Suddenly he felt scared.

“Jesus Christ, who are those people?” he said aloud.

“Don’t say ‘Christ,’ ” Jonathan reprimanded him.

Whoever they were, they meant trouble.

Tom hurried down the steps. The crowd cheered as he jumped down to the ground. He ignored them. Where were Ellen and the children? He looked all around, but he could not see them.

Jonathan tried to wriggle out of his arms. Tom held him tight. As he had his youngest child right here, the first thing to do was to put him somewhere safe. Then he could find the others. He pushed through the crowd to the door that led into the cloisters. It was locked from the inside, to preserve the privacy of the monastery during the fair. Tom banged on it and yelled: “Open up! Open up!”

Nothing happened.

Tom was not even sure there was anyone in the cloisters. There was no time to speculate. He stepped back, put Jonathan down, lifted his large booted right foot and kicked at the door. The wood around the lock splintered. He kicked it again, harder. The door flew open. Just the other side of it was an elderly monk, looking astonished. Tom lifted Jonathan and put him inside. “Keep him in there,” he said to the old monk. “There’s going to be trouble.”

The monk nodded dumbly and took Jonathan’s hand.

Tom closed the door.

Now he had to find the rest of his family in a crowd of a thousand or more.

The near impossibility of the task scared him. He could not see a single familiar face. He climbed onto an empty beer barrel to get a better view. It was midday, and the fair was at its height. The crowd moved like a slow river along the aisles between the stalls, and there were eddies around the vendors of food and drink as people queued to buy dinner. Tom raked the crowds but he could not see any of his family. He despaired. He looked over the roofs of the houses. The riders were almost at the bridge, and had increased their pace to a gallop. They were men-at-arms, all of them, and they carried firebrands. Tom was horrified. There would be mayhem.

Suddenly he saw Jack right beside him, looking up at him with an expression of amusement. “Why are you standing on a barrel?” he said.

“There’s going to be trouble!” Tom said urgently. “Where’s your mother?”

“At Aliena’s stall. What sort of trouble?”

“Bad. Where are Alfred and Martha?”

“Martha’s with Mother. Alfred’s watching the cockfighting. What is it?”

“See for yourself.” Tom gave Jack a hand up. Jack stood precariously on the rim of the barrel in front of Tom. The riders were pounding across the bridge into the village. Jack said: “Christ Jesus, who are they?”

Tom peered at the leader, a big man on a war-horse. He recognized the yellow hair and heavy build. “It’s William Hamleigh,” he said.

As the riders reached the houses they touched their torches to the roofs, setting fire to the thatch. “They’re burning the town!” Jack exploded.

“It’s going to be even worse than I thought,” Tom said. “Get down.”

They both jumped to the ground.

“I’ll get Mother and Martha,” Jack said.

“Take them to the cloisters,” Tom said urgently. “It will be the only safe place. If the monks object, tell them to go shit.”

“What if they lock the door?”

“I just broke the lock. Go quickly! I’ll fetch Alfred. Go!”

Jack hurried away. Tom headed for the cockpit, roughly pushing people aside. Several men objected to his shoving but he ignored them and they shut up when they saw his size and the look of stony determination on his face. It was not long before the smoke of the burning houses blew into the priory close. Tom smelled it, and he noticed one or two other people sniffing the air curiously. He had only a few moments left before panic broke out.

The cockpit was near the priory gate. There was a large, noisy crowd around it. Tom shoved through, looking for Alfred. In the middle of the crowd was a shallow hole in the ground a few feet across. In the center of the hole, two cocks were tearing each other to pieces with beaks and spurred claws. There were feathers and blood everywhere. Alfred was near the front, watching intently, yelling at the top of his voice, encouraging one or other of the wretched birds. Tom forced his way between the packed people and grabbed Alfred’s shoulder. “Come!” he shouted.

“I’ve got sixpence on the black one!” Alfred shouted back.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Tom yelled. At that moment a drift of smoke blew over the cockpit. “Can’t you smell the fire?”

One or two of the spectators heard the word fire and looked at Tom curiously. The smell came again, and they picked it up. Alfred smelled it too. “What is it?” he said.

“The town is on fire!” Tom said.

Suddenly everyone wanted to leave. The men dispersed in all directions, pushing and shoving. In the pit, the black cock killed the brown, but nobody cared anymore. Alfred started to go the wrong way. Tom grabbed him. “We’ll go to the cloisters,” he said. “It’s the only safe place.”

The smoke began to come over in billows, and fear spread through the crowd. Everyone was agitated but no one knew what to do. Looking over the heads, Tom could see that people were pouring out through the priory gate; but the gate was narrow, and anyway they were no safer out there than in here. Nevertheless, more people got the idea, and he and Alfred found themselves struggling against a tide of people frantically going in the opposite direction. Then, quite suddenly, the tide turned, and everyone was going their way. Tom looked around to discover the reason for the change, and saw the first of the horsemen ride into the close.

At that point the crowd became a mob.

The riders were a terrifying sight. Their huge horses, just as frightened as the crowd, plunged and reared and charged, trampling people left, right and center. The armed and helmeted riders laid about them with clubs and torches, felling men, women and children, and setting fire to stalls, clothes, and people’s hair. Everyone was screaming. More riders came through the gate, and more people disappeared beneath the massive hooves. Tom shouted in Alfred’s ear: “You go on to the cloisters-I want to make sure the others have got clear. Run!” He gave him a shove. Alfred took off. Tom headed for Aliena’s stall. Almost immediately he tripped over someone and fell to the ground. Cursing, he got to his knees; but before he could stand upright he saw a war-horse bearing down on him. The beast’s ears were back and its nostrils were flared, and Tom could see the whites of its terrified eyes. Above the horse’s head, Tom saw the beefy face of William Hamleigh, distorted into a grimace of hatred and triumph. The thought flashed through his mind that it would be nice to hold Ellen in his arms once again. Then a massive hoof kicked him in the exact center of his forehead, he felt a dreadful, frightening pain as his skull seemed to burst open, and the whole world went black.

The first time Aliena smelled smoke, she thought it was coming from the dinner she was serving.

Three Flemish buyers were sitting at the table in the open air in front of her storehouse. They were corpulent, black-bearded men who spoke English with a heavy Germanic accent and wore clothes of exquisitely fine cloth. Everything was going well. She was close to starting the selling, and had decided to serve lunch first in order to give the buyers time to get anxious. Nevertheless, she would be glad when this vast fortune in wool became someone else’s. She put the platter of honey-roast pork chops in front of them and looked critically at it. The meat was done to a turn, with the border of fat just crisp and brown. She poured more wine. One of the buyers sniffed the air, then they all looked around anxiously. Aliena was suddenly fearful. Fire was the wool merchant’s nightmare. She looked at Ellen and Martha, who were helping her serve dinner. “Can you smell smoke?” she said.