by C. S. Quinn
The slightest rustling had begun to sound from the nearby ruins, and a fine mist of smoke was shrugging slowly up into the sky. The donkey let out a baleful sound.
‘You should go now,’ said Charlie, surveying the devastated remains. ‘There are still unburned embers here. The wind hasn’t died out. And something happens to the west.’
He was looking to the red clouds that had begun to swirl like Armageddon.
Brookes nodded and slapped the unhappy donkey.
‘Always take the word of Charlie Tuesday,’ he winked, ‘when fire is at hand.’
There was a sudden shout from near Fen Church. Charlie looked up, half expecting to see rekindled flame.
One of the looters had pulled free a droop of metal, melted to an indeterminate shape and studded with black cinders. He was holding it up triumphantly. Charlie watched as the father wandered over to where his son stood, stepping with difficulty where the rubble beneath him broke anew and plunged him ankle deep into soot.
They should leave, Charlie decided. The embers were burning too hot. And he could see a muddy haze begin to drift from the ash. But the problem of the guns was nagging at him.
‘Pistols,’ said Charlie, thinking aloud. ‘Giants for breed not birth.’ It sounded faintly familiar somehow. Like a colloquialism he’d heard before. He scanned his memory.
‘Giants in the city?’ said Lily.
‘There are wooden giants at Guildhall,’ said Charlie slowly. ‘Gog and Magog. Statues from an old legend. Men say . . .’ He turned it in his head. ‘Men say Gog and Magog watch over trade and care not for Kings.’
He looked at Lily.
‘Breed not birth,’ she said.
Suddenly things fell into place.
Chapter 106
Torr sat straight-backed, eyes closed. His damp prison vanished away.
The gunshot wound throbbed. He was dying, he knew. But his mystic meditations lifted him beyond pain and anger. It was a kind of magic.
Torr had lived by the sword and expected to die a soldier’s death. He’d never thought it would come at the hand of his brother at arms.
Torr placed a steady hand on his bloody sternum. Slowly he worked through the Tree of Life tattoo.
Foundation, Mercy, Wisdom, Victory.
His fingers settled at the very top, where a crown was tattooed. And without meaning to Torr found himself back there. Holland. The secret alchemy chamber. Holding the marriage papers.
The power.
Even now, all these years later, Torr could taste it. Crucible embers smouldering. The glow of knowledge.
A little roll of papers. Torr could feel them now, resting in his hand. He could see Teresa, dressed all in black. Tears streaming down her horrified face.
This is treason. The Brotherhood will kill us.
A little roll of papers that could destroy a Kingdom. It was temptation. Torr knew it now. His years with mystics had helped him commune with his higher self. Temptation and pride. They had driven him to it. He repented of it now, but it was too late.
We should never have made the marriage!
But it was no good. The thing had been done.
The ultimate marriage.
Torr could only hope that Sally Oakley had hidden the papers well. If Blackstone found them, he would be capable of anything.
He let his mind run deeper, back to poor Teresa Blackstone. Hers had been the most shocking confession he’d ever heard. Her husky voice, explaining the terrible things Blackstone made her do. It still haunted him.
The gunshot wound pulsed a spasm of pain. Torr’s eyes jerked open. It was no good. The nightmare reality flooded back. He called to mind the last time he’d seen his captor.
‘You never would reveal to me,’ said Blackstone, ‘the secrets of your mystic sect.’
‘You weren’t deemed worthy,’ said Torr. ‘And I swore never to reveal the secrets.’
Blackstone was looking at the tree of life tattoo, his mouth moving.
‘I think this must be sulphur,’ he said, looking up to Torr’s face. ‘Sulphur mixed with quicksilver perhaps.’
Torr shook his head.
‘It isn’t a code for you to unravel. It’s a journey.’
Blackstone stabbed a finger at the trunk of the tree. Torr flinched.
‘Foundation,’ he said. ‘The trunk is the foundation stone. The golden elixir. So these branches must be the formula. The ingredients.’
Torr sighed and looked away.
‘You never did understand, Thomas. I pity you that. If it’s wealth you seek, best look to the papers you stole.’
