Marigold Chain (43 page)

Without haste,
he retraced his steps to the top of Tower Hill and there an
unexpected sight met his eyes. Ahead of him and not far away, the
sky was lit by a fierce, red glow and streaked with trailing smoke.
Just for a second, Alex stood still, staring at it and then he was
off, racing with all possible speed along Tower Street. Somewhere
on the far side of St Dunstan-in-the-East was fire; and in that
location, after a four-month drought and in a freshening wind, it
was a recipe for disaster.

Fire-bells
started to toll as he passed the church and he could hear shouts
and screams issuing from the afflicted neighbourhood; great tongues
of flame leapt up behind the houses in Botolph Lane, silhouetting
them in brilliant orange light and he could smell smoke. Then he
reached the top of Pudding Lane and stared in disbelief at the
pandemonium that reigned there.

The old,
closely-built, wooden houses were as dry as tinder and the fire fed
on them greedily, spreading from one to another with astonishing
rapidity. Even as Alex watched, the wind tossed a shower of sparks
cascading down on a house so far untouched and within seconds it
was alight, as if composed of touchwood. Half the street was
furiously ablaze and the flames were gaining strength with every
second – while, as far as Alex could tell, no move was being made
to halt their progress.

The lane was
thronged with people whose sole aim appeared to be the preservation
of their property. Goods and furniture of all kinds were being
thrown from windows or carried from doorways into the narrow
street, effectively blocking the way and providing a powder-trail
to the houses opposite. With a mocking gust, the wind veered
suddenly, sending sparks and flames across the road and then
immediately shifted back again. But too late – for already the far
side of the street had been ignited.

His face
tingling with the heat and his ears deafened by the crackling roar
of the flames, Alex crossed to a group of watchmen who were
observing the conflagration with an air of helpless melancholy.

‘
Buckets,
fire-hooks and ladders!’ he bellowed. ‘From the churches, you
dolts. St Magnus, St Margaret’s and St Andrew’s.
Move!’

~ * * * ~

Chloë’s first
waking thought was the recalled disappointment of Mr Deveril’s
absence the night before. Then she became aware of a cacophony of
bell-ringing that seemed excessive even for a Sunday and, getting
swiftly out of bed, she ran to the window to look.

Across the
river from Botolph’s Wharf to Dowgate the sky was black with smoke,
swirling in vast clouds from the area around Fish Street Hill and
so dense that it completely hid the flames that were its source.
Chloë stared at it incredulously and then, realising from the
smoke-drift that the wind was blowing the fire steadily westwards
to the wharves and her precious cargo, she began to dress in
frantic haste.

Ten minutes
later, still engaged in tying her hair back in a scarf, she flew
out of her room and collided violently with Mr Deveril.

Alex caught her
deftly by the shoulders, subjected her to a quick, keen scrutiny
and then asked crisply, ‘And where do you think you’re going?’

‘
The
Vintry,’ replied Chloë, equally terse and eager to be
off.

He shook his
head and released her. ‘Oh no you’re not.’

She stared back
in annoyance.

‘
I am.
The silks and velvets are still in the warehouse and I’m going to
move them.’

‘
Unnecessary. Matt set out half an hour ago.’

‘
Oh.’ For
a second, she felt faintly nonplussed, then she said stubbornly,
‘Well, I’m going anyway. It isn’t fair to leave it all to Matt –
and that cloth represents five months planning and work. It’s worth
nearly fifteen hundred pounds.’

‘
I don’t
care if it’s worth fifteen thousand,’ replied Mr Deveril
inflexibly. ‘You’re going to do as you’re told and stay meekly by
the hearth.’

Chloë’s brows
rose to impossible heights.

‘
And
what,’ she asked politely, ‘are
you
going to do?’

A gleam of
humour lit the silver-blue eyes.

‘
Play
with a fire-engine,’ he replied, heading for the stairs.

‘
I might
have known,’ said Chloë gloomily following. Then, ‘How bad is
it?’

‘
It’s
critical,’ said Alex over his shoulder. He reached the door and
turned to face her with a sudden smile. ‘Which is why you’re
staying at home like a good girl.
D’accord
?’

