strong enough. All he could do was drag it across the floor in jerks like some small child with a too-big toy. 'You see, I have faith in people like you, Mallory. You're a man who gets things done. Why don't you turn your mind to a solution instead of being negative. As always.'

Mallory tossed the potato another time, then hurled it into the shadows. It thudded against a wall and burst.

'You act as if you're apart from all this,' Miller continued breathlessly, 'as if you can just sit back and sneer and be snide. But we're all in it together, Mallory. If people help other people, things get done. Individuals have a responsibility to the community. No one can afford to stand alone, in here or out in the world.'

'I'm sick of hearing about responsibility.' Mallory grabbed another potato and threw it furiously into the dark. It splattered against the stone.

'Don't waste the supplies!'

'Ah, we'll all be dead before we get down to the last potato. They'll be roasting the youngest and tenderest of us in those big ovens long before that.'

The silence prompted Mallory to turn. Miller was staring at him with a comical expression of horror. 'This is a Christian community!' he protested.

'It's survival, Miller. That's what humans do.'

'That's what beasts do.'

Mallory plucked another potato from the sack, tossed it in the air, but caught himself before he threw it. He peered at the wall for a long moment, then marched over and began to rap it with his knuckles.

'What's wrong?' Miller asked.

Mallory turned to him and raised a finger. 'A tunnel.'

Miller's eyes widened. 'Of course. Under the wall.'

'Not just under the wall. To the travellers' camp. It stretches almost up to the cathedral compound now, on both sides of the river. We wouldn't need to dig far. And…' He paused in pride at his idea. '… the camp is protected. By magic, or faith, or whatever you want to call it, but the point is, it's safe ground. The travellers could help us get food in through the tunnel…' He paused. 'After we've managed to build bridges with them. But they're good people…'

Miller looked uneasy. 'You know how Gardener reacted. Do you think our people will be able to deal with the pagans?'

'You were the one preaching about the Brotherhood of Man, Miller, everybody working together. And oddly it dovetails with my philosophy, too. When it comes down to survival, people will do whatever it takes to keep living.'

Miller thought about this for a moment, then smiled. 'We need to tell someone. They should start on it straight away.'

Metallic crashing exploded from the kitchen as if someone had dropped a pile of pans. It was punctuated by a terrified yell. Mallory and Miller rushed upstairs and found the kitchen assistants clustered in one corner of the room. Gibson loomed over them, scrubbing his fingers through his tight grey curls. 'What's going on here? What's going on?' he said in a flap.

One of the chief chefs clambered to his feet from where he had been sprawled on the stone flags. The way his features had been put together suggested he didn't have much time for nonsense, but he was now ashen- faced and his eyes darted around like a frightened animal's.

'It brushed right past him,' said one of the assistants who had helped him to his feet.

'What in heaven's name brushed past him?' Gibson squealed.

The assistant glanced at two or three others in the circle. 'You saw it too, right?' They nodded. The assistant was reticent to continue until Gibson prompted him with a rough shake of his shoulder. 'It was a ghost,' he said, obviously relieved that he'd got it out. 'A ghost of a churchman of some kind… or a monk… hard to tell. I mean, it had the clothes on and everything.'

'A ghost?' Gibson's expression suggested that everyone in the room was malingering.

'We saw it! All of us who were looking this way…'

'It was the face,' the chef muttered. His eyes ranged around the kitchen but couldn't fix on anyone there. 'It looked right at me. The eyes…'He turned and vomited down the side of the range, the heat cooking it instantly and filling the air with a repugnant stink.

'It was old Bishop Ward,' one of the older assistants said. 'I recognised him from the painting that used to hang in the library.'

The chef wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. 'When it looked at me, it felt as though my insides were being pulled right out through my eyes,' he said.

'Did he say anything?' Miller asked.

'Not in so many words,' the chef replied shakily. 'But it felt as if it was telling me about death… about all our deaths. About the end of the world.'

The study of the bishop's palace had the sumptuous feel of a Victorian gentleman's club: burnished leather high-backed chairs, books, dark wood panelling, Persian carpet, stone fireplace. It was a world away from the cold quarters the brethren endured. For many years it had been the cathedral school, but it had recently been reclaimed as a haven for the bishop from the privations experienced throughout the compound.

Mallory had spent a good half-hour convincing the ancillary staff to allow him a few minutes with Julian, whom he then had to convince to allow him in to see Cornelius. Julian looked tired and distracted, but he was receptive to anything that might get them out of their current predicament. He had told Mallory to wait and he would be granted an audience once Cornelius was strong enough. That had been three hours ago.

