by C. S. Quinn
The King stood.
‘Land at Somerset steps,’ he said, a steely glint in his eye. ‘We’ll convene Lord Somerset’s house as a war room.’
‘Your Majesty,’ said Clarence, ‘only Parliament can grant authority for such measures.’
‘Parliament told me houses were being pulled down,’ said Charles. ‘There comes a time when a King must act.’
The barge drifted slowly to Somerset steps. Servants began readying the elaborate platforms needed to transport His Majesty’s silver-buckled shoes over the mud.
‘Put out the word that we need men to defend the Palace. Call it from the London Stone,’ said the King.
The boat drifted closer to shore.
‘Take Barbara back to the Palace,’ said Charles. ‘This is no business for women.’
Barbara’s cheeks turned pink.
‘Where shall I say to the courtiers that you have gone?’ she demanded.
The King leapt to shore. ‘I am going,’ he said, ‘to save my city.’
Chapter 57
‘You think we should investigate some laundries?’ Lily sounded wholly unconvinced.
‘Not just any laundries,’ said Charlie. ‘London Bridge has the best. Speciality laundries. Starch for big collars. Blue albumen for the whitest shirts,’ he waved his hands. ‘Fine embroidery, water-silk, expensive dyed wool. And the best and strongest lye for whitening,’ he concluded. ‘If Blackstone is using lye, a laundry might tell us something of it.’
Charlie assessed the smoke in the distance.
‘They’re beating back the fire near the Fleet. You can see by the steam. We have a few hours. So long as the King made firebreaks we can get there.’
‘The laundresses will have long fled,’ Lily pointed out.
‘True,’ said Charlie. ‘But we might learn something from their premises.’
‘I suppose it’s a better idea than a burned prison,’ said Lily. She was looking to the horizon. ‘See the smoke?’
Charlie nodded. The Fleet had burned hours ago. ‘To London Bridge then?’ he said.
Lily looked uneasily to the wide firebreaks on the north side.
‘Very well,’ she decided. ‘But we should be quick about it.’
The south side of London Bridge was framed by traitors’ heads swaying on fifteen-foot pikestaffs. The freshest still had gummy unseeing eyes and mouths twisted in a rictus of pain. Older remains had been picked clean. The vinegary smell of the rotting heads was sharp on the breeze.
Crows scrabbled clumsily on the lurching skulls as Charlie and Lily passed underneath. Ahead, London Bridge’s twenty stone arches ran over the wide Thames.
Two huge waterwheels churned beneath them, passing water into London’s rickety underground pipe network.
‘The south side is better than the north,’ observed Lily as tall half-timbered tenements and shops reared up before them. Large buildings leaned out from either side, supported by wooden struts butted against the outside of the bridge.
‘Everything is deserted,’ observed Charlie as the smoke-filled sky narrowed to a red-tinged slice above the dark shops and houses. ‘It didn’t take them long,’ he added, thinking it was now late afternoon and he’d only been on the Bridge that morning.
‘No one takes the chance, despite the firebreaks,’ Charlie concluded. ‘I don’t like it.’
‘Why not?’ said Lily. ‘It’s much nicer without all the people.’
‘I’m a thief taker,’ said Charlie. ‘People are useful to me.’
His eyes ranged over the empty shops and settled on an abandoned cheese shop.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked Lily, realising he’d not eaten since morning.
She looked at him with interest.
‘There’s still cheese inside,’ he said, sliding his eating knife out of his pocket and inserting it into the window casement.
‘How do you know?’ she asked, as he jimmied it open.
‘There’s no guild of cheese-makers,’ he said, ‘telling them how much cheese to make, or what price to sell it for. And harvest festivals approach. They’ll have stockpiled.’
He gave an exploratory few tugs, then an expert wrench.
‘My guess,’ he continued, ‘is they couldn’t take all their cheese.’
‘You didn’t break the glass,’ said Lily, impressed. Charlie was leaning into the window. A row of bulging cheesecloths were hanging on a pole, draining whey. He cut one free and retreated back.
‘Here,’ he said, opening the cloth and cutting her a slice.
