Fire Catcher (34 page)

Chapter 107

‘I’ve had it all wrong,’ said Charlie as realisation dawned. ‘I thought of Blackstone as a clever alchemist. But he is nothing so skilled. Remember the way he fires the city? The guildhalls?’

Lily nodded.

‘He is a guild man,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure of it. Think. Blackstone loses everything in the war. His secrets are stolen. All he has of value is a set of pistols.’

‘Enough to buy a place in a guild,’ breathed Lily.

The light gusts had became a stronger kind of exhalation, steadily kindling the loose embers. Charlie listened. It was coming from the west.

‘Whatever schemes or alchemy the Sealed Knot made in Holland, they did not work,’ said Charlie, thinking aloud. ‘Blackstone joined a guild. And whichever guild it was,’ he added, ‘taught Blackstone some fraternity secrets to make blue fire.’

He looked north to the blaze. ‘If Blackstone’s a guildman he likely stored goods in Guildhall,’ he continued. ‘There could be some clue to his whereabouts. His chest could even be there too, waiting for us.’

‘The papers,’ said Lily. ‘Whatever secrets they hold, I’ll wager it’s enough to stop Blackstone in his tracks.’

‘Guildhall has fire engines,’ said Charlie. ‘So long as they put them to use, we likely have a few hours before the flames reach there.’

A sudden sharp wind was pouring forth along Cannon Street.

‘Something is coming,’ said Charlie. ‘We need to leave.’ Instinctively he turned to where the looters were picking through a building. Flames had struck up again.

Charlie felt it before he saw it. The fire was making its own weather.

‘Get away from the ruins!’ shouted Charlie as flames poked their heads from the rubble. The father and son looters were confused, looking at one another, not knowing which way to turn. The flames had danced out to dazzle. But it was the smoke, wreathing luxuriantly through the air, that was wrapping them in its deadly embrace.

Charlie raced towards the burned-out cottage knowing he was already too late. Smoke was stealing quiet fingers down the throats of the looters, and he was too far away. The old man began wheezing first, dropping to his knees as the fumes took hold. In panic his son knelt to grasp his father’s shoulders. Fires were winking to life all over the sooty ruins now, like a pack of little devils. Father and son were trapped in the flames. And in the distance the London Stone seemed to glow hotter.

Wind blew sharp and fierce, streaming in from every compass point.

Charlie was halfway to the looters when he heard it. A great
sigh like a heart breaking. Then the London Stone shuddered and cracked.

Beyond, in the rest of the city, Londoners would swear this to be the time they heard a giant rumble sweep over them. Like the harbinger of apocalyptic force. The ground trembled and the standing buildings shook in the heat as though rattled by a mighty hand. In the heart of the city fire sunk deep as if to garner its strength, and then towered up, sucking in its own immense winds that streamed in from every side.

‘What’s happening?’ Lily cried as scalding gales blew out her skirts, spitting hot dust and splinters.

Charlie froze, partway towards the trapped looters and turned back to Lily.

A hurricane was pouring in from every direction, hurling forth everything in its path. The fire in the west gave a great thunderous bellow and surged high into the sky.

‘Get down!’ Charlie shouted. The blast of air was spiralling larger debris from the ruins. Lily ducked. A splintered chair leg spun over her head and embedded itself deep in a blackened wall.

In the burned-out cottage the son had stumbled to his feet, looking for a path through the flames. A flying barrel caught him unawares, smashing his skull and knocking him to the floor. Neither father nor son were conscious as flames scorched away their hair and clothing in quick acrid billows.

Charlie took hold of Lily.

‘We need to get out of the wind!’ he shouted over the howl of the gale. Heavy debris was picking up now, driven towards the hungry flames by the oncoming hurricane.

‘Behind a building,’ he called as dust and dirt were driven into their eyes and mouths. Charlie’s eyes locked on Fenchurch Street. ‘This way,’ he decided.

‘What’s happening?’ cried Lily as they forged against the wind. ‘It’s like the world is ending.’ A sack exploded against the cobbles at their feet, blasting them with a spray of flour.

