by Karen Brooks
There was no sign of smoke on the street, just the cloudless heavens, but she could see people pointing in the direction of the river. Some looked skywards, but at what she couldn’t tell. There were frowns, hurried words and then people turned and scurried away as if pursued by bandits. All the while, their skirts and jackets blew around their bodies. Hats flew off and carriage blinds bellied in and out like devil’s bellows.
‘There’s a fire,’ said Matthew, turning towards her. ‘It was all they could talk about at St Michael’s this morning. It started in the wee hours in Pudding Lane. Baker Farriner’s place.’
‘Aye, well, if that’s the case, it’s not been contained there,’ said Rosamund. ‘You can smell it on the wind.’
Matthew looked at her. ‘Hmmm. I noticed it when I arrived as well.’
‘Should we be worried?’ asked Rosamund. ‘The reverend at St Helen’s made no mention, nor any in our congregation.’
Matthew gave a slight shrug. ‘I’m not certain. I think I might go and see what I can find out. Prop the door to the chocolate house open. Our regulars will see and if they’re passing, pop in.’ He glanced at the ceiling. ‘They’ll keep you informed.’
Rosamund nodded. ‘True. Your best source is Sam — if anyone knows what’s going on, it will be him.’
‘I’ll go to the Navy Office immediately. Promise me you won’t do anything rash. Remain here until I get back. I can’t imagine the flames travelling this far.’
‘To Birchin Lane?’ Rosamund scoffed. ‘If it started down in Pudding, we’d be very unlucky if it came anywhere near.’
‘I don’t believe in luck — not in the way most mean it,’ said Matthew. ‘Good or bad. We make our own.’
‘Or God makes it for us,’ said Rosamund softly. ‘That’s what the reverend said this morning.’ She gazed at a woman outside who grabbed her young child with one hand and held onto her hat with the other and raced by the shop, turning into Exchange Alley and narrowly avoiding a courier on horseback. ‘He’d be a cruel God to inflict fire upon us so soon after pestilence, would he not?’
Matthew rocked back on his heels. ‘In my experience, God is cruel.’
Rosamund reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘Mine too.’ They exchanged a long look.
‘Find out what you can. I will do the same. I will return as soon as possible.’
Even with the door open, hardly anyone came by the chocolate house that day and those who did spoke of nothing but the fire raging down by the river. Their tales added to the growing tally of disaster and the sense the blaze was creeping closer, street by street, lane by lane, house by house. It had already consumed the Fishmongers’ Hall and the old church of St Magnus the Martyr. By midday, it had skipped a few streets and started to burn north-west. Whoever came in sat by the windows while Filip, Solomon, Thomas, and Grace found excuses to linger beside them and peer outside.
It wasn’t long before any pretence of eating luncheon was abandoned and they all stood, shoulder to shoulder, gazing out upon a sky roiling with thick black plumes. People flocked onto the rooftops opposite, pointing and crying out in alarm.
While she tried to remain calm, Rosamund nonetheless felt a sense of urgency, and concern for Matthew. The few patrons who stumbled in after the bells chimed noon were dismissive, saying it would be out by nightfall, while others merely stopped by to gossip. Some entered to down a drink before going home to consider whether it was worth gathering their belongings and hiring a coach or wherry to take them out of the city. Then there were those determined to find a Frenchman or Dutchman to hold accountable. As the afternoon wore on, it was evident that, despite all the reassurances, London was burning.
Rosamund could see Lombard Street was already thick with vehicles and people heading north, out of the city.
Dear God, it was like the plague all over again.
By mid-afternoon there were no more visitors and the light was dimmed by choking clouds of Stygian smoke. Scintillas of ash and molten sparks pirouetted in the hot wind, landing on eaves, cobbles, people’s clothing, threatening to spark. Birds had long taken wing, dogs ran barking up the street, chasing those fleeing, while cats slinked into dark voids.
Instead of rushing to help put out the flames raging by the river, people were intent on looking to their own wellbeing — and, Rosamund noted wryly as cart after cart bumped down the road, their material goods as well.
When three of the clock sounded and there was still no sign of Matthew and it was evident the fire was worsening, Rosamund quickly helped clear away their uneaten meals and, along with Bianca, Filip, Thomas, Grace, Solomon and Mr Nick, sat vigil by the window.
