Fire (29 page)

London beyond the wall was as yet unburned, though the smoke
was still thick and all could see that huge approaching arc of fire and hear the roar of its destroying power. Forewarned, constables of the parishes they passed through were mustered with equipment, and there were many cries of ‘Hi! Hi! Hi!' with men dashing past to attend a roof that a blown spark had reached. They walked in near silence, as if both understood that there was too much to say and that now was not the time to say it. Dickon, though, was as unrestrained as ever and from his chirpings that alighted on various things like a butterfly upon a bed of mixed flowers Sarah was able to gain at least some of their tale.

‘Oh, Captain!' was all she said, when the talk passed on to fireships, and the role of monkeys upon them.

Though the streets were busy, there was not the same crowd of refugees that had gone straight north. In an hour's push, they arrived at the Duke's Playhouse.

‘Mrs Chalker!' cried Thomas Betterton when he saw her, then struck his forehead. ‘Ah! I apologise, sir. Mrs
Coke.
I should know that, since I gave away the bride. Delighted to see you both, uh, well.'

He was studying the arrivals, all three of them blackened head to toe with soot, his nose wrinkling. ‘You have obviously emerged from the inferno. Praise the heavens for your deliverance. What's the news? I hear the king and our patron the duke are in the forefront of the fray –'

‘News can wait, Tom,' said his wife Mary, elbowing him aside to reach Sarah. ‘My dear, come,' she continued, taking Sarah's arm. ‘We've water to wash with, and ale to drink. Food, too. You must be parched, and starved, all of you.'

‘Oh indeed. We've opened the playhouse doors to so many old
actors.' It was not his best delivered line, if Betterton intended to keep his disdain from it, continuing, ‘We've quite the mob of 'em in the dressing rooms. Pray, join them.'

It was indeed a scene more like a party than a funeral, with many sat about, some as soot-ridden as the newcomers. Sarah was immediately swept up, cleaned up, her smock exchanged for one of her old costumes. Coke and Dickon were offered new clothes too, though he declined for both of them, taking only a pair of better boots apiece, and contented himself with sponging down what he had. He was not concerned about going back into the city wet. It was a furnace and he would be dry, and dirty again, in minutes.

For go back I must, he thought, snagging a satchel and, between bites and gulps, filling it with some crusts, nuts, cheese and two bottles of ale. The idea of rising from the chair he'd sunk into and venturing again into that hell was daunting. But he knew he had no choice.

‘But why?' Sarah said when he came to tell her. The actresses who'd been fussing around withdrew at the anguish in her voice.

‘I made two promises. Betterton reminded me of one – to my king, who is indeed out there striving to save the city, to halt the fire within the walls. For if we do not,' he shrugged, ‘it could rage past and destroy Whitehall and Westminster – here. All of London, within and without the walls, will be consumed. I would not see that.'

She stared at him, then nodded. ‘And the second promise?'

‘Was to Pitman. Aye, I found him in the heart of the fight and 'twas he who told me of –' he faltered, ‘of you, and your travails. He guided me to the burnt-out Compter, then returned for his
own family, his parish. I promised I would go back to help him.' He took both her hands. ‘Listen to this, Sarah. He believes our enemies, those who practised so upon us, are about their mischief again out there.'

‘The Saints burned down the city?'

‘Not that, perhaps. But all their prophecies point to an apocalypse. One that is foretold to happen now, this year, even these days.' He nodded to the world outside, to the roar of devastation, distant yet distinct. ‘I do not know if this
is
the apocalypse – but it will certainly do until the real one arrives.'

She laughed, as he hoped she would, and he rose on that, still holding her hands. She hugged them hard. ‘You will not – not take too many risks?'

‘I?' He smiled.

She did not. Instead she hugged him fiercely. ‘I mean it, Captain. I have lost enough. I will not lose you.'

‘You will not. Trust me.'

‘I do.'

They kissed, he bowed, then made for the door. Dickon leapt up there. ‘Are we off, Cap'n?' he asked, his mouth crammed with food.

‘I am. You must stay here, safe.'

‘Ha!' Dickon obviously thought that was the funniest thing in the world for he sprayed bread and cheese onto his captain's breeches.

‘Come then,' Coke sighed, leading the way. A thought came when he passed Thomas Betterton. ‘Sir,' he said, ‘do you possess a brace of pistols?'

‘I do.'

‘May I borrow 'em?' He saw the man hesitate. ‘You know I am the king's man. His Majesty asked me to return in arms.'

‘Oh, indeed.' The player went and returned with a box – and a sword. ‘Thought you might need this too.'

‘I am grateful, sir,' Coke replied, buckling it on, ‘for I have a feeling that I will.'

St Paul's Cathedral. 6 p.m.

How is it still there? marvelled the man so many sought, the man of blood. It looks more like a carrack in a black sea than a cathedral.

The flames had devoured almost every structure around it. A few discoloured stones remained; a wall here, a steeple there, a brick doorway giving entrance only to ruin. The fire had moved on, leapt the Fleet river two hours since, mocking the puny efforts to halt it there. Now it raged in districts beyond the ditch, above and below Fleet Street, ravaging both foul Alsatia and the fine lawyers' chambers of the King's Bench with indiscriminate joy. Yet somehow it had bypassed the cathedral.

