Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

  Charlie was staring at the certificates.

  ‘I’ve seen a marriage paper like that before,’ he said. ‘It’s the same as my mother hid.’

  Charlie eased open the large book to reveal a list of names in crabbed text.

  ‘So Mr Torr was a minister,’ he said slowly. ‘The same minister who performed Blackstone’s marriage.’

  Chapter 31

  A bathtub had been placed in the centre of Barbara’s sumptuous chambers. The steaming water swirled with rose petals. She lay back, letting her long auburn hair eddy and drift.

  There was a knock at the door and Barbara sat up in her bath.

  ‘Come,’ she called.

  Monmouth strode self-importantly into the room. He was dressed like a gaudy clone of the King, in a slash-sleeved brown velvet coat, short hose and white stockings. Silver brocade, flouncing ribbons, frothy lace and jewelled buttons decorated every available edge and opening.

  He was so preoccupied with making an imposing entrance that he was halfway through a courtly bow when he noticed Barbara was naked. He stopped short, mouth working comically.

  Barbara’s smile grew wide.

  ‘Monmouth,’ she said. ‘Don’t be bashful. Come closer.’

  ‘You summoned me?’ Caught by the arresting sight of Barbara, Monmouth’s tone didn’t achieve the disdain he was hoping for.

  Barbara let out a throaty laugh. ‘I should like to get to know you better.’

  ‘I do not recognise your authority,’ began Monmouth, his eyes swinging wildly for a suitable resting place, ‘to request my presence. I am the first son of a King. You . . .’

  In reply Barbara stood. Warm water cascaded down her naked body. Monmouth began blinking rapidly.

  ‘We all know what I am,’ smiled Barbara, her eyes alive in their depths. ‘And why should you recognise me?’ she added, stepping gracefully from the bath and sashaying to where he stood. ‘I am nothing to the King’s eldest son.’

  Monmouth flushed. His eyes lighted briefly on a filigree desk, flicked down to the thick rug and back to the cherub cornicing.

  Barbara’s smile grew wide.

  ‘Don’t be bashful,’ she said. ‘I do not mind you looking. You are a grown man now. Fifteen and married. I imagine you often look on your wife’s naked body.’

  She eyed him carefully. ‘Perhaps not so often,’ she concluded.

  Monmouth opened his mouth to reply, but she took his face in her hands.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ said Barbara. Monmouth had inherited Lucy Walter’s long-lashed dark eyes and pouting mouth, giving his face a girlish quality.

  ‘Such a handsome boy,’ decided Barbara, lifting his chin gently. ‘You have a lot of your mother in you. Those pretty dark eyes.’ Her face flickered.

  ‘They say I have my father’s countenance,’ said Monmouth, entranced by the touch of her fingers.

  Barbara smiled. ‘Oh, courtiers will say things to flatter.’ She assessed him again. ‘Perhaps a little curve on the nose,’ she decided. ‘And of course you wear your hair like Charles.’ Her hand caressed his curling brown locks.

  He picked at the pearl detailing of his slashed sleeves, then began toying with his silver buttons.

  Barbara smiled. ‘The human form is a thing of beauty. You have seen my portrait in the King’s rooms?’

  Monmouth let out a breath. ‘Yes.’ He was looking determinedly at her face now. She was gleaming with sweat from the warmth of the bath and her auburn curls were damp.

  ‘Well then,’ she leaned in to whisper at his ear. ‘You have already seen all of me.’

  Monmouth swallowed.

  ‘You must tell me which you like best,’ she added, her violet eyes sultry. ‘My body in the portrait or that in the flesh.’

  Monmouth allowed himself a glance along her body. She was perfect. The little curve of her white belly. The soft pink hue of her nipples.

  ‘The flesh,’ he admitted.

  ‘Such a handsome boy you are.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder. Then locking her gaze to his, she moved her hand down slowly.

  ‘But you are quite the grown man now,’ she observed.

  ‘Yes.’ Monmouth attempted to deepen his tone.

  Barbara smiled and walked across the room to her couch.

  ‘Come and sit with me,’ she invited. ‘We’ll have some wine.’

  Monmouth’s legs moved of their own accord to the sofa. He sat beside her rearranging his crotch embarrassedly.

