A scraping sound came from the direction of the yard entrance and almost simultaneously the women heard the thump of weapons upon the street door.

‘Quickly, my lady!’ Gytha hissed, beckoning from the foot of the stairs, her eye-whites gleaming.

Linnet started down the steps, Robert clinging to her like a limpet. She began to close the cellar door with the hand not supporting him but stopped as Ironheart staggered into the storeroom, his mouth twisted in a grimace of effort and pain. She widened the door again. He was too breathless to speak but gestured her down the stairs. Wordless herself from the sight of blood glistening on his shoulder, she gave him the key and hastened down after the other women. As she reached the cave, she heard the front door crash down and the iron key grate in the cellar lock.

The dampness closed around them like a tomb, musty and cold. Gytha brought over the lantern to light Ironheart’s way down the steps. He leaned heavily on the rope supports hammered into one side of the wall, and when he reached the bottom collapsed against a row of casks, his breathing harsh.

‘I haven’t given you away,’ he panted. ‘We killed the first three, me and Jonas . . . and the two who came after . . .’ His eyes squeezed shut and he put his hand to the wetness at his shoulder.

‘Where is Jonas?’ Gytha asked. Her hand trembled as she set down the candle lantern.

Ironheart swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, Gytha, there was nothing I could do. There were two of them at me and I could not reach him. I tried, God knows I did. Then one of the bastards ran into this yard after you and I gave chase. I got him - but he got me. You think you’re safe enough in your own house not to bother with mail.’

‘Let me have a look.’ Kneeling, Linnet reached to examine the wide split in his leather jerkin, tunic and shirt.

‘No time,’ he gasped. ‘They will be looking for loot, and in a vintner’s house that means the cellar.’

Linnet withdrew and looked at him askance. ‘Then why tell us to come here in the first place?’

‘The cave runs the length of all the houses and then some more. There is a passage branching off beneath the entry where there used to be a meat store. We had a dispute with the old basket-weaver across the alleyway - he cut a room for his workshop and broke through into my cellars. As far as I know, the hole has only been boarded over. It should be possible to crawl through. Give me your arm, girl.’

Linnet was almost dragged to the floor by Ironheart’s weight as he levered himself to his feet and leaned briefly against the casks.

‘Here, boy,’ he commanded Robert, who was holding tightly to Linnet’s skirts. ‘Carry my sword for me, be my squire.’ He held out the weapon. The candlelight flashed upon the blade edge and up the tendons of the man’s rigid hand.

Tentatively Robert did as he was bid, his own small hand inadequate on the braided grip.

At the top of the stairs, the door suddenly rattled vigorously on its hinges. ‘Locked,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Use the axe, Greg.’

‘This way,’ Ironheart whispered hoarsely and began weaving a path through the casks. The cellar door shook beneath the blows of an axe and they all heard the sound of splintering wood.

Linnet did not like the way Ironheart was breathing and from the size of the wound, as she had briefly seen it, she was sure that it would need attention very soon if he was not to bleed to death.

They rounded a corner and had to stoop as the roof of the cave suddenly dipped and seemed to reach an end. The lantern light illuminated the chisel marks on the walls where the cave had been cut. To their left the shadows seemed blacker than elsewhere and it was towards these that Ironheart headed. In a moment, the shadows resolved themselves into a narrow, dark connecting passageway. Gazing over her shoulder, Linnet saw only blackness but the hammering sounds went on and there was a cry of triumph as the soldiers split through the door.

‘I want Joscelin,’ Robert whimpered as they crouched along the passage and into the storage cave of the house next door. ‘Will he come and save us, Mama?’ He, too, looked back with the wide eyes of a hunted animal. The weight of the sword was making his wrist droop.

‘If he is able to, I know he will,’ Linnet said. She knew he had gone to the castle. Probably the alarm had not even been raised there yet, and by the time it was it might well be too late. ‘But for now, sweeting, we have to use our own wits.’

‘Mama, why can’t we—?’

‘Hush,’ she admonished quickly, ‘they will hear us!’

They could not see the soldiers’ torchlight but suddenly they could hear their voices in the first cellar and the grate of footsteps on the sandy cave floor.

