Fire Catcher (23 page)

Chapter 68

The Duke of York was hemmed in by tedious nobles. With Charles absent from Whitehall, the dull business of protecting valuables fell to his brother.

Several attractive women were subtly pushing themselves through the crowd, angling to get closer. The Stuart brothers’ weakness for women was well known. Families were sending their prettiest daughters to beg for carts and horses. A blonde girl in a white dress caught his eye. James raised a dark eyebrow. She was edging towards him. Then he saw her. James’s heart quickened. Arabella Churchill. She’d managed to get into court.

Their eyes locked and she arched her eyebrows. Her gaze flitted to the blonde and she smiled broadly. James stepped towards her and the crowd parted.

‘Your Grace.’ Arabella smiled. ‘I hear you help people guard their riches.’

‘The roads are all blocked,’ said James. ‘I’d rather be at sea.’

‘Ordering grubby sailors around?’

James smiled. ‘I’d give my life for those grubby sailors.’

‘You nearly did.’

‘Which is why Charles keeps me on dry land,’ said James ruefully. ‘Helping with courtly matters.

‘Good,’ said Arabella. ‘Seeing your commanders torn apart by Dutch cannon fire should curb your seafaring. It’s a miracle you escaped with a few cuts and a drenching of their blood.’

‘All the same,’ said James, ‘I’d rather be with my men.’

‘Than here?’ Arabella stepped forward a little. He could smell her intoxicating perfume. ‘With me?’ She mouthed the words.

He moved to whisper in her ear. A ripple of scandal murmured through the assembled court.

‘If I could take you with me,’ said James, ‘stow you beneath deck, that would be perfect.’

Arabella curtseyed and dropped back into the crowd. As she retreated, James caught the smallest tilt with her eyes.

Excitement flushed through him.

‘Let me take a moment,’ he announced loudly. ‘I mean to eat in private, but I’ll return soon.’

He began extricating himself from the crowds of nobles, trying to seem casual. Arabella was doing the same, shifting away from the richly dressed people.

The Duke of York broke free and hastened quickly to the long corridor joining the banquet hall to the private Parliament rooms.

Behind him he heard her little step but didn’t dare look round. It was only as he unlocked the door to Clarence’s office and slipped inside that he ventured to turn. She pushed herself into his arms and he pulled her in, shutting the door behind them.

‘No one saw, James,’ she whispered. ‘I have a few minutes before I am missed.’

He moved her to the large table and sat her on it, pushing maps and paperwork aside. His hands travelled up under her skirts.

Arabella ran her hands under his shirt. Her fingertips brushed the scars of his recent naval attack.

‘Quickly,’ she whispered, her face flushed. James’s hands fumbled at his clothing.

‘You’re good at this,’ he observed as she opened her thighs, ‘secret meetings.’

There was a knock at the door and they both froze.

‘Arabella!’ came a heavy male voice. ‘Daughter, are you within?’

The Duke of York’s mouth was at Arabella’s neck. ‘The door is locked,’ he whispered, hands moving over her.

‘I’m using the pot,’ called Arabella as the Duke of York positioned himself between her legs. ‘The buttered crab was bad,’ she improvised.

There was a silence on the other side of the door.

‘Be sure to open the window before you leave then,’ called the voice. ‘This is Clarence’s office. You mustn’t leave him a stink.’

Footsteps plodded away leaving Arabella and James clung together in paroxysms of laughter.

‘We’ll have to arrange things better,’ said Arabella, thoughts of the barge and Barbara forgotten.

‘We shall.’ James arranged her among the piles of documents. Then he froze.

‘What is it?’ she hissed. He was picking up a paper.

‘It’s a demand,’ he said. ‘From a group calling themselves the Sealed Knot.’

‘The soldiers from Holland?’ she asked, glancing to the door.

‘They were dangerous men,’ said James. ‘If they threaten it should be taken seriously.’

He shook his head, rearranging his thoughts.

‘I have to tell Charles,’ he said. ‘There is a plot in the city. He must send troops. The Crown could be in danger.’

‘James,’ said Arabella, her expression suggesting she thought him dramatic. ‘We have only a few moments. Do you want Clarence to find us on his desk? He has a key, you know.’

