Fire Catcher (27 page)

Chapter 83

The map lay unrolled over Somerset House’s largest table top. The King paced then turned in an angry movement.

‘Why is there no recent map?’ he demanded.

Clarence bowed uneasily and began toying with the hem of his doublet. ‘The new maps are kept by Parliament, Your Majesty. For military reasons.’

‘Military reasons?’

‘Parliament decreed that Your Majesty’s troops don’t have maps of London,’ he said carefully. ‘A large body of armed militia . . .’ his voice quavered. ‘Soldiers might seize power. During Your Majesty’s absence such a thing happened in Scotland . . .’

The King cut him off with an agitated wave.

‘I know what happened in Scotland. Do not speak to me as though I were a child. Scotland is not why Parliament take maps from my Naval Office. It is
my
power they fear, not that of my army.’

He sat down, resting his hand on his forehead.

‘Amesbury thinks this is a war,’ he said, looking up. ‘He recognises the hand of a general in the spread of the fire.’

Clarence looked shocked.

‘It’s a pincer movement,’ said Amesbury, pointing to the map. ‘Fire comes in strangely from the north and south. The Candlemakers’ Guild burned, but it was nowhere near the main flame. Same with the Saddlers’ Hall.’

Amesbury marked them out with his finger. ‘It forces us to guard the flanks,’ he concluded, ‘whilst the fire turns west. To the Palace.’

‘Amesbury fears for the Palace,’ said Charles. ‘But there’s a lot of brick and stone between the Strand and Westminster.’ He shook his head.

‘Every day we’re hounded by commoners claiming a plot on my crown,’ he decided. ‘I won’t act by fear of plot. It’s a simple fire, Amesbury. I won’t doubt my people any longer.’

He stared at the map.

‘Do you still think I should keep my troops from the city?’ he demanded of Clarence.

‘It’s a fire,’ said Clarence carefully. ‘Not a military matter. Parliament law is quite clear that His Majesty’s troops may only be deployed . . .’

‘By God, Clarence!’ Amesbury’s fist slammed into the heavy table. ‘Citizens are freely looting. Foreigners and Catholics are being lynched in the streets. Every gatehouse is a chaos of fists and escaping carts. If this isn’t a military matter I don’t know what is. Civil order is gone. Entirely gone!’

‘London is burning,’ agreed the King. ‘It’s time to act.’ He put a hand to his forehead. ‘Where is my brother?’ he demanded. ‘James was summoned hours ago. I need his knowledge of the city and the naval troops.’

‘A letter was sent,’ said Amesbury. ‘He isn’t in his apartments. I imagine he’s with a girl.’

Charles shook his head. ‘You misjudge my brother,’ he said. ‘James may seem feckless at court. But he’s a seafaring man. No sailor doubts his leadership.’

‘There’s not a man in your navy who wouldn’t give his life for the Duke of York,’ agreed Amesbury. ‘But we have a city on fire, not a ship under cannon fire.’

‘James performs best in a crisis,’ said Charles. ‘He’ll surprise you.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Call Monmouth,’ he said. ‘My son should learn of these things. He can take a battle post.’

Amesbury nodded but his mouth was set in a grim line. Charles was relying on a fifteen-year-old boy and the biggest lecher in court for his defences. This couldn’t end well.

Chapter 84

Charlie dodged left as the gaoler struck. He took in his opponent. Beady eyes sunk deep in a well-fed face. Thick forearms. Sturdy legs.

The whip flailed towards Charlie’s exposed shins. He jumped aside.

‘Back!’ commanded the gaoler. ‘In the cells, dog!’

Charlie was too experienced to fight armed men willingly. Surgery was costly and uncertain. He could dodge until the outsized gaoler tired, land a few good blows. But he could sense uncertainty in the other man. So he tried for a trick.

‘You strike at a King’s man!’ Charlie shouted, loading his voice with affront and entitlement.

The gaoler looked at Charlie’s bare feet, then at his passably fashionable leather coat. Confusion rippled his heavy features.

Seizing the moment, Charlie pulled out the empty marriage papers he’d taken from Torr’s cellar.

