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with only a few stars showing, but there was a red glow rising from behind the hall, over in the priory. The bell was still ringing, and as he emerged into the raw cold the lay brothers appeared, trotting in a tight disciplined group, rakes and hay-forks at the port and Brother Dickon recognisable at their head in the eerie light.
    ‘Aye, maister,’ he called across the courtyard, ‘we’ll likely be glad o yir help.’
    Gil let the door slam behind him and followed, through the narrow passage by the library into the main cloister. A towering column of red-lit smoke full of sparks was visible from here, not rising from this range of buildings but beyond.
    ‘The infirmary!’ said one of the lay brothers. ‘Ser— Brother Dickon, it’s the infirmary!’
    ‘Aye, lad,’ said his superior. ‘I’ve een in my heid.’
    In the small courtyard by the infirmary building there was panic and disorder. Prior Boyd and another elderly man were planted stock-still in the middle of the courtyard, the one praying aloud, the other lamenting incoherently. About them friars ran to and fro shouting, their black and white lit wildly by the leaping flames which issued from the windows of the infirmary. The fire burned with a greedy sound, a snapping and crackling and roaring, and a heat which struck the face and hands. Someone was hauling on the handle of the draw-well, making the wooden mechanism squeal, while someone else hastened with a bucket.
    Brother Dickon halted his troop at the entrance to the courtyard and assessed the situation.
    ‘Dod, Archie, Tammas, get across and help them deal wi the roof,’ he said decisively. ‘Jamesie, Eck, go and get a bucket chain together. Maister, will you come wi me? I need to learn if that laddie got out.’
    ‘My thought and all,’ said Gil rather grimly.
    ‘Rattray?’ said Prior Boyd when Brother Dickon grasped his sleeve. ‘Why, no, I— Our Lady protect him! James? Did Andrew get out?’
    ‘Andrew?’ His elderly companion turned a horrified face to the flames. ‘Oh, David! Oh, Our Lady forgive me! I never – I never thought—’
    ‘Where is he lodged?’ Gil demanded.
    ‘Along at the end,’ said the elderly friar, wringing his hands. ‘By the last window, in a wee cell by himself. Maybe he heard me shouting,’ he said hopefully. ‘Maybe he heard me shout “Fire!” or the bell or that.’
    Gil did not pause to answer him, but plunged towards the burning building. It was a timber-framed structure of three bays, the red roof-tiles now cracking and shattering in the heat, the upper floor beginning to catch. The last window disgorged a furious blaze, flames licking out and upwards like dancing devils.
    At his shoulder Brother Dickon bawled, ‘We’ll never get into that, but he might ha got out the cell. Here, maister!’
    He produced a length of rag from under his scapular, and then another, dunked them in a passing bucket of water, handed Gil one. Tying it about his face, Gil followed him into the blaze, with a quick silent prayer to St Giles for protection.
    He would have nightmares about it for years, he thought afterwards. The wet cloth helped, but the smoke bit at his eyes, obscured everything, and groping through a strange building amidst flames and roaring heat seemed to take more courage than he had known he possessed. Sparks and flakes of burning wood fell past him, a table in flames appeared before him and collapsed as he moved round it. Strange smells caught his throat, even behind the wet rag, as the infirmarer’s stock burned.
    He kept as close as he could to Brother Dickon, who suddenly dropped to his knees. Gil knew a surge of alarm, but the older man crawled forward, feeling from side to side, and he realised that the air was clearer near the ground and got down likewise. For what seemed like forever they searched the outer chamber in this way, the flames crackling round them, burning debris falling like snow, but when Brother Dickon opened a door in the far