The opening of the door suggested that the time had finally come, but it was only Blaine. Mallory instantly fell on the defensive. Blaine was sphinxlike, didn't even acknowledge Mallory, but the moment the ancillary left, his inscrutability vanished. 'What do you think you're doing?' His voice was like stone. Mallory began to reply, but Blaine talked over him. 'There's a chain of command here. You don't go bothering your betters with your half-baked ideas' The word was a sneer. 'You come to me, and then I can tell you how much bollocks it is. Don't waste your time thinking — that's not what you're here for.' Implicit threat filled every action. 'Your trouble, Mallory, is you think you're better than anyone here. You're not. Nobody cares what you think.' Blaine took a step forwards, and Mallory had a sudden image of a Belfast backstreet, broken bottles and last orders.

The door opened and Julian breezed in, a little fresher, even managing a smile. 'The bishop is ready for you now,' he said.

Julian led them up imposing stone stairs to Cornelius's bedroom. The heavy drapes were drawn and it was oppressively warm despite the time of year: a fire blazed in the grate and candles flickered everywhere. The aroma of burning logs barely covered the atmosphere of sickness.

Cornelius was propped up in a large four-poster bed, his frame unbearably thin and fragile against the piles of cushions and brocade bedspread. He forced a weak smile in greeting and shakily beckoned for Mallory to come closer.

Only then did Mallory realise they were not alone. Stefan stood to one side, smiling insincerely, hands clasped in front of him in an attempt to appear penitent. 'I took the liberty of inviting your commander-in-chief here,' he said to Mallory. 'I thought it only right you receive due recognition for your actions.'

Every time Mallory saw Stefan, he liked him less, but at that moment he felt there was something unduly sinister about the chancellor. Mallory looked to Julian who shifted uneasily. 'I felt any suggestions should be heard by the Chapter of Canons,' Julian said. 'Stefan felt that would take too long to arrange, and that we here could easily assay its worth and decide if it should be taken forwards.'

'Tell us what you think, my son,' Cornelius said so weakly that Mallory could barely hear him.

'A tunnel-'

'Is that it? We've already thrown that idea out,' Blaine said contemptuously. 'We haven't got the time or the facilities to dig a tunnel the length we would need to get to safety. If we go short, those things will be waiting to pick us off when we come up. And you try coming up under concrete and Tarmac when you haven't got power tools. If we go west we hit the river. We could never get under that.'

Mallory allowed him to say his piece and then continued as if he hadn't spoken. 'A tunnel under the wall into the camp to the north-west. It would be easy to dig. We wouldn't have to go under any water.'

'Haven't you been listening-' Blaine began, but Stefan silenced him with a raised hand.

'Why that particular spot?' he said curiously.

'Because it's protected.'

This intrigued Stefan greatly. 'Protected? In what way?'

'In the same way that the cathedral and its grounds are protected.'

'The cathedral is protected because of the Glory of God,' Stefan said.

Mallory sensed the traps lining up before him. His position was already weak; he couldn't risk offending anyone. And the way Blaine had acted earlier, he felt there was more than his reputation at stake. 'It seems, from what I've heard-'

'Where?' Stefan interrupted.

'Here and there.' Mallory fixed his gaze on Stefan's and refused to break it. 'That the strength of our belief… our faith… has… empowered the land so those things can't come on it. It's the same in the camp.' 'They have accepted the Lord into their lives?' Stefan plainly knew otherwise.

'They have very strong beliefs.'

'They are Christians?' Stefan's gaze didn't waver.

'No. They're a mixed bunch.' He paused, but it was obvious Stefan wasn't going to let him get away with skirting over the issue. 'Some nature- lovers. Probably… Odinists. Wiccans. Druids, maybe-'

'Pagans?' Stefan raised his eyes to look at the ceiling. 'What you are saying sounds very much like blasphemy.'

'Oh, for God's sake!' Julian snapped. 'Does it matter who they are? If it provides us with a way out of this mess we're in, then we should go for it.'

'I think the chancellor doesn't believe in equality of worship,' Mallory noted, with a little more acid than he'd intended.

'We are at war, Mr Mallory,' Stefan replied, 'for the very future of Christianity itself. We cannot afford insipid liberalism. Woolly ideas that appeared to work when times were good do not hold now.'