  She poured him a glass of red wine and he took it clumsily and gulped.

  ‘Slowly,’ she instructed. ‘Savour it.’

  He slowed his gulps to reflexive sips.

  ‘They say you are trying to have my title taken,’ he said, wrestling to take control of the situation.

  Barbara laid a warm hand on his thigh. Reason fled.

  ‘Why should I do that?’ she asked, circling her fingers. ‘Are we not friends, you and I?’

  ‘I . . .’ the rush of warmth to his body had hit his brain like a warm fog. ‘That is . . . what they say,’ he managed.

  ‘I see.’ Barbara sat back. ‘Do you know what else they say about me?’

  ‘No.’ Monmouth gulped more wine.

  She leaned in. ‘They say that after four children, I am tighter.’

  Monmouth froze, the wine goblet halfway to his mouth. His lips were moving slightly, trying to fit what he thought he’d just heard with reality.

  ‘See for yourself,’ Barbara suggested. She relaxed back again, letting her legs fall apart.

  Monmouth’s eyes swam. His lips parted slightly. He was floating in a dreamlike haze of lust. Barbara Castlemaine’s naked legs were parted. She smiled seductively.

  ‘Do you think they’re right?’ she asked, moving a hand to caress her thigh. ‘Children haven’t changed me?’

  Monmouth nodded mutely.

  ‘So tell me,’ Barbara continued silkily. ‘Who says I try to disinherit you?’

  ‘Clarence,’ he mumbled, the wine beginning to work on him now. ‘And he says you’ve turned Catholic.’

  Barbara’s violet eyes flashed. She sat up a little straighter, letting the gap between her legs close.

  ‘Religion has fallen apart since Cromwell,’ she said airily. ‘Charles and I were in Holland, we saw it all. Enlightenment. Mysticism.’ She gave a little cough of disdain.

  ‘Men in cloaks telling fools they may experience God.’

  ‘I thought mystic sects taught ancient secrets,’ said Monmouth, curiosity piquing his young voice.

  ‘They make death rituals,’ said Barbara, ‘so a man might have holy visions without priest or church. I hope you have no interest in anything of that kind,’ she added sharply. ‘What would Lucy Walter say? England’s prettiest little liar.’

  Monmouth flinched at the mention of his mother’s nickname, but didn’t defend her. Loyalty to his mother had been defeated by his acute embarrassment of her.

  ‘She says I should stay away from heretics.’

  Barbara nodded.

  ‘Your mother is right.’

  She thought for a moment. Her bare legs drew apart a little again.

  ‘Should you like to play a game?’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’ Monmouth drank more wine. ‘Though I am not so good at cards.’

  She laughed. ‘It is not cards we play at.’

  An uncertain blush rose in his face.

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ she said silkily. ‘I think we should get better acquainted, you and I.’

  ‘My father . . .’ began Monmouth.

  ‘Oh, do not be so silly,’ clucked Barbara. ‘Your father and I . . . Well you have heard what we do. He takes his lovers where he chooses and so do I.’

  ‘But he . . .’

  She raised a finger to his lips.

  ‘Charles will be pleased,’ she said. ‘His eldest son must be properly educated in such things. Such a noble boy cannot be left to the fumblings of a whore or servant.’

  She lowere
d her eyes at him.

  ‘You haven’t yet? With your wife . . . ?’ She left the question hanging.

  ‘Of course I have!’ said Monmouth.

  ‘I don’t speak of your enjoyment,’ said Barbara. ‘I talk of hers.’

  ‘I . . . There have been many times,’ blurted Monmouth. ‘I can hardly count them.’

  ‘That is an unappealing quality,’ said Barbara sharply. ‘To lie. Be careful you don’t take after your mother. People have already begun to speak of your untruths.’

  Monmouth blushed red.

  ‘I council for your own good,’ said Barbara. ‘Lucy is famed for her tall tales. Courtly people begin to speak of your exaggerations.’

  She assessed his face.

  ‘You are an ambitious boy,’ she said. ‘I imagine you tried with your wife. But you did not win her. I can always tell.’ She slid a finger under his chin and raised his gaze to hers.

