by C. S. Quinn
Amesbury’s eyes glinted. He didn’t speak French, but had recognised the word for ‘gold’.
Charles reverted to English, beckoning to a servant.
‘Paper,’ he instructed. ‘Sealing wax.’
He spoke French again.
‘Take my authority to the alchemist,’ said Charles to Louise. ‘Take a plain carriage to Whitehall. Use the secret tunnels. Do not under any circumstances go out on the streets.’
Louise shook her head so hard her little curls bounced.
Paper and wax was placed in front of Charles. He took a pen, scribbled a fast note, rolled it then sealed it with his ring.
‘Here,’ he gave it to Louise. ‘The alchemist will give you gold. Use it to arrange protection for the embassies. They can pay a guard to escort men to safety.’
Louise nodded again.
‘If there are funds, Your Majesty,’ said Amesbury carefully, ‘they are better spent fighting fire.’
‘Funds will be made for the fire,’ said Charles. He turned to a servant. ‘Can someone bring wine and cheese?’ he demanded. ‘It’s already afternoon. I’ve not had a sip these long few hours.’
Chapter 65
Lily had with her not one child, but five. They clustered around buried in her skirts. Tiny fists clutched at Lily’s clothes or hands.
She looked up at him in terror and despite himself Charlie felt his anger melt away. The frightened expressions of the children and hers seemed almost interchangeable.
‘I’m not a traitor,’ she said simply. ‘I’m Catholic. But I’m for the King. I work for Amesbury and I told you the truth about Blackstone killing my father. But I didn’t tell you my religion because . . . I didn’t think it should matter,’ she concluded, looking hurt.
Charlie watched her face. It was impossible to know if she was lying. Against his better judgement he found himself wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt.
‘Why didn’t you get off the Bridge?’ asked Charlie, surprised by her apparent heroism.
‘I can’t bear the sound of children crying,’ Lily muttered. The little boy in her lap was toying with her chicken-foot necklace.
‘This won’t protect them,’ said Charlie, pointing at the overhang. ‘We need to get these children out.’
‘How? Both sides of the bridge are burning.’
‘There are steps down to the river,’ said Charlie. ‘They go under the bridge. Down to wooden jetties where the boats dock.’
Lily shook her head. ‘They won’t go down the steps,’ she said, waving at the cluster of children. ‘They fear the boatmen and lightermen.’
Charlie eyed the pale faces of the children. London Bridge loaded costly cargo. Waifs and strays grew up under the quick hands of boatmen.
The host of little faces looked up at him anxiously. To Charlie’s relief he spotted a familiar child – it was the little girl who had guided him to the gambling den for a shilling. She was without the parchment-skinned baby she had previously carried.
‘Where’s the baby?’ asked Charlie, kneeling down to address her.
The girl looked terrified, and Charlie realised he was still wearing his shirt-mask, giving him the appearance of a grubby highwayman. He took it off hastily.
With his face revealed the girl drew a shy arc with her toe on the dusty planked floor then looked up wide-eyed. ‘Mama give him to the angels,’ she replied. ‘’Long with the other brothers. An’ a sister,’ she added.
‘You remember me?’ asked Charlie. ‘That I gave you a shilling to be my guide and then a further shilling afterwards?
He was rewarded with a firm nod. Charlie withdrew a shilling and pressed it into her warm hand. The smoke was beginning to close in around them and lines of sweat were coursing down his forehead.
‘Can you lead your friends to the nearest steps?’ said Charlie. ‘The boatmen are all gone,’ he added, as her countenance veered from pleasure at the coin to fear of the task. ‘If you take them down then I shall give you all a shilling at the bottom and you a half crown besides. Do you understand?’
But the girl looked dubious. Charlie glanced back as a huge billow of smoke passed over them.
‘Wha’s half a crown?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Why can I not have a shilling like the rest?’
‘All right then,’ he placated. ‘You shall have your shilling like the rest, and I shall give you another for leading them, so that will be three shillings.’
