Then the spell broke.

‘Kill it!’ screamed Griffin, for the monster’s long flank still slid alongside the boat, and every passing yard of that malign body bore Connor away, and the terror of loss gripped the boy so that he cast about him for some way to stop the creature and found a gaff and raised it high above his head, and lunged. And with all his might Griffin drove the weapon into the side of the beast, yet it glanced with impunity off that terrible hide, and the boy lunged again but the gaff twisted in his grasp and the cruel hook of it tore his hand.

Yet the heat of battle was upon him now and he paused only to cast around the boat for a new weapon and to rouse the others to fight.

Then Searle rose up and swung an oar with such force against the beast that the blade shattered, and as Griffin flung bottles to burst upon the enemy, Searle cursed it with hoarse cries, and

stabbed into it again and again, and Martin stood close up against the sliding wall of it, and held up his arms clenched to the shape of our Saviour’s cross, and chanted at the top of his voice the pig Latin. ‘Pater noster! Qui est in Coelis!’

‘Get it!’ shouted Arno, and from beneath the stamping hooves of the horse he lugged out the spike and braced it upon his stump ready for the charge. ‘You hell-bent lump of dung!’

o’’ Searle turned, and saw the spike poised and ready to harpoon the creature, ‘not that! Arno — put it down! Drop it!’

For already the swart beast had slid by, and all the miners stood drooped and panting, and Griffin had begun to cry and Searle took charge, grasping Arno’s arm.

For we may lose Ulf,” said Searle, and looked to the wailing boy in the bow, ‘aye, and we may have lost Connor. Yet we may not lose the spike, or the village itself will perish.’

And the two men made to lay the spike down upon the keel, yet saw the boat was awash with water, and more gushed in through a hole in the stern.

‘We’re sinking!’ screamed Arno. ‘Mother of God! Sancta Maria, not in the ocean deep! I can’t swim!’ And in those wild mo- ments, even the loss of Connor was forgotten, for the boat was likely to founder; yet Searle gave swift orders.

‘Martin! Plug that leak. Use your fist — and these rags!’ ‘Arno! Take the good oar. Scull us in! Fast!’

And Searle bailed furiously, and shot a glance from under his dark and desperate brow to the small figure who sat in the bow. ‘And you! Is it the last church in Hell you’re taking us to, boy? And what. happens now? Tell us! Tell us!’

Yet Griffin made no reply but sat hunched in the bow, his punc- tured hand clenched upon the rag to staunch the bleeding of the gaff wound, bereft of Connor, sobbing and sobbing, and Searle the leader now, whose voice battered him, demanding direction.

‘Tell us what happens, damn you. The dream! The dream. Griffin!’

Yet the dream had come only in Cumbria, and had come unbidden, as a gift of the mind, and to seek it from Griffin was vain. Vain perhaps, but in Cumbria it had come to the boy as he stood surrounded by water under a bright moon, and it had come to a boy distraught for his brother. And so it was now, for Griffin fell into a swoon . . .

He saw again the steeple, and upon it now saw men climbing as the spike was hoist beside them. He saw a cowled figure whose face was in shadow climb the ladder, rung over rung.

And one of the man’s hands wore a gauntlet, and one was bare, hand over hand up the ladder. . . and then those hands lost grip

And with that, Griffin screamed and awoke from his dream.

Who will die at the mighty cathedral?

SEE CHAPTER XVI