‘I come from court,’ he said, taking his chances the gaoler couldn’t read. The frozen expression of panic told him he’d guessed correctly. ‘King’s orders,’ he continued, waving the official-looking papers. ‘I come to inform his gaolers of the fire.’

The gaoler lowered his whip uncertainly. He was still eyeing Charlie’s feet.

‘And I’ll relay to His Majesty of the squalid conditions you keep,’ continued Charlie. ‘To avoid treading in shit from your prisoners I was forced to remove my shoes.’

The gaoler hesitated. ‘They keep animals,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s mostly pig and chicken shit, you see. The prisoners make their leavings in the Fleet.’

The gaoler made a clumsy bow.

‘Does His Majesty say we shall be paid for the prisoners?’ he asked. His little eyes were shifting about. ‘There is already fire on the north side,’ he added. ‘But we know not whether to release them. Does His Majesty say we’ll still earn our shilling?’

Charlie nodded. ‘Release them and you’ll still be paid,’ he said. ‘You have the word of the King.’

The prospect of information on Lily occurred to him.

‘A girl came here,’ said Charlie. ‘One of the King’s favourites,’ he improvised. ‘Gypsy in looks. Dark-haired. Red dress . . .’

‘The Catholic?’ the gaoler cut him off. ‘Catholic girl?’

Charlie hesitated. ‘How would you know she was Catholic?’

‘We searched her,’ said the gaoler in a tone which suggested he had every right. ‘Pretty girl,’ he added. ‘We always search ’em well. The nice ones. Searched her and found a rosary.’

‘Did she have a key?’ asked Charlie. ‘A foreign-looking one? Double sided?’

The gaoler nodded. Charlie felt relief flood through him. She still had the key.

‘Did she ask about some prisoners here?’ asked Charlie. ‘From long ago. On a ship?’

The gaoler nodded and rearranged his testicles.

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Asking about prisoners. You say she’s a favourite with the King?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘Did you tell her what she wanted to know?’

The gaoler coughed out a sort of laugh and shook his head.

‘No religious prisoners in Bridewell from so long ago. Cromwell made us set them free fifteen years back. Old Ironsides believed in freedom of worship,’ he added, as though he disagreed strongly with this.

‘How long ago was the girl here?’ asked Charlie, ignoring his
disappointment at the dead end. More important was finding his key.

‘She’s still here,’ said the gaoler, as though this should be obvious.

Charlie’s heart pounded.

‘She’s still here? Where?’

‘She was a Catholic,’ repeated the gaoler slowly, as though Charlie were slow of understanding. ‘They’re all over London starting fires.’

‘So you told her nothing,’ confirmed Charlie impatiently. ‘Then where did she go?’

‘We told her nothing,’ agreed the gaoler. ‘And we locked her up. In the High Cells. Where the bad people are.’

Chapter 85

Enoch was heaving the lead cauldron on to the rooftop. His bad eye was throbbing in the heat and sweat poured down his face.

Jacob was rolling a barrel up on to the roof. His initiation wound was paining him again. He stopped to stare at the blazing London skyline. Fire was everywhere. Master Blackstone’s plan was working.

‘Careful!’ called Enoch, pointing to the barrel. ‘It’s Bringer of Death inside. Burns if you spill it.’

Jacob raised the crown and three knots on his forearm. It was burned deeper than any other initiate. ‘You think I’ll not be careful?’

They smiled at one another. There was camaraderie between the boys now.

‘Steady the barrel,’ Enoch instructed. ‘You have the flame?’

Jacob nodded. ‘We await the signal,’ he said, wiping sweat from his face.

They stood for a moment, smoke flowing over them in great clouds, as the city around them burned.

‘I think you were right,’ said Jacob after a moment.

Enoch’s bloodshot blind eye twitched.

‘About the higher initiation,’ continued Jacob. ‘I don’t think he ever means it for us low boys.’

‘Don’t matter now, does it?’ said Enoch philosophically. ‘All burns.’

‘I think he tricked us,’ continued Jacob. ‘Told us we’d be part of an avenging army. But what he really wanted was our guild passwords.’

Enoch turned to him in interest.

‘He asked you, didn’t he,’ said Jacob, knowing the answer, ‘the motto to enter your guild?’

