Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘It’s her,’ she said. ‘Charles is occupied with fire. So she comes to torment me.’

  ‘I can’t send her away,’ apologised Dolly. ‘Not a Lady of the Bedchamber.’

  The Queen gritted her teeth and breathed out.

  ‘The King bestowed her with a great honour,’ she managed. ‘We must bear it with good grace.’

  Dolly pulled back the door and there as predicted was Barbara Castlemaine. She looked less composed than usual. The decorative auburn curls had drooped a little and the self-satisfied look in her violet eyes was muted.

  ‘Her Majesty, Queen Catherine of Braganza, receives you,’ said Dolly, curtseying with as much disdain as she could manage.

  Barbara shot her a look.

  ‘I had forgotten you attended Her Majesty,’ she murmured. ‘Such a low-born girl.’

  ‘Noble is as noble does,’ said Dolly, anxiety for the Queen making her daring.

  Barbara smiled icily. ‘Perhaps in the City Guilds. Here in the Palace we value birth.’

  Dolly glowered and retreated a little.

  Catherine stood with difficulty.

  ‘You’re quite well?’ asked Barbara, missing nothing.

  Catherine managed a smile. She looked to Dolly. ‘Can you tell her something?’ she said, speaking Portuguese.

  Barbara’s pretty features puckered at the unfamiliar language.

  ‘The Queen heard news of the fire and is distressed,’ said Dolly smoothly, lying too fast for Barbara to doubt. ‘Unlike some ladies she is sensitive,’ added Dolly meaningfully.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ said Barbara, deliberately speaking fast to confuse the Queen. ‘Her Majesty fainted when Charles appointed me to her bedchamber.’

  ‘Tell us why you are here,’ said Catherine in thickly accented tones. Her face suggested she’d missed the jibe. ‘Fire comes. Why do you not look to your own apartment?’

  Barbara’s face darkened. ‘I saw your accounts. Some of your possessions became mixed up with mine, in the jostle to load the carts.’

  Queen Catherine flushed crimson at the obvious lie.

  ‘How dare you,’ she began. ‘You take advantage of the fire, to pry into my things.’

  Her Majesty’s English improved greatly when her temper was raised, Dolly noted.

  ‘You give money,’ continued Barbara, ‘to Master Blackstone.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘So it seems you would do battle with me.’

  Chapter 78

  Charlie looked to the men grappling with a firehook. They were skinny and sweating, faces resigned. Several had black eyes. The watchmen were keeping close guard, pointing out which houses should fall.

  The long firehook was working on a half-destroyed house. Its rake-like head was pulling the last storey to a pile of broken fragments.

  Charlie recognised the building they protected. It was the Cutlers’ Hall. Hardly a key firebreak. Charlie turned to them accusingly.

  ‘How much are the cutlers paying you,’ he demanded, ‘to press these poor men?’

  The watchmen spat wormwood. ‘We take no bribe,’ he said, fingering the expensive crossbow. ‘This hall is in the path of the fire. Houses must be pulled either side.’

  ‘To save a burned-out riverfront?’ said Charlie. ‘Whitehall is in danger. You should be protecting the Palace.’

  ‘The King already defends it,’ said the watchman. ‘Been issuing orders and promising ale these last few hours.’

  Charlie considered. So the King already knew Whitehall was threatened. From what he’d seen from the riverfront, whatever firefighting His Majesty had orchestrated was too little too late.

  ‘The Cutlers’ Guild have only just finished paying for their new guildhall,’ the watchman continued. ‘They’ve no money for another if this burns. Many fine swords and pommels the cutlers make for this city,’ he added.

  Charlie shook his head in disgust.

  ‘Have a heart,’ he said. ‘These men you press. They own little more than a wooden plate and a chair. You let their homes burn so they might save a nobleman’s sword?’

  ‘Money rules London,’ said the watchman unapologetically. He waved his crossbow threateningly. ‘And you don’t have enough to desert your fire duties.’

  Charlie looked to the beleaguered men.

  Their unwieldy firehook was as tall as a house with three prongs at the top. At the base they coordinated clumsily to grapple private houses and shops either side of the Cutlers’ Guild. Charlie saw instantly that they were pulling from the wrong side. The demolished building would fall north, straight into the path of the whirling cinders and high breeze.

