Fire

by C. C. Humphreys

  He turned away to lean against the trunk and listen to the drops patter onto his hat brim, thinking of the last time he’d seen the king. Five years before, in 1661, when he’d been one of a party of Irish Protestant landholders who’d come to petition the newly restored monarch to not return to the Papists the land that had been stripped from them and given to God’s own people – themselves. To no avail. Too many Catholics got their land back. Too many of the righteous lost theirs. And his own hatred was kindled for the betrayer, this Stuart king, this Charles whose mother was a Papist, who was said to be a secret one himself, intent on restoring more than himself upon the throne; restoring alongside himself the Antichrist himself, the Devil in Rome, to rule over them all.

  He raised a hand. He was surprised to see it shaking. He was surprised to feel tears in his eyes. Seeing the king had done that to him. He breathed deeply, then prayed. ‘ “And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.” ’

  He watched his hand steady, his tears dry up. Well, he thought, rubbing his eyes, there will be more death before the glory, if God has chosen this day, and me as his instrument. Me – and this man whose footsteps I hear now.

  He softly spoke a name. ‘Jeremiah?’

  ‘ ’Tis I.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  The voice that came was high-pitched and tremulous. ‘ “Thou…thou art,” ah! I am sorry, I –’ He broke off, cleared his throat and tried again. ‘ “Thou art my battle axe and weapons of war: for with thee I will…will I break in pieces the nations. And with thee will I destroy kingdoms.” ’

  It was close enough. This fellow, nicknamed for the prophet who wrote those words, was an apprentice in the cause. His nervousness was understandable. As long as it did not prevent him doing the Lord’s work. ‘And here is your weapon of war,’ the man replied, reaching inside his doublet to the object that had caused such chafing to his back. He grasped the metal sphere, withdrew it, held it still under his cloak. ‘Make ready. We do not want any part of this to be exposed to rain, even for a moment.’

  ‘I see. I –’ ‘Jeremiah’ swallowed. ‘It will not go off?’

  The man grunted. It was extraordinary to him, he who had spent his life at war, that any man could be so ignorant. ‘Nay, sure. For that you must introduce it to flame. Swiftly now. We must not linger here.’

  The transfer was quickly made, though Jeremiah’s hands shook as he took the ball. ‘And how must I –?’

  ‘Put it away, fool!’ The man took another deep breath to quell his irritation, reminding himself that this youth had been chosen by Brother S partly because of his inexperience, the fact that he was not known to any – along with a type of fanaticism that only came from the very newest of converts. Besides, it was all in God’s hands – not his, not this Jeremiah’s. Though the young man would hurl the grenado, it was God who would decide if the time was right by guiding his aim. God, with a little help from his Saints. ‘You remember what is planned?’

  ‘I…do?’ It came out more like a question and he chewed at already ragged lips. ‘I am to wait until the first scene is playing –’

  ‘Do not tell me,’ the man interrupted, ‘for I do not need to know. My task is done and all is now in God’s hands. Trust in him, brother. Praise him!’ He turned to go.

  Jeremiah grabbed him. ‘Tell me, please!’ Tears spilled out of his eyes. ‘I will do this. The Lord will guide me, I know. But in my desire to serve Him, I seem to have forgotten some…some details.’ He reached up, wiping his eyes. ‘When I light the…the fuse, is it?…how long must I wait before I throw the grenado? I was told that too soon and it would go out, too late and…’ He broke off, gave a strange, choked laugh. ‘I have forgotten the count.’

  The man stared at the youth. When Brother S, his sole contact among the Fifth Monarchists in London, had asked for help with this plan, he’d thought it a weak one. He thought so even more now. How many more times would the great cause be betrayed by poor planning and cowards? Still, in the end, did it require him to believe it would work? No. It only behooved him to believe that God would decide if it did. His only task? To do his utmost to help Providence fulfil itself.

