again…and then didn’t.
‘Hold there!’ yelled Pitman, his great boots reducing the window frame to further splinters. He pushed one leg and half his big body through, his pistol leading. With one glance at him and another to the rising captain, the three conspirators ran as one for the roof edge and hurled themselves over it.
Pitman was beside him in a moment. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Only my pride.’
Pitman offered an arm and hauled Coke up. ‘An unusual guard, Captain, sitting on your arse,’ he said. ‘Learn it in France?’
‘Are we after them?’
‘We are – for that’s two-thirds of our bounty escaping.’
‘Fast then – I’ve house payments to make.’
The two men leapt the small parapet between roofs just as their quarry’s coat-tails disappeared over the next one. Coke and Pitman followed fast, dropping to the cobbles. The pace of hunter and prey was evenly matched as they splashed through the garbage-choked kennels of the ill-lit alleys, weaving westwards.
Pitman began to labour. ‘ ’Tis my armour,’ he gasped at Coke’s querying glance. ‘Not meant for running.’
‘Can you slip it off?’
‘Too troublesome,’ Pitman grunted. ‘Come! Last gasp or lose ’em.’ And with that, the bigger man sped up.
They drew close enough to hear the heaving breaths of the men ahead. This alley was narrowing, darkening, the jutties overhead nearly joined into a single roof. But then, around another bend, the way ahead lightened, for the alley’s end gave onto an open space, and a vast structure ahead.
‘The cathedral!’ wheezed Coke. ‘Do they seek sanctuary?’
‘They’ll find none,’ came the grunted reply. Taking the lead,for two men could not clear the entrance together, Pitman burst out into St Paul’s churchyard, the captain a pace behind him.
There was enough of a moon to turn the biggest building in the city into a hulk of shadows and gloom. Scaffolding was everywhere, propping up walls that had long leaned precipitously outwards, allowing for sailcloth and wood tiles to block vast sections of the holed and sagging roof. While two of the pursued ran straight for the wooden struts at the church’s eastern end, the third turned right, speeding up, heading north to Blow Bladder Street and the cramped alleys beyond.
‘Yours,’ said Pitman, nodding after the man.
‘And leave you two? Nay!’
They’d paused. The men ahead had started to mount the scaffolding. ‘I’ll have ’em,’ said Pitman, patting his chest. ‘I’ve two primed pistols here, and I am certain they have discharged both theirs. Drag your man back here, if you can.’
In matters of pursuit, the highwayman had decided to defer to the thief-taker. With a nod, he obeyed.
Pitman reached the base of the eastern wall in a dozen strides, just as the men above him slipped through a gap of crumbled masonry. He grunted. A climb in armour did not appeal. He looked through the wooden poles, noted a small door like a sally port in the bastion of a castle. He slipped into the scaffolding, reached for the door’s handle. It gave way easily to his twist and opened silently outwards. He stepped inside.
He stood just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. There was some light within the great hall; lanterns burned at a few points, a little moonlight came through such of the stained-glass windows that had not beenshrouded in sailcloth for their protection. He did not know the cathedral well – he was a man of the dissident meeting house not the great churches of state. But he had been there during Cromwell’s Commonwealth, when soldiers more radical than he had desecrated a building they saw as verging on popery. They’d stabled horses in the chapels and played ninepins in the nave.
From what he could see – and the view of most of the church was obscured by the great screen that separated this space behind the altar and the choir beyond – St Paul’s was not in a much better
‘Hold there!’ yelled Pitman, his great boots reducing the window frame to further splinters. He pushed one leg and half his big body through, his pistol leading. With one glance at him and another to the rising captain, the three conspirators ran as one for the roof edge and hurled themselves over it.
Pitman was beside him in a moment. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Only my pride.’
Pitman offered an arm and hauled Coke up. ‘An unusual guard, Captain, sitting on your arse,’ he said. ‘Learn it in France?’
‘Are we after them?’
‘We are – for that’s two-thirds of our bounty escaping.’
‘Fast then – I’ve house payments to make.’
The two men leapt the small parapet between roofs just as their quarry’s coat-tails disappeared over the next one. Coke and Pitman followed fast, dropping to the cobbles. The pace of hunter and prey was evenly matched as they splashed through the garbage-choked kennels of the ill-lit alleys, weaving westwards.
Pitman began to labour. ‘ ’Tis my armour,’ he gasped at Coke’s querying glance. ‘Not meant for running.’
‘Can you slip it off?’
‘Too troublesome,’ Pitman grunted. ‘Come! Last gasp or lose ’em.’ And with that, the bigger man sped up.
They drew close enough to hear the heaving breaths of the men ahead. This alley was narrowing, darkening, the jutties overhead nearly joined into a single roof. But then, around another bend, the way ahead lightened, for the alley’s end gave onto an open space, and a vast structure ahead.
‘The cathedral!’ wheezed Coke. ‘Do they seek sanctuary?’
‘They’ll find none,’ came the grunted reply. Taking the lead,for two men could not clear the entrance together, Pitman burst out into St Paul’s churchyard, the captain a pace behind him.
There was enough of a moon to turn the biggest building in the city into a hulk of shadows and gloom. Scaffolding was everywhere, propping up walls that had long leaned precipitously outwards, allowing for sailcloth and wood tiles to block vast sections of the holed and sagging roof. While two of the pursued ran straight for the wooden struts at the church’s eastern end, the third turned right, speeding up, heading north to Blow Bladder Street and the cramped alleys beyond.
‘Yours,’ said Pitman, nodding after the man.
‘And leave you two? Nay!’
They’d paused. The men ahead had started to mount the scaffolding. ‘I’ll have ’em,’ said Pitman, patting his chest. ‘I’ve two primed pistols here, and I am certain they have discharged both theirs. Drag your man back here, if you can.’
In matters of pursuit, the highwayman had decided to defer to the thief-taker. With a nod, he obeyed.
Pitman reached the base of the eastern wall in a dozen strides, just as the men above him slipped through a gap of crumbled masonry. He grunted. A climb in armour did not appeal. He looked through the wooden poles, noted a small door like a sally port in the bastion of a castle. He slipped into the scaffolding, reached for the door’s handle. It gave way easily to his twist and opened silently outwards. He stepped inside.
He stood just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom. There was some light within the great hall; lanterns burned at a few points, a little moonlight came through such of the stained-glass windows that had not beenshrouded in sailcloth for their protection. He did not know the cathedral well – he was a man of the dissident meeting house not the great churches of state. But he had been there during Cromwell’s Commonwealth, when soldiers more radical than he had desecrated a building they saw as verging on popery. They’d stabled horses in the chapels and played ninepins in the nave.
From what he could see – and the view of most of the church was obscured by the great screen that separated this space behind the altar and the choir beyond – St Paul’s was not in a much better
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