James put down the paper and took her chin in his hand.

‘You’re right,’ he said, kissing her. ‘It’s probably nothing. The fire will never reach Whitehall.’

Chapter 69

‘We must get to the side of the bridge,’ said Charlie, shouting above the fire’s roar. ‘See there? On the other side of those flaming eaves? There’s a brothel that isn’t aflame. They’ll have a trapdoor to the river, for taking in wine shipments.’

Charlie’s eyes dropped to Lily’s rosary.

‘Best say a prayer,’ he added, grabbing her wrist.

They ran out, weaving through the plummeting shrapnel, coughing as the smoke grew ever thicker around them. Fug and the flame closed on them, and Lily stumbled.

‘Almost there!’ gasped Charlie, pulling her upright. ‘I can see the brothel!’

His hands hit the flat wood of the building and he groped for the door. The wooden bridge beneath them was deep in flames now and was starting to give way. A torrent of steam shrieked upwards as a section pitched into the Thames.

‘Here!’ Charlie’s hand found a doorway, then the latch. They fell into the empty brothel gasping for air. The sweaty smell of well-used beds closed in on them, and Charlie realised he’d misjudged. No trapdoor to the river. This wasn’t the kind of brothel that sold wine. In the glow of the fire Charlie could make out an obscene mural of King Charles and three naked women. The paint was flaking off in the heat.

‘You said it wasn’t burning!’ Lily was looking in dismay at the peeling picture.

Charlie looked for windows. There was one, high up and tiny with thick wooden bars. His eyes settled on a staircase.

‘This way.’

They raced up the staircase but the first two floors were the same. Tiny barred windows. No escape.

‘The roof,’ said Charlie pointing to a ladder.

They heaved themselves up on to the wooden shingled roof. All of the blazing bridge and London was laid out for them to see. For a moment they stood staring.

‘There it is,’ said Lily. ‘Blue fire again.’

It winked out across the city. And another explosion wracked London. From their height above the city, Charlie had a clear view. The Draper’s Hall had been flamed. And suddenly from the bird’s-eye vantage point Charlie saw the pattern.

On the riverfront, fire had abated until the Fishmongers’ Guild flamed. Then in the west, the Candlemakers’ Hall hadn’t simply fired. It had been blown to pieces. And now Charlie could see the tell-tale circle of gunpowder wreckage in the ruins of the Saddlers and the Drapers.

Guildhalls. Blackstone was firing the guilds.

He shot a look at Lily, wondering whether she’d seen it.

The more Charlie looked down on the blazing city the more he was sure of it.

Blackstone was using guilds to lead the fire west. Towards Whitehall. The King’s Palace. The mystery of the round robin circled in Charlie’s head again. Names in a circle. Was Blackstone using those common boys to spread flame? There was something obvious he was missing. Something about the round robin which could reveal Blackstone’s tactics.

The roof shuddered beneath them. Then a spat of glowing embers landed on the wooden shingles. Wind roused them to a quiet flame.

‘We’ll have to jump into the river,’ said Charlie, looking down at the water. It seemed very far away. Between each arch of the bridge was a wide jetty. And only a slim stretch of water in-between.

‘Not much room to fall,’ said Charlie. ‘Can you swim to shore in your dress?’

Lily was staring at him in horror.

‘You didn’t say we’d have to jump in the water!’

‘How else did you expect us to get off the bridge?’

‘I don’t know. I thought you had some trick.’

‘I’m a thief taker, not a magician.’

Charlie looked to where the embers had landed. The roof was burning merrily now. Another scattering of embers landed.

‘We have to jump,’ he said.

Chapter 70

The creature in Blackstone’s cellar peered up at the crack of light. It shuffled hopefully.

Maybe later a boy would come down. The creature licked its lips.

It was surrounded by bloodied objects and talismans. None were what it needed. But the creature knew patience. Patience and the old ways.

The creature remembered magic.

Thirteen wedding blessings.

And the marriage.

The marriage that had let forth all the dark things. Wealth untold, bound to fragile paper. The creature recalled it all. Mythic power. A mortal pen.

