Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘Remember Blackstone’s family tree?’ he said. ‘The crest. I’ve seen it in this church. I think they have a private chapel here. That would be the place.’

  They began heading towards the private chapels, entering the cavernous space of the mighty cathedral.

  Suddenly Charlie heard Lily gasp in pain. He felt something red hot drop on his arm. Charlie looked down to see a drop of grey liquid.

  ‘The roof,’ he called back to Lily. The enormous arc of lead above them was spilling drops.

  There was another splash, this time towards the back of the nave. And then the drops started to become regular, like light rain. Hot lead sprayed up as it splattered and cooled on the stone floor.

  Lily exclaimed as boiling drops splattered her bare arms. Charlie’s gaze swung around the huge space. His eyes lighted under the belfry where no lead fell. The leaded spire was tall enough to resist the melting heat.

  ‘This way.’ Charlie threw his coat over both of their heads, and they raced to the belfry like young lovers escaping a rainstorm. The metal splashed on their skin in hot coin-sized spatters and drummed hard on to Charlie’s thick coat, but they emerged singed and panting under the belfry.

  ‘What now?’ said Lily despairingly, looking out to the unceasing barrage. It echoed around the cathedral, building to a crescendo. ‘We can’t get to the chapels.’

  Charlie looked across the cathedral. Eventually the roof would run out of lead. The burning deluge would stop. But they didn’t have time for that.

  ‘St Paul’s is aflame,’ said Charlie. ‘Blackstone’s pawns are all in place.’

  He looked up to see the spire curling away above them.

  ‘We can get to the roof,’ said Charlie. ‘The belfry has a stair up to the steeple.’

  ‘But Blackstone will be armed,’ said Lily, following behind uncertainly. ‘We have nothing to defend ourselves. We need the papers . . .’

  ‘We can’t get to them in time,’ said Charlie. He looked at her. ‘We have to take our chances.’

  ‘You’ve waited your whole life for those papers,’ protested Lily. ‘London is as good as burned in any case. If they hold riches as Torr says . . .’

  ‘There is more to this than treasure,’ said Charlie. ‘I have waited my whole life for the papers. I can wait a while longer. Stay and search if you wish. I know how gold holds sway with gypsies.’

  He put a foot on the ladder to the spire and hoisted himself up.

  ‘Then toss me the key,’ called Lily hopefully, ignoring the slight.

  She cast around the overflowing cathedral and then pushed up behind him.

  ‘You owe me half the treasure,’ she grumbled. ‘I cannot very well claim it if you are burned alive.’ But Charlie noticed she didn’t manage to keep her voice as casual as she’d intended.

  They inched upwards, coughing against the rising smoke. Ancient rickety steps coiled around the narrow spire, barely a foot’s width across. And as the angle of the building became more acute, it forced them to lean outwards as they climbed.

  ‘Do you think we have a chance?’ Lily called up.

  ‘Blackstone will have got on to the roof by the main stair,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ll come out a different way. He won’t be expecting us. We’ll have the element of surprise at least.’

  They drew level to the enormous bells. They sat sedentary, each the size of a small house. A mass of thick coloured ropes tumbled down from their innards.

  ‘There are hand-holds,’ called Charlie, pressing himself against the inside of the winding spire. ‘But they are well worn. Be careful.’

  ‘There is a seventy-foot drop,’ panted Lily, swinging to grasp the hold behind him. ‘You need not tell me to be careful.’

  As they reached the mid-point, Charlie’s hands found the edges of a small door secreted in the edge of the spire. It led out on to the roof.

  ‘Here,’ he called. ‘This is the way.’

  Lily breathed out. She retrieved a knife from her skirt.

  ‘I’m right behind you,’ she said.

  Chapter 135

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Amesbury’s soot-streaked face was raised to the burned-out walls of Chancery.

  The troops had dropped the firehook and turned to look. One pointed.

  ‘We’ve met the fields!’

  The gaggle of men turned to one another hardly able to believe it. A grassy firebreak stood between Westminster and Temple Bar. All around lay flattened buildings.

  Charles let the shovel in his hand drop. James was dousing the last of the rubble. Deeper in the city flames still roared. But the west had been barricaded. ‘Do you think it’s enough?’ asked Charles. ‘Fire has got to St Paul’s,’ he added, looking with devastation to the cathedral in the distance.