  He smiled. It was not a natural set for his long, lean, much-scarred face and the youth blinked up at him. ‘Brother,’ he said, letting his rough voice go soft, ‘it is very simple. When you are ready you put the fuse,’ he reached under the other’s cloak and tapped it, ‘into the candle’s flame, see? I am an expert, and fashioned the paper myself, with just enough gunpowder in it so sparks will come. At the first flash you count – one chicken, two chicken.’ He said them slowly, steadily. ‘Then you simply reach over and lay it into the king’s box. As soon as you have done so, you turn, and run from yours. The grenado will explode on six and with God’s favour you will be clear of its blast by then. If not,’ the smile came again, wolfish, ‘you will the next instant be at His right hand in heaven.’ He reached over, gripping the other’s forearm. ‘Pray with me. Our father, who art in heaven…’

  Jeremiah joined in the only prayer God’s saints would countenance. He saw that it steadied the youth, and in his eyes he remembered when he’d first truly heard the Word. As if Jesus himself had come and whispered it into his ear. He would have done then what this ‘Jeremiah’ was about to do now. Yeah, he thought, with a song of praise on my lips, I would have done it.

  The prayer finished, the Amens spoken, he continued, ‘I will tell you what I will do. I cannot come inside. There are those who might know me. But I will wait for you here, beneath this tree. Come to me straight when you have fulfilled your vow and I will spirit you to safety. And if you do not come…’ – he clasped the other’s hand – ‘why then, I will go and join with all your other brothers in praising your name. And see you again at the resurrection which cometh soon. Amen!’

  ‘Amen!’ The youth stepped away. His eyes were clearer now. His hand did not shake as much. ‘Bless you, brother. Praise God!’

  With that, he turned about, crossed the roadway and pushed his way into the theatre. The man of blood watched him, his strange smile still upon his lips – which vanished when he saw the two men he’d last seen in the alley behind the tavern come from opposite directions and meet before the playhouse. A boy emerged from it to join them there. He capered about, full of jerks and shakes like one palsied. After a moment he dragged the cavalier, the one who’d feigned drunkenness in the Seven Stars, into the playhouse, leaving the huge man to turn and stare.

  3

  A DEATH AT THE PLAYHOUSE

  Pitman looked about him, studying faces, not seeking the man from the Seven Stars but wondering if he could spot his accomplice. He was sure some detail would give him away, some tic, some cast of face or demeanour. But no one stood out among the theatre-goers – men and women, most of them of the well-dressed, middling classes, with the odd nobleman and his lady or mistress distinguished by their even finer apparel and the falsely careless way they wore it, as if they did not court the crowd’s admiring gaze. A few, a very few, wore the less fancy attire of trade. Yet all of these, men in the main, had the same expressions of excitement that the buzz of the playhouse gave to all classes – one they’d been deprived of while the plague had raged and all places of entertainment had been shut. Any one of them could be ‘acting’ of course. Yet Pitman, his own sixth sense highly developed, did not believe that any threat stood near him now.

  He glanced across the cobbles to the edge of the park that was Lincoln’s Inn Fields. Vendors stood there, men and women, their cries cutting through the chatter of the crowd. ‘Seville oranges! Juicy and sweet!’ ‘Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!’ ‘Milk from the teat!’ Beyond these, others sheltered ’neath the sycamores and cedars, getting what little protection from the still-steady rain that a tree in April could offer. He saw couples entwined, some ‘business’ being conducted under cloaks; men, single and in pairs, simply reg
arding the world. One figure especially drew him – a large man whose face was completely hidden between cloak edge and hat brim. There was a quality to his watchfulness. One he recognised in himself.

  Pitman took a step.

  The bugle blast made him jump, coming so near his ear as it did. The bugler, a young and fresh-faced lad, grinned at the flinching he’d caused, then shouted, his accent of the local streets, ‘Ten minutes! Lords, ladies, gentlemen, to your places. Whores? Finish ’em off, will ya? The play’s the thing!’

  Another blast and the boy slipped back inside, others now jostling to follow. The clothes parade was done, though more posing would take place inside. The main business of the day was about to commence.

  Pitman looked back across the street. The watchful figure had gone. He shrugged and, using his bulk, forced a swift entrance into the playhouse.

  —

  ‘Cap’n’s here!’ Dickon cried, pulling Coke in by his arm.

