by C. S. Quinn
‘I . . . I came to get Enoch’s rosary,’ stuttered Jacob.
‘This is my wife’s room,’ said Blackstone. ‘No one may look on her.’ His voice turned steely. Jacob knew his fate was sealed.
‘I didn’t . . . I don’t.’ Jacob was casting his eyes everywhere but Her. ‘The fire comes,’ he said desperately. ‘Your things will burn. There’s . . . a chest,’ he stuttered, ‘your wife’s. A wedding trunk I think.’
Blackstone hesitated.
‘I’d forgotten her chest,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It was too heavy to be moved and empty in any case.’ Blackstone wondered if Teresa had hidden the key somewhere. He was remembering the wedding blessings, torched and blackened.
Blackstone put a hand to his scarred head. He had an image of the missing key. Then nothing.
‘The wedding trunk should be with my wife,’ he decided.
Something else occurred to him.
‘You were in my sister’s room,’ said Blackstone.
‘We were told to clear the house,’ managed Jacob.
Blackstone inhaled deeply. His eyes settled on his wife. ‘The ribbons and poppets,’ he said, ‘I thought it a harmless fancy. A foolish woman’s trickery.’ He was shaking his head.
‘She will burn,’ said Blackstone slowly. ‘And it will be on a pyre to make the city weep. I’ll make her a bonfire so great that God himself will open up the heavens to receive her.’
His eyes switched back to Jacob.
‘Gunpowder must be used,’ he said, ‘to make the hottest flame. She must also have a sacrifice. An offering to be sure her soul is freed.’
Jacob felt fear tighten his stomach.
‘You will help me,’ Blackstone decided.
Chapter 100
Bedlam was in smoking turmoil. Charlie got inside the thick cell door and pulled it shut just as a pack of soldiers herded towards the grating.
‘Lock it up!’ shouted Lily as Charlie fumbled for the right key. He found it, plunged it into the keyhole and turned the lock as the first man flung himself against the door. The door rebounded and held.
There were shouts and pounding of rifle butts as the soldiers assaulted the heavy wood. Then the barrel of a musket came through the grating in the door.
‘Get down!’ shouted Charlie as a spray of fire ricocheted around the room. Lily ducked, one hand over her head, the other pulling the prisoner down. Charlie’s eyes fixed on the small privy hole. Lily had laid a thin line of pitch. Too narrow to light, he thought.
‘There wasn’t enough pitch,’ explained Lily, following his line of sight as Charlie ducked down beside her.
‘It might still fire,’ he muttered. ‘Give me your tinderbox.’
She handed it over with shaking fingers. On the other side of the door they could hear the soldier fumbling to reload his musket.
‘Be careful,’ she whispered, pointing to the open grating in the cell door. ‘They’re reloading.’
‘I didn’t know you cared.’
‘I care about escaping.’
Charlie made across the cell on his hands and knees. He’d tucked the black powder into the privy hole and raced back out of sight before the soldier could raise his gun again. Then he struck the tinderbox against the pitch.
It flared and for a few seconds a cheerful orange flame weaved up the line. Then it reached the bottom of the wall and died.
Charlie cursed. Behind them something heavy slammed into the door. He heard the wood split. He looked up to where the soldier with the musket was angling for a clear shot.
‘Charlie,’ said Lily, realising what he intended to do. ‘Don’t.’
But he was already halfway across the cell. A shot from the powerful musket would light the powder flask. Guns had a full few seconds’ delay. Charlie was confident he could duck and roll before the shot hit.
The soldier had put his muzzle full through the grating this time, to be sure of a clear shot. Charlie stood up in clear line of sight, the flask of black powder behind him. The soldier’s finger tightened on the trigger.
‘Don’t shoot,’ came the voice of another soldier from outside the cell. ‘He’s no lunatic. He’s got black powder in that privy hole. Take the shot and you’ll blow the wall out.’
The soldier hesitated. Charlie’s heart sank. Then Lily jumped to her feet, grabbed the musket barrel and pulled it hard through the grating. The soldier’s face slammed into the bars. In his surprise his finger pulled the trigger. Charlie dived, rolled and the shot went off, driving a blast of fire into the small cell.
The gunpowder exploded loudly, driving brick fragments in all directions.
