Fire Catcher (43 page)

Chapter 140

Lightning crackled above as Blackstone raced down the stairs.

Within this very cathedral was the key to the greatest power in England. Blackstone felt the thrill of it course through him.

The key. Teresa’s wedding chest.

It slotted into place now. After all these years. Clever Sally Oakley. She knew no one would look in the wedding trunk. It was a cursed thing.

Blackstone’s mind pulsed with the thunderstorm ahead. Jumbled images were colliding.

Charlie Oakley. He looks just like his father.

Somewhere in the reaches of his mind, Blackstone thought he’d seen Sally’s grown-up son before. But the memory kept spinning away.

Then a bright solid picture settled. His gentle sister, washing his wounds. Her beautiful face taut with concern. His father’s voice.

Next I will test your brother’s faith on the rack. As the martyr St Devota endured.

Blackstone grew up to know his older sister as an angel. Set on high. Glacial perfection and beauty. He wasn’t sure when he’d begun to feel differently towards her.

Blessed blood.
His father’s words.
Our family is of blessed blood.

Teresa was pure. Her blood must be kept unsullied. Husbands were suggested. His sister even had a notion of a suitor. But Blackstone couldn’t let her marry outside the family. Not to a dirty half-breed. He refused to see their family’s money leave their estate.

After soldiers had killed Blackstone’s parents, there was no one alive who knew his sister’s face. And Teresa had been raised to such total obedience, she hardly even thought to object.

Before coming to Blackstone’s estate, the soldiers had passed through a nearby village. It had been easy to find a murdered girl. Blackstone had burned the face of the corpse, in case it was recognised.

After burying the body as his sister’s, Blackstone collected her dowry as the natural heir. Then he’d passed it off as his new wife’s money and bought himself great favour in the Sealed Knot.

Blackstone’s every sense was alert. Straight away he heard it. He allowed himself a cold smile. Sally Oakley’s son was in Blackstone’s best fortification. All the power of England would soon be his.

Chapter 141

‘Blackstone married his sister,’ breathed Lily. ‘And hid her away from the world.’

‘Old noble families marry close to keep the bloodline,’ said Charlie. ‘Perhaps war twisted Blackstone. He used his sister’s dowry to fight the war,’ he added.

‘But the Royalists lost,’ said Lily.

‘And his sister went mad with their crime,’ said Charlie. The puzzle was unravelling. ‘That’s why Teresa scrubbed out the portrait. It was her own picture. Blackstone must have had a new picture drawn. Of Teresa as his wife.’

‘So his sister didn’t die,’ said Lily. ‘She became someone else.’

‘And Teresa turned to witchcraft,’ said Charlie. ‘After everything she’d sacrificed, losing the war must have been the bitterest blow.’

‘But it’s not Teresa’s and Thomas’s marriage papers which were hidden,’ said Lily. ‘They both witnessed a marriage far more powerful.’

‘We must find her chest,’ said Charlie, tearing his eyes away from the ghoulish jars. ‘He laid her out in a wedding dress. It must be near.’

The candles flickered as they scanned around. Dresses were hung at the circle edge like a parade of ghostly women with shoes tucked neatly beneath.

‘There?’ suggested Lily, pointing to a small leather box.

Charlie shook his head.

‘It’s large. We are missing something.’

His eyes scanned the broken and bloodied things, the little vermin poppets. Suddenly there was a sinister clicking, like a pistol being cocked.

He turned sharply, expecting to see Blackstone’s looming form at the edge of the circle. There was nothing there and Charlie turned back in confusion. It must have been the sound of the fire, he realised. Stone shrieking and twisting in the wider cathedral. He looked overhead and saw the wooden surrounds of the little chapel were smoking. They needed to move quickly.

Charlie looked back to the corpse and froze.

Teresa moved.

He blinked, staring at the corpse. Lily was investigating a pile of woven branches strewn near the remains.

‘Did you see that?’ Charlie’s voice was tight.

‘What?’

‘She moved,’ said Charlie, pointing. ‘Teresa’s body. Her mouth is wider open. Like she’s trying to tell us something.’

Lily crossed the narrow space and laid a hand on his arm.