The sky grew unnaturally dark. What had been an opaque dome lowered to become a thick, suffocating curtain. Filip ordered Thomas and Solomon to douse the fires in the kitchen by pouring the great pots of water on them, while he began to clean and pack as much of their equipment as he could. Rosamund and Mr Nick worked silently beside him. Unable to say what drove her to do such a thing, Rosamund knew Filip’s instincts were right and they had to do all they could to preserve their equipment. If there was one thing the plague had taught her, it was that people needed the familiar in times of crisis. To cling to hope, they needed to know all was not lost — ‘all’ being even the simplest things. And what was chocolate if not the most complex of simple things? If God preserved them, she would offer solace in whatever way she could. Serve chocolate from Bishopsgate Street if that was required — if God saw fit to leave the manor standing.
When Matthew staggered through the door just before four of the clock, his face and clothes blackened with soot, his hair damp with sweat, he was met by a room piled with crates of bowls, pots, molinillos, metates, sacks of chocolate cakes, spices, cacao beans, coffee beans, piles of ledgers and whatever else they’d managed to pack.
Pails of water and milk stood at the ready in case an errant spark or flame should kindle a conflagration.
‘I see you’ve been busy,’ he said, flashing a look of approval even as he reached for the water Rosamund gave him, drinking greedily. Some he splashed over his face and hands, staring at the streaks of brown-grey in disgust as he wiped them on a cloth. He slapped Filip’s shoulder in greeting.
‘Well?’ asked Rosamund.
‘Listen,’ he said, collapsing on a bench. They gathered around. ‘I found Sam. I also went to the offices of the London Gazette. I figured between them, Sam and the staff there would know what was going on.’ He swallowed more water. ‘Almost a quarter of the city within the walls has burned.’
Rosamund gasped. Bianca sat down heavily. Filip’s eyes flicked from Matthew to Rosamund. Matthew had knocked away the last bit of hope to which she’d been clinging. She sank down beside Bianca and stared at him. This was worse than she’d anticipated.
Matthew nodded towards the windows. There was no sky any more, just tumbling clouds of catastrophe. ‘The mayor is all but useless and rumour has it the King or his brother will take over and try to put this conflagration out.’
‘Are we safe here?’ asked Filip.
Matthew lifted heavy eyes to him. ‘If the wind keeps blowing in this direction, I fear not. It’s time to do what so many others have already done and prepare for the worst. I see you’ve packed the equipment. I suggest we take it to Bishopsgate Street.’ He glanced Rosamund.
‘Of course. We can decide what to do once there,’ she said.
‘You’re not remaining with us, are you?’ asked Filip of Matthew.
Matthew shook his head. ‘I’ll help you get this to Blithe Manor, then I must do my duty by my sovereign and my city.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Filip. Mr Nick swiftly volunteered as well. Matthew gave them a flicker of a smile.
A lump formed in Rosamund’s throat. It was hard to push the words through, but she managed. ‘You intend to fight the fire.’ Her eyes were locked on Matthew.
He flexed his fingers in his gloves. ‘I do, my lady. I do.’
&
nbsp; Rosamund didn’t know when she’d been prouder of him — or more afraid.
FORTY-SEVEN
In which London burns
Miraculously, Mr Nick managed to find a carter happy to carry their goods to Blithe Manor in exchange for some cakes of chocolate. As they followed the cart, arms filled with sacks and linens, and more than a few books Rosamund rescued from the chocolate house and bookshop, they passed pale and tear-streaked men, women and children laden with their own belongings, all coming from the direction of the river. Some were covered in soot and ash, their eyes betraying what they’d lost.
The sky was a furious tempest, as if demons writhed in an eternal struggle, raining glowing embers and ash upon the city, indifferent to the frightened mortals below. The world had been turned upside down and hell was now above — where heaven existed, God only knew.
Among the evacuees were messengers and couriers running between the authorities in London and Whitehall. Rumour had it the King was upon the river and sure enough, when they managed to waylay a messenger they discovered not only that the King was, indeed, abroad and taking matters into his own hands, but that the fire was moving swiftly west along Thames Street. It had destroyed nine churches and the warehouses lining the river were all but blackened powder. Their escape from the chocolate house was timely as the fire surged towards the Royal Exchange and Cornhill, threatening even St Paul’s and the Inns of Court.