  ‘I can teach you things you can hardly imagine,’ she whispered, her fingers working to loosen his shirt. ‘Things your wife will beg for. Tricks which will make you irresistible to women.’

  A deep blush was spreading up Monmouth’s neck, but he didn’t stop her.

  ‘If you think of it,’ observed Barbara as Monmouth’s youthful chest was revealed by inches, ‘I could be like a mother to you.’

  Monmouth began to unbutton and Barbara’s hands moved to help him.

  ‘You poor boy,’ she crooned, stroking the side of his face. ‘Your own mother deserted you. I know it all.’

  ‘But my relationship with your father . . .’ she said, letting his shirt fall to the floor. ‘Means I can be a very loving mother to you.’

  She moved his hand to her naked breast and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. ‘Should you like that?’ she whispered, keeping her face close to his.

  Monmouth hesitated.

  ‘Shall we play it, that I am the mother and you the son. And you shall sit in my lap whilst I play with you?’ she suggested.

  Monmouth said nothing but his body was betraying him.

  ‘Come sit,’ she said. ‘We’ll play. I will teach you to always listen to your mother.’

  Chapter 32

  ‘I thought Blackstone was a noble,’ said Lily as Charlie looked at the marriage register. ‘Why not marry properly in a church?’

  ‘Three kinds of people make a Fleet Wedding,’ said Charlie. ‘Sailors, paupers, and people with something to hide. We already know Blackstone killed to conceal those papers.’

  Lily was staring over Charlie’s shoulder at the record-book. His finger hovered over the first marriage in the book. He made out the familiar names.

  ‘There,’ he said, mouthing the words with difficulty. ‘Torr married Teresa and Thomas Blackstone. In 1647.’

  He looked up at Lily. ‘That’s not right.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The marriage certificate my mother hid,’ said Charlie, ‘showed Blackstone married later.’

  ‘The dates are different?’

  Charlie nodded. ‘According to this book, Blackstone married in 1647. The papers I saw had him married in 1649.’

  ‘You’re sure of that?’ asked Lily.

  ‘I’ve got a good memory,’ said Charlie. ‘For numbers and things I’ve seen. Not writing.’

  Lily accepted this without question.

  ‘So Blackstone married twice?’ she suggested.

  ‘To a woman of the same name,’ said Charlie.

  ‘A different wife then? The same name. Teresa is common enough.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Charlie was struggling for memories. ‘If Blackstone married legitimately, then why hide the second wedding papers?’

  ‘The book says they married on a ship,’ said Lily, showing herself a better reader than Charlie. ‘See? “At sea” is the place.’

  She looked at Charlie.

  ‘I thought a Fleet Wedding must take place on Fleet Street?’

  Charlie shook his head. ‘A minister can make a wedding wherever he wishes.’

  His eyes scanned down the register.

  There was an answer here. He could feel it. A rush of excitement blazed through him. This book would lead them to Blackstone. But the writing was making his head hurt. And some other intuition was shouting at him to pay attention. Cool air was pouring down from the cellar opening, blowing over them in an insistent breeze.

  Charlie suddenly realised what the sound of breathing was. The cinder thief in him matched it instinctively to the disturbed air flow. Suddenly everything made sense. The powder barrels. The badly hidden book.

  Charlie moved quickly to the cellar wall and pressed his palms against the plaster. The wall was warm. It wasn’t breathing he could hear. It was distant fire.

  ‘Torr didn’t hide his register,’ he said grimly. ‘Someone else stuffed it in the rafters. To be sure the book would burn. They’ve fired the cellar next to this one to cover their tracks.’ Charlie surveyed the barrels of gunpowder. ‘This cellar has been mined for destruction.’

  Chapter 33

  Charlie turned to Lily. ‘We need to get out,’ he said, tucking the marriage papers in his leather coat. ‘Now.’

  But as they made to leave a leather bottle dropped down from the open cellar door. Lily and Charlie looked at one another. The bottle bounced, rolled and began hissing furiously. Then the cellar entrance slammed shut.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lily, staring at the bottle.

  ‘Some kind of firebomb,’ guessed Charlie, shrugging off his leather coat to smother it. ‘Designed to light the powder kegs.’

  He was halfway to the bottle when it exploded in blue fire. A spray of flame arced towards the gunpowder.