‘Charlie,’ she said softly. ‘She’s dead. She can’t hurt you now. The dead don’t move.’

‘I could have sworn . . .’

‘It’s your imagination,’ said Lily. ‘You were scared of her as a boy. Now you imagine her greater than she is.’

Charlie felt his heartbeat slow. His gaze settled on Teresa’s remains. She looked less frightening now. The witch who haunted his childhood was a woman who had undergone horrors. Something in the dark seemed to whisper to him that his mother felt the same.

A thought occurred to Charlie. Teresa was an ordinary woman, so there would be no grand altar to place her on. His eyes dropped to the plinth on which she lay. It was covered in a plain wool cloth. But the fabric did not quite fall completely to the floor. A tell-tale glimmer of metal winked out.

‘The chest,’ said Charlie quietly. ‘She lays on it. It’s under Teresa.’

Chapter 142

For a few seconds Charlie and Lily stood looking at the covered chest.

‘If you touch her,’ boomed a voice, ‘you will be sorry for it.’

They both started around. Blackstone’s huge bulk barred the exit from the crazed nest of Teresa’s possessions. His mass of plague scars glinted in the candlelight, bald and livid against the remaining thick black hair.

Blackstone held a pistol in his hand.

‘Tobias’s son,’ he said quietly. ‘After all these years.’

Lily glanced at Charlie.

‘Sally Oakley hid my papers well,’ continued Blackstone. ‘And now you have led me right to them.’

He aimed the pistol at Charlie. ‘The key.’

Charlie looked up to the burning ceiling. The chapel had its own wooden surround that had caught and was sending up tongues of flame.

Blackstone tilted his head, keeping the pistol trained on his quarry. Amusement flickered on his bloated features.

‘Fear,’ he said, ‘is a useful thing. I can predict your thoughts.’

‘It’s not the only predictor,’ said Charlie. ‘When fire comes, people also save the things they love.’

Charlie ducked and threw a well-judged kick. It cracked into the wooden wall, sending a blazing shower of splinters down into the crypt.

Blackstone’s arms flew up. Then he lunged to where his wife lay.

Charlie grabbed Lily, pulling them towards the entrance to Teresa’s den. He scooped up a fragment of burning rafter.

‘The papers,’ he said to Lily. ‘They must be destroyed.’

The sparks had died harmlessly away and Blackstone swung the pistol. He hesitated.

Charlie was holding the long splinter of wood, blowing the glowing end to a flame.

Blackstone glanced at the open gunpowder kegs, then back to Charlie.

‘That box holds powers,’ said Blackstone. ‘Powers you cannot imagine. Powers I thought were lost until you led me to them.’

‘I don’t need to imagine,’ said Charlie. ‘I know.’

Blackstone smiled. ‘If you knew what those papers held . . .’ he began.

Charlie watched Blackstone’s face.

‘It was the exiled Charles Stuart who got married, all those years ago,’ said Charlie. ‘To his first mistress. Lucy Walter.’

Charlie paused.

‘Those papers make Lucy England’s Queen and Monmouth the legitimate heir,’ he added. ‘A commoner into royalty. Lead into gold.’

Something like fear skirted across Blackstone’s face.

‘You hoped to gain favour with the King,’ said Charlie. ‘You and Torr betrayed your brotherhood by helping the King marry. The dowries, the political allegiances that make a throne. All gone. Destroyed. They must have hated you. You’d given the Kingdom they fought to restore, for a whore.’

Blackstone smiled thinly.

‘I learned twice,’ he said, ‘that the word of a Stuart King is worth nothing. First the father betrayed me. Then the son. Charles regretted his haste. Things with Lucy turned sour and he wanted to forget I ever helped him.’

Blackstone shook his head.

‘Torr was preaching forgiveness and humility. But I knew. The only way to be certain is to take what you want.’

‘But then my mother took it from you,’ said Charlie, with a hard edge to his voice. ‘And you killed her.’

‘And now I have the papers again,’ said Blackstone. ‘I will give them to Monmouth,’ he continued. ‘The boy is as greedy and stupid as his mother. I will easily persuade him to fight for his birth-right.’