Releasing the messenger, who was wild-eyed with exhaustion, Matthew urged them on. They needed no prompting.
At Blithe Manor, the goods tumbled from their arms as footmen and maids ran out to help unload the cart. Ashe brought them water. Barely waiting for them to quench their thirst, she begged news and added her own.
There was a call for workmen to help the Duke of York, who’d been placed in charge. The footmen longed to be excused so they might offer their services. Before Rosamund could release them, Sam arrived.
‘Come, come,’ he said. ‘You can’t stay here. You’re in the path of the flames. You must come to my place. Bury what you can and then let’s get you to Seething Lane. We’ve a fine view of the fire and what’s more, a command post has been set up nearby, so we can keep abreast of the news.’
He sounded invigorated.
Instead of burying the equipment, at Rosamund’s suggestion they lowered everything into the well in a corner of the courtyard. Ashe included some of the household silver as well as other valuables.
Rosamund sent the maids to fetch anything they might have need of, then stood outside, reluctant to go to her room and retrieve any of her own belongings. It seemed pointless when what she most feared to lose was about to face the fierceness of the fire.
Matthew called the footmen to him, along with Filip, Mr Nick, Thomas and Solomon, who swore their services as well. Then he turned to Sam. ‘I’m placing her in your care, Sam — look to her.’
‘You’ve no need for concern, Matthew. Rosamund is family and I always take care of my own.’
Thinking how he barely had time for his wife, Elizabeth, Rosamund nevertheless forgave him the hyperbole and was grateful for his confident presence and his offer of safety. With a bow, Sam went to supervise the carter who was prepared to carry whatever Rosamund deemed worthy of saving to his house. Co-opting a couple of the maids, with whom he flirted outrageously, together Sam and Ashe began supervising the loading of the cart.
Content all was under control, Matthew paused only to take Rosamund in his arms and hold her tight. Shocked and painfully aware of the eyes upon them, at first she froze before melting into his embrace. He smelled worse than burned coffee, like the fires that crackled on the streets during the plague.
Filip cleared his throat. Thomas and Solomon nudged each other and Grace gave her a knowing look, while Mr Nick grinned. Pulling away from Matthew, she rested her hands upon his chest. Beneath her palm, she could feel his heart pulsing — for her. All for her.
‘Look to yourself, Matthew, please. I’ll not forgive you if you don’t return this time.’
‘You admit you’ll miss me then?’ Even as death drew closer, he could make a joke.
‘Just a little,’ she conceded.
With a laugh that was half-cry, she pulled his face towards her and pressed her soft lips into his firm ones. All at once, the slow roar of the fire that had underpinned their entire journey dulled. The faces of those nearby disappeared as she stared at the man whose mouth captured hers. Leaning into him, a heat that had nothing to do with the approaching conflagration rose and she melded her body to his, found the crevices and planes into which her own flesh fitted so perfectly.
With a deep, urgent moan, it was Matthew who pushed her away this time, his eyes molten with desire. ‘Do that again and I may burn where we stand,’ he said hoarsely.
‘I’d rather that than risk you in the fire,’ said Rosamund, nodding towards where a spire of orange rose above the rooftops. It was the first actual flame she’d seen and it filled her with dread.
Matthew took her face in his hands and kissed her three times in quick succession before finally pushing her away so hard, she stumbled and would have fallen if Bianca hadn’t caught her.
‘Go —’ he cried, waving first at the young men waiting for him, then, running backwards, gave the same direction to Rosamund. ‘Go, and God be with you.’
‘And with you —’ whispered Rosamund. ‘Look after each other,’ she said, throwing her arms around first Mr Nick, then Filip, and kissing him soundly as well.
She stood a moment longer, watching Matthew and Filip lead the group of nine lads and men through the gate before they disappeared, their cries mingling with those on the streets.
‘Come,’ said Bianca. ‘Let’s quickly retrieve some clothes and leave.’
Reluctantly, Rosamund did as she was bidden, aware of Bianca’s droll gaze as they all but ran through the corridors.