  James nodded. ‘A quarter-mile stretch of demolished buildings lays between the Strand and Westminster,’ he said. ‘Most remaining in the west are stone. Lead or slate tiles. The wind dies. Fire is fading even now.’

  Charles allowed himself a cautious breath out.

  ‘We’ve done it then,’ he said. ‘The Palace is safe?’

  James clapped his brother on the back in reply. Then both looked out to the roaring inferno in the city beyond. Deep in the city, lightning still forked across the sky. There was a storm in the east.

  A rider was approaching, expertly steering his horse through the mire of smoking rubble.

  Charles recognised him.

  ‘Monmouth!’ he hailed. ‘We think Whitehall is protected by firebreaks. Your bravery has been rewarded. Now we should fortify in the north and south.’

  But Monmouth’s face was ashen.

  ‘They say fire goes east now.’ He looked as though he might cry. ‘Will this fire never abate?’ he wailed.

  ‘He’s like a fainting woman,’ muttered Amesbury, eyeing Monmouth with disgust.

  ‘To St Giles? The slums?’ said Charles, less certainly now. The wind blew west. East had never concerned them.

  ‘Not to the slums. To the Tower.’

  Charles felt icy fear run through him. The Tower held the country’s entire munitions. Gunpowder. Arms.

  ‘My God,’ breathed Charles. ‘We’ve no men there.’

  ‘There are three hundred houses between London Bridge and the Tower of London,’ said Monmouth.

  ‘Wooden houses,’ said Charles. He turned to Amesbury. ‘How can it have got so far east?’ he whispered. ‘The wind goes west.’

  Amesbury spoke carefully. ‘Were there a plot,’ he said, ‘this would be a good strategic move. Draw your resources west. Leave the Tower undefended.’

  ‘Think you it then? This has the marks of a plot? To attack the Tower?’ The King was white as Amesbury nodded.

  ‘If it is a plot,’ said Charles, ‘then we’ve walked straight into it. The east is completely defenceless. All our resources and engines have been drawn west. We’ve handed them London on a plate.’

  Amesbury’s face was grim. ‘I think this has the marks of a well-schemed attack.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked the King.

  Amesbury shrugged. ‘It’s what I would do,’ he said.

  Chapter 136

  Charlie pushed the spire door open and climbed out. The huge roofs of St Paul’s rolled out before him. There were smoking flames in some parts, but others were a wide expanse of lead tiles.

  There was no sign of Blackstone beneath the scalding sky.

  The spire where Charlie stood was wreathed in wooden scaffolding. He grabbed the nearest thick strut, clambering down on to the roof. Behind him, he heard Lily emerge.

  ‘I can’t see Blackstone,’ called Charlie, above the inferno of burning London.

  They both stared out on to the blazing city, holding tightly to the scaffold.

  ‘My God,’ said Lily. ‘All is gone.’

  A third of the city was a smoking shell. The blaze all around St Paul’s spread out to embrace another third, with a half-mile of glowing embers in its wake.

&n
bsp; ‘The Tower still stands,’ said Charlie, squinting into the distance. ‘There are no blue flames on the roof. And the Carpenters’ Guild hasn’t been fired. There is time.’

  He cast his eye across the rooftops. The steepled roofs enclosed a multitude of areas where Blackstone could cast his lye. The east side of roof was melted almost all away now, revealing the open joists. But huge quarters of the enormous cross-shaped roof were intact.

  Above them the dark sky boiled and churned. Lightning was striking down all over the city, sending up plumes of fire and destruction.

  There was a sudden movement, a half rooftop away from where they stood.

  ‘There!’ hissed Charlie.

  Blackstone loomed like a demon against the blood-red sky. He was heaving a huge barrel into position on the apex of a thickly leaded roof.

  ‘I can get him.’ Lily raised her knife.

  ‘You’re sure?’ said Charlie, looking at the smoky distance. ‘If you miss he’ll know we’re here.’

  ‘When have you known me miss?’ Lily adjusted her grip on the scaffold, securing her footing. Then she breathed out, and drew back to throw.

