Fire

by C. C. Humphreys

  ‘I loathe it.’ Williamson was long and skinny, bent forward like a heron poised above a fall of water, though not a crested one, his hair long since having retreated over the high, bald dome of his head. He was a Cumbrian by birth, his native vowels further clipped now by his impatience. ‘I would much rather be at my desk and about my business. But something told me I should attend this day. And was I not right?’ He pointed with his chin to the body being carried away. ‘What news?’

  ‘Have you met Captain Coke and Mrs –’

  ‘What news, sirrah?’

  Pitman had never been a servant and disliked being treated as one. It confirmed what he’d half decided anyway: to withhold whatever his pocket now held. It might be nothing; that he would decide once he’d seen it. Besides, possession of information only he had meant power now – and perhaps coin later. ‘Only this, sir. The would-be assassin is dead. Killed within minutes of his attempt by…’ he hesitated, ‘…by someone who knew what he was about.’

  Williamson’s eyes narrowed. ‘By someone, er,’ he glanced at the others then back to Pitman, ‘sanguine?’

  Pitman shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Hmm.’ He stared for a moment longer. ‘We will discuss this further. Tomorrow. Nine o’clock. My office. Whitehall. Bring all your thoughts there. Oh yes. Then there’s this.’

  He nodded to the guard who reached beneath his cloak, undid a pouch from his belt, then held it out to Pitman. ‘The sum agreed,’ his employer said, and when Pitman took it, he turned again, taking a step, his guard a shadow on his shoulder. ‘You may go.’

  Pitman’s voice halted him. ‘Thank you, sir. But the king ordered us to remain and speak with him.’

  The minister stopped and turned. ‘The king has changed his mind. He is ever…changeable. And he would see the end of this play.’

  It was Coke who spoke, in surprise. ‘After this?’

  ‘Especially after this. He would not have any say he is afraid. Indeed, he delights in bravado. It can make his safety a little, ah, difficult to manage.’ He sniffed. ‘However, I am sure the players will struggle to match his sangfroid.’ Finally, his gaze alighted on Sarah. ‘Means “cool blood”, girl. Think you can muster some for His Majesty?’

  He spoke as if to a child. Sarah let her accent slip back to the streets she was born in. ‘Oh, I think I might manage it, cock. So ’ow about you pop in after and warm us back up again?’

  She was rewarded with the faintest rose on the pallid cheeks. ‘Interesting,’ the spymaster said, before walking away.

  He’d merged into the crowd at the playhouse doors before Coke and Pitman broke into laughter. ‘I suspect there’s few who can make that man blush, Mrs Chalker,’ Pitman commented.

  ‘Ah, he’s just a man in the end. Easy to judge, like all of you.’ She looked to the theatre. ‘Here we go.’

  The bugler had stepped out again. His blast was less assured now, his voice wobbly. ‘The p-play. Back to the play. It rec—recommen— starts again.’ The bugler slipped back inside.

  ‘I will see you later. Here, or at our lodgings?’ Sarah said to Coke.

  ‘Nay, here,’ he replied. ‘Indeed, I’ll come in and watch. If the king has sangfroid then, damn me, so have I. Pitman? Pitman?’

  ‘Hmm.’ The thief-taker’s gaze that had been up to the sky returned to them. ‘Er, no. I have matters to attend to. I must go home and see my Bettina. She will have an unguent for my side which still aches from the blast. Maybe she can candle my ears, for they still ring. I will see you both later.’

  They went, and Pitman turned his gaze heavenwards again, closing his face to the rain. Sangfroid, he thought – cold blood. He had no doubt that the murder had happened coldly. Blood, still warm from the side of the dead man, soaked into the mud before him.

  He stepped under the scant shelter of the same tree and carefully pulled the damp paper from his cloak’s pocket. Unfolding it tore it slightly more, as he was surprised to find that he could not control a palsy in his hand. Yet he was still able to recognise what it was: a prophecy tract that some millenarian had printed up on cheap paper and sold for tuppence. Here, one ‘Hebediah Baker’ had set down his visions. Reading was not one of Pitman’s strengths and he pieced it together slowly, his finger tracing the words, his lips moving.