Blackstone smiled. ‘Civil war,’ he said. ‘King Charles will not survive it.’

He looked at the barrels of gunpowder surrounding Teresa.

‘Those papers must be destroyed,’ said Charlie. ‘They will tear England apart.’

Something seemed to clarify on Blackstone’s face.

‘You will have heard that your father is dead,’ he said carefully. ‘It is not so. There is a letter in that chest from Tobias.’

Blackstone smiled.

‘You have your father’s cleverness about you,’ he said. ‘He wouldn’t have you surrender your birth-right to a traitor King.’

Charlie could feel the key burning. He tightened his grip on the flaming wood.

‘You have lands due to you,’ said Blackstone. ‘Don’t you want to go home?’ His face was tired suddenly and Charlie thought he saw something of the old soldier.

‘London is my home,’ said Charlie. As he spoke a great rumble was heard in the distance. It reverberated around the old cathedral like an earthquake.

Blackstone smiled. ‘Hear that?’ he said. ‘Fire has reached the Tower. Your traitor King has lost his Kingdom. London is gone,’ concluded Blackstone. ‘A smoking shell.’

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘She will rise again.’ He blew again on the wooden shard in his hand. Flame flared high.

‘You can claim your estate,’ said Blackstone. ‘The King will give anything for those papers. Lands, fine houses . . .’

‘That’s your dream,’ said Charlie. ‘Perhaps it was my father’s. It isn’t mine.’

And he threw the fiery ember into an open keg of gunpowder.

Charlie grabbed Lily’s arm and pulled her towards the gap in Teresa’s possessions. They dived through it, hitting the stone floor and rolling.

Inside the circle Blackstone staggered back, firing his pistol. Shot reverberated around the private chapel.

A wave of heat and noise exploded. It drove apart Teresa’s possessions, exploding the chest beneath her and blowing her corpse to dust. Fire roared.

The blast drove Charlie and Lily backwards. They were propelled skidding over the chapel floor, out into the main cathedral.

There was an ominous rumbling sound. The ground beneath their feet shook.

‘The crypt underneath us,’ said Charlie. ‘All is paper.’ As he spoke a great section of roof shrieked above them and a house-sized piece of stone vaulting plummeted down. It hit the tiled floor with a mighty boom, splitting straight into the crypt below.

‘The scaffold on the roof falls,’ said Charlie. He scanned the cathedral. ‘The main doors,’ he decided. ‘That way.’

Softened lead tiles splattered on the stone floor. Then burning beams began hurtling through the air like flaming spears.

There was a crash of cindery sparks and then all was strangely silent. Apart from an ominous rushing of air. The floor of the cathedral seemed to ripple.

Charlie knew what was about to happen. The vault full of paper was about to meet a flaming backdraft.

‘Run,’ said Charlie. ‘Now.’

As he spoke the ground opened up only a few feet from where they stood. Flames rushed up as they sped away towards the back of the cathedral.

‘The east floor will give way first,’ shouted Charlie, mentally mapping the crypt. ‘Keep to the west side.’

Blackstone emerged with a roar from the chapel. He was beating out fire from his clothes. With no time to reload his pistol, he dug in his clothes and brought out a bottle of lye.

Blackstone took careful aim and hurled it. The bottle smashed against the stone floor by Charlie’s bare feet, forcing him to dodge left. Charlie felt the contents spray on his calf and then a dreadful burning pain. He staggered, gritting his teeth.

The leather pouch of vinegar.
He delved into his coat as they fled.

The pouch felt light in his hand. Charlie untwisted the stopper, and shook the contents towards his blazing leg. A few drops of vinegar splashed out. The pain ebbed slightly. It was enough to think straight, but not to stop the burn.

Another shot fired and the pouch went spinning from Charlie’s grip. He watched helplessly as the last drops puddled away to nothing.

Charlie looked ahead. Two directions.

Left to the main doors, right to the vestry.

The lye on his left leg bit deep.

‘The vestry!’ Charlie gasped, trying to use his uninjured leg for extra speed. ‘Go right.’