‘Shame we have no bread for it,’ said Lily, taking it. ‘Can you steal us some of that too?’
‘I’m not a thief,’ said Charlie. ‘Thieves get caught.’
‘What are you then?’
‘An opportunist. Besides,’ he added, ‘I made no damage, and that cheese will likely be spoiled in any case.’
‘I’ll wager your wife didn’t like your opportunism.’
‘We weren’t married,’ said Charlie. ‘But no. She didn’t like it.’
He gestured they should walk. Were it not for the lack of people, he thought, they could be an ordinary man and wife, strolling the bridge, eating cheese.
‘Is that why your woman left you?’ asked Lily after a moment. ‘She wanted you to give up what you knew? Settle down?’
‘It was the uncertainty.’ Charlie tried to think of a good way to explain. ‘When I need money it comes. One way or another. It’s always been that way with me. It’s just,’ he waved a hand, ‘how it works. Maria did not like that. She grew up in a village, where you plant the seeds and reap the rewards. She didn’t understand the cut and thrust of the city. I told her I would never see her starve.’
‘A fine life to offer a woman,’ said Lily with an arched eyebrow.
‘Women don’t understand,’ replied Charlie. ‘Just because something isn’t regular, doesn’t mean it’s not dependable.’
Lily smiled. ‘I’m a gypsy,’ she said. ‘I understand a little. But London is a hard place. You must see that.’
‘Not if you’ve grown up an orphan,’ said Charlie. ‘You die or you find a way to make the city work for you.’
He gestured to the burning city of the horizon.
‘There is so much wealth in London,’ he said. ‘Plenty spare when you know where to look. Perhaps there are sedan chairs by the doctors’ houses on Compton Street. So a rich household is sick and the bake-houses over-bake today. Free bread.’
Charlie pointed east towards the Tower of London.
‘Or a sherry ship docks early to fair weather,’ he continued. ‘There’s surplus ale which would have gone to sailor’s rations. We can buy a barrel for a song, sell it to a tavern and have free beer and money besides. I know where and when each market drives cattle, which fruit sellers have spoils on a hot day. And I have a hundred friends in the city besides. There is no place, no part where a man will not hide me.’
‘You remind me of my father,’ said Lily. ‘He lived by his wits too. Not that it did him much good in the end.’
He noticed her hand had moved to the part of her bodice where the handkerchief was concealed.
‘You truly mean to avenge him?’ asked Charlie.
‘Yes.’ Lily was staring straight ahead. ‘I came here to set my father at peace. I’ve survived enough dangers and dishonesty in London. I won’t abandon my purpose now.’
‘Blackstone is dangerous,’ said Charlie.
‘So am I.’
‘You could forget your revenge and be happy,’ suggested Charlie, thinking of Maria and her wisdom on such things. ‘You’re a beautiful woman,’ he added, ‘in London, you’d do well.’
‘Ah, but there’s also treasure,’ said Lily, her mouth turning up a little. ‘You promised me half. And you must know gypsies are mad for gold.’ But he could tell that wasn’t the reason Lily was still here.
They walked on in silence, with the thunder of the great blaze echoing. The buildings pressed around them, stacked on
top of one another at overlapping angles as though by a childish giant hand. Their cluttered construction now almost blocked out the sky, shadowing the path an ominous red.
‘This whole place is like a giant bonfire waiting to be lit,’ muttered Lily, eyeing the jumbled wood buildings which crowded upwards and outwards so as to be almost touching.
Lily came to a sudden halt behind Charlie. He was standing by a barn-like building. It was large in London Bridge terms, with half-timbered wood walls and a mouldering thatch roof.
‘This is it.’ Charlie pointed up. ‘The sign of the water butt.’
‘How do we know where the laundry is?’ asked Lily. ‘There’s no one to ask. The building’s big.’
She looked up at the tall wood frontage scattered with grubby diamond-pane windows. A cluster of signs swung in the high wind, depicting various trades. A dentist and a fortune teller’s among them.
‘The laundry will be on the ground,’ said Charlie. ‘So they can use the river water. The door’s locked though,’ he added.
In reply Lily flung her little body against the oaken door. It repelled her backwards.