For a moment the air was too tight in gun-smoke to breathe. And then the fumes cleared through the sunlit hole in the prison wall.
They all made for it.
‘You got out this way?’ protested Charlie, looking down at the sheer drop. ‘It’s a clear thirty feet to the Fleet.’
‘I’m a Baptist,’ said the prisoner. ‘It’s my faith. God receives me safely in water.’
Lily rolled her eyes. Charlie was eyeing the stinking streaked wall. It looked slippery. But the brick was uneven and the mortar crumbling away.
‘We can climb,’ said Charlie, swinging a leg over the side of the blast hole. ‘Come on.’ He climbed on to the outer wall, feeling for holds with his bare feet. ‘It’s not too hard,’ he promised Lily, holding out a hand. ‘Plenty of raised bricks to catch a hold.’
She hesitated and then pulled her skirts close to her body and climbed out on to the prison wall, hanging on to the remaining brickwork. Warm air blew over them. Below, the Fleet rippled.
Lily began climbing down. Charlie glanced back to the prisoner. The soldiers had renewed their pounding on the door now, perhaps deciding to save musket fire. It had split down the middle and was giving way.
‘Can you climb?’ Charlie asked the prisoner. ‘If you stay here you’ll be captured or executed.’
‘I’m not of a mind to climb,’ said the prisoner, with a nod at his manacle-savaged ankle. ‘But I won’t meet my death today. Not at the hands of them.’
He had a strange expression on his face and he looked down to the low Fleet River.
‘Your coat,’ said the prisoner suddenly. Charlie realised his coat was still resting over the man’s skinny shoulders.
‘Take it back.’ The prisoner heaved it off and passed it over.
Charlie took it with one hand and rested the leather in the crook of his arm.
‘You won’t survive the river this time,’ said Charlie, nodding to the Fleet. ‘The water is low after the hot summer.’
The prisoner nodded. ‘You may be right,’ he said. He hesitated. ‘You’re a good man,’ he said, nodding to the coat. ‘And though you’re no Baptist, I owe you a courtesy. I didn’t tell you the truth,’ he continued, ‘back in the cell.’
Charlie froze halfway out of the prison wall. There was a crashing sound. A musket butt appeared through a gap in the thick door.
‘I do remember something about the Mermaid which might help you,’ continued the prisoner.
‘What?’ Charlie was eyeing the door desperately.
The prisoner shot him a crafty glance.
‘I did see a man,’ he said after a moment. ‘As we were brought out on to deck. I don’t know if he was your Blackstone. But he was perhaps the right age, and dressed as a cavalier. In Royalist clothes.’
Lily and Charlie exchanged glances.
The prisoner nodded. ‘He was selling a gun,’ he said. ‘I heard him talking of it.’
Charlie was turning this over. Guns could be traced. Even seventeen years ago.
‘What makes you think him the man we seek?’ asked Charlie.
‘There were two men with him,’ said the prisoner, staring at Charlie. ‘One was dressed ragged like a hermit. With a tattoo. Circles. Some mystic thing. The other man . . .’
The prisoner stared Charlie full in the face. ‘The other man looked just like you,’ he said. �
��That’s why I thought I recognised you. When I first saw you.’
Charlie felt the blood in his veins turn to ice. The prisoner licked his lips.
‘Just like you,’ he repeated. Then he turned to the water, opened his arms wide and jumped into the Fleet River.
Chapter 101
‘Whitehall will burn,’ said Amesbury. ‘Within the hour.’
King Charles put down his wine glass with shaking hands. Safe within the luxurious walls of Somerset House, he’d been able to talk strategy from a distance. Now what he held dear would burn.
He glanced at the Duke of York. His brother James had arrived from Whitehall just in time to witness the kingdom slip away.
‘The children?’ The King’s voice trembled.
‘Headed to safety,’ assured Amesbury. ‘I saw with my own eyes. They’ll be halfway to Oxford by this evening.’
‘The Palace has been cleared? The Queen?’
Amesbury nodded. ‘She’s also to Oxford. They packed much of your apartments. The tapestries and furnishings in the Great Hall will burn. It can’t be helped. There weren’t enough carts.’
Charles took a breath. He felt strangely calm.
‘Then this is the end,’ he said with a weak smile.