Enoch nodded.

‘Me too,’ said Jacob. ‘Now he fires the guildhalls. That’s how the signal works.’

Jacob pointed to the lead cauldron high on the roof.

‘When we light it, they fire the Apothecaries’ Hall. Your old hall,’ he added, looking at Enoch’s damaged eye.

‘How did you know that’s my guild?’ asked Enoch.

‘Seen a boiled eyeball before, in apothecary apprentices,’ said Jacob. ‘They make you stand too near the flasks when they bubble.’ He heaved up a scrawny leg. ‘Got my own,’ he added. ‘Carpenter’s boy.’ Enoch looked at a flattened knee-cap. ‘From chiselling wood,’ said Jacob proudly. ‘Hours on your knees.’

They were silent for a moment, looking up at the huge flames.

‘I’m leaving,’ said Enoch suddenly. ‘After this signal. I mean to run away.’ He hesitated. ‘Come with me.’ His good eye settled on his friend imploringly.

Jacob looked away. ‘Did you hear what Master Blackstone did this morning?’ he said, not looking at his friend.

Enoch shook his head slowly.

‘One of the boys brought a girl back,’ said Jacob, fixing his gaze dead ahead to the city. ‘Blackstone found them together.’

‘’S against the rules,’ said Enoch, his voice tight, ‘girls.’

Jacob nodded. ‘Blackstone made him . . . He said the girl was wicked. They cleansed her.’

Both boys were silent for a moment. They had ideas of what this meant.

‘Blackstone talks of unpure women in his sleep,’ confessed Enoch, feeling sick. ‘I’ve heard him. Says they fester and spread sin.’

Jacob looked away.

‘He screams about his father too,’ said Enoch. ‘Like he’s being tortured.’

Suddenly a blue flame flared in the distance. Enoch was on his feet, bad eye swivelling.

‘There!’ Enoch pointed. ‘Ready the barrel.’ Jacob heaved it up to the lead cauldron. But his foot slipped on the tiled roof and the barrel twisted from his grasp.

‘No!’ Enoch dived for the falling barrel.

The barrel hit the rooftop and split. Enoch closed his arms around it, soaking his chest in liquid. He screamed in agony. The Bringer of Death was burning into his skin.

Jacob raced to his aid, but Enoch waved him back.

‘Send the signal,’ he gasped, through gritted teeth. ‘Or Blackstone will have your guts.’

Jacob hesitated. ‘There’s not enough left in the barrel.’

‘There’s half,’ spat Enoch. ‘It might be enough. He’ll kill us both
if we don’t.’

Jacob heaved up the half-empty barrel and managed to fit it into the cauldron. Bringer of Death streamed into the lead. A fountain of steam poured up.

‘Flame it!’ managed Enoch as the agony bit deep into his chest.

Jacob wielded the flame and a font of blue fire rose majestically upwards. With only half the Bringer of Death, the light was smaller than usual.

The boys exchanged panicked glances. It wasn’t high enough.

Then the fire was answered with another blue flame and then another. The final flame flared by the Apothecaries’ Guild. The sonorous rumble of an explosion echoed out.

Enoch was gasping in pain. Jacob helped him off the rooftop and on to the street.

‘Is it bad?’ asked Enoch, taking in the crowded streets near Moor Gate. The gatehouse was packed in both directions.

‘No,’ lied Jacob, ‘we’ll find water.’ He looked desperately to the citizens moving possessions out of London. Country folk, who’d heard how much their carts could be rented for, were trying to steer traps and horses into the blazing city.

‘It won’t work,’ stammered Enoch, struggling to make words through the pain. ‘The Elixir.’

‘He burns!’ shouted Jacob in panic. ‘Help! Somebody!’

Heads turned in the crowded street. They saw the burned boy and recoiled. It was only then Enoch truly realised how bad the burn must be. Faces were contorted in horror. Enoch risked a glance down and felt vomit rise up. There was no skin left on his chest.

Jacob grabbed a pitcher of milk from a reluctant woman and threw it. Nothing. No relief. The burn continued to blaze.

‘He won’t live,’ muttered the woman, snatching back her tankard and eyeing Enoch’s burned body. ‘Best get him to a priest.’