  Blackstone ducked down, sending his cascade of lye pouring down the roof. Great clouds of hissing steam rose up.

  Lily cursed and adjusted her aim.

  ‘Now!’ said Charlie. ‘Before he flames it.’

  Thunder crashed directly above their heads, and the scaffold shifted. Lily’s hand jerked free and she slipped.

  Charlie put out his arms to stop her fall and her momentum pulled him from the scaffold. They slid three sharp feet down the steep spire. Charlie’s feet hit the base, shattering tile and he broke Lily’s fall.

  He righted himself, breathing heavily, and looked towards Blackstone.

  ‘No,’ said Charlie, refusing to believe it.

  Blue fire zigzagged along the roof. It rolled down like a fiery fountain, then roared upwards triumphantly.

  They could only look in horror as the west roof blazed blue. Then at the Carpenters’ Guild, they saw an answering blue light. Lily put her hands over her mouth.

  ‘The guild is fired,’ said Charlie, trying to keep the hopelessness from his voice. ‘The Tower will burn.’ He looked up to the storm. ‘The papers,’ he decided. ‘Perhaps we can still stop Blackstone.’

  ‘He’s already won,’ said Lily. ‘All of England’s defences are in the Tower.’

  Lightning cracked, illuminating the rooftops. Lily started.

  ‘We’re concealed by the scaffold,’ Charlie reassured her. ‘Blackstone hasn’t seen us.’

  ‘I was more concerned about being stood on a steeple during a thunderstorm,’ said Lily.

  ‘This steeple was hit by lightning twenty years ago,’ Charlie said. ‘Lightning never strikes . . .’

  Light flashed and the steeple exploded. A shower of burning lead and timber rained on to the roof, tearing huge holes and tumbling into the vaulted chasm below.

  Charlie ducked reflexively, throwing out his arm to protect Lily. On the west roof Blackstone whipped around to follow the source of the light. His eyes fell on Charlie.

  Then on his key.

  Charlie grasped it instinctively, shielding the symbol with his fist. But it was too late. Blackstone’s mouth twisted slowly upwards. He had seen the key. And he knew what it meant. In the next moment Blackstone’s hand was at his hip, reaching for a pistol.

  ‘Lily,’ said Charlie, ‘get . . .’

  Blackstone’s gunshot blew her backwards. Charlie snatched at her dress but the silken fabric tore through his fingers. He could only watch as Lily fell back, crashing through the weakened spire and down into the cathedral below.

  Chapter 137

  ‘Lily!’ Charlie dived for the gap her body had made. He climbed back inside the spire. The bell ropes were swinging. Deep below the monstrous chasm of the cathedral seemed to taunt him.

  In the dark depths Charlie couldn’t even make out her broken body.

  His eyes blurred. ‘Lily,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’m not dead yet,’ called a breathless voice. ‘Only cut me down.’

  Charlie looked in the direction of the voice and saw her hanging. She was upside down, her leg tangled up in the mass of bell ropes.

  ‘Help me,’ she gasped, struggling, ‘my foot is trapped.’

  As she spoke the rope slipped and she dropped screaming for six feet, before halting with a jolt. The massive bell attached to her rope shuddered.

  ‘Lily!’ he cried. ‘Were you shot?’

  ‘No,’ she shouted, ‘I twisted away and slipped. Get me down.’

  Charlie looked up. Lightning had flamed the spire. Fire lit the rafters. The joists which held the bell pulls were burning.

  His eyes followed the rope twisted at Lily’s ankle. The slightest struggle would unloop it and send her crashing seventy feet down. ‘Don’t move!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming.’

  Charlie closed his eyes. ‘Things would be so much simpler,’ he muttered, ‘on my own.’ And then he jumped.

  Charlie landed with both arms and legs wrapped around the nearest bell rope. He slid then halted himself. Lily was two ropes away and twelve feet beneath him. Manoeuvring the next heavy rope with his legs, Charlie wrapped it around his foot, pulled it towards him and swung across.

  ‘I’m nearly there!’ he shouted, looking up to where she hung. ‘Hold on!’

  ‘I don’t plan,’ gasped Lily, ‘to let go.’