  She cried out, as she had before when she’d seen his shade upon the stage. In a moment, she was up and in his arms.

  ‘Ha!’ said Coke, startled by the force of her assault but happy in it and to hold her as her hands moved up and down his arms. ‘Madam, are you verifying that I still have all my limbs?’

  Sarah pulled back to stare up at him, searching his face. ‘You are well. You are here.’

  He frowned at the statements, yet smiled at the same time. ‘As you see – and feel, chuck. Why would I not be?’

  ‘You left so early. And about some danger.’

  ‘Not truly –’

  She stamped. ‘Nay, do not try to deny it, sir. I am not a child. I am not!’

  Her concern had turned to sudden anger. She was prone to such instant switches, especially recently, her moods changeable. Now he was torn – he wanted to warn her of what might happen today in the theatre. He’d even thought to beg Betterton to at least delay the play a little while he and Pitman searched. One swift glance at the player told him, though – a man does not play Hamlet every day. And not before his king. The king who stood beside him now, his brother with him, all laughing at something the player was saying.

  Coke turned to Dickon. ‘Do you not have work to be about, ye rogue?’

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ He laughed, saluted and scampered away.

  He turned back to Sarah. Her eyes searched his. He had little more facility with lies than he did with compliments. But he must try – and he was better, anyway, with action. ‘Nothing so dangerous, sweet. We track a villain whose taking may fill our purses. And we think he may even be here in the playhouse.’ So far, so good. ‘And now I must join Pitman in the pit to continue the hunt. I just came to wish you good luck for the performance.’

  Her face softened. ‘You do not wish an actress luck before the play. It is bad luck to do so. You wish me an injury.’

  ‘Ah.’ His ignorance had won him a smile. He furrowed his brow. ‘I am sorry. I do not think I could ever wish you any harm.’

  ‘Then go, you goose.’ She slapped his arm, then took it more gently, adding softly. ‘But with care.’

  That look in her eye was back. He did not understand it. Then again, in this field, he truly understood so little. So he just bowed and said, ‘Always. And good –’

  ‘Go,’ she said, slapping him again.

  He went.

  Sarah watched him all the way to the door, through it, staring at the space for a long moment after he left. Then, sighing, she turned back to her mirror. He is safe, she mouthed to her image in the glass. All is well.

  —

  ‘Pray, Mr Peckworth. Allow me.’ The attendant reached past the young man who was trying with just one hand to draw the curtains that backed the box. ‘There’s a trick to it – la!’ He pulled the heavy cloth aside. ‘Please, enter.’

  He did – still holding one arm in the manner of a wounded bird, Aitcheson observed. Blinking like one too, in the sudden bright light of a thousand candles from the auditorium, and in the waft of warmed air bringing a thousand smells. He swayed, and Aitcheson reached out to grip him. ‘Steady, there. Are you well, sir?’

  ‘Thank you. A small fever is all. Quite well.’

  Aitcheson dropped his hand quickly, wiping it surreptitiously on his breeches. Though the plague that had killed so many the previous year was said to have entirely passed – which was why the theatre had been allowed to open again only this week – there were rumours that people still died of it in the poorer parts of the city; that not every house had the red cross painted out. He forced another smile. ‘And will your eminent brother, Sir Walter, be joining you shortly?’

  ‘Yes. No. I…I d-don’t know,’ the young man stammered. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I doubt that Sir Walter, for all his care for the city, would miss Master Betterton playing Hamlet, eh?’

  ‘Hamlet? Oh, is that what’s on?’

  Aitcheson took a small step away. They were too close anyway, for the other still stood nearer to the corridor than the box’s front. He might not be plagued but he was certainly mad. Not know what was playing? Or perhaps he was drunk? And speaking of – ‘What refreshment would you care for, Master Peckworth? I have some fine canary –’

  ‘No, no wine. Maybe later, ah? But you could bring me a…a –’

  Nuts, oranges, a whore, thought the attendant. But the reply surprised.

  ‘A lantern.’

  ‘A lantern?’ The youth, his eminent brother notwithstanding, was starting to annoy him. ‘You will see the stage well enough, sir.’