‘What?’ she asked, panting.
‘And you refused to marry him?’ She shook her head. ‘Are you mad?’
Rosamund paused on the stairs, staring past the open door towards the street. ‘Aye, I think I might be…’
Rosamund didn’t have much time to appreciate either Sam’s house or the warm welcome Elizabeth extended. Before dawn the following morning, the household was on the move. The fire had surged closer and only the direction of the wind marked the difference between safety and threat. It was too great a risk.
Bundling Elizabeth, Jane, and his other servants into a cart he’d borrowed from Lady Elizabeth Batten, Sam, still dressed in his nightgown, rode them to safety at Bethnal Green, while Rosamund and Bianca stayed behind with Ashe and Grace, supervising the packing of the other belongings he wanted transported, which he intended to return and collect as soon as he could. Sam rode into the shadows, constantly looking over his shoulder and gauging the distance between holocaust and home. Feeling no such attachment to Blithe Manor, Rosamund pitied Elizabeth, who’d been in tears at the thought of losing her much-loved house. For years the Pepyses had been renovating, adding new flooring, reupholstering furniture, hanging paintings and tapestries they’d acquired, making it theirs. As she observed the two remaining servants unhook a particularly grand arras and roll it ready for transport, Rosamund wondered if she’d ever feel the wrench Elizabeth and Sam evidently did.
Before midday, Sam returned and joined Rosamund, Bianca, Ashe and little Grace for a quick dinner. Bursting with news, he told them how outside the walls the roads were filled with farmers, porters and coachmen from outlying villages and towns, eager to make coin transporting people’s goods.
‘Their rates are exorbitant,’ he grumbled.
‘I’m sure the wealthy can afford it,’ said Rosamund. She’d seen the poor struggling with their meagre belongings, and being all but trampled by those with the money and carriages to leave swiftly. She could hardly feel sorry if a few porters exploited those with the wherewithal to hire them.
‘What of those fighting the fire?’ asked
Rosamund, thinking only of one. ‘How do they fare?’
Sam drained his coffee. ‘There are firefighters at every command station across the city. Even so, the fire destroyed the waterwheel on the Bridge, which was a blow from which I doubt the city can recover.’ He sighed. ‘The Duke of York has a band, the Dean of Westminster and many others are leading men and boys to fight the flames. There’s been a concerted effort to prevent it reaching the Tower.’ Drifting to the window, he looked out upon the city. Screeds of blue sky could be seen in the distance, where the smoke was thinner, but closer than any of them liked were undulating banks of fierce orange.
‘Overall,’ he said, his usual optimism fading, ‘it doesn’t seem to matter what’s done, the fire spreads. Even houses far away are being torched as burning ash lands on rooftops and dry eaves. The flames leap from one building to another like Bedlam inmates. The post office has been consumed, so any chance of news has now given way to alarm. People are blaming arsonists. There’s talk that Dutchmen and Frenchmen are being set upon, accused and felled where they stand.’
‘Mio Dio,’ said Bianca.
Rosamund thought of Filip. Englishmen often couldn’t distinguish between a Spaniard, a Frenchman or a Dutchman. They were all foreigners and worthy of suspicion.
Bianca continued. ‘This is no act of war or vengeance — none except God’s. We heard that it started at a bakery in Pudding Lane.’
Sam nodded. ‘That’s what I heard, and from many sources. I’ve no doubt it’s true. I was upon the river many times yesterday and it’s evident where it commenced. But when people are afraid, they look to blame those who are different from them.’ His eyes alighted upon Bianca. ‘I would advise you not to wander alone in the streets, my dear. Stay close to Rosamund.’
‘But you will be with us, won’t you, Sam?’ asked Rosamund.
‘Shortly. I still have to see to the removal of my household items. I also have to maintain contact with Whitehall — the King, you see. It was I who alerted him to the seriousness of the blaze. He’s relying on me.’ His chest expanded. He slapped his hands against his breeches. ‘You’re welcome to come with me or remain here. At least here you can see how the city is faring. I’ve also asked Captain William Lark from the local command station to notify you at once should the fire change direction. I will return this evening and we can assess whether we remain or flee.’
