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still a full head of hair of which she was quite proud, and replaced the scarf with one of her starched and beribboned caps.
    St Leonard’s Hospital stretched over a large area within the north corner of York’s city walls, bordered by Footless Lane, St Mary’s Abbey, and Lop Lane, and reaching almost to Petergate. The East Gatehouse stood at the top of Blake Street, with a high arch over the lane in which was set a statue of St Leonard. The church and the claustral buildings of Austin canons filled the north-east half of the precinct; the other half held the infirmary with two chapels, and extensive additional buildings for a grammar school, guest hall, tannery, malthouse, stables, workshops, kitchens, and dwellings of staff and corrodians. It seemed almost a self-contained town. St Leonard’s had been founded by Athelstan before William the Norman harried the north, and it was said by many to be the largest hospital outside London.
    As Bess passed under the arch, she encountered a scene of chaos: people swarmed like frantic bees smoked from a hive, running hither and yon, bumping into each other as if blinded by the smoke; buckets and pots clanked and sloshed with water. Bess pushed through the crowd towards the infirmary, shaking herself loose from those who clutched at her and shouted gibberish. But she realised in short order that the infirmary and its chapels were intact; the smoke came from the north wall, from either the grammar school or one of the small houses for corrodians – which included her uncle’s dwelling.
    With renewed urgency she pushed through the crowd, using her left shoulder as a battering ram, and was soon past the grammar school and forcing her way through an even louder throng. She was rewarded by the sight of Julian’s house, scorched on the left side, but intact. The house beside it, however, was a burned-out shell. Before it lay two bodies, one writhing beneath the ministering hands of two women, one of whom Bess recognised as Honoria de Staines, once her uncle’s servant and now a lay sister. The other man lay quietly beneath the bowed head of an Austin canon.
    As Bess approached, she saw that much of the clothing on the motionless man had been burned away, and his body scorched – his face beyond recognition. Don Erkenwald solemnly prayed for his soul. Bess crossed herself, moved over to the one struggling to stand to escape the two women. ‘Uncle Julian! Praise God!’ She almost laughed, thinking how like him to be surrounded by fawning women. But when he turned to Bess and she saw his face bruised and cut, his mass of white hair singed on one side, both hands bandaged from fingertips to wrists, she saw how close he must have come to being the one lying still beneath the priest. ‘What happened, uncle?’
    ‘Tell Anneys and Honoria to see to Laurence.’ Julian’s voice was hoarse. He struggled to rise, pushing the two women aside.
    ‘Don Erkenwald is with him,’ Bess said. And glad she was, too, as she realised the dead man must be her uncle’s oldest friend, Laurence de Warrene. Erkenwald was a former soldier and knew death when he saw it. He would have found help for Laurence if there had been any hope.
    ‘Erkenwald knows nothing of physicks,’ Julian said, taking a step towards Bess. As he put his weight on his left foot he stumbled with a cry of pain.
    Bess caught him, and with the help of the one called Anneys managed to lower him gently to the ground. ‘Sit and keep your peace, uncle.’ Bess shook her head at his singed sleeves, hem, and hair. ‘Were you in that house as it burned?’
    Julian closed his eyes and put a bandaged hand to his forehead. ‘Laurence’s house.’
    Bess caught sight of two men pushing their way through the crowd with a stretcher, motioned them over. ‘Get him to the infirmary at once.’
    Julian growled at them. ‘See to Laurence.’
    Honoria touched Julian’s cheek. He pushed her away.
    ‘Let the men lift him,’ Bess said, grabbing