Chapter 143

Blackstone allowed himself a quiet smile as the ground gave way across the eastern part of the church. Tobias’s boy was panicking. It was always the way. He was almost sorry for how easy it would be.

He smiled. ‘Tobias Oakley,’ he muttered. ‘I hope you are watching. The grave will not protect you from my revenge.’

He made a cool assessment. Tobias’s boy was injured and running to the vestry, just as Blackstone hoped. The bottle of lye had been deliberately thrown to force him away from the exit. Foot soldiers invariably ran for cover under fire. Like rats to their holes. Without thinking through the outcomes.

Blackstone calculated. A good general knew every part of the battlefield and he knew every part of St Paul’s. The vestry was where the commoners put their scant possessions. Barrels of food. Beer. A few bales of herbs. No weapons. He had checked it only hours ago. There was nothing there the boy could use. Not even a keg of gunpowder.

His leg would have burned through to the bone by now. He would be maddened by pain. But the girl . . . Could she be a threat? Blackstone had learned never to underestimate women. The cathedral was burning now. Approach carefully and break her neck quickly, he decided. There would be enough time to take his revenge on Tobias’s boy.

Blackstone reloaded his pistol and felt for the bottle of lye in his cloak. Scald the face and shoot the stomach, he decided. Let Tobias’s son bleed it out whilst the flames finished the job.

Blackstone tried the vestry door carefully. It had been barricaded shut. Interesting. Blind panic or was there some plan afoot? There were always two doors to a vestry. Perhaps Tobias’s son had formulated some rudimentary attack. He hoped so. It seemed a shame how easy it had become.

Approaching the second door Blackstone found it open. As he opened it a cloud of fragrant smoke hit him in the face. As he expected it was piled high with possessions. Common things.

A bale of herbs had been set alight by the door. He shook his head at their idiocy. Smoke. He had fought in cannon and gun smog. His eyes adjusted and he saw Tobias’s boy slumped by a barrel. His hand was at the tap and beer trickled over his burning leg.

‘It will not help you,’ said Blackstone. ‘Lye cannot be washed away.’

Then he saw the crypt door had been opened. So that was the plan. Draw fire underneath the vestry. Distract him with smoke. Then direct him to stand where the floor would collapse. It was not a bad plan at all. Particularly considering it had been formulated at such speed. But Blackstone had all the advantage. He had planned. He knew the terrain.

Then from nowhere a knife appeared from the smoke. The girl. Blackstone dodged, shocked by her speed. She brought the knife around in a perfect arc. He twisted away, but the knife slashed his cheek. Blackstone was impressed. Such skill. It seemed a shame to kill her. The blade had missed his neck by inches.

In a practised move he tossed up his sword, caught the blade and swung the huge handle hard into the girl’s stomach. She folded in half and slumped to the floor, clutching her belly. Blackstone swung back his enormous leg and made two powerful kicks to her prone form. She made a moan he was familiar with from battle. It was the satisfying sound of fainting pain.

Blackstone was assailed by the most wonderful certain feeling. London was toppled and in a few moments he would emerge triumphant to claim his prize. The girl had been unexpectedly fast. But his battle skill had not failed him. Now God had served him up yet another just reward. Revenge on the boy. Finally, after all this time, the heavens were favouring him.

Blackstone turned, fingering the lye in his cloak. Perhaps he would have time to douse more than the face. He took out his gunpowder flask and began reloading his pistol.

Blackstone approached Tobias’s son. Belongings had been placed strangely and he found himself taking a circuitous route. He frowned.

His mind wasn’t working as sharply as he was used to. Blackstone’s fingers weren’t moving as he wanted either. Something was slowing his movements. It didn’t matter. Elation was soaring through him.

‘Do not take it to heart,’ he said, tamping the gunpowder clumsily. ‘Your father wasn’t as good as I was either. I knew you would run to the vestry. I calculated it. Fear made you predictable.’

‘So did I,’ said Tobias’s son. ‘And what you did not calculate is that every common man owns a barrel of vinegar pickles.’

Realisation hit Blackstone. It wasn’t beer flowing from the tap.

Tobias’s son was dousing his wound with vinegar. A stream of pickle juices staunched his lye burn.

Then Tobias’s son stood.