‘It’s not over,’ said the Duke of York angrily. ‘You are King.’
‘A plague and a burned Palace,’ said Charles. ‘A Catholic Queen who cannot birth a child. I can never recover from this.’
‘You can stay at Oxford for the winter,’ said James. ‘Rebuild . . .’
But Charles shook his head. ‘Amesbury knows it, James. Look at his face. A Palace isn’t a house. It’s a symbol.’
Charles stood. He walked to the map. A courtier caught him mid-stumble and he steadied himself. Charles picked up his wine and took a deep draft.
‘It’s our family tradition,’ he said, smiling, ‘losing the throne.’
The Duke of York stood.
‘Our tradition is not losing the throne,’ he said. ‘It’s fighting without enough men.’ He gestured to the wider city. ‘We have not enough men now,’ he said. ‘Will you stand and fight?’
Charles looked at him with tired eyes. ‘I’m getting old,’ he said. ‘I’ve no fight left.’
The Duke of York eased the wine from Charles’s hand.
‘Remember Holland?’ he said.
‘Holland.’ The King gave a smile. ‘They were good days.’
‘We did what we pleased,’ said James. ‘No expectations we’d marry a sour foreign princess. No duties of state.’
‘I truly thought,’ said Charles, ‘I’d buy a French farm and live with a pretty girl and a clutch of bonny children. Perhaps I’d have been happier.’
‘But then Barbara arrived,’ said James. ‘And brought you to your senses. And here we all are. Back in England, just as she said, with you as King.’
‘London is in ruins,’ said Charles. ‘A King needs something to rule over.’
‘I say we can still save Whitehall,’ said the Duke of York. ‘This isn’t a fire, Charles. It’s a war.’ His eyes flashed. ‘You and I have much experience at war.’ He cast a quick look at Amesbury. ‘Despite how we may appear nowadays.’
Charles looked to Amesbury. His face said it all. It was a fool’s mission.
‘Something is happening to the weather,’ said Amesbury. ‘The firestorm which the alchemist warned us of. It is very dangerous even to be on the streets.’
‘You think it’s hopeless to defend the Palace?’ asked Charles.
‘Hopeless and foolish,’ said Amesbury.
‘Lead from the front,’ insisted James. ‘As in battle. We can win this.’
Charles considered. He and his brother had never won a battle yet.
‘You always pick the winning side,’ he said to Amesbury. ‘If it’s truly hopeless why are you still here?’
‘Perhaps I’m getting old too,’ said Amesbury. ‘Disloyalty is a young man’s luxury.’
Charles smiled. He stood. ‘One last stand then,’ he said. ‘Stuarts may lose battles, but we are pig-headed enough to go out and dirty ourselves in the fight.’
‘You are the general,’ said the Duke of York. ‘Where are your orders?’
‘How many men do we have?’ asked Charles.
‘Not enough,’ said Amesbury.
‘Less than a hundred,’ said James. ‘But perhaps we can band some sailors together.’
Charles eyed the map.
‘St Paul’s is a powerful landmark,’ he said.
‘St Paul’s won’t burn,’ said James.
‘The spire is scaffolded,’ Amesbury pointed out.
‘I had forgotten the scaffold,’ said Charles. ‘The architects came to blows, didn’t they, over who should be chosen to redesign the cathedral.’
James frowned at the memory. ‘Young Christopher Wren. Suggested some soaring cupola. We chose Roger Pratt’s practical straight spire. Less costly.’
Charles thought for a moment.
‘If it’s a war,’ he said slowly, ‘we’ll need battle stations.’ The idea seemed to galvanise his thoughts. He stared at the map.
‘We defend the west,’ he said, stabbing a finger. ‘Here, at Temple Bar. This is where Westminster begins.’
‘Where the lawyers are,’ agreed Amesbury. ‘If fire breaches Temple, it’s a straight gallop to Whitehall.’
Charles nodded.
‘Fire can reach Temple, from both the south and the north.’ He pointed. ‘James, you’ll defend the north, by the Fleet River. You’ll make our strongest defence. Clarence and Monmouth will defend the south. The Post Office.’