'You believe the future of Christianity should starve rather than allow contact with the corrupt?' Mallory said.

'Of course not.' Stefan moved his hands behind his back. 'You are sure this camp is protected?'

'Yes.'

'You have been there yourself?'

'I have.'

Stefan nodded thoughtfully; Mallory felt there was a wealth of unspoken comment in that simple movement. Stefan turned to Cornelius, bowing his head deferentially. 'I feel this is a matter we should discuss in private, your Grace,' he said. His body language suggested Mallory had not only been forgotten, he had already been dismissed.

'We can't test what he says,' Julian said. 'We should just do it. What other options do we have? We need to start digging immediately.'

Stefan smiled coldly. 'In private,' he repeated.

Blaine caught Mallory's eye and nodded sharply towards the exit. As Mallory left, the door closed firmly behind him.

The light was already starting to fade as Mallory made his way across the lawned area of peaceful walks and sheltering trees now enclosed by the transformed cathedral buildings. The air was cool and damp and fragrant with nature, and the garden would undoubtedly have felt tranquil if not for Mallory's growing awareness of troubling events developing just beyond his perception.

He found Daniels sitting on a bench with a young man who appeared to be hanging on Daniels' every word. The brother was in his late teens, with an open, good-looking face and long brown hair that framed it in such a way that he appeared almost angelic. Daniels was telling some tale in a voluble, entertaining way, and they were both engrossed, as much with each other as with the story. From their body language, half-turned towards each other, Daniels' arm stretching out along the back of the bench, it was clear there was an attraction between them.

Daniels spotted Mallory and called him over with a wave. 'Mallory, meet Lewis. He has this misguided belief that our leaders know what they're doing.' Lewis smiled bashfully.

'Don't spoil him with your cynicism, Daniels.' Mallory slumped on to the bench next to them.

'They established the knights,' Lewis said shyly. 'That was a stroke of genius. All the brothers know you're going to be our saviours.'

Daniels and Mallory exchanged glances. 'Better start praying,' Mallory said drily.

'You're filled with the power of the Lord,' Lewis pressed. 'With belief and hidden knowledge and…and… bravery.' He looked from Mallory to Daniels adoringly.

Mallory watched the stars start to appear in the dark blue sky. He had never expected things to go this way at all. He'd been running away to a simpler life, not trying to find even more responsibility, more trouble and suffering.

'Thank the Lord for the knights,' he said sardonically.

Mallory was the first to the refectory, and took a table for them in a quiet corner. Miller joined him soon after, with Daniels and Gardener arriving together. Daniels was in unusually high spirits, enjoying some mocking banter with Gardener who responded with dry wit and an impassive face. Mallory had overheard Gardener defending Daniels to one of the fundamentalist brothers who had been objecting to something or other in a bigoted way. Daniels, too, had been steadfast and loyal in support of Gardener, especially when Mallory had complained about the events in the travellers' camp.

'Evening, Cyclops,' Mallory said as Daniels sat down.

Daniels wasn't perturbed in the slightest. 'You're just jealous because I've got this chick-magnet eyepatch, you bony-arsed white boy.'

'And it's no use to you at all,' Mallory said.

'It's a benefit to all of us, Mallory,' Gardener said, dunking his bread into his bowl of vegetable soup. 'If I come up on his blindside I get to the food before he takes his greedy bastard portions.'

'Man-sized portions,' Daniels corrected. It was a lame joke now that the kitchen staff had cut the rations to subsistence level.

'I feel guilty about this,' Miller said, looking around. 'It's as if we're plotting.'

'We're not plotting against the authorities,' Gardener said with his mouth full. 'If anything, we're plotting for them. We're the only ones who can see everything's changed here, so we're the only ones who can decide if anything needs to be done about it.'

'I'm wondering if Stefan's got something to do with it,' Mallory said.

'Stefan? He's the chancellor,' Miller said naively.

'I don't trust him. He's manipulative. He's got some sort of scheme going on here — I think he reckons he can take over from Cornelius.' Mallory could see the whole room from where he was sitting. It was slowly filling up, but he was mostly paying attention for Blaine or Hipgrave.

'He's certainly a slippery character,' Daniels said, 'but doing something like this? How could he? How could anybody?'

'Somebody made it happen,' Mallory said. 'I don't think it's a random manifestation.'

'Look, we don't even know it's a bad thing,' Gardener noted. 'Maybe it is what I said… God's will, a miracle. That's no crazier than all the other stuff going on. Maybe that's the way of the world now — little miracles before the Fall, bloody big bastard miracles now.'