  ‘A fire, a consuming fire, shall be kindled in the bowels of the earth which will scorch with burning heat all hypocrites, unstable double-minded workers of iniquity. Yea, a great effusion of blood, fire and smoke shall increase up in the dark habitations of cruelty, howling and great wailing shall be on every hand in all her streets.’

  ‘Blood. Fire. Smoke,’ he mumbled.

  He had seen such tracts as this before. They told of the destruction to be visited upon that modern Babylon, that seventeenth-century Sodom and Gomorrah, that London. Yet this one, stained red by a man who, howsoever deluded, considered himself a martyr, disturbed him as no other had. He raised his eyes to the sky and closed them to the chill rain. And felt it – another crease in the paper. He looked down.

  Someone had written in ink a date at the foot of the paper. September the third 666. Not 1666. Just those three numbers that everyone knew – numbers and a date he now watched run from the page in blue and red, and made no effort to stop their blurring.

  5

  PROPHECIES

  Two days later

  From its strings held high, the marionette twirled slowly. With its huge hook of a nose, vast eyes that were nearly all whites, horsehair eyebrows like a tavern door’s boot-brush, a red slash of a wildly grinning mouth, it was a spinning grotesque. Yet when it settled, it was beside a face that many would find just as disturbing.

  The man knew it. ‘Are we not a match, Punchinello and I?’ Simeon Critchollow asked, laughing, his voice a deep roll. ‘Mind, I never was handsome. When I began in the theatre, all I played were servants and roughs, not once a noble lord.’ He reached up, ran a finger across the bright scar that bisected his twisted nose. ‘So, in some ways, that cavalier at Naseby did me favour. I would have starved as an actor. Yet now I am a leading player. Or rather, my friend and I are.’

  The puppet’s face swung again. For a moment the two grotesques were in profile. When it swung back, it spoke, its voice a screech. ‘Eh, eh eh? ’andsome boy? Take me. Take me!’

  Daniel carefully placed one hand atop the puppeteer’s where it held the wooden struts, reaching the other to the huge wooden arse under the wool pantaloons. ‘Ooh! ’elp me, master,’ the puppet yelped, jerking forward. ‘ ’andsome boy’s feelin’ us up!’

  When Daniel blushed, Simeon laughed. The younger man took the puppet and carried it across to the boxes, laid it gently down in its cradle, pulled the blanket across, tucking it around. Finally, with a certain relief, he covered the wickedly grinning face. He took the wooden lids, slid them into their grooves on each box. Punchinello now slept in his coffin, alongside his wife, the judge, the hangman, the brat, in theirs.

  ‘We did well.’ Simeon yawned and shook the purse.

  Daniel hesitated. He did not often question the man who’d raised him from degradation, who’d led him from darkness into light. But the puppet-master seemed relaxed tonight. ‘Why did you choose to play in this tavern, master, now the theatres are open again? Would you not have taken more money at the Moorfields playhouse?’

  Simeon took a swig of ale. ‘Undoubtedly. But here better suited my plans. No musicians to hire, save you on your flute. No ticket men, ale men, fruit sellers. Besides, the innkeeper here is a brother Saint. He could use the trade and we – we needed a meeting place.’ He looked around the large upstairs room. Chairs were scattered about and the floor was awash with the audience’s leavings – peanut husks, orange peel, chicken bones, bungs from bottles. He frowned. ‘Tidy, boy.’

  Daniel fetched a broom and began to sweep, pushing the detritus into great piles, moving chairs to the side, save for the six that would be required for the Council of the Great Ones, while his master sat
, sipping, watching him, reviving.

  He truly is a handsome lad now, Simeon thought. Such contrast to the thin, scabbed and desperate wretch who’d begged a coin from him last year, while the plague raged. Simeon had given him more than silver. He’d given him hope and a cause – the greatest, the only one: the return of King Jesus. A second coming to be hastened tonight in the resolutions of his Fifth Monarchist brethren.

