The Fire Court

by Andrew Taylor

  At the bottom, Richard fumbled with the door, his hands scrabbling in his haste at the bolts and the bar. He swung the door open just before they reached it, and slipped into the street in front of them.

  There were cries of ‘Fire! Fire!’ People were everywhere, pouring out of houses and shops, abandoning their vehicles and struggling to escape from the bridge.

  The door to the stationer’s was open, and apprentices and journeymen and servants milled around the entrance. A middle-aged woman was in the doorway, shrieking at them to come back and carry out the stock.

  ‘This way,’ Philip said, waving with his sword towards the south end of the bridge. ‘The Bear.’

  ‘But the girl, sir,’ she gasped, recoiling from Gromwell, who had joined them. ‘The girl’s inside.’

  She saw a face she knew on the other side of the road, not five yards away. It was the man who had accosted Gromwell outside the Fire Court when Philip had been attacking her. Beside him was the man with the crutch who had lost part of his leg, who had also been there.

  ‘Save her,’ she cried to them, to anyone. ‘For the love of God. Save her.’

  Gromwell took her other arm. In a dream, she saw the man raise his arm and pitch a small dark object across the street. It caught Gromwell in the face and made him recoil slightly. But he kept his grip on her arm. The object fell to the ground. Automatically she glanced down at it. It was a charred roll.

  He and Philip dragged her away. The crowd fell back from their drawn swords. Behind them came Richard. Then her pain returned, worse than before.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  ‘Follow them,’ I ordered Sam.

  ‘But, master, what—’

  ‘Go,’ I roared, suddenly furious with him. ‘Or go to the devil. It’s all one.’

  I pushed past him, forced my way through the crowd outside the stationer’s and went into the building. Once inside, I glanced back. To my relief, I couldn’t see Sam. With luck, he had obeyed me for once. A cripple couldn’t run upstairs. I didn’t want to be responsible for killing him as well as Cat.

  The covered passage led to a staircase and a doorway beyond to a bookbinder’s workshop. I ignored the workshop and climbed the first flight as quickly as I could. The pain from my burn and the stiffness of my limbs slowed me down.

  There was smoke in the air, but not too much to make breathing difficult. The higher I went, however, the worse both the smoke and the heat became.

  But no flames. Not yet. I can’t face a fire, I thought, and then Chelling’s face floated into my mind: as he had been in death, when I had last seen him, bathed in flames.

  I wrapped my cloak over my mouth and nose. I climbed higher and higher until I could climb no more. On the top landing, there was a single door, closed. It was a stout affair, in its way, but it couldn’t hold back the fire for ever. There was already an orange glow around the frame.

  I touched the latch. The iron was so hot I had to wrap a fold of my cloak around my hand in order to lift it.

  It opened into a tunnel of fire. Smoke billowed towards me. There was no sign of Cat. An almighty cracking sound filled my ears, and one of the windows burst outwards. The flames licked through the opening towards the sky.

  Fear gripped me, squeezing my bowels. On one level, I thought that history was repeating itself, and I was back in Chelling’s room, and this time the fire would do even worse things to me.

  But on another level there was no time to think at all. My actions seemed to have little or nothing to do with the part of me that was terrified. With the cloak clamped over my face, I staggered across the floor of a long room, making for a door at the opposite end. God be thanked, the floorboards supported my weight. The door was bolted. When I drew the bolt back, I forgot to pad it with my cloak, and metal burned my hand. I screamed with the pain of it, losing what was left of the air in my lungs.

  I smelled burning hair. The right-hand side of my wig was on fire, the hair frizzling and blackening in the heat. I tore it off my head, along with my hat, and tossed them to the flames.

  This chamber was smaller than the first, with another door opposite me. The air was clearer here. The windows had gone and so had part of the ceiling. In one corner was the blackened skeleton of a bedstead. The beams above had caught fire, as had some of the floorboards. Looking up, I glimpsed the sky. Roof tiles cracked in the heat and showered down on to the wreckage of the bed. Lines of fire were streaking along the remaining rafters.