'He has a point,' Daniels said. 'There's been no sign that it's anything bad.'

'Not yet,' Mallory said. He prodded at the unappetising chunks of indistinguishable vegetables. 'But if you're right, why are the spirits growing restless?'

Miller told the others about the ghost in the kitchens that morning. 'It's not a one-off,' he added. 'Down at the workshops they're all talking about it. Spooks all over the place. Old bishops, canons, scaring the stuffing out of people. It's getting worse, they say.'

'Like I said, the dead are growing restless.' Mallory looked around the table. 'In this world we're stuck in, we need to start thinking with a medieval mindset — not hard in this place. Signs and portents. We've got unquiet spirits. Something's bothering them. The graves stood tenantless and the sheeted dead did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets.'

'They know something we don't,' Daniels said.

They all fell quiet for a long moment while they pushed their food around their bowls. It was Gardener who spoke first. 'We wouldn't have spooks rising up if we were living in a miracle.' He didn't raise his eyes from the table.

'Those things that have put us under siege… this…' Daniels motioned to the building around them. '… you really do think it's linked?'

'In some way,' Mallory said, 'but I'm betting it's not in as direct a way as you're saying. Those things can't get on to Church land… that's why they're pinning us down here. So I don't think they could have caused the cathedral to change.'

Before they could debate the matter further, Julian walked in, looking brighter than Mallory had seen him in a long time. He marched to the centre of the now-busy room and climbed on to one of the long tables. 'I have an announcement,' he said in a voice that barely contained his joy. 'The bishop… Cornelius… has turned the corner. He's on the road to recovery.'

Mallory recalled how frail the bishop had appeared earlier; it was implausible that his health could have improved so quickly.

'We should all pray for his swift return to form… and for the guiding hand of Saint Cuthbert.' A whisper ran around the room at the mention of the sacred relic that had invigorated the small community. 'Yes, it's true. We transported Cornelius to our most holy relic earlier. The response was phenomenal. Strength flowed into his limbs, his eyes grew bright, his voice firm and confident. The sickness that had been tainting him for so long drifted away like mist in the rays of the sun.' Emotion overcame Julian so that he had to wipe his cheeks with the back of his hand. 'Cornelius is a remarkable man,' he continued, speaking from the heart. 'He held this community together in the earliest days. His vision guided us when we were at our weakest, when many were thinking of abandoning the Faith in those black days. Cornelius. All Cornelius. He has led us to this point where — current difficulties notwithstanding — we are on the verge of once again leading the Church, and God's Word, out into the world.'

He stared into the rafters thoughtfully before continuing. 'He probably wouldn't want me to tell you this, but he originally refused to be taken before the Saint Cuthbert relic. He felt it would be better for our morale if he fought and overcame the illness himself. He is an unselfish man.' He shook his head slowly, almost talking to himself now. 'Sadly, that was not to be. This afternoon he slipped into a coma… one from which it appeared he would not recover. The decision was taken then to transport him to the relic in the hope that he would be freed to continue his mission with us. And so it was. Praise the Lord.' He wiped his eyes once more, stepped down and swept out of the refectory.

There was a moment of silence before the room erupted in cheers and cries of 'Hallelujah!' Only one man failed to join in the celebrations,

Mallory noted: Stefan, who had walked in halfway through Julian's speech. Though he forced a smile when any of the jovial brothers appeared in his line of vision, his face was dark.

Blaine had instigated a shift-rota of cathedral patrols for the knights. It was clearly a propaganda exercise to provide the illusion of security.

That night it was the turn of Mallory and Daniels. They started their rounds just as the night office was beginning at midnight. The cathedral was ablaze with candles, the golden glow reaching up the walls until it was swallowed by the thick shadows engulfing the ceiling far overhead. They stood at the back, letting the seductive sway of the plainsong move their emotions like a tidal swell. The combination of light and sound, of emotion alive with the subtle nuances of voice, had more power than its component parts.

They eventually dragged themselves into the cloisters, the singing now ghostly through the walls. Yet silence and stillness hung over the square, so that at first they didn't dare speak; even their footsteps on the ancient stone sounded too loud. The open central area was a pool of moonlight that made the enclosing corridors appear even darker.

As they approached the chapter house, Daniels coughed self-consciously. 'Sorry. I just wanted to hear my voice.' He laughed in embarrassment. 'Look at me — an educated, sophisticated, just all-round modern guy and I'm afraid of ghosts.'