  ‘Hold!’ he shouted, jogging to where the hook was fixing.

  The nearest man turned to Charlie. He was shaven headed, with wheals on his scalp from wearing a cheap hog-hair wig. But he had a quiet authority despite meagre clothes and soot-streaked hands.

  ‘I’m the parish man hereabouts’ he said. ‘John Waverly.’

  ‘You pull the wrong way,’ said Charlie, catching his breath. ‘That building will send tinder straight to the flames.’

  Waverly assessed the direction of the firehook and nodded. ‘We had a kind of order. Then Parliament sent those jackals,’ he said, pointing to the watchmen. ‘And now all is chaos. They rove around pressing commoners who can’t fight back. Throwing mixed orders. So we have old and injured men. No cavalry, no one with experience of crisis. And confusion.’

  ‘The watchmen have been paid by the Cutlers’ Guild,’ said Charlie. ‘They care only for the guildhall.’

  Waverly shook his head.

  ‘They should be shamed. We’re pressed here whilst our homes burn. We should be allowed to take our things to safety.’

  The high winds were whipping heavy flaming ash into the air as he spoke. It was dropping on the dry rooftops of neighbouring houses.

  ‘Raise and fix!’ shouted the nearest watchman waving his cudgel. ‘Pull that building!’ He was pointing to a modest half-timbered house.

  A female shout issued out. They looked up to see a woman. She had thrown open the little leaded window and was leaning halfway out.

  ‘You have no authority!’ she shouted. ‘Only the King can grant permission to pull houses.’

  The lead watchman’s face twisted in annoyance.

  ‘Who let that silly bitch back in her house?’ he demanded.

  Charlie looked at the Cutlers’ sign. A gold elephant and castle, blackening in the smoke. He sensed an opportunity and turned to Waverly.

  ‘Those watchmen know nothing of what they guard,’ said Charlie. ‘If they see riches inside the Cutlers’ Guild, they might abandon their posts to loot. You and the others could escape to your homes.’

  Waverly shook his head. ‘The cutlers have cleared away their fine things,’ he said. ‘Trunks of swords. All kinds of expensive weapons. Huge tusks. All were carried away.’

  ‘Guilds have sacred objects which can’t be removed,’ said Charlie. ‘Relics to make promises with and share guild secrets.’

  ‘I know it,’ Waverly shrugged. ‘I hear the fishmongers have a wooden carp. Such things are not worth looting.’

  ‘Cutlers are wealthy,’ said Charlie. ‘They are no fishmongers or cooks. Their rites likely use fine swords or daggers.’

  It was a guess but Waverly seemed to see the sense in it.

  ‘None but guildsmen may look inside a guildhall,’ he said uncertainly. ‘They are closed to common men.’

  ‘Yet no guildsmen are here to defend it,’ said Charlie. ‘They look to their own goods, whilst you are pressed here.’

  Shouts were coming from the female house owner and the lead watchman.

  ‘This is the time,’ said Charlie. ‘The leader is distracted.’

  The watchman was by the occupied home now, waving a tinderbox. He punched a hole through the leaded window and lit the curtains.

  ‘What think you now, mistress?’ he demanded, looking up. ‘I say fire comes. None will blame us for pulling a burning hou
se.’

  He turned back to the pressed men and spat wormwood.

  ‘Raise and fix!’ shouted the watchmen. ‘She’ll come out soon enough when she smells the smoke.’

  Chapter 79

  Queen Catherine’s dark eyes looked to the ground. She looked back up at Barbara Castlemaine.

  ‘Blackstone is kind to Catholics,’ said the Queen. ‘I give money for paupers of my religion. Nothing more.’

  But Barbara knew a lie when she heard one. She moved a little closer.

  ‘I think you know too well,’ said Barbara, ‘what kind of man Blackstone is. You dare use his alchemy against me?’

  The Queen let out a long sigh.

  ‘I have no wish to fight you, Lady Castlemaine,’ she said. ‘You have won. The King appointed you my personal lady, though I swore you would not be. You have four children by him. Two sons. I have none.’ The words stuck a little. ‘My great sadness,’ Catherine continued, ‘is not that I have lost.’ She shook her head. ‘It is that you, Lady Castlemaine,’ she rolled the title grandly, ‘are not grateful. Had I half your blessings I would smile the long day through. Yet you always want more.’

