Dark Fire (14 page)

‘Better the monks had destroyed everything,’ I whispered aloud.

I heard footsteps and looked up to see Barak approaching. He glanced over the flower beds.

‘This is a fine-smelling place.’ He nodded at the documents surrounding me. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what d’you make of it all?’

‘Not much. For all this great jangle of words no one seems to have any clue what Greek Fire really was. As for the alchemical works, they are incomprehensible riddles and obscure
words.’

Barak grinned. ‘I tried to read a law book once, it made me feel like that.’

‘Guy may be able to make some sense of them.’

‘That old black monk of yours? He’s well known round where I lodge. By God, he’s a strange-looking one.’

‘He’s a very knowledgeable man.’

‘Ay, so they say round the Old Barge.’

‘That is where you live?’ I remembered those shutters closing.

‘Ay, it’s not a fine place like this but it’s in the middle of London – useful as my business takes me all over the City.’ He sat beside me and gave me a sharp
look. ‘You’re to say as little as possible to the black monk, remember.’

‘I’ll ask him to elucidate these alchemy books, say it’s something I’ve to look into for a client. He won’t press me more than that, he knows I have to keep
clients’ confidences.’

‘Guy Malton, the black apothecary calls himself,’ Barak said thoughtfully. ‘I’ll wager that’s not the name he was born with.’

‘No, he was born Mohammed Elakbar; his parents converted to Christianity after the fall of Granada. Your own name’s unusual, come to that. Barak, it is like Baruch, one of the Old
Testament names reformers are giving their children now. But you’re too old for that.’

He laughed and stretched long legs in front of him. ‘You’re a scholar, aren’t you? My father’s family was descended from Jews who converted to Christianity in old times.
Before they were all kicked out of England. I think of it whenever I have to visit my master at the Domus. So maybe it was Baruch once. I’ve a funny little gold box my father left me that he
said had been passed down from those days. It was all he had to leave me, poor old arsehole.’ Again that sombre look passed quickly across his face. He shrugged. ‘Anything else those
old papers reveal?’

‘No. Except I think the monks hid the formula and the barrel for fear of the destruction Greek Fire could cause.’ I looked at him. ‘They were right. The devastation such a
weapon could wreak would be terrible.’

He returned my look. ‘But if it could save England from invasion. Surely anything is worth that.’

I did not reply. ‘Tell me what it was like. At the demonstration.’

‘I will, but tomorrow at the wharf. I came to tell you I’m going out. I have to fetch some clothes from the Old Barge. And I am going to ask around the taverns, see if any of my
contacts know of that pock-faced man. Then afterwards I’ve a girl to see, so I’ll be back late. Got a key?’

I looked at him disapprovingly. ‘Ask Joan for hers. We must start very early tomorrow.’

He smiled at my look. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t find me wanting in diligence.’

‘I hope not.’

‘Nor will the girl.’ He gave me a lubricious wink and turned away.

T
HAT NIGHT
I
COULD NOT SLEEP
, from the heat and from the tangle of images that chased each other
through my mind: Elizabeth in her cell, Cromwell’s drawn, anxious look, that pair of dreadful corpses. Far into the night I heard Barak come in, footsteps creeping quietly upstairs to his
room. I rose and knelt by the bed in the sticky darkness to pray for rest and guidance on the morrow. I was praying less and less these days, feeling often that my words did not ascend to God but
merely dissolved inside my head like smoke, but when I returned to bed I fell at once into slumber and woke with a start to the light of early morning, a warm breeze wafting through the open window
and Joan calling me down to breakfast.

Despite his night of rousting, Barak seemed fresh as a new pin, eager to be off. He told me he had been unable to trace the man who had followed us, but had set enquiries in train among his
acquaintances. Straight after breakfast we walked down to catch a boat at Temple Stairs. It was not yet seven; I was seldom abroad at such an hour on a Sunday and it was strange to see everywhere
deserted. The river, too, was quiet, the wherrymen waiting idly at the stairs pleased to have our business. The tide was at low ebb and we had to walk to the boat across a wooden catwalk laid over
the thick, rubbish-strewn mud. I turned my head from the smell given off by the bloated carcass of a dead donkey. I was glad to step into the boat. The wherryman steered us into the middle of the
river.