'We never really leave behind the children we were,' Mallory replied. His own hand rested on the carved dragons of his sword. 'Besides, these days it's probably smart to be scared.'

'Stops you being blase,' Daniels agreed. His eyes darted around. 'You know what I miss? Clubs. Music… new stuff, you know… and lights. I used to love clubs, went two or three times a week with Gareth.'

'Yeah, I miss music,' Mallory said, 'and the football, movies, nipping out for a curry after the pub…'He thought for a second. 'Getting a train, buying a newspaper on a rainy morning, maybe picking up a Mars Bar with it-'

'I hate Mars. Like eating sugar and glue.'

'Buying a new book from your favourite author…'

'You could go on for ever.'

'It's the stupid little things that get to you the most.' Mallory took a deep breath. 'And what do we get in return-?'

'We get a life that's never boring.'

The new structure began beyond the cloisters, the stone darker, more worn, as if thousands of feet and hands had trailed over it across thousands of years. Mallory still didn't like walking around the place. The constantly changing layout of corridors and stairs and rooms unnerved him — he couldn't get a handle on the floor plan at all — and there was an unsettling atmosphere that hung in the air like a bad smell.

They passed into a corridor that ran amongst a series of dormitories where the echoes were disturbingly distorted. Halfway along, Daniels caught Mallory's arm and hissed, 'What was that?'

'Didn't hear anything,' Mallory replied. His footsteps were still reverberating several seconds after he'd come to a halt.

Daniels' eyes had widened until the whites appeared to glow. 'It sounded like someone calling my name.'

'You're a big nancy-boy coward, Daniels,' Mallory joked. 'You're scaring yourself.'

'No, it was definitely-'

He was cut short by a rustling sepulchral whispering that swept along the corridor like a breeze. Goosebumps sprang up on Mallory's arms. He could have sworn it was calling his name.

'It's just Gardener playing tricks on you,' Mallory said. It sounded feeble and unconvincing the moment he voiced it.

'It was my name,' Daniels stressed, looking up and down the deserted corridor. It unnerved Mallory even more that they had both heard something different. 'We should investigate.'

'Yeah, right,' Mallory said. 'Like I'm going to be a character in Scream Ten.'

'It's our job,' Daniels said. 'We're supposed to be protecting everyone.'

'OK. Off you go, then. I'll wait for the scream of agony. And when it comes I'll break with tradition and not come after you to find the bloody chunks. Go on. I'll be here, enjoying myself.'

'You're a bastard, Mallory,' Daniels said nervously. His sword rang as it slid out of the scabbard. He began to make his way back down the corridor.

'You're really going?' Mallory said, surprised.

'It's our job, Mallory.' He disappeared into one of the rooms.

Mallory waited for ten minutes until he started to grow bored and then sighed and marched off to investigate. Except the doorway through which Daniels had passed now led into an alcove barely big enough for him to squeeze inside.

'Daniels?' he said tentatively. An unconscious shiver ran down his spine and he quickly backed into the centre of the corridor. The silence was almost unbearable; he could feel his chest tightening as anxiety insinuated its way inside him. Although he felt stupid doing it, he drew his own sword; the hum as it came free was almost comforting.

He had found through irritating experience that retracing one's steps rarely worked, so he pressed on along the corridor. As he neared the end of it, a cold blast of air brought him to a sudden halt; it was as if someone had opened a long-closed door. A second later, the whispering rustled along the walls again; it sounded like frozen lakes, like the tomb. And he was convinced it was calling his name.

He debated going back, but he couldn't be sure that whatever was there wasn't behind him. Oddly, his growing apprehension steeled his resolve.

At the end of the corridor, a short flight of worn steps led up to a deserted chapel. They were the night stairs, a regular fixture in monasteries allowing the monks to make their way speedily from the dormitories to the services so no time was lost for devotion.

He had his foot on the bottom step when a shape loomed up at the top. At first he thought it might be Daniels until he recalled the knight hadn't been wearing his cloak. The figure wore the black habit of a monk, the cowl pulled low over a shadowy space that hid the face. With a sudden wash of cold, he realised it was the same person he had seen twice before; except it wasn't a person. On the previous occasions, he had tried to convince himself it was one of the brothers; now he couldn't hide in that illusion. It took a step towards him; the whispering wrapped around it.