‘When Teresa’s soul is freed,’ said Blackstone, ‘she’ll reveal the papers to me. I’m sure of it. They’re close.’
‘Why did you make Teresa do it?’ asked Torr.
Guilt flashed across Blackstone’s face.
‘Two people,’ he said. ‘We needed two people.’
‘You could have chosen someone else.’
‘Teresa was pure,’ said Blackstone. ‘Pure, obedient and loyal.’
‘She was an innocent soul,’ said Torr, shaking his head. ‘You made her hunted. She must have feared the Brotherhood would kill her slow.’
‘But they didn’t,’ said Blackstone. ‘I protected her.’
‘In a damp cellar?’ said Torr. ‘It’s no wonder she turned to witchcraft and dark things.’
Blackstone’s eyes flashed.
‘That was Sally Oakley’s doing,’ he said. ‘Filling her mind with it.’ He shook his head. ‘You made the marriage, Torr. You’re as guilty as I. Worse. Without your powers it never could have happened. You changed everything.’
‘I thought I did right,’ said Torr. ‘But we made a monster, you and I. We mined gold from humble lead.’
‘And what of Sally Oakley? Letting her practise pagan things.’
‘Sally was from the country,’ said Torr. ‘Perhaps she even did a little good with her charms and herbs.’ Torr eyed Blackstone.
‘You broke your word,’ he said. ‘To Tobias. You said you’d protect Sally and keep her safe as a maid in your household until he returned from sea.’
Blackstone’s eyes flashed.
‘Broke my word to a traitor?’ he demanded. ‘Tobias Oakley loved a maid-servant more than our cause. And Sally meddled with things she shouldn’t.’
Torr was shaking his head.
‘You should have better counsel with yourself,’ he said. ‘Charles Stuart. He was the one who left us talking war and thrones, whilst he rutted with pretty girls. You twisted your rage to Tobias.’
Blackstone gave a thin smile. ‘Tobias married a penniless maid. What did she bring the cause? My wife’s dowry funded our last battle.’
‘Is that what you hoped to do with the papers?’ asked Torr. ‘Get back Teresa’s dowry?’
Blackstone allowed himself a smile.
‘I thought about it often,’ he said. ‘Such power. To have such power . . .’ He closed his eyes. ‘Years ago I would have made gold,’ he said. ‘Riches. Now,’ he smiled, ‘I will topple England.’
Torr looked away.
‘Fire comes,’ said Blackstone. ‘I have chosen a fitting sacrifice for Teresa. As she burns, so London will fall. All will be cleansed.’
Blackstone closed his eyes at the image. Then he opened them again.
‘I can’t take you with me.’ He gave Torr a little smile. ‘You know how sure I must be of my plans. You’re unpredictable.’
Torr looked down to see the pistol in Blackstone’s hands.
He spread his arms wide. ‘God grant me the grace,’ said Torr, ‘to accept the things I cannot change.’
Blackstone pointed the pistol. ‘Grace,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I haven’t heard that word in a long time.’ And he fired the gun.
Chapter 107
‘I’ve had it all wrong,’ said Charlie as realisation dawned. ‘I thought of Blackstone as a clever alchemist. But he is nothing so skilled. Remember the way he fires the city? The gui
ldhalls?’
Lily nodded.
‘He is a guild man,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure of it. Think. Blackstone loses everything in the war. His secrets are stolen. All he has of value is a set of pistols.’
‘Enough to buy a place in a guild,’ breathed Lily.
The light gusts had became a stronger kind of exhalation, steadily kindling the loose embers. Charlie listened. It was coming from the west.
‘Whatever schemes or alchemy the Sealed Knot made in Holland, they did not work,’ said Charlie, thinking aloud. ‘Blackstone joined a guild. And whichever guild it was,’ he added, ‘taught Blackstone some fraternity secrets to make blue fire.’
He looked north to the blaze. ‘If Blackstone’s a guildman he likely stored goods in Guildhall,’ he continued. ‘There could be some clue to his whereabouts. His chest could even be there too, waiting for us.’
‘The papers,’ said Lily. ‘Whatever secrets they hold, I’ll wager it’s enough to stop Blackstone in his tracks.’