And the creature had heard things. Brother Blackstone had a wife.

Teresa.

She was here, in the cellar. Her remains were cursed. Evil.

The thought of her spirit brought a chill to the creature’s soul. But the creature was stronger, much stronger than Teresa.

Blackstone’s wife had confessed. The creature heard it all.

Teresa had told how Blackstone defiled her.

Dirties me. He dirties me.

Teresa had been dangerous. She knew the power of the papers. But the creature knew itself to be more dangerous still.

Carefully the creature began drawing out shapes in the mud of the floor.

It started with a broad circle. Then added a symbol and another circle. Slowly the shapes formed a kind of tree.

The creature breathed a little faster. This was the ancient source. Words came. Human sounds the creature hadn’t made for some time.

I am more powerful now. I grow more powerful with every moment. This cellar will not hold me.

Blackstone knew it. He saw how the creature’s strength grew. Teresa’s witchcraft was no match for ancient powers.

The creature looked down at the shapes on the ground. It felt the confines of the cellar already weakening.

This was magic as old as time.

Chapter 71

‘The waterwheels burn?’ King Charles’s mouth was set in a hard line. ‘What does it mean?’

‘Perhaps stronger currents on the river,’ hedged Clarence. ‘Loss of pressure in the pipes.’

‘The river will break through the jetties at London Bridge,’ said Amesbury bluntly. ‘Deadly riptides. Boats overturned. And no water can be pumped.’

‘The city’s fire engines?’ asked the King.

‘We only know the location of three,’ said Amesbury. ‘Two have gone missing in the narrow backstreets.’

‘What else?’ the King demanded.

Clarence was looking at the floor.

‘Fire has breached the Fleet,’ he admitted. ‘We weren’t able to hold it back.’

Blood drained from Charles’s face.

‘Then fire goes to Whitehall,’ he said. ‘My children.
My children
are in the Palace.’

‘Barbara won’t let harm come to them,’ said Amesbury gently.

‘Go personally,’ said Charles. ‘Go to Barbara. Be sure the children are taken to safety. See it with your own eyes, do you understand?’

Amesbury nodded, but looked as though he wanted to disagree.

‘Little Anne has a knitted poppet she can’t sleep without,’ added Charles, thinking of his eldest daughter. ‘She likes me to tuck her into bed.’

Amesbury put a gentle hand on the King’s shoulder.

‘Look to save Whitehall,’ he said. ‘I will look after your family.’

Charles hesitated then closed his eyes.

‘I . . . You’re right,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ Charles pressed a hand to his forehead.

‘Where is James?’ he demanded. ‘The Duke of York was tasked with intelligence. The Catholic plot to fire the city.’

Clarence rolled his eyes.

‘If the Palace burns it’s the end,’ said the King. ‘A plague and a palace burning. Englanders will take it as a sign.’

No one disagreed with him.

Chapter 72

‘I can’t.’ Lily was staring fixedly at the water shaking her head. ‘I can’t jump.’

‘You can’t swim?’ said Charlie, looking back down into the swirling Thames.

She didn’t reply, only set her mouth in a narrow line. Charlie remembered suddenly. Lily’s mother. Country mobs drowned gypsy women.

The fire was hot on their backs now and Charlie saw something was wrong with the water. It was flowing too fast.

He glanced back over his shoulder. Charlie’s heart sank.

The waterwheels were burning.

‘Step to the edge with me,’ he coaxed, stepping over it so he stood on the wooden guttering. Lily stood rigid. Behind them the flames roared.

‘The water,’ said Lily. ‘There are riptides, like the lighterman said.’

She was eyeing the fast-moving river. It had turned dark with debris. Chunks of the London Bridge jetties were beginning to break off.

‘The jetties are weakening,’ she said. ‘They’ll break and sweep us away.’

‘The jetties are strong, well built,’ said Charlie with more conviction than he felt. ‘They’re a dam slowing the water.’

Lily’s knuckles were white, gripping the wooden barrier.

‘It freezes solid in winter,’ continued Charlie, desperately trying for a calm tone. ‘We have Frost Fairs. Skating and hog roasts. It’s slow water, Lily.’