Enoch gritted his teeth. His good eye had rolled back in his head.

‘No!’ cried Jacob. He shook Enoch’s fainting form. ‘No.’ Jacob’s voice was firm. ‘What you said before. You’re right. We’ll escape together.’ He was shouting in Enoch’s face, desperately looking for signs of life. The boy lolled, breathing fast.

‘We’ll go to the country, Enoch,’ pressed Jacob, ‘he’ll never find us. We’ve both got trades . . .’

Enoch was trying to speak and Jacob brought his ear close to hear over the noise of the crowd and the fire.

‘Anthony,’ croaked Enoch.

‘What?’

‘That’s my name.’ Enoch managed a smile. ‘Anthony Cary.’

Jacob took his hand. ‘Peter Carpenter,’ he said, shaking it.

Enoch bit his lip. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said. His bad eye was twitching violently back and forth. ‘I’m done for,’ he said. ‘Get back to Blackstone and save yourself.’

‘No,’ Jacob hoisted his friend up. ‘We’re going to get you the Elixir. From Master Blackstone’s cellar.’

Chapter 86

Charlie dived deeper into the stinking warren of old courtly rooms which housed London’s poorest prisoners.

Fire was coming. Bridewell had turned perilous. The remaining prisoners were attacking their cell doors and killing guards.

The most secure cells in Bridewell were second storey, in the gallery. But besides this rudimentary knowledge, Charlie had scant idea where Lily might be. Or even how to get to the higher storeys. The prison was enormous and maze-like.

With relief Charlie reached an enormous grand staircase. The carved bannisters had been torn off and tiny pigs cavorted on the wide stair. They scattered as Charlie approached, little hooves resounding on the bare wood.

There were shouts behind him and Charlie saw a clutch of people. Vigilantes. They were manhandling a bloodied captive along the prison corridors.

‘Are you a gaoler?’ a broken-toothed man heading the gang rounded on Charlie. ‘We can’t find no gaolers,’ he added, with an accusing shake of the captive.

‘You can’t imprison this man here,’ said Charlie. ‘The prison will burn.’

‘He’s a Frenchie!’ shrieked a woman from deep in the mob. ‘He’s confessed to starting the fire!’

Charlie’s eyes switched to the woman. She was thin-faced and venomous. Then he looked at the accused. The man’s head lolled slightly and his face was battered. By his clothes he was clearly Dutch rather than French. And Charlie was willing to bet his confession hadn’t come willingly. He eyed the little mob.

‘He threw a fireball!’ accused the broken-toothed leader. ‘Liza here saw him.’

Charlie assessed the situation. The Dutchman was well dressed. Expensive clothing that would be quickly ripped from him the moment he entered a cell.

Charlie stepped forward and took the man roughly by the shoulders.

‘You’ve done well to bring him here,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure he’s locked away.’

‘You’re a gaoler then?’ said the leader, suddenly looking uncertain. He eyed Charlie’s thin legs. ‘What if he struggles? We should help you bring him to the cell.’

‘You’ve done your part,’ said Charlie. ‘The fire comes. The Apothecaries’ Guild is only the other side of this wall,’ he added. ‘You shouldn’t want to be here if that fires. Strange explosives and potions they keep inside.’

The little gang shuffled quickly away and Charlie put a proprietary arm on the bloodied Dutchman.

‘Come,’ he said, speaking in Dutch. ‘Come with me. I’ll take you to safety.’

At the sound of his native tongue the Dutchman sprang to life suddenly.

‘It was a piece of bread!’ he cried. ‘That was all. A piece of bread I threw. For a pauper.’

‘Shhh,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m no gaoler. Only wait until the mob has gone and you can be on your way.’

‘You’re Dutch?’ asked the Dutchman.

Charlie shook his head. ‘I’m a Londoner.’

‘How came you to speak it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie truthfully. ‘From as far back as I can remember I’ve always spoken it.’

It was one of the unsolved mysteries of his orphan past that he didn’t like to dwell on.

The Dutchman considered this. He seemed disinclined to trust another Englishman.

‘You say fire comes here?’ he asked.