  There was a shocked silence.

  The Queen looked at Dolly.

  ‘I feel unwell,’ she said shortly in Portuguese. ‘I will make my toilet alone.’

  Catherine shuffled away leaving Dolly uncertain how to explain. It was unthinkable for Her Majesty to visit the bathroom without a servant.

  Then something occurred to her.

  ‘How would you know?’ challenged Dolly as the Queen exited. ‘How would you know his name?’

  Barbara turned to her distractedly. She’d been watching the Queen absent herself in disbelief.

  ‘Blackstone,’ said Dolly. ‘How would you know what kind of man he is?’

  Barbara turned full force on Dolly.

  ‘You dare to presume,’ she said, her voice raising, ‘to question me? You may not even speak to me. You are a gutter-born girl far above your station.’

  ‘You are a cuckoo,’ said Dolly, ‘in the Queen’s court.’

  ‘I?’ Barbara laughed. ‘Look around you child. See you any of England in this chamber? Your Queen hates this country and always has. She doesn’t speak our language. There is not a single English furnishing in her apartments. And she spends her days praying to Catholic idols for her homeland.’

  Dolly set her mouth and was silent.

  Sensing her opponent was on the ropes Barbara turned venomous.

  ‘You know what they say?’ she hissed. ‘That Charles’s advisors beg him to divorce. She cannot give him a child. They beg him to do it. He is too soft-hearted.’

  Barbara raised herself a little taller and adjusted her silken dress.

  ‘That is what you hope,’ said Dolly. ‘But you will never be Queen.’

  Barbara’s violet eyes widened in surprise.

  ‘Is that what you think,’ she said, ‘that I want to be Queen? You silly girl. It is a prison sentence. The best freedom for a woman is mistress.’

  ‘Until her looks fade,’ said Dolly. ‘Then a mistress’s freedom seems hard bought.’

  The Queen appeared in the doorway. She was deathly pale. The spite in Barbara’s face ebbed away. She chewed her lip.

  ‘Look to your lady,’ whispered Barbara, keeping her eyes away from the Queen’s skirts.

  Dolly moved to the bed but Barbara shook her head.

  ‘They examine the sheets for blood,’ she said, waving an arm to the courtiers beyond the chamber. ‘Use your own underclothes.’ Barbara’s eyes flicked to the door. ‘I’ll keep her ladies away,’ she muttered, hastening to it. ‘Those harpies look for the first sign of weakness.’

  Dolly nodded and something passed between them. Barbara rustled away. Queen Catherine sat.

  ‘She isn’t so bad,’ said Dolly with a little smile.

  ‘That’s because she’s won,’ said Catherine with a pained expression. ‘When she’s losing she’s capable of anything.’

  She raised her dark eyes to Dolly.

  ‘The King makes me ridiculous with his whores. I must be friend to Barbara, who plots to make her children royal. I must forebear Louise’s whorish clothes and manners.’ She shook her head. ‘And the other one. The one who lies.’

  ‘Lucy Walter,’ supplied Dolly.

  ‘Saying her son is true heir. Then denying it to my face. She should be hanged for treason.’

  The Queen shook her head. The elaborately styled hair rattled.

  ‘They think Barbara is the only ruthless woman in court,’ she said, a sudden fire in her eyes. ‘They think me meek, because I pray. But I know God’s power. Do you know what I did, when they told me I must leave my beloved Catholic homeland and wed a Protestant King on a cold island?’

  ‘You went to your shrine,’ said Dolly uncertainly, because there was a feverish look in the Queen’s pale face. ‘In Lisbon.’

  The Queen nodded.

  ‘I went to my shrine in Lisbon. And I prayed to God above, that I might never bear this heathen country a child.’

  Chapter 80

  The watchman waved his crossbow at the pressed men. The house he’d just flamed was roaring to life.

  ‘Pull the house!’ he demanded. ‘It fires!’

  The house owner appeared shouting and gesticulating.

  ‘Pull the Cutlers’ Guild now whilst their attention is disturbed,’ Charlie urged John. ‘Use the firehooks. I’ll get inside and throw out what relics I can find. The watchmen will fall on them and you can escape.’