The little girl acquiesced to this with all the gravitas of an ambassador sealing a trading agreement. And to his intense relief she began rounding up the other four children. After a moment they stood as one, awaiting further direction.
‘Where are the nearest steps?’ asked Charlie.
‘That way,’ said the girl uncertainly. She was pointing towards a growing pillar of fire which crested from the upper windows of two wooden buildings. The flames reached towards one another, forming a fiery arc over the straight. Broken glass twinkled rosily on the bridge below.
Charlie caught sight of the opening to the steps. A narrow hatch down past a gauntlet of burning houses.
Lily looked upwards at where the fire was roaring from the windows overhead. A tile smashed by her foot, showering them with hot shards, and then another fell, and another.
Charlie threw out his coat to protect the children. ‘Go!’ he said. ‘Now!’
They raced towards the steps as the tiles had begun to rain thick and fast.
‘This way,’ said Charlie as a huge tile smashed within inches of them. ‘Into the doorway.’
They sheltered for a moment under a narrow wooden porch. The hatch to the steps was tantalisingly close. But the tiles hailed down like mortar fire. Charlie looked above them. The porch was made of thick wooden planks, propped loosely rather than nailed securely.
He stood and heaved one free.
‘What are you doing?’ protested Lily as tile fragments ricocheted against her bare arms.
‘Making a shield,’ said Charlie, heaving the plank outwards. ‘It will serve for them,’ he added, grunting with the effort and nodding towards the children. ‘We’ll have to take our chances.’
He rested the plank against the house and caught the attention of the small girl.
‘When I lever this plank over,’ he said, ‘you must run. Get to the next porch. Can you do that? Then from there you must all run to the steps.’
The girl looked up at the plank then along to the next porch. Her jaw set determinedly. She nodded.
‘When I say go,’ said Charlie, readying himself. ‘Go!’
Chapter 66
Barbara Castlemaine opened the door carefully and ushered Blackstone quickly inside.
‘Were you seen?’ she asked.
Blackstone bowed low.
‘No, Lady Castlemaine. I used the tunnels you suggested, with a torch to light my way.’
Barbara smiled. She’d taken advantage of her absence from the King to make hasty arrangements to see Blackstone.
‘Charles uses those tunnels to bring pretty girls from the city,’ she said. ‘It pleases me that I may have my own intrigues by them.’
Blackstone smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. Barbara suppressed a shiver. He had always unnerved her. She hated dealing with Blackstone. All the Sealed Knot men had their horrors. A Civil War siege had starved Blackstone and his men to sticks. He’d come to Holland with his obscene bulk and dead eyes. She’d heard a rumour that rotting food had been discovered hoarded in his quarters.
But Barbara needed to fully vanquish Louise. If it took blacker arts to win, then so be it.
‘The rumours are at their height,’ said Barbara. ‘Catholics throw fireballs.’
Her eyes were roving his face, testing for a reaction.
‘That is what the people say,’ returned Blackstone evenly.
His cold blue eyes were at her chest, and for a moment Barbara thought he meant to take advantage of their secret meeting. Then she realised. He was staring
at her crucifix. Barbara’s hand went to it self-consciously.
‘You have converted?’ Blackstone asked. There was something hungry in his tone.
‘I . . . I have,’ replied Barbara, inwardly cursing how he unnerved her. ‘To the true Catholic faith,’ she added, deliberately emboldening her words.
‘His Majesty knows?’ asked Blackstone.
‘Oh yes,’ said Barbara. ‘Charles and I have no secrets.’
‘Apart from our secret,’ observed Blackstone.
Barbara gave a little laugh which sounded flat, even to her own ears.
Blackstone’s hand went to a leather pouch under his arm. He surveyed Barbara’s sumptuous apartment and his gaze rested on a hand-carved writing desk. Without a word he stalked towards it and laid down the pouch.
Barbara followed him to the table, her eyes fixed on Blackstone.
Blackstone unfurled the pouch. Inside were three squat balls, the colour of tallow.
They both looked at them.
‘You understand,’ said Barbara carefully. ‘That I don’t want to resort to this.’