‘Let me try,’ said Charlie, moving her aside. He studied the keyhole for a practised second, then drew out his lock-picking earring.
‘Small locks are easiest,’ he said, inserting the end and twisting it expertly. He clicked aside three tumblers one by one.
‘An old street-rat trick?’ asked Lily as the door fell open.
‘A thief taker’s necessity,’ he answered as they advanced inside.
Chapter 58
‘So you try at alchemy?’ The contempt in the Royal Alchemist’s voice was clear.
Blackstone smiled. He looked back at the Tree of Life on the wall of the alchemist’s chamber. It was strange to think they were deep below the King’s palace.
‘Not alchemy as you would know it. The Royal Alchemist,’ he stressed the word contemptuously. ‘I’m not of the coffee house chatterers. Men of your great learning would never let me in.’
He smiled a little.
‘But I learned secrets all the same. It’s brought me royal favour of a kind. As you know.’ Blackstone’s eyes roved around the alchemist’s scattered papers. He picked one up. ‘The green lion which ate the sun?’ he said. ‘The Royal Water, which dissolves all?’
‘None may know my workings unless I wish it,’ said the alchemist. ‘The King pays me . . .’
‘To find him gold,’ supplied Blackstone. ‘And we shouldn’t want any common villain discovering that secret.’ He gave a short barking laugh and tapped the papers disdainfully. ‘Stories and pictures,’ he scoffed. ‘You make alchemy like a children’s game.’
‘You came for lead,’ said the alchemist flatly. He glanced at Blackstone’s heavy leather jerkin where the royal permission letter was concealed. ‘I cannot refuse your lady’s request,’ he continued. ‘Here is what I have.’
He slid a flat cloth-wrapped parcel across the table.
‘This is all you have?’
‘Cornish smugglers took a large part,’ said the alchemist. His lip curled slightly. ‘How much lead could a man like you need?’
There was a dangerous silence.
‘You think me beneath you,’ said Blackstone. ‘Be a little careful. Men like me may rise up after all.’ His large hand picked up a page of the alchemist’s crabbed script.
Blackstone looked around the room. His eyes settled on a heavy sea chest.
‘There’s nothing valuable inside,’ snapped the alchemist.
‘I had no thoughts of that kind,’ said Blackstone. ‘My wife was gifted a similar trunk for our marriage. Yours stirred a memory, nothing more.’
A strange electricity was weaving in Blackstone’s mind. Through his shattered memory, thoughts shifted, broken and uncertain.
Teresa was looking at the sea chest. ‘The Sealed Knot make me a wedding gift?’
‘They are grateful for your sacrifice,’ said Blackstone.
‘The sign of the Sealed Knot at the head,’ said Teresa, holding the key. ‘Lest I forget.’ She pushed it into the lock and turned it. A complicated locking mechanism clicked and rolled. Teresa raised the lid.
Inside was a collection of little wood statues. They were crudely done, with paint to make the details. Suns and moons, astrology motifs and animals. Thirteen in all.
‘Thirteen Blessings?’ Teresa’s mouth twisted strangely. ‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘The Sealed Knot could not give money. They took mine. Now they insult me with the Old Ways.’
‘Torr carved the blessings himself,’ said Blackstone. ‘To wish us happiness in our marriage. He has an interest in mysticism and things of that nature. There is no harm in it,’ he added uncertainly, as Teresa began to unpack the trunk.
‘A sun?’ she held it up. ‘To show masculinity.’ That strange smile again. ‘Marriage brings me that at least. My great brute husband.’
She pulled out more shapes. A cat, a moon, a star.
‘Hearth and home,’ she said. ‘Dreams of a happy future.’ Teresa delved deeper and her voice shifted.
‘And look,’ she said. ‘A heart.’ Her pale eyes settled on his. ‘For love.’
Thomas sat and took her cold hand. She didn’t flinch away and he admired her for it. His new bride was sacred. Not like the hot sweating whores he’d dirtied himself with before. His body yearned for her purity.
Teresa caught the look on his face and looked away.
‘I will be an obedient wife to you,’ she mumbled.
