Fire (7 page)

‘ “And I saw heaven opened,” ' cried Blood, ‘ “and behold a white horse. And he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.” '

‘Amen,' Simeon said. ‘He will come. Yet you were right before. We have to earn our place in Christ's army by our deeds. By our reason. And we must seek to find in our prophet's words, just when the hour is to come.'

‘Have you calculated it, as many have tried to do?'

‘I rely on wiser heads for that. But this I know: there is one date that appears again and again in prophecy. Mother Shipton set it down. The astrologer Lilly, whom all revere. The Saints' own seer, Anna Trapnel. All have marked this day.'

‘Name it.'

‘September the third.'

Blood thumped the table. ‘By heaven's blessing, I knew you'd say that! For I'll tell you something else of it.' He leaned in. ‘ 'Twas on September the third that Oliver Cromwell died.' He raised a hand as if to halt a protest. ‘I know. Many believe that Cromwell did not go far enough to usher in a truly godly republic. But, by heaven he guided us to holy victories over the old tyrant Charles Stuart. Yeah, and guided him to the block.'

‘He did. And do you know what else our Lord Protector did on the day we speak of?' Simeon smiled. ‘He defeated the Scots at Dunbar in that mighty fight. And then he also defeated the tyrant who rules us now, the second Charles, at Worcester in '51. Both upon that same special day. And I was with him at both.' His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Never was a day marked out in a year so oft foretold.' He sat straight. ‘Never has God set it out for us more clearly, to use both our reason and our faith – to kill a second king. To bring about Armageddon,' he held out his hand, ‘on the third day of September, in this the year of the Beast.'

Blood held his gaze for a further, long moment. ‘September the
third,' he said at last, taking Simeon's hand, shaking it and rising straightway. ‘Five months gives us time to plan the thing well, as God would have us do. Gives me time to go to Holland to organise the weapons we will need, as I planned before I was…distracted by your scheme. Since the Dutch, a godly people, fight the English upon the sea, they would be delighted to see their brothers in Christ bring disaster to their enemies.'

Simeon rose too. ‘Will you not stay a time? We would benefit from your advice.'

Blood eyed him. ‘There's danger wherever I stay. How long?'

‘A week, maybe two. To allow me to prepare some real plans for your perusal. Unless you care to wait tonight? The Council –'

‘The Council may be compromised and you must look to that. Someone betrayed Jeremiah, remember. Besides, I do not wish to be caught up in debate. Come up with actions and I will play my role in them. Two weeks?' Blood tipped his head to the side. ‘Hang a blanket from this window on the morning of the meeting. Send your boy to meet mine at Eleanor's Cross on the Strand at four that afternoon to let me know the where and when.' He nodded. ‘Until then, God's blessings upon you.'

‘And you, brother.'

Blood crossed to the door, then halted there and turned back. ‘One last thing. Those men who thwarted us this time, who thwarted you before. You should not let them interfere a third time in our work. The solution is simple – find men who know how to use a knife and kill them, that's my advice. Kill them soon.'

He left. Simeon stood a while, staring at the door. Men who know how to use a knife, he thought. Like you.

A vision came to him then – of Peckworth, his eyes shining
with the light of Christ's word received, and of his comrade, Brother Garnthorpe, his body torn apart. Both their deaths caused by two men, Pitman and Coke, and one woman, Sarah Chalker. A knife for each of them? It was possible – though given how much these enemies had survived, he knew it would not be as simple as Blood thought. Also he had few Saints to spare, men he would need on the great day to come. Besides – and this he felt clearly, sharply, suddenly – a knife in some alley was just too paltry a revenge for his dismembered dead comrades.

He found he was standing at the little stage again, with no clear memory of crossing to it. Before him were the boxes, like miniature coffins. His puppets were within them and he ran his fingers along each of them.

On a sudden urge, he slid down the lid of one, then pulled down the soft covering to reveal the twisted features of Punchinello. Gently, he lifted the puppet from his bed, unravelled the strings, dangled him from the wooden strut until his feet touched the floor, turning him from side to side and making his gnarled hands rise and fall in greeting. How the room had throbbed with laughter not one hour before! How skilled he was, the master puppeteer!

When the thought came, it brought a smile as twisted by his scars as the puppet's was by paint.

Why shouldn't God's vengeance be spectacular?

‘And what is that?' Coke asked. ‘The small square that abuts the main bedchamber?'

The builder peered. ‘That, sir, is a second privy office. You do not wish to be feeling your way downstairs in the middle of the night, nor be groping for pots – neither you, nor especially Mrs Coke.'

Coke grunted. Sarah did not hold that title yet. His hope was that today's enterprise might convince her to assume it. Still, he hesitated. It was a great deal of money, this business of buying a house.

‘These lines?' he said, jabbing down.

‘Water pipes.' It was the second man who replied. He had not been there with the master mason the first time Coke had visited the site. His assistant no doubt, a strange-looking fellow with a nose that had once been badly broken by a blade, probably in the late king's wars. Coke had the odd sensation that they had met before, but he put that down to his nerves. They had probably fought against each other. The fellow had the crop-haired look and sober demeanour of an old Parliament man.