She smiled
meekly in reply and watched him stride to the gate. Then, as soon
as he was out of sight, she shut the door behind her and wasted
five minutes walking round the garden before setting off for the
blazing north bank.

By the time she
had fought her way to the middle of the bridge, she was beginning
to realise that her magisterial ex-husband probably had a point.
The narrow, shop-lined road was choked with laden carts and,
between these, the poorer people jostled their way south, their
arms full of whatever possessions they had managed to save. Bruised
and battered, Chloë ploughed doggedly on to the far side and it was
only then that she felt her resolve weaken.

The fire had
reached the church of St Magnus and was sweeping down towards the
river with horrifying speed while the air, acrid with smoke, was
charged with a deluge of sparks and fragments of burning material.
It was a matter of minutes before the bridge itself would be ablaze
– and the knowledge drove Chloë on. Tearing the scarf from her hair
to hold it over her mouth, she darted an erratic course through the
press of noisily frightened refugees and dived headlong down the
side of the Fishmongers Hall towards the Old Swan. She raced
through the Steelyard without attracting a second glance, all the
men there busy tipping combustible loads of wood, coal and tar into
the river; and at length, her chest heaving, she reached the Vintry
and Matt.

Mr Lewis stared
at her crossly. ‘Didn’t Mr Alex tell you to stay at home?’

‘
Yes,’
panted Chloë. ‘What are you doing?’

‘
Trying
to get a boat. I’ve paid a couple of lads to move the stuff but as
yet we’ve no transport. You can’t do anything so you might as well
go back. Unless you fancy the rough side of Mr Alex’s
tongue?’

‘
I’m
staying,’ she said obstinately. ‘And Mr Alex won’t know anything
about it unless you tell him.’ She surveyed the chaotic waterfront
where a spotty youth in a small boat was desperately trying to find
a space to tie his craft. ‘This couldn’t be one of yours, could
it?’

Matt looked and
gave a grunt of satisfaction before marching into the warehouse
where his other assistant stood waiting. ‘Jump to it, lad – we’ll
start with the velvets.’ He turned to Chloë. ‘If you’re set on
helping, go across with Tom. You’ll have to find somebody to carry
the cloth to the house and they’ll need watching if you don’t want
to be robbed.’

Chloë went to
pick up a bolt of crimson velvet and had it taken unceremoniously
from her hands. ‘Leave it. Wait by the boat – you’re only in the
way here. And I doubt we’ve more than an hour.’

Having, as he
thought, despatched Chloë safely back to Southwark, Matthew was
considerably irritated when she returned with the boat and
announced that she’d left the business of supervision in the
capable hands of Mistress Jackson.

‘
The
bridge is on fire and people are throwing things out of their
windows into the river,’ she said, following as he carried more
velvet to the boat. ‘And the Fishmongers Hall and the Old Swan are
ablaze. It’s moving quite fast, isn’t it?’

Mr Lewis’ reply
was to accelerate his efforts but, even so, by the time they were
ready to set off again, the air was thick with smoke and nauseous
fumes from a warehouse of resin and pitch in the Steelyard.

Matt ordered
Chloë to go home and stay there; Chloë, despite streaming eyes and
intermittent bouts of coughing, refused. There followed a brief but
pungent exchange at the end of which Tom rowed off alone and Mr
Lewis took the liberty of informing Mistress Chloë that she was a
damned stubborn nuisance.

Chloë spent the
next twenty minutes in a mounting fever of anxiety. From the edge
of the wharf she was able to see the fire engulf All Hallows the
Great and pass on to All Hallows the Less; a warehouse of wine and
brandy sent huge flames soaring high into the air and the wind was
carrying burning debris closer and closer to where she stood. Then
the roof of the building next door but one caught light and Chloë
was flooded with a sense of bitter frustration. She thought of all
the things that this cargo was to have bought – fresh hangings for
Mr Deveril’s bed-chamber, new rugs for the parlour – and her eyes
filled with tears that had nothing to do with the choking air.

‘
What the
bloody hell are you doing here?’ a furious voice
demanded.

Chloë jumped
and swung round to meet a wrathful stare.

‘
I
thought I’d made it clear that you were not to come?’