‘’E don’t have much wine stored down here to say he’s such a busy merchant,’ complained a rough voice. ‘Hold the light closer, Greg, I want to see the mark on this barrel. Hah, Rhenish!’ A glint of greedy pleasure entered the voice and there were various unidentifiable clinking, scraping sounds, followed by the trickle of wine into some sort of vessel. All in the tunnel held their breath. Gytha shielded the light of the lantern beneath her cloak and turned away from the first cellar. Ironheart silently removed his sword from Robert’s hand.

‘You reckon there’s anything upstairs worth a look?’ asked one of the looters between swallows.

‘We’ll investigate in a minute. By Christ’s toes, this is good stuff.’

Footsteps scuffed in the direction of the passageway and Ironheart tightened his hand around the grip of the sword.

‘Hoi, Thomas, look at this. There’s a passage here; bring the torch!’

In the moment while the refugees deliberated between fight and flight, another voice, angry and imperative, filled the first cave.

‘I might have expected you two tosspots to find the wine!’ There came the sound of a blow and a pot smashing on the cave floor. ‘Get upstairs now. The men I sent to de Rocher’s house are all dead and there’s no sign of the old fox or the woman and child. I want them found, is that understood?’

‘Yes, sir. We was only investigating the cave. They could be down here for all we know!’

‘Oh, aye,’ said their captain sarcastically. ‘I presume you were drinking all the barrels dry to make sure they weren’t hiding in them. You must think I was born yesterday and blind. Go on, get out of here and find Simon; he’s coordinating the search parties.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The sound of running footsteps retreated and the captain’s voice, softly cursing, followed them, boots crunching upon the shards of broken pottery.

Linnet released her breath and sucked air into her starving lungs. Ironheart groaned and slipped slowly down the wall. His grip loosened on the sword and it clattered sideways. A single blue spark flashed along the edge of the blade and was quenched in semi-darkness. Linnet crouched beside her father-in-law. His eyelids flickered.

‘Go on,’ he croaked. ‘I won’t be able to keep pace with you.’ A wry smile barely curved his lips. ‘I doubt I’m even able to stand up. Fetch help if you can. If not . . . guard yourself. Take my sword. I still have my dagger.’

Linnet bit her lip, considered briefly, then nodded. ‘Give me the lantern,’ she said to Gytha, and when the older woman handed it across she set it down beside the wounded man.

‘Leave me,’ he growled. ‘You have no time.’

‘Time enough to make you comfortable,’ she retorted. ‘I won’t be gainsaid. You saved me once. At least let me redress the balance a little.’

Ironheart snorted. ‘I didn’t save you to indulge in this kind of folly,’ he said but, after a brief attempt to push her hand away, allowed her to have her will.

Linnet raised her skirt and undergown to reach the good linen of her shift. Taking the hem in both hands at the side seam, she tore it upwards and then hard across. The fibres resisted and she had to use her belt knife to finish tearing off a long, wide strip. This she used as wadding and bandage to cover Ironheart’s wound, securing it with her own braid belt. Ironheart’s tougher leather belt she took and bound around her waist, setting her knife in the empty dagger sheath.

‘It will cause you pain but you must press down hard on the bandage to staunch the bleeding,’ she told him. ‘I don’t think you are losing as much blood as you were.’ She picked up the lantern from his side and returned to the first cave, picking her way over the shards of broken pottery and the dark glimmer of splattered wine. There was a small ledge carved into the wall and on it stood two more pitchers of a similar design to the one that lay in pieces on the floor. Lifting one down, she filled it from the broached keg and brought it to Ironheart, setting it down at his good side.

He regarded her with grim amusement. ‘What’s this for, to drown my sorrows?’

‘To dull the pain and replace the blood you have lost,’ she replied, her tone sharp.

Ironheart hefted the pitcher and took a shaky gulp of the wine from the cracked rim. ‘Waes hael,’ he toasted with irony. ‘Go on, wench, get you gone. There’s nothing to be gained in watching a drunkard die.’

Linnet blinked hard. ‘Get as drunk as you want,’ she said, ‘but don’t you dare die!’ Bending over him, she kissed his cheek fiercely then straightened and gestured brusquely at Gytha to lead on.

Ironheart watched their small light disappear in the direction of the third cellar and raised the pitcher to his lips again. He was indeed inordinately thirsty. He was tired, too, and could feel the chill of the cave floor seeping up through his bones. How long did it take to die? He closed his eyes, then remembered he was supposed to drink the wine. The pitcher was so heavy. He raised it, swallowed, choked, swallowed, lowered his aching arm.