  The room was near swept clean when Simeon heard boots upon the stair. He frowned. A bell in the nearby church had only just struck eight, and there was yet an hour until the meeting. ‘Daniel,’ he called, ‘come stand beside me.’ As the footfalls neared, he reached into his bag, pulled out and cocked a pistol, keeping it below the table.

  However, it was neither a pack of constables, nor an eager member of the Six who came through the door, but a man he’d been thinking much on lately – one that disturbed and excited him in equal measure. Uncocking, then putting his pistol back into his bag, he rose. ‘Welcome, Mr Morton and, er, you have brought your friend, Master Hunt. I am pleased to see you both well.’

  The men stopped on the threshold and the elder spoke. ‘Since there are none but friends here, you may call us by our God-given names, Critchollow.’

  ‘Very well then. Blood – Pater et fili. Capitanus et –’

  ‘And you can stop the Papist talk,’ replied Captain Blood, striding up to the table. ‘Plain English is the Lord’s true tongue.’

  Simeon gave a faint sigh. He was as rigorous in God’s work as any man alive. But a touch of lightness in discourse surely offended no one? Yet the big Irishman and his hulking son, who was perhaps fifteen, had no lightness about them at all. ‘Fetch the Bloods that jug of beer, Daniel,’ he said, ‘and the bread and cheese too.’

  Daniel brought both over and the two sat, quaffed and ate as if they hadn’t for some days. Maybe they hadn’t. Simeon had no idea where Blood stayed in London, or even if he did. He came, he went. He knew only this: where the man had been two days ago. And he needed to know more about that. ‘Take the young gentleman downstairs, Daniel,’ he said. ‘The captain and I have matters to discuss.’

  The younger Blood looked at his father, who nodded. Cramming another hunk of cheese between two thick slices of bread and grabbing his pint pot, he went out of the door. Daniel followed, closing it quietly behind them.

  Simeon watched the man eat for a few seconds more before he spoke. ‘Well?’

  It was obvious what was being asked. ‘He failed,’ Blood replied through a full mouth.

  ‘Since the tyrant was observed playing at pell-mell only this afternoon I surmised that much. How did he fail?’

  ‘How?’ The Irishman’s green eyes swivelled onto Simeon’s. ‘Want of will.’

  Simeon frowned. ‘That puzzles me. For I recall him being most willing – fervent, indeed. His eyes shone with his desire and with the holy spirit. He would have given everything, including his life – which he did.’

  Blood drank, then set down his tankard. ‘It is one thing to be willing in the chapel, in fellowship, your ears ringing with God’s praises. You will find it is quite another thing out there,’ he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, ‘to discover the will to kill a man.’

  ‘Oh, trust me, brother. I have killed my share,’ Simeon replied softly, then touched a finger to his scar. ‘And I did not get this in a chapel.’

  The two men stared at each other for a moment – until Blood spoke. ‘Well, some men can and some can’t. He was one of the latter.’

  ‘Yet he died in the act?’

  ‘Did he?’ Blood took up his tankard, sat back. ‘Blown up, was he? I tried to explain the timing of the thing –’

  ‘Not blown up. Stabbed.’

  Blood paused for a moment, then shrugged. ‘I suppose it’s why the king employs his guards. To stab assassins.’

  And Simeon thought, Oh, I see you, sir. In a lifetime spent in lies he knew how to read them. So he knew who had killed Brother Peckworth. He knew why – the man before him would leave no trail to follow. He also knew that, in God’s great plan, it mattered not a jot.

  Reaching for the jug, Blood poured himself more ale. ‘There’s something you need to know. Jeremiah was followed. Someone had wind of the thing.’

  Simeon frowned. Peckworth had been chosen for this task because he was a ‘white lamb’ – new to the cause, unremarked by the state, untainted. And only a tiny few knew of this venture – the Council of the Six, due to meet there that night. If one of them was a traitor…‘How do you know this?’

  Blood snorted. ‘Marry, brother, I haven’t survived this long at this game without having my senses about me. I spotted your fellow straightway. ’slid, he gave himself away with his fidgeting. So I bided a while – and soon enough saw the two who watched him.’

  ‘King’s agents?’

  ‘Perhaps. Though unlike any I’d seen before.’