‘
Yes.
Well. You did,’ replied Chloë weakly. ‘Only I thought –
‘

‘
What you
thought is perfectly plain,’ snapped Mr Deveril, ‘and you’re a
little fool. Where the devil is Matt?’

‘
Inside.’
She swallowed and her gaze dropped from the frowning,
sweat-streaked face to the ruin of yet another coat. ‘He tried to
send me home.’

‘
Well,
I’ll do more than try and I don’t have time to argue. I have to
demolish your warehouse – and quickly, if it’s to be any use. You
may go voluntarily or the other way – but go you will. And this
time you won’t come back. Do you hear me?’

An ache filled
Chloë’s chest and she gazed desperately across the waterfront. ‘You
can’t pull it down. More than half the cloth is still inside. Can’t
you - -?’

‘
No I
can’t.’ Seizing her shoulders, Alex spun her to face the fire.
‘Look at it. We’ve ten minutes – possibly less. Do you want to
sacrifice the City to a few ells of silk?’

The roof that
had caught a few minutes ago was now angrily ablaze and the fire
was roaring and crackling its way to the next one.

‘
No. I’m
sorry.’ A sob tore at her throat. ‘You’re right, of
course.’

Mr Deveril
pulled her back to face him and his smoke-reddened eyes examined
her narrowly. ‘Oh God! All right – wait here. I’ll see what I can
do.’ And he raced into the warehouse.

Five minutes
later when Tom brought the boat back, Alex and Matt had a mound of
silk waiting on the quay while the demolition crew started work
with axes at the rear. Within seconds, Mr Deveril had hurled the
cloth into the boat and turned to grasp Chloë’s hand; then, very
swiftly, he pulled her into his arms and dropped a light kiss on
her hair. ‘I’m sorry, Marigold – but the King wants us to hold it
at the Three Cranes. Try to understand – and don’t cry. It doesn’t
matter.’ And before she could reply, he handed her into the waiting
boat.

Chloë sniffed
and stared wetly up at him as Tom pushed off from the bank.

‘
You’re
tired,’ she said.

‘
A bit.’
Alex smiled at her. ‘I’ll come when I can. Don’t worry.’ Then he
strode back to his work.

They moved
fast, bringing the loosely-jointed wooden structure down before the
flames touched it – but to no avail. Although they were able to
remove the debris by flinging it into the river, the fire continued
to fasten hungrily on the next building; Alex swore with rare
fluency, tossed a stream of orders to Mr Lewis, now ably assisting,
and raced, coughing, through the smoke in the direction of Thames
Street.

The
conflagration had already spread this far and was burning patchily
north towards Canning Street whose inhabitants were busily loading
their goods into a myriad of vehicles which almost totally blocked
the road. Alex sped through a gap and cannoned into Mr Pepys of the
Naval Office.

‘
Have you
seen Bludworth?’ demanded Mr Deveril, pitching his voice over the
din.

Mr Pepys shook
his head and then, suddenly pointing to the far side of the road,
‘Over there!’

Alex shot off,
forging a path, with the Naval official hard on his heels.

If the Lord
Mayor had seen their approach he might well have striven to escape,
for he had a great dislike for forceful young gentlemen of Mr
Deveril’s stamp; but, as it was, the first he knew was when his arm
was seized in an iron grip.

‘
We can’t
go on like this,’ Alex shouted. ‘It’s too damned slow. What fresh
orders have you given?’

Sir Thomas
quivered with indignation.

‘
Lord –
what more can I do? I’m spent and the people won’t obey me. I have
been pulling down houses – but the fire overtakes us faster than we
can do it.’

‘
I know
that!’ snapped Alex. ‘Pulling them down isn’t enough – we need to
use gunpowder.’

‘
What?
The people would never tolerate it.’

‘
His
Majesty,’ said Mr Pepys primly, ‘has commanded that demolition
should proceed with all possible expedition – to which end, the
Duke of York offers soldiers if you should need them.’

Sir Thomas
mopped his brow with a large handkerchief and said peevishly, ‘Well
I don’t! We are doing everything that can be done and I have been
up all night.’

He tried to
move away but was detained by Mr Deveril’s hand on his arm.