He continued, his voice a smooth roll. ‘Master Tremlett has contracted with the New River Company to supply each of his houses on West Harding Street with water. Think, sir! Fresh water flowing into your home all the way from the pristine meadows of Hertfordshire via the reservoir in Islington. No more going to the parish pump for water that may well have come straight from the murky Thames.'

Running water, thought Coke. It would be pleasant. Sarah would find it pleasant, surely?

He nodded, looking also at the area map beside the house plans. Really, he was asking questions merely to delay a decision now. Everything had been explained twice. The location was excellent. Not far to the north, there were bowling lawns and some pasture still; to the west, a short walk away, the more urban pleasures of Covent Garden and indeed, Lincoln's Inn. Would Sarah wish to return to the playhouse after she was delivered? She'd joked that actresses were known to drop a child at eleven of the morning and be on the boards playing Juliet by one. He hoped that she would not desire it. His own mother had never worked, being the lady of the manor, but that was not it. Sarah's ‘manor' was the streets of St Giles, the toughest in the city.

He knew he could not make her into something she was not. But the theatre, where all women were treated like the whores several of them had once been? Was she so enamoured of the life that she would insist on going back to it? It had been a step up from the slums, sure. Marrying the son of a knight, albeit one who had lost both title and lands in the wars, would be another. And owning a new house, perhaps, the last?

But who would own it? ‘Sir, a question. Can a second also sign here, and be a part owner?'

‘What second?'

‘My…a woman.'

Tremlett pursed his lips. ‘A woman? It would be highly unusual. And if you are referring to your wife, well,' he smiled, ‘it is simpler, more expedient, to specify her as your heir in your will, sir.'

My will, thought Coke. The next paper I must draw up. ‘You will take a deposit now, you say?'

‘Indeed.' The florid-faced mason beamed as he unbent from the charts. ‘A quarter on signing, a half when the hearth joist is laid, last quarter upon completion.'

He decided. ‘Well,' Coke straightened too, ‘I have the first with me.'

His share of the reward for the thwarting of the assassination was in the purse he now placed upon the house plans. Tremlett tipped the contents out, spreading them to be sorted. These were mainly the new coinage, milled-edged, with Charles's profile handsomely embossed – though, given the continual shortage of coins, there were the usual foreign ones, too: Spanish ducats, French crowns, Dutch florins. Still, a swift tally left both men satisfied.

‘And now, Captain,' said the broken-nosed man, after the other had swept the coins into a box, ‘your signature?'

‘Captain?' Coke halted his reach for the pen. ‘Who told you I was called so?'

There was no hesitation in the man's reply. ‘I am sure you did, sir. Maybe to my master here, at your previous meeting.' He smiled, crookedly. ‘Or perhaps it's just your military bearing.'

He held out the pen again and Coke took it. He was trying
to stop people calling him Captain, without much success, even with Sarah, or his ward, Dickon. The wars were long over, and he was no longer even a highwayman, where every ‘knight of the road' assumed what had – for him at least – been a genuine rank. ‘Plain Mr Coke will do,' he muttered and, dipping the pen in the inkwell, leaned down. This is it then, he thought, the full nib hovering over the line. The last contract I signed was the one that joined me to the regiment. And look where that led!

Then a vision came – of Sarah, smiling. He took a deep breath and signed, both the mason's copy and another that he would take.

The second man scattered some sand to blot the ink. All three smiled. ‘Bravo, sir,' said the mason, reaching out a hand to shake. ‘You will not regret this for a moment.'

I already do, Coke thought, his head curiously light. Though when he reached, it was only to pick up and roll his copy, not to snatch both and destroy them. Tucking it into his cloak, he bowed his head. ‘Gentlemen,' he said, and left.

Only when the footfalls on the stair had entirely faded did the man with the sabre scar breathe out a satisfied, ‘Excellent.'

The mason exhaled too, though his face was a frown. ‘Are you sure, Brother S? It seems…'

‘What?'

‘Elaborate.' He grunted. ‘Are there not simpler ways of being avenged?'

‘A blade in an alley, perhaps, Brother Tremlett?'

‘That's one.'

Simeon Critchollow shrugged. ‘Where is it written that vengeance be simple? When God's light shines on a world of such
glorious complexity and richness, why should revenge be taken only in the dark?' He smiled. ‘When you told me that this Coke had come to you, I thought it a coincidence. Until I remembered: there is no coincidence in God's great plan.'

‘Praise Him indeed. But how will this proceed?'

‘Slowly.' Simeon licked dry lips. ‘If I were still a gambling man, as in my days of sin and ignorance I was, I would wager I know whither the captain is now bound. He goes to see a Jew. And he will find us waiting.' He reached for his hat and stick beside the paper. ‘Ha! I've just noticed something. Talking of God's providence. How have I not noted this before?' He laid the tip of his stick on the charts. ‘Do you have Latin?'