  I drew the cloak over my bare head, trying to protect the damaged skin from the intense heat. The joists below, which had supported the floor, remained intact, though two near the fireplace were smouldering and charring. I took in another breath, coughed most of it out, and skipped from one joist to the next. The door at the end had lost its latch. I tugged it open.

  There was Cat at last, turned away from me, leaning on the window sill. Relief surged through me. In my heart I had feared she must be dead already.

  I said her name, as I crossed the threshold, drawing the door shut behind me. The flames hadn’t reached here yet. The room was a privy. Cat had punched a jagged hole through the glass and lead of the lattice. Her head and shoulders were poking outside.

  She was unaware that she was no longer alone. I touched her side. She spun round instantly. I saw the glint of the knife in her hand. She didn’t look like herself any more. Her face was white, the skin stretched tightly over the skull, the teeth bared.

  I heard a crash of falling timbers and tiles behind me, and the roar of the fire increased.

  ‘The river,’ I said, trying to keep my voice gentle, as one would to a frightened child or a nervous animal. ‘It’s the only way now.’

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’d rather stay here.’

  ‘We must jump.’ I dropped the cloak, tore off my coat and let it fall to the floor. ‘Kick off your shoes.’

  She made as if to lunge at me with the knife.

  I stepped back as far as I could in the cramped space. I felt the warmth of the fire on my back and heard the hungry crackle of the flames.

  ‘Cat—’

  ‘I can’t do it,’ she said. ‘You go.’

  ‘Don’t be foolish.’

  ‘I won’t.’ She stamped her foot, reduced to a child in a temper. ‘I can’t swim. And I hate water.’

  I seized her right arm and twisted it. She tried to bite me. She kicked at my legs. But I kept up the pressure until she dropped the knife. I clamped my arms around her and forced her back to the window opening.

  The privy groaned. With a snapping and a cracking of timber, it swung outwards over the river until it was hanging at an angle of nearly forty-five degrees. It threw the two of us against the outer wall beside the window. The wall sagged and creaked.

  Hand over hand, Cat pulled herself along the bench until she could cling to the hole of the privy. I clambered around her. My hand appeared beside hers, our skin touching. We stared at each other, as close as lovers or mortal enemies. I watched our knuckles whitening.

  The privy sighed. It broke asunder like a cracked walnut. It crumbled out into the river in a shower of debris.

  I closed my eyes as we fell.

  The fire, the river, the falling building wrapped me in their sounds. There was a smack as my body hit the water. Hard objects buffeted me. Someone screamed. The cold was vicious: it paralysed me. The river sucked me underwater and rolled me over and then—

  Something struck my shoulder. The force of it drove me under the surface, where the current played with me like a boy torturing a cat, or a cat torturing a mouse. It turned me round and dashed me against the starlings. I curled myself into a ball, trying to protect my head with my arms. The current tossed and twisted me over and over. It let me free for a second and then threw me over the weir tumbling downstream from the bridge.

  The water was so cold that it made me gasp. I took in a mouthful of it and tried to spit it out before it reached my lungs. I couldn’t reach the surface. I couldn’t
breathe.

  I felt a sharp pain in my right thigh, the one the fire hadn’t scarred, slicing down the leg to the knee. A stabbing agony blossomed in my chest. There was another hammer blow, worse than the others, on my curved spine. The river was killing me slowly.

  Then – with miraculous suddenness – it was over. I was bobbing about in calmer water, downstream from the bridge. I broke the surface and sucked fresh air in my lungs. The current was bearing me with it, but much more slowly than before. I rolled on my back. Over my head was the grey dome of the sky.

  Where was Cat? I flipped over and turned my head this way and that. I was nearer the north bank of the river than the south. The houses of the bridge rose above me like a jagged cliff. People were pointing down at me, their mouths silently opening and closing. But I couldn’t see Cat.

  With growing desperation, I swam to and fro. I called her name. My chest was heaving, forcing me to rest. I trod water and drew in mouthfuls of air. The pain in my chest slowly subsided, but not the despair I felt. I had killed her. I had let her drown. If it hadn’t been for me, she would not have been here in the first place.