‘Monmouth and Clarence?’ Amesbury looked appalled. ‘Clarence might be cunning, I suppose. But he’s never fought in a war. And Monmouth is a boy. The Post Office is a vital part of England’s commerce.’
‘Monmouth is feckless and vain,’ agreed Charles. ‘But so was I at his age. War made me a man. It will him too. And you underestimate Clarence,’ he added. ‘He’ll do the right thing, when it comes to it.’
Charles turned back to the map. ‘Amesbury,’ he said, ‘you and I defend Temple.’
There was an authority in his voice Amesbury hadn’t heard before. As though the King had been sleeping all these years and was now waking up.
‘Three stations then,’ agreed James. ‘Temple Bar, Fetter Lane and Holborn. Thirty troops on each with orders to press a hundred more men.’
Charles nodded. ‘A good thought, to press men,’ he agreed. ‘Your naval experience serves us well.’
He looked at Amesbury.
‘My purse can give five pounds per station,’ he said. ‘Three shillings a man. Will it serve?’
‘Better food,’ said Amesbury. ‘If you press common men, offer food. Ale, bread.’
Charles nodded. ‘Very well then. Rally the troops with the loudest voices. I want word shouted from every station. Any commoner that stands to fight the fire shall have a pound of cheese, a good loaf and ten pints of ale to sustain him through the night. And two extra shillings per man besides.’
The King thought for a moment. ‘Monmouth can hold a post with Clarence,’ he said to James. ‘Amesbury, go to the alchemist. Find out what you can about the firestorm.’ He paused. ‘If you truly think there’s a plot,’ he added, ‘we must try to strategise around that as well.’
Amesbury nodded.
The King turned to his brother. ‘You and I then,’ he said. ‘From the front.’
James put a hand on his shoulder.
‘From the front.’
Chapter 102
Charlie and Lily raced away from Bedlam and on to the burned-out Strand. Back towards Bedlam the faint sounds of gunshots had died.
‘The soldiers have run out of shot,’ said Charlie. ‘I think a good few lunatics got out whilst they tried to kill us.’
‘I hope so,’ said Lily with feeling. She turned to Charlie.
‘So a man who looked like you was on the Mermaid? With Blackstone a
nd Torr. Your father?’
Charlie nodded.
‘It seems that way,’ he agreed. ‘I know nothing about my father. Only that he died when I was small.’
‘How did he die?’ asked Lily.
Charlie considered. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if I ever knew. It was more a feeling I carried with me. I suppose my mother must have told us. I think my brother may have known more about my father. He didn’t speak of it. Now Rowan is gone too.’
‘Perhaps he was a supplicant for the King,’ said Lily. ‘Maybe he was one of the Sealed Knot. What does it matter? We still know nothing about Blackstone.’
‘We know everything about Blackstone,’ said Charlie. ‘You forget. I’m a thief taker. Tracking property is my skill. The Baptist told us Blackstone sold a set of guns.’
‘You think we can find Blackstone’s guns? After seventeen years?’
‘Better,’ said Charlie. ‘We can find Blackstone’s address.’
‘How?’
‘There is a network of sold goods and contraband in the city,’ said Charlie. ‘Pawn shops. Taverns where you buy smuggled wares, or goods stolen to order. I know all of them.’ Charlie rubbed his bent nose. ‘There are only two pawn shops who take guns,’ he continued. ‘Only one who would deal with a Royalist after the civil war.’
‘And the pawn shop could tell us something?’
Charlie nodded. ‘Guns are very expensive. And you cannot easily fence arms in London since the war. Thieves always come unstuck,’ he added. ‘Pawn shops take details from the gun-maker.’
‘So where is this pawn shop?’
‘Near All Hallows church,’ said Charlie.
Lily’s face fell.
‘But there is all burned,’ she protested. ‘All have fled with their goods.’
‘Pawnbrokers aren’t guildsmen or nobility,’ said Charlie. ‘By the time All Hallows burned all the carts and boats had gone to rich people. They’d have no option but to bury their goods.’
‘Which means?’
‘Unless our pawnbroker wants to be looted, he’ll be back already, digging them up.’
They made south, over the burned and broken path that the fire had already ravaged and followed the riverfront for safety from the flames. There were no coaches and carts anymore. Just a mournful multitude tramping on foot, their arms and shoulders weighed down with belongings.