‘Guildhall has fire engines,’ said Charlie. ‘So long as they put them to use, we likely have a few hours before the flames reach there.’
A sudden sharp wind was pouring forth along Cannon Street.
‘Something is coming,’ said Charlie. ‘We need to leave.’ Instinctively he turned to where the looters were picking through a building. Flames had struck up again.
Charlie felt it before he saw it. The fire was making its own weather.
‘Get away from the ruins!’ shouted Charlie as flames poked their heads from the rubble. The father and son looters were confused, looking at one another, not knowing which way to turn. The flames had danced out to dazzle. But it was the smoke, wreathing luxuriantly through the air, that was wrapping them in its deadly embrace.
Charlie raced towards the burned-out cottage knowing he was already too late. Smoke was stealing quiet fingers down the throats of the looters, and he was too far away. The old man began wheezing first, dropping to his knees as the fumes took hold. In panic his son knelt to grasp his father’s shoulders. Fires were winking to life all over the sooty ruins now, like a pack of little devils. Father and son were trapped in the flames. And in the distance the London Stone seemed to glow hotter.
Wind blew sharp and fierce, streaming in from every compass point.
Charlie was halfway to the looters when he heard it. A great sigh like a heart breaking. Then the London Stone shuddered and cracked.
Beyond, in the rest of the city, Londoners would swear this to be the time they heard a giant rumble sweep over them. Like the harbinger of apocalyptic force. The ground trembled and the standing buildings shook in the heat as though rattled by a mighty hand. In the heart of the city fire sunk deep as if to garner its strength, and then towered up, sucking in its own immense winds that streamed in from every side.
‘What’s happening?’ Lily cried as scalding gales blew out her skirts, spitting hot dust and splinters.
Charlie froze, partway towards the trapped looters and turned back to Lily.
A hurricane was pouring in from every direction, hurling forth everything in its path. The fire in the west gave a great thunderous bellow and surged high into the sky.
‘Get down!’ Charlie shouted. The blast of air was spiralling larger debris from the ruins. Lily ducked. A splintered chair leg spun over her head and embedded itself deep in a blackened wall.
In the burned-out cottage the son had stumbled to his feet, looking for a path through the flames. A flying barrel caught him unawares, smashing his skull and knocking him to the floor. Neither father nor son were conscious as flames scorched away their hair and clothing in quick acrid billows.
Charlie took hold of Lily.
‘We need to get out of the wind!’ he shouted over the howl of the gale. Heavy debris was picking up now, driven towards the hungry flames by the oncoming hurricane.
‘Behind a building,’ he called as dust and dirt were driven into their eyes and mouths. Charlie’s eyes locked on Fenchurch Street. ‘This way,’ he decided.
‘What’s happening?’ cried Lily as they forged against the wind. ‘It’s like the world is ending.’ A sack exploded against the cobbles at their feet, blasting them with a spray of flour.
‘Something to do with the heat of the fire,’ said Charlie as they battled towards Fenchurch Street. ‘The heat pulls in so much air. It makes a kind of storm.’
A crack of lightning forked in the distance.
Charlie glanced back to the burned-out cottage. Having shaved and stripped the two looters the fire was devouring its quarry. Melted skin and crackling fat blazed anew in the reawakening furnace.
Above the city the heavy smoke began to swirl and sway, as if something was stirring the elements. And on the ground the people knew it. Armageddon was coming to claim London.
The firestorm had arrived.
Charlie watched helplessly as flames tore through the streets. It was moving faster. He thought at least double the speed. Which meant around one hundred houses an hour were burning.
‘Guildhall,’ panted Charlie, as they moved behind the shelter of a burned-out house. ‘We can still get there.’
Lily looked uncertainly to the boiling sky.
‘My father told me,’ she said, ‘of far off lands, where fire grew hot enough to make a tempest. I thought it was a campfire story.’
‘The wind blows inland,’ said Charlie. ‘We can cut up Cornhill.’
‘Do you think it will reach Guildhall?’ asked Lily.
Charlie nodded.
‘With the wind as it is,’ he said, ‘Guildhall will burn soon.’