  Charlie twisted, throwing his coat towards the barrels. The leather fell heavily across them, shielding the contents. Liquid trails of blue fire danced across the battered coat then died.

  Lily cautiously lowered her arms and surveyed the cellar. The spray of fire had pooled and extinguished harmlessly on the earth floor.

  ‘It’s not real fire,’ she said, eyeing the dark room in puzzlement. ‘It didn’t last.’

  ‘I think it would have been real enough to light gunpowder,’ said Charlie. He brushed down his coat and heaved it back on. The fire in the adjoining cellar had increased to a roaring sound now. It seemed to come from all around.

  ‘We need to get out.’

  Lily was already halfway up the ladder.

  ‘We’re shut in!’ she cried, slamming her fist hopelessly against the door. ‘There’s something heavy blocking it.’

  ‘Whoever planned this is taking no chances,’ said Charlie. He moved to the edge of the cellar and began feeling the walls.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Lily, watching him.

  ‘These cellars join up,’ said Charlie, making an exploratory test with his knuckles. ‘There’s often not much between them. It’s a common robbery,’ he added, pressing his cheek to the wall. ‘Break into a goodwife’s cellar to get to a goldsmith.’

  Charlie moved back and tapped. As he’d hoped it was a thin stud wall, with the thinnest smear of horsehair plaster separating the two cellars.

  ‘The cellar on this side is cool,’ he said. ‘We can break through . . .’

  His words were drowned out by the sound of falling rubble. Plaster on the adjoining wall had crumbled away. A red tongue of flame leered from the next cellar.

  Charlie knelt, raised his elbow and knocked a small hole clean through the wall at knee height. ‘We need to keep the marriage register safe,’ he called. ‘Whoever burns this place wants to be sure it flames.’

  Lily dropped from the ladder, retrieved the register and ran to kneel beside him. Charlie reached a fist through and tugged away at the crumbling plaster. Lily watched for a second, looked back at the powder barrels then removed a knife from her skirts and began plunging it into the plaster.

  ‘Keep it low,’ he said. ‘Easier to crawl.’

  The dull roar was now a menacing c
rackle, lighting them both in an orange glow.

  ‘You go through first,’ said Charlie, pushing Lily towards the gap. ‘You’re smaller and you can light the way.’

  Lily crawled through, shedding plaster as she went.

  The fire was growing up the inside cellar wall now. One spitting beam was all that was needed to blow the whole cellar sky-high. Quickly he tunnelled through after Lily.

  The tinder-dry air was replaced with a rich salty smell. Someone had used the adjoining cellar to protect their valuable foods from fire. There were shelves and shelves of cheese and cured sausage wrapped in cloths.

  Charlie stood to see Lily’s waving tinderbox was already halfway up the ladder. She was balancing precariously, holding her flame to see the opening with an outstretched hand. As she shifted to push the cellar door open the marriage register tumbled from underneath her arm.

  ‘Get the book!’ she shouted, moving her flame down to illuminate it. Charlie scooped it up as Lily shoved the door with the flat of her hand. A shaft of sunlight blasted through the dark. Charlie reached the bottom of the ladder as Lily’s skirts disappeared out of the top. He raced up the first two rungs, his eyes fixed firmly on the welcome daylight. Then the explosion hit.

  It blew the bottom of the ladder clean away and jerked free Charlie’s grip. He swung wildly, one hand clinging on. The marriage register tumbled headlong into the flames. Kicking his legs back Charlie grabbed hold of the broken ladder with his other hand. Man and ladder hung precariously for a moment. Charlie’s knuckles were white. He pulled with all his strength and made it up another rung.

  A second blast ricocheted through the cellar and a wave of heat scorched his legs. Charlie knew in that moment he wasn’t going to make it. He couldn’t get himself out of the cellar. Then Lily’s two small hands seized his forearms and wrenched him upwards.

  Charlie fell out of the top of the cellar on to welcome cool earth. He rolled, righted himself and looked to where Lily was standing waiting for him.

  ‘I thought you didn’t need my help?’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Charlie, feeling for his key. ‘I was testing your loyalty. Come,’ he added, moving them both away from the cellar. ‘There are more powder kegs to blow.’