  Thank God. A boat was putting out from Billingsgate Stairs. A man in the stern was pointing in my direction.

  The swell of the water briefly lifted me higher. I saw a small hand poking above the surface. It vanished almost immediately.

  With a sudden surge of energy, I swam towards the place where she had been. I dived. The water was murky, for the turbulence of its passage through the bridge made it cloudier and filthier than it was upstream. I waved my arms under the water, stretching my fingers out. I couldn’t see her or touch her. I surfaced, filled my lungs and dived again.

  My left hand found something. I swam further down. I touched what felt like an arm. It was sliding away from me. Before it could escape, I gripped it with my left hand, wincing as the tightening muscles increased the pain from the burns. I pulled it closer, and felt the outline of Cat’s body with my other hand.

  I kicked my legs and dragged her to the surface. Gasping for breath, I lay on my back in the water, kicking my feet. She floated inert beside me. I tried to pull her on to my chest.

  Her eyes were closed. Her skin was broken on one shoulder, and there was a gash on the other arm. Her hair was floating free and bedraggled.

  I shook her gently. I might have been shaking a wet mattress for all the response I had.

  Desolation swept over me. Oh Christ, I thought, after all that she’s dead.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Jemima’s pain grew worse as Philip and Gromwell dragged her along the street.

  She was dimly aware of the crowd parting as they approached, of the murmur of voices, and people asking who they were and where was the constable. But no one was willing to interfere with two gentlemen with drawn swords.

  They emerged from the gate passage at Bridge Foot. The approach of a fire pump forced them to stop. Men with buckets and hoses were running beside it towards the fire, caught up in their own drama. They had no eyes for hers.

  Her legs collapsed beneath her. The pain was worse than ever. Philip glanced at her. He kept his grip on her arm. She saw the shock in his face before the pain distracted her even from him.

  The pump and the firemen were gone.

  ‘Come on,’ Gromwell said. ‘We’ll have to carry her.’

  ‘No,’ Philip said. ‘Wait. She’s ill.’

  Gromwell would have none of it. He tugged at Jemima’s arm.

  She saw someone running towards them. ‘Mary,’ she cried, ‘Mary. Help me.’

  ‘Let her go,’ Mary cried.

  Gromwell barged into Mary with his shoulder, sending her flying. She dropped the basket she had been carrying. It toppled over and the contents cascaded over the slippery cobbles.

  But not all of them. When Mary straightened up, she was gripping a wine bottle by the neck.

  Gromwell was already moving away. He took Jemima’s arm. Mary swung the bottle at him in a rising backhanded blow that slammed into the bridge of his nose.

  He recoiled with a roar of pain. Blood spurted down his face. His wig was askew, covering one eye. He tried to bring up his sword, but the wheel of a cart was in his way.

  Before he could recover, Mary hit him on his blind side. This time, the bottle caught him just in front of his exposed ear. His body crumpled. The bottle broke with the impact and showered him with wine and broken glass.

  Mary turned to her mistress, stretching out her hand to her. Jemima stared at her.

  It was then that Philip released Jemima’s arm. She saw the point of his sword leap forward and upward, catching Mary under the chin. It pierced the skin and slid smoothly into the soft matter beneath. Blood appeared between Mary’s lips. Her green eyes opened wide and fixed on her mistress.

  Jemima closed her own eyes, squeezing the lids together to shut the world out, and surrendered entirely to her own pain.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  It was Sam, Cat discovered later, who had taken charge of matters.

  He had heard the cries of ‘Man in the water’ further up the bridge, and had rushed towards them. He had been in time to see Marwood in the water, and the boats rowing out from Billingsgate Stairs.

  He reached them there, shortly after they had been dragged like large inert fish from the boats and laid on the tarred planking of the landing stage. Cat had been lying on her side, Sam told her later, bleeding like a pig, and puking the Thames out of her belly. She had been freezing cold and someone had wrapped a blanket around her.

  As for Marwood, Sam said, he had been crouching over her, clutching her and crying like a baby, and shivering worse than poor Mr Hakesby when one of his fits was upon him.