‘I’ll drown’ said Lily, ‘I can’t swim, and this dress will drag me to the depths.’

She was right, Charlie realised, taking in the heavy dress and tightly laced bodice.

He could feel the fire blistering his skin now, even through his thick coat.

‘We need only float to under the arches’ he said. ‘The current is not strong. Hold my hand and I’ll swim with you to shore. I won’t let you go.’

Lily didn’t reply, but he felt her hand snaking into his. He grasped it firmly.

Behind them another crash signalled the nearest building was collapsing. The jetty beneath them heaved off a supportive strut and the water swirled greedily, picking up speed.

Charlie made his move, pulling Lily forward.

‘Wait!’ Lily’s face was alive with terror. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered. ‘I cannot.’ Perspiration was running down her neck. Her body was rigid. She flung a hand back, catching hold of a roof shingle.

‘You go,’ she said. ‘I’ll make my way out another way.’

Charlie looked out into the wide river. Then back at Lily. She tightened her grip on the roof tile.

‘Go,’ she said.

Charlie moved in a little closer. Lily tensed and he knew there was no chance of pulling her off the bridge by force.

‘You might get back down the stair,’ he said, defeated. ‘If you climb through the debris you might get to the steps. The same way as the children.’

She nodded, though they both knew it was a lie.

‘I’ll meet you back in the city,’ he said. There was a moment as they looked at one another. Both knowing there was no way out for Lily. Then Charlie took her face in his hands and kissed her.

For the smallest of moments she was caught unawares. Her hand loosened its grip on the roof tile. In that instant, Charlie fastened his hand like a vice on her wrist. Her eyes flicked up, angry, betrayed. But it was too late. With a wrench Charlie pulled her to the very edge of the roof. Then he jumped, pulling her with him.

As they fell through the warm air, Charlie realised he’d made a serious error of judgement. He’d not accounted for the strong wind. It caught Lily’s large skirts, blowing them both back towards the bridge. The stone arch loomed towards them and Charlie’s right shoulder connected with an agonising crack. They hit the water with a heavy splash.

Charlie flailed with his legs, but the current was too strong. And now the wooden loading bays finally gave way. The water tore through, restoring the current to its full force of nature. And as Charlie and Lily floundered in the eddying torrent it drove them from the protection of the arches out into the centre of the Thames.

Charlie wove his left arm around Lily’s waist to keep her from being ripped away in the flow. She gasped, choked and her head went underwater. Charlie twisted helplessly as her face plunged down. The river rolled them around as he tried desperately to pull her head clear. Then she lolled limply like a rag doll.

Charlie bit back the pain of his shoulder. Lily was unconscious and her skirts were dragging them both down. Gasping with pain he managed to heave her head on to his chest, swimming on his back with his one good arm. Lily was a dead weight, but he thought she might still be breathing.

Charlie looked to both shorelines and steered to the flame-free bank of Southwark.

But the south bank was against the current, and no matter how hard Charlie swam, they were pushed back into the centre. Exhausted, his head began to duck below the waters. Desperate, Charlie kicked towards the opposite shore where the fire was eating angrily into the houses. This time the current was with them, and they half floated and half sank towards the bank.

Finally his feet touched the riverbed as the water became shallower. Charlie dragged his feet through the squelching mud, pulling Lily and her waterlogged skirts with difficulty. He gasped for air on the smoke-filled shore. Lily was still out cold.

Charlie turned to see that they’d drifted ashore outside the city wharfs. The huge warehouses contained hundreds of barrels of pitch and tar, thousands of yards of dry hemp rope, enormous bales of cotton, paper and flax all housed in buildings of thin parched wood. And dotted among all this merchandise were generous measures of gunpowder.

A thin stream of grey puffed gently from the nearest building and Charlie wondered hazily if a docker were enjoying a pipe somewhere among the wares.

Then the world exploded in a ball of flame. Something hot and heavy drove into his chest, driving him up and back down into the shallow water.

Charlie raised his head groggily. Lily was next to him, face down.

Using every last painful ounce of energy in his injured arm he turned her to face upright. Then he sank into unconsciousness.