‘Enough for my trade. Customers like it on the plans.'

‘Look at this wonder.' Simeon tapped the chart's masthead. ‘If you were to lay out every Roman numeral, what is their total?'

‘Let me see.' The mason's brow furrowed. ‘M is a thousand. Add five hundred for D. C is a hundred. L is, ah –'

‘Fifty. X is ten, V, five. One is one.'

‘So?'

Simeon beamed. ‘Add them together.'

‘One thousand, six hundred and…Oh!' Tremlett's eyes widened. ‘Their total is sixteen hundred and sixty-six.' He raised his hands, palms up. ‘Praise God!'

‘Praise him indeed,' Simeon nodded, ‘for this, another example of His providence! God's plan is so far-reaching that two thousand years ago he made the pagan Romans adopt numbers that would add up to this year. The one foretold. The year the Fifth Monarchy arises.' He went to the door and turned, his eyes ablaze. ‘Oh yes, brother. With yet another example of the Lord's infinite precision
revealed, I believe we can allow vengeance to be…a little elaborate, don't you?'

The flute was beautifully played, its notes piercing even the din of Little Eastcheap at full trade. The player, Coke saw, was a handsome lad of about twenty or so, with some admiring servant girls gathered giggling before him, and coins in his cap that both music and looks had earned. Coke added another before he strode the few steps further on and entered the premises of Isaac ben Judah, goldsmith.

But his friend was not behind the counter. Another of the tribe was there who related the disturbing news: Isaac was ill and in his bed, three doors down the street.

There Coke hastened, the sound of the flute following him.

‘Mr ben Judah.' Coke threw his cloak and hat upon a chair, leant his stick, then knelt by the bed, taking the hand of the man upon it. ‘You are not well.'

‘I am not, Captain.' The voice was weak, his long grey hair lank, his face pallid. He began to cough, a dry scratchy sound. From the corner of the room came a young woman Coke had not noticed. She carried a mug, bent to lift Isaac up and held the vessel to his cracked lips. When the cough was stilled, and Isaac lay back down, the girl began to adjust the blankets.

‘You have not met my daughter,' Isaac said. ‘Rebekah, this is Captain William Coke. A special friend.'

‘Honoured.' Coke rose and bowed. He guessed the girl to be about fifteen, though she could have been older. Tall for her age, she had midnight-black hair within a headdress, thick dark eyebrows, a straight nose and firm mouth. There was no make-up
on her face at all and her paleness, especially against the hair, was severe.

She regarded him with as bold an appraisal as he gave her. ‘Sir,' she said, her voice low, executing a short curtsey before turning back. ‘Father, since you have a friend here, perhaps now would be a good time to run my errands. To fetch you medicine and the house some food.' She turned back to Coke. ‘Are you able to attend him while I do so, sir?'

He nodded. Even if he was keen to get back to Sarah, there was something about this girl that could not be denied.

‘Out and straight back,' her father called as she wrapped a shawl around herself and crossed to the door. ‘No footling.'

She smiled. ‘I am not sure, Father, I know what that is. So how shall I avoid it?'

With that, she was gone, and Isaac, who'd raised himself upon an elbow, sank back. For a moment both men listened to her footfalls on the stairs and, beyond them, the flute's rising notes.

‘Your daughter is most lovely,' Coke murmured, drawing up a small stool and sitting.

‘She is. She is!' Isaac sighed. ‘The very picture of Leah, her mother. Indeed, since my wife's death, I think my daughter is becoming more like her every day. In looks at least.' He coughed again but waved Coke down when he rose to fetch the mug. ‘I fear her character is not as calm as her mother's, though. She is…wilful. Too tempted by what is out there. I do not like to let her go onto the streets alone. But with my sister in York, and me here –'

‘And why are you here, my friend? You were not sick when we spoke last week.'

‘I was, though I was at pains to disguise it.' A slight smile appeared. ‘We were doing business after all, and no man wants to seem weak when conducting that.'

‘Did you think I would exploit you?'

‘Nay, Captain. You are one of the very few Gentiles I know would not. Habits of a lifetime, eh?' He shrugged, winced. ‘But this sickness can no longer be concealed. Especially since I may die of it. Or of its cure anyway.'

‘Do not say so.' Coke reached to take the man's hand again. He did not have many beyond acquaintances in London and though he did not know the Jew well, they had always been plain in their dealings and their mutual regard. He liked the man. ‘And tell me how I may help?'

Isaac glanced to the sword at Coke's side. ‘How delicate are you with your blade, Captain? Could you cut me open and extract the root of my malady?'

Coke whitened. ‘If I could, you would not want me to. For a man who was so often at war, I have a devilishly weak stomach for some of its consequences.' He nodded downwards. ‘So it is the stone?'

‘Aye. My old problem.' Isaac winced again, as a spasm shook him. ‘Each time before, I have, with some difficulty, managed to piss it out. Not this one. My physician tells me he must cut to cure.'