  ‘Thought the master had lost his wits,’ Sam said, seeming to find this possibility very amusing.

  A little later, she and Marwood were still at the landing place, now sitting apart and wrapped in blankets. They were both conscious by this time, but they hadn’t said a word to anyone – even each other. Neither of them had breath for words.

  By his own account, at least, Sam had dealt with everything with speed and exemplary efficiency. By talking airy nothings about his master’s lofty connections at Whitehall, he had persuaded the people of a nearby tavern to help. They had carried Cat and Marwood to a private room, set them before a fire, and swathed them in yet more blankets.

  When Cat had stopped trembling, the landlady took her away to bathe her wounds and dress her in a cast-off shift, her maid’s winter waistcoat and a thick cloak. The clothes were twice as large as she was and enveloped her like a tent.

  Time must have passed, and a good deal of it, because when she came back to the room with the fire, Mr Hakesby had been there, holding his hands towards the warmth. But Marwood and Sam had gone.

  Hakesby’s skin was grey. His hair was uncombed. He had spilled gravy down his best coat. He looked ten years older than when she had last seen him, in the Fire Court this morning.

  ‘How could you?’ he demanded as she came into the room. ‘You foolish, wicked child. Come and sit by the fire.’ He waved a long, thin hand at the landlady, who was watching the proceedings with interest from the doorway. ‘Bring broth for her. And wine … mulled wine? With ginger in it? Whatever you think will best revive her. But hurry, hurry, hurry.’

  The landlady curtsied and left them alone. Cat sat on the bench beside him and stared at the fire.

  ‘Is this Marwood’s doing?’ he asked. ‘I thought he had more sense.’

  She shook her head wearily. ‘It no longer matters.’

  ‘Of course it matters. You could have drowned. Or burned to death like poor Chelling.’

  She said nothing. She was warmer, and beginning to feel drowsy.

  ‘Has he dragged you into government business? Or is this just his mad folly about his father and the way he died?’

  ‘I can’t say, sir. I don’t know the whole of it, and I don’t want to.’

  ‘They’re saying
downstairs that someone was killed on the bridge,’ he said. ‘A woman. Run through with a sword. Was that part of it?’

  ‘I tell you I don’t know.’

  He said nothing. Slowly his hand crept along the bench and laid itself over hers. She glanced at it. She wanted to snatch her hand away; she didn’t care to be touched. Instead, she forced herself not to move.

  Her mind drifted. It was an old man’s skin, wrinkled like a lizard’s and speckled with liver spots. His fingers trembled slightly. The nails needed trimming. She must do something about that. But not now.

  Food and a long night’s sleep repaired at least some of the damage. The following day, Thursday, she rose late. Hakesby fussed over her and tried to make her rest, but she resisted him. She felt perfectly well, she said. In fact, her bruises were painful, and her cuts would take weeks to heal, but she was desperate for distraction.

  Towards the end of the day, when the light was going and it was becoming harder to work, there was a knock at the door of the drawing office.

  Brennan went to answer it. Mr Poulton’s portly manservant was waiting on the threshold. He was clasping a very small package to his chest.

  Brennan made as if to take it. The servant stepped back. ‘I’m to put this in your master’s hands. And wait for a receipt.’

  ‘Come in then,’ Hakesby called. ‘Bring it here.’

  He was sitting in his usual chair by the fire. After dinner, Cat had refused to return to her closet and rest as he had wanted. For the last hour, she had been taking his dictation in shorthand, hoping that she would be able to read it back in the morning. He was in a strange humour, bright-eyed and full of feverish energy.

  Poulton’s servant brought the package to him. Hakesby weighed it in his palm. He broke the seals – there were three – and unfolded the paper. Inside was a leather pouch with a letter rolled around it. He read it and handed it to Cat.

  To Mr Hakesby

  By the hand of my servant I send you forty-five pounds in gold, in payment for your services to date in connection with Dragon Yard and as an advance on future payments, as itemized in the Memorandum of Agreement. Pray sign and date this letter to confirm your receipt, and return it by the hand of my servant.