Chapter 108
‘We’ll put her chest there,’ Blackstone said, pointing.
‘In the enclave?’ said Jacob.
Blackstone nodded.
Jacob fitted his arms to begin heaving the large trunk. Blackstone moved to help him.
‘It’s heavy,’ panted Jacob, ‘for an empty chest.’
‘This was her wedding trunk,’ said Blackstone, as it was manoeuvred into position. ‘It came with thirteen blessings inside.’ There was a tone to his voice which Jacob hadn’t heard before. Regret.
‘Lots of folk still make the old ways,’ said Jacob. ‘Totems for hearth and home, luck and love.’
Blackstone’s eyes fixed on him sharply.
‘A great evil,’ he said, ‘those old ways. They are against the Catholic faith.’
Blackstone was staring at the chest, as though remembering something.
Jacob dropped his head, confused. Teresa’s possessions were all spell-craft. Poppets bound in ribbon, switches of willow and oak.
‘Yes,’ he mumbled.
‘Arrange those there.’ Blackstone was pointing.
Jacob began moving through Teresa’s things with shaking hands. They were things he didn’t like to touch. Dark magic and bloodied talismans.
Blackstone watched as he worked.
‘In Holland,’ he said, ‘much was made of alternative faith. Mysticism. Different ways to experience God.’
Jacob kept his mouth shut tight.
‘Heathen practices,’ said Blackstone. ‘But I found them useful. I learned my own conjuring tricks from their rites and death practices.’
His eyes swung to Jacob.
‘I returned to England and joined a guild,’ he said. ‘They taught me secrets too. How lye can be flamed blue. Ways to make a demon in a bottle that will set alight.’
Jacob was working stoically on moving Teresa’s terrible things. His eyes were darting, trying to find a way to escape.
‘Do you know what we build here?’ asked Blackstone.
Jacob shook his head.
‘This is a fortification,’ said Blackstone. ‘Like every great general I know every inch of it.’
Jacob was waiting for his moment. He’d been watching Blackstone. The Thing he called his wife. That was the key to escaping. Jacob would do some damage. Drop a candle. Upend a table. Blackstone would be distracted. J
acob would escape. He knew the backstreets well. And he was fast on his feet. All he needed to do, was wait for his moment.
Chapter 109
‘It’s like hell itself,’ said Lily as the white stone walls of Guildhall came into view. ‘Everyone looks to themselves.’
The wide courtyard was thick with armed men loading goods. Guild merchants were grappling to hold fast their carts and possessions. Droves of poorer Londoners were hanging on carts, pleading and tussling to load their meagre goods. Fights were breaking out and drivers brandished whips and cudgels.
‘People think judgement comes,’ said Charlie, watching two men and a screeching woman throw punches. ‘It’s pure fear they act by.’
Gog and Magog had loomed large over Guildhall for as long as anyone could remember. The wooden giants conferred protection for the city merchants. But today they had ropes slung around their necks. As Charlie and Lily approached the first statue was felled. Gog hit the ground with an ominous crack, his benevolent face split in two.
A terrified horse reared up, sending the contents of a wooden cart flying free. Tumbling barrels split apart on the cobbles. Salt spilled out in snowy drifts and people dived to fill their tankards.
Warm winds were whipping the people into a frenzy and the firefighting had broken down. A large fire engine stood unused. There was a muddy puddle nearby where men had dug out the pipes. But the pressure was run out and the water pooled to nothing.
Two apprentice boys jostled past carrying a large painting. It was an enormous tree bearing the guild trades across its branches, root and trunk. Picked out in gold leaf were the names of the Lord Mayors.
Charlie watched it go past. The old song London boys learned to memorise the guilds sounded in his head.
The Mayor of London’s Guilds. Butchers, saddlers, soapmakers, goldsmiths, carpenters, cooks, barber surgeons, vintners, drapers, coopers, cutlers, skinners, fishmongers.
Charlie froze.
‘Lily,’ he said, ‘give me the round robin.’
‘But why . . . ?’
‘Give it to me.’
She rustled in her dress and handed it over, looking annoyed. Charlie snatched it up.