  ‘Ah, but I…I wish to read. And my eyes?’ He waved his one free hand before them. ‘Not so good, do ye see?’

  ‘I will attend to it forthwith, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and take this to see that I am not disturbed.’

  Aitcheson put out his hand – and the man put a gold guinea into it. It was new minted, shiny, King Charles’s profile handsome upon it – which reminded him. ‘And sir, you do know that His Majesty will be in attendance this day? And that the royal box is next to you here, closest to the stage?’

  ‘I do know.’ For some reason Peckworth giggled. ‘I am counting on it.’

  Definitely mad, Aitcheson thought, as he stepped into the corridor. There was a small window right opposite the box for the rich to gaze upon those still arriving. He looked out at the crowd still pushing in. A full house, he thought to himself with satisfaction. Lots of money to be made today.

  He descended to the small room where the attendants kept their properties. His colleague Hutchins was there, pouring canary into flasks. ‘Got another bedlamite in the box next to the royal one,’ Aitcheson said, his accent relaxing into his native London ‘Indeed, it could be an outer cell of the asylum.’

  ‘Same box that, whatsisname, that Lord Garnthorpe had last year? The one what tried to kill the Duke of York?’

  ‘It is.’ Aitcheson found a lantern, lighting the candle within it with another. ‘And compared to him, this one’s a mere gibberer.’

  —

  ‘Anything?’

  Pitman stood in the stairwell of the pit, unmoving as a rock in an ocean of people. They bounced on him, off him, squeezed around him, cursed him. He ignored all, continuing his scan of the house. ‘Nothing,’ he replied to Coke who’d shoved through to him. ‘I have not seen our man. But not all have arrived yet. Not even the king.’

  ‘He’s behind the stage, talking with Betterton.’

  Pitman pointed. ‘They’ve moved the royal box. ’Twas on t’other side last year.’

  ‘You’re right. And they’ve taken the pause of the plague to gild it up. ’Tis twice as plush now.’

  ‘They court royal favour. It draws the fashionable crowd. See how the other boxes are crowded with the nobility.’ He swept his gaze in a circle about. ‘Except for the box next to it. It’s yet unoccupied.’

  ‘Not for long, I’m certain. Sarah told me that every seat for this was taken up weeks ago.’ He glanced around. ‘There is a buzz, is there not?’
/>
  ‘Aye.’ Pitman’s gaze went around the auditorium once more, then settled on his friend. ‘Earlier, Captain, at the tavern? When you were close enough to the man we’ve lost to smell him, did you happen to feel if he had any weapons concealed?’

  ‘Marry, I gave him some gropes I’d have hesitated to visit on a mistress. I would swear he had none. Mayhap a dagger in his boot cuff which I did not see. But Charles’s guards would never let a knifeman near him, for sure.’

  ‘Nay, they would not. Yet a weapon of some kind could have been prior concealed about this place, awaiting him.’

  ‘Something I do not understand.’ Coke pulled the larger man to the side of the stair, easing through another flood of play-goers. ‘This place. The fellow could not have chosen a more public setting for his attempt on the king’s life. How could he hope to get away with it?’

  ‘Killing a man in public is difficult – but not impossible, as many examples have shown us. And if by getting away you mean the assassin surviving the attempt, I do not think that concerns him.’ He ceased his surveying, turning to look at Coke. ‘Remember, his entire life is dedicated to God, to do with what He will. His death entirely in His hands also. He may wish to live and continuing worshipping, but if he dies as a martyr then –’ He shrugged. ‘He will speed to God’s right side and dwell forever in Paradise. For he will have hastened the return of the king, Jesus, to rule us all.’ He looked about him at the bustling, smiling play-goers. ‘And he will not care how many sinners are sacrificed in that cause.’

  ‘Another man driven mad by faith. I am ever thankful that I have none.’ Coke shivered. ‘We saw many such fanatics in the wars, did we not? Mainly on your side, I have to say. How did you avoid it, Pitman? You were fanatical in your time too, were you not? Even one of these same damned Fifth Monarchists for a while?’