  ‘How do I know you won’t make off with the relics?’ asked John.

  ‘They’re sacred things,’ said Charlie. ‘Every cutler in London would want my head. I couldn’t fence them without being lynched.’

  A gust of wind caused the nearby fire to roar suddenly.

  ‘Now,’ urged Charlie, pointing. ‘Set the firehook there.’

  ‘How can you be sure fire will go that way?’

  Charlie hesitated. ‘I was a cinder thief,’ he admitted. ‘A good one.’

  He saw the warmth go out of Waverly’s eyes. The parish man turned to the battered men.

  ‘On my word!’ he called. ‘Heave!’

  The firehook was raised, like a giant rake striking at the dark sky. The men wielding the thick pole stumbled under its weight and for a moment Charlie thought Waverly meant to ignore his advice. Then the parish man pointed to the Cutlers’ Hall. The metal firehook was aligned to the roof, then its three huge prongs were sent smashing into the wooden shingles. The hook sunk deep into the top rafter.

  Shouts went up from the watchmen. The leader made towards the firehook at a run, his crossbow raised. Charlie raced to the front of the Cutlers’ Hall.

  ‘You!’ the watchman was raising his crossbow inexpertly. ‘Get away from the Hall!’

  Charlie eyed the solid guild. Unless the firehook worked there was no way in.

  And the well-built hall was resisting its destroyers. Waverly and his men heaved, faces red from effort. But the timbers held firm.

  A bolt shuddered deep into the wall next to Charlie. He looked to see the watchman loading for a second shot.

  ‘Get back to your fire duties!’ he called, taking a second aim.

  ‘Heave,’ shouted John, and the counterweight of the pole began to do its part. With a shriek of twisting timbers the joists began to give and the central beam was wrenched forward.

  The half-timbered frontage of the Cutlers’ Guild cracked then began to split.

  ‘Go,’ panted Waverly to Charlie as the men staggered back with the pole. Timber and plaster crashed down.

  ‘Back!’ shouted Waverly, as the momentum of the falling house picked up in pace and fell towards them in a tirade of splintered wood. ‘Back!’

  The front of the Cutlers’ Guild was completely ripped away now, exposing the rooms inside. They were more elaborate than Charlie had ever imagined. No wonder the guilds kept their insides secret. They’d be robbe
d daily.

  Rich decorations and strange murals adorned the walls. A huge carving bore the words ‘Freemen of the City. Breed not birth right.’

  Sparks from the nearby burning building were already wheeling through the air like glowing assassins. They began settling on the open walls of the guild, fanned by the high wind.

  Charlie took a quick assessment. The downstairs was a large hall. This was where the cutlers held their dinners. To set trade prices for the swords and weapons they made.

  Rings of candlewax and sword marks suggested ritualistic practices were carried out here. It reminded Charlie of an other-worldly church.

  There were no trapdoors down. No tapestries to hide chambers or doors leading off.

  Upstairs were a number of closed wooden doors. Charlie made for the stair and raced up. He vaulted over a step which was being fanned into flame and made it to the top.

  He arrived on a landing which had been cleared of goods. There was a large map marked with jagged red crosses.

  The map told of places in London where unlicensed cutlers were trading, Charlie guessed. The Cutlers’ Guild would send men to destroy their goods and equipment.

  The wall had been torn away, and Charlie could see the street and the watchmen below. A thud sounded above his head. He looked up. A crossbow dart. Charlie glanced down to see the watchman was reloading. He was a bad shot, Charlie had already deduced, looking at the arrow lodged high above him. But it wouldn’t do to hang around. Quickly he assessed the closed doors. One bore a symbol he’d seen before.

  A pyramid with an eye in it. The symbol for enlightenment used by alchemists all over the city.

  Another bolt sailed through the air. It landed closer this time, lodging in the floor near his foot. Charlie opened the door with the symbol on it and dived inside.

  The room was small, lined floor to ceiling with red fabric. A table held a collection of bones, laid out like some kind of holy relic. Embroidery depicted unfamiliar people and places. They were in the style of bible scenes. But there was nothing here Charlie had seen in any church. One showed a man in a red robe and gold ceremonial hat with a pointed staff. Another depicted a moon with a woman’s face, over a rolling sea.