Blackstone nodded.
Her eyes fell again to the pouch. ‘How did you discover this alchemy?’
Blackstone smiled.
‘A long time ago,’ he said. ‘I learned the art. Necessity, after the war. I returned penniless and joined a guild. The brothers taught me their secrets.’
‘You rose to the Mayor’s side,’ said Barbara. ‘I heard rumours he meant to honour you with an Alderman title.’
‘Papers were lost.’ Blackstone’s eyes were dark with fury.
‘Parliament would not recognise your claim, as a Catholic,’ guessed Barbara, feeling uncomfortable.
‘No.’
‘Yet you have risen again,’ said Barbara. ‘Your talent makes you powerful. And you have royal favour.’
‘I have used guild connections to my advantage,’ agreed Blackstone, thinking of the army of boys he’d assembled over the past year. ‘You must remember when we were in Holland, we both had nothing. You had your methods of gaining power, I had mine.’
‘And how does your wife feel about your methods?’ asked Barbara, her eyes flinty. ‘Some say you returned from Holland with a great secret. That you and your wife made a very dangerous marriage.’
Blackstone’s smile flickered. Images were playing back to him. Teresa’s sad face as they signed the marriage papers.
This will tear England apart.
Barbara was watching his face, searching for clues.
‘I also heard a legend,’ she said, ‘that some great power had been unleashed. Your brotherhood could turn lead into gold.’
‘Stories, all. We made no marriage,’ lied Blackstone shortly. ‘And Teresa is dead.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Barbara. ‘Teresa was a very beautiful woman. But it is fortunate that you committed no treason with her.’ Her eyes locked on his, and Blackstone saw the determination behind their beauty. ‘You may become valuable to me,’ she said, eyeing the pouch. ‘And unions made before His Majesty’s triumphant return can be a deadly business.’
Chapter 67
London Bridge was crackling in flame. Charlie readied the plank for the children to run beneath. A burning pebble bounced up and struck a little boy’s arm. His tiny mouth set in a square of anguish and he howled as though his heart would break.
‘Hurry!’ said Lily, ‘before they get too scared to go.’
From high above them came a sound like a clap of thunder. The eaves of the house they sheltered by had given way to the flames and the towering buildings above swayed. They teetered, shuddered then threw off the top two floors. The upper storeys plummeted down, crashing towards them in a mass of fiery rubble.
Charlie grabbed the nearest children back. Lily gave a cry of horror, burying the little boy into the protection of her skirts and pulling another girl into her lap.
As the flaming dust settled they raised their heads. A great pile of building had landed between them and the steps. The fire, fanned by the falling rubble, flared with new vigour.
Charlie waved away dust and smoke. He thought he could make out a tiny passage of light underneath the fallen wood.
‘I can see the river,’ said Lily. ‘There’s a little space.’
Charlie and Lily looked at one another.
‘It’s big enough for the children,’ said Charlie, pointing to a tiny opening. ‘They may crawl through that crack.’
‘But the flames,’ said Lily.
‘That space will hold for a moment,’ said Charlie, assessing. ‘Hardly any air. The wind isn’t on that side. Fire needs to breathe and it needs to eat,’ he added. ‘No air for it there.’
The girl was looking up questioningly at Charlie. He knelt and grasped her shoulders. ‘You can crawl through the opening?’ he asked. She studied it for a moment then nodded. A huge flaming joist swung down suddenly in a cascade of cinders. Lily cried out in pain and rubbed at a scattering of angry burns which had appeared on her arm.
Charlie looked nervously to the burning pile between them and the steps. The crawl space wouldn’t hold much longer.
‘You must go down the ladder now very quickly,’ continued Charlie. ‘When you reach the bottom, stay under the stone arch, do you understand? And keep all the others with you.’
The girl bobbed her head.
‘The stone arch,’ repeated Charlie. ‘Don’t go on the wooden jetties. Say it back to me.’
‘The stone arch,’ repeated the girl, her eyes flicking nervously to Lily. ‘Not the wood jetties.’