‘D’you want to shoot the rapids under London Bridge?’ he asked. ‘It’ll be an extra half-groat.’ He was an ill-favoured young fellow with the scar of some old
fight running down his face; the Thames boatmen were ever a battlesome crew. I hesitated, but Barak nodded. ‘Ay, the water’s at its lowest, there won’t be much pull under the
piers.’

I gripped the sides of the boat as the great bridge, crowded with houses, loomed up, but the wherryman steered us deftly through and we floated on downriver past Billingsgate, where the big
seagoing ships lay docked, past the looming mass of the Tower of London. Then we passed the new naval docks at Deptford, and I stared in wonder at the king’s great warship
Mary Rose
,
in for repair, her enormous masts and rigging soaring high as steeples above the surrounding buildings.

Beyond Deptford signs of habitation ended and the river broadened, the far bank growing distant to the view. Wastes of marsh and reeds crowded to the water’s edge. The occasional wharves
we passed were mostly abandoned, for shipworking was concentrated upriver now.

‘That’s it,’ Barak said at length, leaning over the side. A little way off I saw a crumbling jetty rising on wooden piers. Behind, a space of weed-strewn earth cleared from the
surrounding reed beds fronted a large, tumbledown wooden shed.

‘I expected something larger,’ I said.

‘My master chose it because it was out of the way.’

The wherryman guided the little boat to the jetty, grasping at a ladder fixed to the end. Barak climbed nimbly up. I followed more carefully.

‘Come back for us in an hour,’ Barak told the boatman, passing him his fare. He nodded and cast off, leaving us alone. I looked round. Everything was silent and still, the
surrounding reeds whispering in the light breeze, richly coloured butterflies flitting among them.

‘I’ll just check the shed,’ Barak said, ‘in case some vagabond has made a home there.’

As he went to peer through the warped boards of the shed, something dangling from a ring in an iron bollard caught my eye. A thick, knotted hemp rope, such as might be used to tie up a boat,
hung over the end of the jetty. I drew it up. There were only about two feet of rope; the end was charred. It had been burnt right through.

Barak rejoined me. ‘All clear.’ He passed me a leathern bottle. ‘A drink?’

‘Thank you.’ I unstoppered it and took a draught of small beer. Barak nodded at the rope which I still held. ‘That’s all that’s left of the boat I tied up
there.’

‘Tell me,’ I said quietly.

He led me into a patch of shade cast by the shed. He looked out over the river for a moment, then took another draught of beer and began his tale. He told the story with more fluency than I
would have expected, a sense of wonder overcoming his usual brashness.

‘Back in March my master told me to buy an old crayer, in my own name, and have it brought down here. I found one, a big thirty-foot tub, and had it rowed down and moored here.’

‘I travelled from Sussex to London in a crayer once.’

‘You know what they’re like then. Long, heavy barges. This one was a big solid thing, with sail and oars, that used to carry coal down the coast from Newcastle.
Bonaventure
,
she was called.’ He shook his head. ‘She was to have an adventure all right.

‘Like I said, my master chose this place because it was out of the way. He asked me to be here at first light on a March morning, when hopefully there wouldn’t be any river traffic,
and wait for him. He told me I might see something strange. “More likely, though,” he said, “you won’t.”

‘Anyway, I rode down here before dawn, and damned difficult it was, following the trackways through these marshes in the dark. The old crayer was where I’d moored her, for she
wasn’t worth anyone stealing. I tied Sukey up and walked about, stamping my feet to keep warm as the sun came up. The strange noises those river birds make as the day starts, they made me
jump a few times.

‘Then I heard horses’ hooves, and a creaking sound, and through the reeds I saw my master approaching on horseback. It was strange seeing him out there. He had a lowering look on
him, kept glaring at the two men accompanying him. They were on horseback and one of the horses was pulling a cart with something heavy hidden under a pile of sacking.

‘They got to the wharf at last and dismounted. I got a good look at the Gristwoods for the first time. I thought them poor folk, God rest them.’

I nodded. ‘Michael was an unqualified attorney. The sort who deals with small cases, pushes business for the barristers.’