  ‘How so?’

  Blood leaned back, staring at the ceiling. ‘One was big, in every way. Bald as a billiard ball but with a huge beard that came to here,’ he put fingers to the chest, ‘while the other…’

  ‘…had long greying hair and a moustache.’

  The words were spoken so softly, so coldly, that Blood looked down sharply. ‘You know them?’

  ‘Oh, I know them.’ Simeon looked above the other’s head. But he did not see a tavern’s wall. He saw a dead man. He had a broken wrist, a knife wound in the side and chest blown open with shot. This had killed him. But then his corpse had been subjected to the further horrors visited upon all traitors. Like the deceased regicides who had signed the first Charles’s death warrant – dug from their graves on the second Charles’s restoration six years before, beheaded, quartered, their several parts distributed through the land as warning – so had his comrade’s body been treated. He had gone to watch this second martyrdom. Borne witness. Testified. Six months ago, almost to this day.

  ‘Critchollow?’

  Simeon’s eyes focused again. The man of blood was staring at him. ‘These men,’ he said softly, ‘are named Pitman and Coke. The one is a thief-taker, the other a reformed highwayman. And together with Coke’s whore, one Sarah Chalker, they managed to snap one of God’s brightest blades, even in the moment before His triumph –’

  He broke off, words and memories choking him. ‘His name?’ Blood asked.

  ‘You may read it in the book of martyrs,’ Simeon replied. ‘Garnthorpe.’

  ‘The man who nearly killed the Duke of York last year?’

  ‘The same.’

  Blood whistled. ‘Would he were alive today to aid us in this great work.’

  ‘Amen. But he is not. While these foes, these sinners, these servants of the Antichrist,’ Simeon took a deep breath, ‘they appear again to thwart us. To thwart God’s plan.’ He shook his head hard, reached for the jug, topping up both tankards, and raised his. ‘Will you toast our dead brothers for their sacrifice?’

  ‘No.’ Blood did not raise his mug. ‘I will not toast stupidity.’

  Simeon glared. ‘Killing the king is stupidity?’

  ‘Failing to kill him is.’ Blood slammed his mug down. ‘Listen well, man. I was willing to aid you, given my newness to the town, and my knowledge of matters explosive. But I always thought it a poor shot. Christ’s mercy,’ he cried out, ‘sure and have I not had enough of this in my native land? Where every other madman thinks that all success demands is courage and God’s name on his lips? Answer me this – why should the Almighty help those who have not proved themselves deserving of His help?’

  ‘He –’

  But Blood was not seeking a reply. Tapping the side of his head, he continued, ‘The Almighty gave us dominion over the earth when he gave us reason. Yet we squander that gift again and again,’ he slapped the table, ‘on petty actions. ’sooth, I’m done with such toys. I will never again risk my life, nor my son’s, in any foolish endeavour. From now on, what I want is a plan. Cunningly reasoned, skilfully executed, and
above all this.’ He leaned forward, his eyes boring into Simeon’s. ‘To only venture at a time that God has already marked out for success. Then will we be proved worthy of God’s blessing. Then will the Saints inherit the earth.’

  Simeon was used to testifying. He did it himself. But the man was right – too often, it was dreamers who did it, who knew not how to do more than recount their dreams. Yet here was a man who did do more. Had done more – in Ireland in recent years. In London two days ago. A man willing not just to talk but to act. ‘Amen, brother,’ he said. ‘I am one with you for that. Reasoned plans require time spent upon ’em.’

  ‘They do.’

  ‘You speak of a time foretold. Has God not set down certain times in his books of prophecy?’

  ‘He has. You know he has. This year –’

  ‘Is 1666. Praise him!’

  ‘Praise him indeed.’ Both men nodded, caught up in it now.

  ‘And 666 is the number of the Beast.’

  ‘Aye, the fourth beast. The fourth kingdom upon the earth. The one spoken of in Daniel, in Revelation – destroyed this year. This one! Destroyed by the Fifth Monarchists. By the Saints.’ The puppeteer’s voice soared. ‘When King Jesus returns to lead us – in the flesh!’

  ‘ “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.’