Mallory felt an overpowering dread coming off the figure that left him rooted, his limbs as cold as ice, his neck and back hot; it was his mind's natural revulsion to the supernatural. It was no ghost, he was sure of it, but he had no idea exactly what it was, only that it reeked of otherworldly threat. Yet how something like that could walk the hallowed ground escaped him.

He backed down to the corridor and levelled his sword at it. His action didn't deter its measured progress down the steps. His name echoed around him, the word insubstantial, the sentiment cold and hard and unyielding. It said, Here is something that wants you, that will stop at nothing to get you.

He considered striking out at it, but if the blow was futile it would leave him too close; it would be able to touch him and the thought of that was more than he could bear. As it closed on him, his dread increased until he could no longer look at the darkness where the face should be. It was more than simple fear of the unknown; a part of him somehow knew that here was a revelation too awful for him to accept; here were all the things he was frantically escaping.

And then he was running back down the corridor, through rooms unimaginable, waiting for the building to let him out into the night.

Mallory eventually found Daniels waiting outside the chapter house an hour later. The lauds of the dead was filtering through from the cathedral.

'Well, thank heavens for that,' Daniels said tartly. 'I thought I was going to have to send in a search party. Did you enjoy your rest period?'

'I tried to find you. I couldn't get out of the place.' It had taken Mallory a long time to shake off the effects of what he had seen, and he certainly didn't feel like raising it again with Daniels.

'This place gives me the creeps.' Daniels looked uncomfortably towards where the transformed building began. 'It felt as though it was herding me out of there. I'd be a happy man if I didn't have to go in again.'

Mallory followed his gaze. 'I'll second that. But I bet you any money that if we want to find out what's happening here, that's exactly where we'll have to go.'

The announcement was made the following day: digging would commence on November die first after plans had been drawn up and preliminary excavations opened. The haste to begin underlined the seriousness of their predicament. An uproarious outpouring of relief and optimism followed. The brothers flooded out of the cathedral into a light drizzle, eager to believe that the worst was over and they could get back to their primary mission of rebuilding God's kingdom.

By nine am the rain had become a downpour, the skies so slate-grey overhead that in the oppressive shadow of the new buildings it almost seemed like night. Water cascaded from the mouths of gargoyles to gush noisily on the stone flags, or spouted off the ends of roofs to catch unawares any brother foolish enough to walk too close to the walls.

Classes continued for most of the knights, excepting the elite Blues whom Blaine appeared to think no longer needed tuition. They were rarely seen by the other knights, always busy on some mysterious task Blaine had set them deep in the sprawling body of the cathedral buildings.

Mallory could barely keep his mind on the studies. Before, it had seemed irritating; now, it was merely irrelevant. The image of the monk moving slowly down the stairs played repeatedly in his mind, interspersed with thoughts of Sophie and a growing acceptance of his deep attraction to her. The two things pulled him back and forth, darkness and light, fear and love, combining with a general sense of paralysis at his inability to do anything productive that might get him out of that place. And that, he had decided, was what he wanted more than anything else: Sophie with him, miles between them and Salisbury and damn the consequences. Even his desire for payback against Blaine and the Church authorities paled beside it.

He had doubts that he could ever convince her, especially after what had happened with Gardener, but he had a long-shot idea how he might make it work.

Mallory woke at first light, aching from the pointless, wearying tasks they were increasingly set. Miller was already sitting up in the thin grey light, his rough blankets pulled tightly around him against the cold.

'I think something bad's going to happen,' Miller said bluntly.

'To be honest, that's not much of a revelation,' Mallory said sleepily. 'Under siege. The forces of hell at the gates. Food running out. And, I might add, having to wake up next to you every morning. This is the definition of bad.'

'No, I think something bad's going to happen today.'

Mallory rolled over; another few minutes' sleep would be good and luxuries were few and far between. 'You're just spooked because it's Hallowe'en.'

'Exactly! It isn't just some stupid kids' holiday any more, Mallory. Everything now is exactly how we were afraid it would be when we were children. Those things out there… this is their day!'

'Shut up, Miller. We're safe in here. Protected by the Blue Fire,' he added sardonically. He pulled the blanket over his head. 'Safe as houses till we starve to death.'

Hipgrave pulled Mallory to one side after the herbalism class. He had appeared a different person since they had returned from their nightmarish excursion, more introspective, somehow.

'Can I have a word?' he said. His eyes darted around, uncomfortable at being seen with the black sheep.

'What's up?'

'What do you think's going on here, Mallory?'