‘Ay, I know that sort,’ Barak said with a sudden sharpness that made me glance at him. ‘They were both small, skinny men, kept glancing at my master with apprehensive looks. I
could see he thought all this beneath his dignity; I thought if they didn’t satisfy him they’d smart for it. One of the brothers wore a skullcap and a long alchemist’s robe, the
complete paraphernalia, for all that it was spattered with mud from his trip through the marshes. My master had on a simple black cloak, as he does when he travels alone. He introduced me to the
Gristwoods and the pair doffed their caps and scraped to me like I was an earl.’ He laughed. ‘I thought they were the crookedest-looking pair of arseholes I’d ever seen.

‘My master ordered me to tie the horses to posts by the shed, where I’d put Sukey. When I got back, the brothers were unloading their cart. I’d never seen such a pile of
strange stuff: a long thin brass pipe and a big metal handpump like some of the conduits have. The earl came over and said quietly, “Look over that boat with me, Jack. I want to be sure
there’s no trickery.” I dared to ask him what it was all about, and he looked dubiously to where the brothers were unloading an iron tank of some sort; by the way they were sweating and
grunting there was something heavy inside. He told me then that Sepultus was an alchemist and had promised to show us a great wonder with that apparatus. He raised an eyebrow, then walked over to
the boat.

‘I helped him in and he looked the ship over from end to end. We even went down to the hold and walked about, coughing for there was a little coal dust. He said to look for trickery,
anything strange. But there was nothing; it was just the empty old tub I’d bought cheap from the ship merchant.

‘When we got back on deck the brothers had set up their apparatus on the jetty. The metal tank had been attached to the pump at one end and to the pipe at the other. I caught a whiff of
something from the tank. It was like nothing I’d ever smelt before, a harsh tang that seemed to go right up your nostrils into your skull.’

‘Tell me more about how the apparatus looked.’

‘The pipe was about twelve feet long, and hollow, like a gun barrel. Under the end they’d fixed a wick, a pot of string greased with candle wax. The other end was fixed to the tank,
as I said.’

‘How big was the tank? Enough to hold, say, a large barrelful of liquid?’

He frowned. ‘Yes. Though I don’t know how full it was.’

‘No. I’m sorry, go on.’

‘When my master and I got back on land we saw they’d heaved the tank onto a big iron tripod. To my surprise, they were trying to light a fire of sticks underneath it now, fussing
about with flints.

‘Then Michael Gristwood gave a great shout of excitement. “It’s lit!” he cried. “It’s lit! Move away, my lord, away from the pipe!” My master looked
scandalized at being addressed so familiarly, but went to stand behind the brothers. I went with him, wondering what on earth was to happen.’

Barak paused a moment. He looked out over the water, swirling with little gurgling eddies as the tide swept in again.

‘It happened very quickly then. Michael took a twig from the fire and lit the wick, then ran back, and he and Sepultus worked the pump up and down. I saw a movement at the front of the
pipe and then a great sheet of yellow flame, a dozen feet long, shot out with a roaring sound, flew through the air and hit the boat amidships. It seemed to twist in the air like a live
thing.’

‘Like fire from a dragon’s mouth.’

He shivered. ‘Ay. The wood caught light immediately, the flames seemed to stick to it and devour it like an animal eating its way along a carcass. Some of the flames fell down on the water
and by the throat of God I saw
the water burning
. Saw it with my own eyes, a patch of flames leaping up and down on the river. For a minute I was terrified the whole river might burn up,
fire leaping all the way to London.

‘Then the brothers turned the pipe round at an angle, pumped again, and another long gout of flame, too bright to look at, shot out and hit the stern. It seemed to leap at it like
something alive. The boat was burning merrily now. The heat from that flying fire was tremendous. I was twenty feet away but my face felt scorched. Another burst of fire, and another, and then the
poor old crayer was blazing from end to end. Everywhere birds were clattering up from the marshes and flying off. By Jesu, I was frightened, I’m no godly man but I was praying to Our Lady and
all the saints to protect me and if my master allowed rosaries I’d have been fondling the beads till they broke.

‘We watched the boat, just a mass of flame now, clouds of thick black smoke rising into the sky. I looked at my master. He wasn’t afraid, he just stood watching with his arms folded,
a gleam of excitement in his eyes.