Blackstone realised the alchemist was staring. Then he saw something else from the corner of his eye. A bulky shape covered with a black cloth. The alchemist must have concealed it hastily as Blackstone arrived.
‘That is not for your eyes!’ shouted the alchemist. But Blackstone was already pulling back the cloth.
‘Well, well,’ he murmured. ‘This is a fine treason.’
Chapter 59
Charlie breathed in the damp air. Towards the back of the laundry the floor extended out over the river. A hazardous-looking lean-to of rotting planks allowed laundresses to hoist up water.
Enormous water butts were ranged in a state of disarray. To the back were a few smaller barrels, but most of the stock had been taken.
Lily followed Charlie inside.
‘Why do they launder clothes here?’ asked Lily, looking about her. ‘There’s hardly any room to dry.’
‘Like I said, it’s a starch laundry,’ said Charlie. ‘For rich folk. Collars and cuffs, not big wool skirts.’ He pointed to the few remaining barrels. ‘I’m guessing they fled with their coloured starch. And all the valuable lace and silk clothes. Those big butts were too cumbersome to carry.’
He approached the few barrels remaining.
‘This might be lye,’ he said, opening one up for a look.
The smell of ammonia hit him and he recoiled.
‘That’s piss,’ he said, stepping back.
‘There,’ said Lily, pointing. ‘That’s their lye hopper.’
He swung to see a sturdy wooden trough filled with straw and ashes.
‘This is for lye?’ He approached it with interest. ‘I thought laundresses kept a trough for pigs.’
‘Water goes in the top,’ said Lily, gesturing to a spout at the bottom of the trough. ‘Lye comes out there. The barrel beneath has been taken.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘I like to keep my clothes clean.’
Charlie approached the lye trough. The straw was damp and pungent-smelling. There was a visible mark on the floor where the lye barrel had sat.
‘Pass me your tinderbox,’ said Charlie.
Lily handed it over, her face quizzical.
Charlie struck it and held the flame at the trough-spout, where a few drops of lye lingered.
‘Nothing,’ he said, as the flame scorched the wood. ‘No blue fire.’
Charlie shut the tinderbox and inhaled. A strong smell of vinegar hung on the air. He swung
around looking for the source.
‘They keep a barrel of vinegar,’ he said, noticing a squat open container within reach of the lye trough. ‘That’s not for clothes.’
‘Laundresses dip their hands in it,’ said Lily. ‘Maybe to keep their skin white.’
‘They’ve got the lye for that,’ said Charlie. He considered the lye trough and then the vinegar. ‘But lye burns the skin, doesn’t it? Perhaps it stops the lye burning them.’
Lily looked at the hopper.
‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
‘Only one way to know,’ said Charlie.
He put an experimental finger into the spout at the bottom of the trough.
‘What are you doing?’ cried Lily. ‘Lye burns . . .’
Charlie removed his finger. It was already beginning to heat. A red mark was blooming on his fingertip.
‘Strong lye,’ he observed.
Then he walked to the vinegar barrel and plunged his finger into the dark liquid.
Lily watched with fascinated horror.
Charlie waited for a moment.
‘Vinegar stops the burn,’ he said, removing his finger. There was a residue of yellow salt on his skin. He licked it cautiously and made a face.
‘Sour,’ he said. ‘Interesting. So laundresses know a little alchemy.’
‘I thought alchemy was making gold and elixirs.’
‘Alchemy is about changing the nature of things,’ said Charlie. ‘Change something small and you can change something big. That’s the theory. If vinegar can stop lye being lye, then that’s a kind of alchemy.’
‘Lead to gold,’ said Lily understanding.
Charlie nodded. He sucked at the scar on his lip, taking in the rest of the laundry.
‘We should take a little lye with us,’ Charlie decided. ‘Maybe we can find out more about it later. I only have a leather tankard,’ he added, casting about the laundry for a suitable vessel. ‘Do you have something which closes?’
‘Try this,’ Lily drew out an elaborately decorated gun-powder flask.
‘Where did you get that?’ he frowned, taking it from her. ‘This is real carved horn. The silver filigree alone . . .’
‘Men are not so careful,’ she replied as he turned it appreciatively.