'Why are you asking me?'

'Because you've got a different perspective on things. You know He floundered.

'An ungodly one,' Mallory said.

Hipgrave nodded, oblivious to the humour. He'd developed a nervous habit of rubbing the knuckles on the back of his left hand; Mallory could see that one of them was sore and callouses had started to build up on the others. 'This whole place…'He motioned a little too animatedly around the mysterious architecture.'… it's not right. No one seems to realise it's all changed… But they half-remember… They talk about it being a result of the Glory of God.' He paused. 'But I don't see how it can be. It doesn't feel right.' He stared off into the middle-distance. 'I can't talk to Blaine about it.'

'I've got no answers, Hipgrave.'

The captain's eyes held a devastating desperation that suggested life was slipping away from him. He clutched at Mallory's sleeve. 'If we can sort this out, Mallory, everything will be all right.' He held on for a second and then drifted slowly away.

'Hipgrave's losing it,' Mallory said baldly. 'Please excuse the complete lack of sympathy in my voice.'

Miller, Daniels and Gardener followed him across the grassy area that circumnavigated the sprawling cathedral buildings. It was only five p.m. and already dark; it seemed to be getting darker significantly earlier every day. Moonlight cast long, deep shadows all around.

'We gave him a chance to stand with us,' Gardener said. 'But he's too much of a shit to be decent.'

'Well, aren't you the heart of compassion,' Daniels jibed.

'You weren't so pleasant when he got Blaine to give you another ten laps on the circuit training.' Gardener lit a roll-up, drawing the smoke in deeply.

'I think you're all being too hard on him,' Miller ventured. 'Yes, he has been unpleasant in the past, but he needs us now, and as Christians we need to give him support… extend the hand of friendship.'

'Shut up, Miller,' they all chanted in unison.

They reached the walls and climbed the ladder to the walkway. The guard greeted them with a curt nod and continued his rounds. 'Hallowe'en and all's hell,' Mallory called out. He couldn't help a glance towards the pagan camp. A ruddy glow emanated from burning bonfires as they celebrated Samhain and the start of their New Year the following day.

'I'm hungry,' Gardener grumbled.

'You're always hungry,' Daniels said. He dropped the large bag he had been carrying and squatted down to delve into its contents.

'If they cut the servings any more, we'll just be getting bowls of hot water,' Gardener continued. 'Bloody turnips and swedes. Give me a bloody big steak, that's what I say.'

'A curry,' Mallory said. 'Balti, preferably.'

'Jerk pork.' Daniels pulled out a crossbow and handed it to Miller. 'Let's see if all that training paid off.' He handed other crossbows to Mallory and Gardener.

'Won't they be annoyed at us for wasting ammunition?' Miller said.

'Don't worry, Miller. You can go out and reclaim them all when we're finished.' Mallory drew the crossbow and fitted the bolt before looking through the sight as he moved it in an arc over the rooftops. 'When you really need street lighting…'he sighed.

The guard wandered up. He had the worn features of someone who had worked too hard for too long. 'It won't do any good, you know. You can't kill them. The best you can do is hurt them.'

'Hurting is good,' Mallory said.

'I don't know…'the guard mused. 'Maybe I should talk this over with the captain.'

Mallory clapped a comradely hand on his shoulder. 'Look, we're all under pressure here. This is just a bit of aimless sport… a bit of r'n'r and some way to show we're not a waste of space… we're not beaten.'

'Thumbing our noses,' Gardener said in support.

The guard thought about this for a second, then nodded. 'Go on. Give 'em hell.' He wandered off whistling a Madonna song.

'Right,' Gardener said quietly, 'let's tear those bastards to pieces.'

They knelt down to rest their crossbows on the top of the wall, aiming at the empty road ahead where the supernatural creatures would sooner or later make their nightly appearance. After a while, Miller began to mutter under his breath.

'For God's sake, Miller, what is it?' Mallory muttered.

'I'm not happy with this.'

The other three all groaned together. 'I'm having a post-traumatic stress disorder flashback,' Daniels moaned. 'Didn't we go through all this in the refectory? Didn't we talk at length before reaching a democratic agreement?'

'Yes, didn't we tell you you're a stupid bastard and to shut up?' Mallory added.

'They're living creatures,' Miller protested.

'Debatable,' Gardener said.

'They are. They move, they think-'

'But they don't have souls,' Gardener said.

'Neither do dogs,' Miller said. 'But would you advocate sitting up here shooting at a few pets running around out there?'

