But Emma went forth boldly, intent to know if anything could be done to rescue the victims.
Norwich in those days was an open town. The walls and towers, of which portions still remain to gladden the eyes of archaeologists, were not built till some fifty years later, so that it was not possible to defend the town itself. Moreover, although the earl had found supporters amongst the Saxon and Anglo-Danish inhabitants of the older quarters, numbering more than one relative of Harold Godwinsson, the majority of the Norman denizens of the New Burg around the Chapel-in-the-Field remained loyal to William, and were ready to give all help to the besiegers. For this reason was it that the western sky had but flickered with the reflections of flames. It was the Saxon quarter by the river, the wooden tenements in King Street, which provided fuel for the bonfire.
Looking east from the portal of the great tower, a grand and terrible spectacle confronted the beholders.
Crackling flames shot up against the dark midnight sky, dancing like living demons of fiery destruction, and sinking only to lick the doomed houses with their scorching tongues and spring up higher than ever. Every now and again some beam or stone would burst with a sharp report, throwing blazing fragments into the air; and the volumes of smoke rolled far into the night, lurid with the red glare of the flames. Moats and marshes and river gleamed and sparkled weirdly with the light of destruction, so that the ground was broken by inverted images of fiery tongues; and it seemed, indeed, as if the nether world—so ardently believed in by those who were watching as a material hell of fire and brimstone—had broken bounds, and was let loose to destroy the world.
But most awful was it to see the small black figures that every now and again raised wild arms against the flare of the fire; most awful was it to here the screams that every now and again rose above the dull roar and crackle and hiss of the destroying element.
When such figures were seen, and such sounds heard, curses and execrations burst from the white lips of the soldiers who were crowding the eastern walls of Blauncheflour, and the knights who had assembled before the portal of the keep.
As the countess came down amongst them, she could not repress an exclamation of horror, for never in her life had she beheld anything so awful.
Sir Hoël de St. Brice came instantly to her side.
'Alas, dear lady! this is no scene for thee. Return to thy bower. There is no danger for the castle.'
'My place is here, Sir Hoël,' said Emma firmly. 'I am Castellan of this castle. The battle is not always to the strong. See, yonder flames hissing through the air are more terrible than a hundred mailed warriors! The flame of wit is given to woman as well as to man!'