Charlie nodded. ‘On the north side. Over there,’ he added, pointing at the far wide walls of Bridewell. ‘So we have time yet. I’m looking for a prisoner in the gallery,’ he added. ‘Stay with me until we find you some different clothes.’

‘Clothes?’ the Dutchman looked confused.

‘You can’t go back on to the streets dressed that way,’ said Charlie, gesturing to the man’s foreign fashion. ‘You’ll be lynched.’

‘But where can I get clothes in a prison?’ The Dutchman was looking at Charlie’s battered leather coat with some disdain.

‘Prisoners have broken out,’ said Charlie. ‘Some will have died in the trying. Dead men don’t need breeches.’

The Dutchman looked appalled but didn’t protest.

Charlie led them both up the staircase and was confronted with an array of long corridors. Voices were echoing from deep within. But it was impossible to tell which direction. The high ceilings played tricks with the noise. Taking a guess Charlie picked a narrow corridor stretching south.

‘Shouldn’t you take the other way?’ asked the Dutchman. ‘You said you go to the gallery.’

Charlie hesitated. ‘How would you know that?’ he asked.

‘I’m an architect,’ said the Dutchman, adjusting his bloodied neckerchief. ‘For the Dutch Royal household. I’ve made great study of Tudor palaces. Galleries are always south facing for the sunlight. So it would be built there.’ He pointed to a thick wide corridor.

‘What were you doing out on the streets?’ asked Charlie, turning to follow the Dutchman’s directions. ‘An architect for royalty shouldn’t be so foolish.’

The Dutchman passed a thoughtful hand over his blackened
eye.

‘A lady in the city,’ he said smiling. ‘I promised I would meet with her.’

They moved past high windows sending large shafts of sunlight down. But the rooms leading off were eerily deserted. Voices could be heard more clearly now though. Charlie’s skin prickled. Prisoners were still locked in here. Deep in the depths.

‘Was your lady worth the danger?’ asked Charlie distractedly.

‘Yes,’ said the Dutchman. ‘She was.’

They rounded on a wide arcing gallery and the Dutchman gasped. Ranged on the ground were the bloodied remains of a battle. Three prisoners lay dead, their scabbed legs splayed, bodies broken. Two had brutal head injuries, the third a scorch at his chest which spoke of cheap pistol fire.

Charlie knelt by the first body.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘This man will fit you.’ He looked up. ‘Take off your clothes.’

The Dutchman hesitated.

‘We’ll change them over,’ said Charlie pulling off the shirt. ‘You can carry your nice ones under your arm,’ he added at the expression of trepidation on the Dutchman’s face. ‘I don’t try to rob you of them.’

The Dutchman took a breath and then began pulling off the ribbons at his white silk stockings. He rolled them down, then dropped away his breeches.

Charlie worked stoically, wrenching the remaining clothes off the dead man.

‘You’ve done this before?’ ventured the Dutchman, his face twisted in distaste.

Charlie spoke without looking up. ‘I grew up in an orphan home,’ he said. ‘The beds often held a dead boy by morning. If you wanted to live you stole their clothes.’ He handed the tattered garments to the Dutchman.

‘Put them on,’ he said, ‘and go out the way we came. Do you know that way?’

‘Down the gallery, past the grand stair and through the two quads,’ said the Dutchman, displaying his knowledge of Tudor buildings.

Charlie nodded. ‘Put them on,’ he repeated, noticing the Dutchman had hesitated to dress.

‘They’re stinking,’ complained the Dutchman as he raised the shirt to go over his head.

‘You’ll stink worse as a rotting corpse.’

Charlie looked back along to where a few gaol rooms were still closed.

‘You’re fortunate that mob brought you here,’ he added. ‘In St Giles they would have lynched you.’

The Dutchman pulled up the ragged breeches. He looked down at himself sadly.

‘I have nothing to give you,’ he said as he turned to go. ‘Yet I owe you my life. Might I take your name at least?’

‘Charlie Tuesday,’ said Charlie.

‘You’re looking for a girl in here?’ asked the Dutchman hesitating.

‘Yes,’ said Charlie.

‘She is worth the danger?’ suggested the Dutchman with an indulgent smile.

‘No,’ said Charlie firmly. ‘She is not.’