'If they were the enemy,' Mallory said.

'We're Christians,' Miller said. 'We shouldn't be going out inflicting pain on any living creature. We turn the other cheek… that's what we do.'

'Eye for an eye,' Gardener said. He cranked the bolt, ready to loose it. 'They should be coming out any minute, right?'

'Regular as clockwork, so the guards say.' Daniels armed his crossbow, too.

'I want to bag one of those little bastards,' Gardener said. 'Those black eyes they've got really give me the creeps. It's as though they're looking right into you.'

There was a movement as if a curtain of mist had been peeled back across the street. In an instant the road was filled with the army of tiny people with their pale skin and large, black eyes. The manifestation was so eerie in its silence and speed that they all felt a frisson. Gardener shuddered as though the beings had come in response to his comments. Though they had shown bravado when they climbed on to the walls, none of them could hide the primal fear evinced by the army of alien men, women and children in their odd clothes with their bizarre weapons of war.

It took a second or two for them to accept that the siege army was not making any attempt to advance as it had on previous days. Instead, they stood shoulder to shoulder, all hideous dark eyes turned towards the cathedral. An air of unsettling apprehension hung over the scene.

'What are they waiting for?' Daniels asked with irritation born of fear.

Gardener's finger gently caressed the crossbow trigger. 'Praying to the Devil,' he said. 'A Hallowe'en ritual. This is Evil's night.'

Mallory felt growing unease. 'I'm not sure…'

'They'll move soon enough,' Gardener said. 'Just wait till they get within range, then let rip. I'm going for that little shit on the horse. He looks as though he might be the leader.'

'Something's wrong,' Mallory said. He let his crossbow slip, then leaned forwards so that he could get a better look. 'They're waiting for something. It's as if they're listening…'

The white faces were turned up slightly, the moon making them glow with a spectral light. Their complete lack of movement was as frightening as their appearance. Gardener couldn't contain himself any longer. He loosed his bolt, but in his tense state his hand shook and it flew off course, embedding in a tiny wagon. The thud echoed across the silent street. Even then none of the creatures moved, nor even acknowledged they had been attacked.

'What are they doing?' Daniels said insistently.

'I don't like this,' Miller whined.

'Wait,' Mallory snapped. He had heard a sound, lost beneath the wind, something that had disturbed him, but it had come from his back, not from the city ahead. He turned and looked across the darkness engulfing the compound. Nothing moved. The only light came from the candles within the cathedral.

'What is it?' Daniels asked.

Mallory strained to catch what lay beneath the wind. 'I thought I heard…'

'Look at that.' Gardener's voice was so filled with repressed terror that they all felt queasy to hear it.

He was pointing over the rooftops. In the distance, rising up like grey smoke against the night sky, was the outline of a horned figure. It was massive, insubstantial, suggestive of great power. It had barely reached its full height when it began to break up and drift away. Instantly lights began to flare across the Stygian landscape beyond the city boundaries.

'Bonfires,' Mallory said.

'What does it mean?' Miller whimpered.

'The Devil.' Dread had turned Gardener into a shadow of his real self. 'The Devil's here.'

The noise behind them was now unmistakable and growing louder as voices rose up in support. Mallory heard terror, and disbelief, and grief. It was like wildfire, jumping from one person to the next. It was hard to tell which had the greater impetus — a desire to escape from the terrible threat looming over Salisbury or to respond to the alarm behind them — but they were all instantly in motion, skidding down the ladder and running across the compound to the source of the cries.

They found a small group milling around the cathedral doors. They were throwing their heads back and their hands up, wailing to the heavens. Mallory and the others drove through them to find Julian slumped against the base of the wall. Blood gleamed on his hands and face, so much blood that they were sickened to look at it.

At first, Mallory thought Julian had been stabbed, but as the precentor slowly pulled himself upright, it was clear it was his grief that had brought him to his knees. He didn't appear to be injured at all.

'What's happened?' Mallory yelled above the din. He grabbed Julian by the shoulders, shaking him a little too roughly to disperse the glaze of shock that covered his tear-stained face.

Along the walls, the guards called the midnight hour. Slowly, Julian raised his left hand. In the half-light it appeared unnaturally dark; a drip slowly fell from his index finger and splashed in a band of light on the floor where they could see its colour and consistency.

Eventually, Julian found his voice, a cracked, pathetic thing that sounded like winter. 'Cornelius has been murdered,' he said.