  Charlie looked up into the rafters and then down to the cathedral floor. The bell attached to Lily’s rope was huge. Twenty feet high at least. And the organ stretched up to a third of the cathedral height. If the bell were rung, it might lower Lily enough distance to reach the top of the organ.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked. ‘Never mind,’ he added, seeing her expression. ‘The bell you hang from. It is too heavy for you to ring.’

  ‘I do not try to peal the bell!’

  ‘If I jump on to your rope we will be heavy enough together,’ continued Charlie. ‘The bell will turn,’ he said, glancing at it again. ‘So the rope will drop. I think it will bring us low enough to drop on to the top of the organ.’

  ‘I am caught,’ said Lily.

  ‘I will probably have time to cut you free,’ said Charlie, ‘before the bell swings up again.’

  ‘You probably have time?’

  ‘The rafters are burning,’ said Charlie. ‘Your other choice is the cathedral floor.’ He took a breath. ‘Put out your hand,’ he said.

  Lily paused and then her little fingers snaked out in the gloom. He grasped them.

  ‘Ready!’ he shouted, placing his knife in his teeth. ‘Now!’

  Pulling her towards him, Charlie climbed on to her rope. They hung stationary, Lily upside down, Charlie level with her calves.

  ‘It hasn’t worked,’ gasped Lily. ‘We don’t weigh enough to move the bell.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Charlie leaning back against the rope as far as he dared.

  For a moment nothing happened. Then slowly the great bell began to move down, clanging a muted peal.

  Charlie climbed up over Lily, bringing his head level with her suspended feet. Then, working one-handed, he took the blade from his mouth and began sawing frantically at where the rope had caught above her ankle.

  At the rafters the bell reached its ascent with a sonorous clang. Charlie looked down. The top of the ornate organ was less than five feet away, but he was only halfway through Lily’s rope.

  Having reached its apex, the bell began to swing back the other way. Charlie watched helplessly as the organ grew small beneath them.

  Lily was struggling beneath him.

  ‘Stop moving!’ he shouted, looking up at the rafters. ‘The ropes are on fire.’

  Lily looked upwards and froze. The fire had caught the thick bell ropes.

  ‘The next drop,’ said Charlie. ‘It is the only chance we have.’

  The rope next to them screamed a final protest and sped coiling down i
nto the dark cathedral.

  ‘When I shout,’ said Charlie, ‘let go.’

  Lily’s eyes were closed in prayer as the bell gathered speed on the descent, sending them tunnelling down towards the organ.

  Charlie watched the fire. Their rope would not last the downwards peal. He took hold of Lily by the waist and pulled her lower half up, to be level with him. His knife was at her ankle.

  ‘Ready?’ he said as they sped down.

  She nodded as two more blazing ropes hit the cathedral floor.

  The rope jerked as it rang the bell. Then it untwisted sharply down as fire snapped two of the three threads.

  ‘Now!’ Charlie’s knife sliced through the last portion, sending them both flying downwards. They sailed through the air for a moment, then landed in a heap on top of the organ. The fall knocked the breath out of them.

  ‘Your ankle is not hurt?’ asked Charlie, rising to his feet.

  Lily shook her head. She took Charlie’s outstretched hand.

  ‘The papers,’ said Charlie. ‘Blackstone knows where they are.’

  ‘Blackstone will come down the main stair,’ said Lily. ‘We can get to the chapel before him.’

  There was a splintering shriek of glass and they both twisted in the direction of the sound. It had come from the nearest window, which had thrown off a portion of brightly coloured glass.

  ‘The stained glass,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s held together with lead.’

  The rainbow of beautiful glass was shifting and twisting in the heat. Various bible scenes were depicted in lush colours.

  Something occurred to Charlie. Torr’s last words.

  Alchemists look at the big picture.

  What if Torr had meant it literally? The ultimate irony for an allegory spinner. What if Torr meant they should look at a picture of the Wedding of Cana?

  Charlie’s eyes tracked the stained-glass windows. It wasn’t an uncommon scene to depict. And he was sure he’d seen it in St Paul’s.

  Charlie’s eyes settled on the right window, just as the bride and groom shattered and fell across the stone floor. Then Jesus and Mary, gazing benignly on water pitchers, fractured into a thousand coloured pieces.