Until now. Even as Captain Blood watched, he saw yet another flame under one of the boards that covered the much-holed roof. Though men were up there, precariously perched, drawing up buckets on ropes from below and hurling water as fast as they were able, he could see their efforts would be futile.

‘Old St Paul's is burning down,' he sang to a popular tune about
a different London landmark, adding in speech, ‘and a good riddance to it.'

It was not so much that it was ugly, its great square and spireless tower and multiple patchings giving it the aspect of a bunched and mottled toad. He had visited cathedrals in Europe, in order to study the houses of his enemy, the Antichrist, the Pope. Most, he would grudgingly admit, had at least some grandeur, some beauty about them. St Paul's had none. But since it was also the centre of the Anglican faith he despised, the sooner it was reduced to ash the better.

The stone tower he occupied had survived the devastation of its church, St Austin's, its blackened stone steps allowing him to mount to its bell tower, even though the bell itself had melted and covered his perch in lead, only now beginning to harden again. It still gave him the view, not only of the cathedral's unfolding destruction, but the churchyard to the north and the one house that still stood there. Where his brother Saints would even now be gathering, according to the youth, Daniel, he'd encountered.

He stared at it, marvelling how some confluence of wind, some diligence of man, some indulgence of God had left the house standing. Before it, men scurried, shouting, and running at the cathedral with buckets, ropes and axes.

Not long now, he thought, picking up the weapon beside him, putting the hog-back stock to his shoulder, lining the front and rear sights up on a man standing just in front of the house, his hands on his head. ‘Pff!' Blood breathed out on the sound. It was as if the man felt something, so suddenly did he drop his hands and run.

Carefully he put the gun beside him, and took out and placed
his monocle to his eye, the better to study the weapon's breech and the letters engraved on steel upon it. One Christian Reich had made it in Westphalia and it was the best thing Blood had brought back from Holland. It was a Müller-Büchse, a type of wheel-lock – far better than a flintlock, for it so rarely misfired. Best of all, it had a rifled barrel. A hunter's gun, it hardly threw at all, unlike a smooth-bored musket. He would not have attempted what he must do with one of those. With this superb tool, he knew he could make the shot. One hundred and fifty yards perhaps, with the wind following straight and not swerving the ball at all? He'd knocked a seagull off a roof in Harwich at two hundred yards in a crosswind with this weapon, just for the practice. But I am not hunting seagulls today, he thought, and licked his lips.

There was a stirring near the churchyard's entrance. A larger group of men was pushing in, armed with tools to fight the fire, several dragging a sled on which a large brass squirt was fixed. These newcomers looked organised, determined. Not surprising, perhaps, since they were in the presence of their king.

Charles, his brother mounted beside him, rode into St Paul's churchyard. Dropping the monocle into a pocket, Blood picked up the gun, laid it in front of him, resting it on the lead-covered stone before him, and lined up the sights.

‘Pff,' he breathed.

St Paul's Cathedral. 6 p.m.

‘He told me he would be here,' Daniel said, squirming in Simeon's grip. ‘He promised.'

‘And you told him the house on the north side? As I instructed you.'

‘Yes. Yes!' Daniel wriggled out of the grip, rubbing his arm.

‘Hmm. He'd best come soon. For I fear the king will. And Captain Blood would not want to miss that.'

Looking through glass that was bowed but not melted, Simeon peered again from the one house standing on Paternoster Row, out into St Paul's churchyard. As soon as he'd seen it, he'd known that God had preserved it especially for his Saints – for this moment to come. It was the perfect place to view the destruction of the cathedral – as the king and his brother must realise. Rumour had put Charles at every scene of greatest destruction during the previous three days: Baynard's Castle, the conflagration of the Exchange, the gutting of the Guildhall. He would surely come as the very centre of religion in his kingdom burned. He would try in vain to stop it. He would stand before them here.

Yet, despite all the scurrying before it, not one person had tried to enter the house. The roof had been scorched, its beams charred. People had learned that the inferno could pass by, breathe on a house merely, and then move on. But within hours the structure would still tumble into a smoking ruin. He would not have taken shelter here had he not had this purpose. Had he not been sure that King Jesus kept this house for his Saints.

He looked at the others now. Hopkinson was rechecking the muskets. He had been the champion marksman of the regiment. A hunter still, he'd lost none of his skills. Tremlett, if less accurate, had always been steady under fire. He had vouchsafed that, when the two of them aimed for the king, he would shoot the Duke of York. At twenty paces, how could any of them miss?

Daniel, who'd come to peer through the window, suddenly cried out. ‘There! There! It burns.'

They all looked out. The cathedral roof was indeed fully alight now, the fire spreading fast. But under the growing roar, Simeon heard something else. ‘It is time, brothers,' Simeon said, stepping away. ‘As we used to say in the regiment: “Raise your weapon to the enemy and your voices to God.” ' He went and picked up his musket, as did the brewer and the builder. ‘Our Father,' he began, and the others joined in, ‘who art in heaven…'

The noise he'd heard was growing outside. Not only the panicked shouts of those trying to stop the inevitable – but the cheers for someone approaching, someone special. But he did not stop the chant. There was time enough to finish the prayer and kill a king.

St Paul's Cathedral. 6 p.m.

‘Will they save it?' asked Coke, staring up at the roof of St Paul's and the fast-spreading flames.