‘Good. Very good,’ praised Charlie. ‘Then go now. Fast.’
The girl crawled for the opening followed by the other four children. They went one at a time on all fours, across the glass strewn floor. But one by one, with bloody knees and hands, they got to the steps. Then they waited fearfully as the girl began to shepherd them down.
‘What if they don’t go?’ murmured Lily. The wind was blowing oven-hot heat and the children were crimson-faced and terrified.
They both watched as the girl stepped over the burning debris and helped the first child on to the steps.
‘Quickly,’ muttered Charlie, his eyes fixed on the collapsed building. ‘Quickly.’
He turned to see Lily’s hand clutched tight around her rosary. The remains gave a loud groan and a puff of smoke belched out from the crawl space.
‘Get them down the ladder,’ pleaded Charlie. ‘Don’t stop.’
One by one the other children vanished down. Then the girl’s little head dropped out of view as she descended. Charlie let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
‘They’re safe,’ he said, relief flooding through him.
‘They are,’ said Lily, pointing to the blazing inferno that now came from all sides. ‘But what about us?’
Chapter 68
The Duke of York was hemmed in by tedious nobles. With Charles absent from Whitehall, the dull business of protecting valuables fell to his brother.
Several attractive women were subtly pushing themselves through the crowd, angling to get closer. The Stuart brothers’ weakness for women was well known. Families were sending their prettiest daughters to beg for carts and horses. A blonde girl in a white dress caught his eye. James raised a dark eyebrow. She was edging towards him. Then he saw her. James’s heart quickened. Arabella Churchill. She’d managed to get into court.
Their eyes locked and she arched her eyebrows. Her gaze flitted to the blonde and she smiled broadly. James stepped towards her and the crowd parted.
‘Your Grace.’ Arabella smiled. ‘I hear you help people guard their riches.’
‘The roads are all blocked,’ said James. ‘I’d rather be at sea.’
‘Ordering grubby sailors around?’
James smiled. ‘I’d give my life for those grubby sailors.’
‘You nearly did.’
‘Which is why Charles keeps me on dry land,’ said James ruefully. ‘Helping
with courtly matters.
‘Good,’ said Arabella. ‘Seeing your commanders torn apart by Dutch cannon fire should curb your seafaring. It’s a miracle you escaped with a few cuts and a drenching of their blood.’
‘All the same,’ said James, ‘I’d rather be with my men.’
‘Than here?’ Arabella stepped forward a little. He could smell her intoxicating perfume. ‘With me?’ She mouthed the words.
He moved to whisper in her ear. A ripple of scandal murmured through the assembled court.
‘If I could take you with me,’ said James, ‘stow you beneath deck, that would be perfect.’
Arabella curtseyed and dropped back into the crowd. As she retreated, James caught the smallest tilt with her eyes.
Excitement flushed through him.
‘Let me take a moment,’ he announced loudly. ‘I mean to eat in private, but I’ll return soon.’
He began extricating himself from the crowds of nobles, trying to seem casual. Arabella was doing the same, shifting away from the richly dressed people.
The Duke of York broke free and hastened quickly to the long corridor joining the banquet hall to the private Parliament rooms.
Behind him he heard her little step but didn’t dare look round. It was only as he unlocked the door to Clarence’s office and slipped inside that he ventured to turn. She pushed herself into his arms and he pulled her in, shutting the door behind them.
‘No one saw, James,’ she whispered. ‘I have a few minutes before I am missed.’
He moved her to the large table and sat her on it, pushing maps and paperwork aside. His hands travelled up under her skirts.
Arabella ran her hands under his shirt. Her fingertips brushed the scars of his recent naval attack.
‘Quickly,’ she whispered, her face flushed. James’s hands fumbled at his clothing.
‘You’re good at this,’ he observed as she opened her thighs, ‘secret meetings.’
There was a knock at the door and they both froze.
‘Arabella!’ came a heavy male voice. ‘Daughter, are you within?’
The Duke of York’s mouth was at Arabella’s neck. ‘The door is locked,’ he whispered, hands moving over her.