‘Something to do with the heat of the fire,’ said Charlie as they battled towards Fenchurch Street. ‘The heat pulls in so much air. It makes a kind of storm.’

A crack of lightning forked in the distance.

Charlie glanced back to the burned-out cottage. Having shaved and stripped the two looters the fire was devouring its quarry. Melted skin and crackling fat blazed anew in the reawakening furnace.

Above the city the heavy smoke began to swirl and sway, as if something was stirring the elements. And on the ground the people knew it. Armageddon was coming to claim London.

The firestorm had arrived.

Charlie watched helplessly as flames tore through the streets. It was moving faster. He thought at least double the speed. Which meant around one hundred houses an hour were burning.

‘Guildhall,’ panted Charlie, as they moved behind the shelter of a burned-out house. ‘We can still get there.’

Lily looked uncertainly to the boiling sky.

‘My father told me,’ she said, ‘of far off lands, where fire grew hot enough to make a tempest. I thought it was a campfire story.’

‘The wind blows inland,’ said Charlie. ‘We can cut up Cornhill.’

‘Do you think it will reach Guildhall?’ asked Lily.

Charlie nodded.

‘With the wind as it is,’ he said, ‘Guildhall will burn soon.’

Chapter 108

‘We’ll put her chest there,’ Blackstone said, pointing.

‘In the enclave?’ said Jacob.

Blackstone nodded.

Jacob fitted his arms to begin heaving the large trunk. Blackstone moved to help him.

‘It’s heavy,’ panted Jacob, ‘for an empty chest.’

‘This was her wedding trunk,’ said Blackstone, as it was manoeuvred into position. ‘It came with thirteen blessings inside.’ There was a tone to his voice which Jacob hadn’t heard before. Regret.

‘Lots of folk still make the old ways,’ said Jacob. ‘Totems for hearth and home, luck and love.’

Blackstone’s eyes fixed on him sharply.

‘A great evil,’ he said, ‘those old ways. They are against the Catholic faith.’

Blackstone was staring at the chest, as though remembering something.

Jacob dropped his head, confused. Teresa’s possessions were all spell-craft. Poppets bound in ribbon, switches of willow and oak.

‘Yes,’ he mumbled.

‘Arrange those there.’ Blackstone was pointing.

Jacob began moving through Teresa’s things with shaking hands. They were things he didn’t like to touch. Dark magic and bloodied talismans.

Blackstone watched as he worked.

‘In Holland,’ he said, ‘much was made of alternative faith. Mysticism. Different ways to experience God.’

Jacob kept his mouth shut tight.

‘Heathen practices,’ said Blackstone. ‘But I found them useful. I learned my own conjuring tricks from their rites and death practices.’

His eyes swung to Jacob.

‘I returned to England and joined a guild,’ he said. ‘They taught me secrets too. How lye can be flamed blue. Ways to make a demon in a bottle that will set alight.’

Jacob was working stoically on moving Teresa’s terrible things. His eyes were darting, trying to find a way to escape.

‘Do you know what we build here?’ asked Blackstone.

Jacob shook his head.

‘This is a fortification,’ said Blackstone. ‘Like every great general I know every inch of it.’

Jacob was waiting for his moment. He’d been watching Blackstone. The Thing he called his wife. That was the key to escaping. Jacob would do some damage. Drop a candle. Upend a table. Blackstone would be distracted. Jacob would escape. He knew the backstreets well. And he was fast on his feet. All he needed to do, was wait for his moment.

Chapter 109

‘It’s like hell itself,’ said Lily as the white stone walls of Guildhall came into view. ‘Everyone looks to themselves.’

The wide courtyard was thick with armed men loading goods. Guild merchants were grappling to hold fast their carts and possessions. Droves of poorer Londoners were hanging on carts, pleading and tussling to load their meagre goods. Fights were breaking out and drivers brandished whips and cudgels.

‘People think judgement comes,’ said Charlie, watching two men and a screeching woman throw punches. ‘It’s pure fear they act by.’

Gog and Magog had loomed large over Guildhall for as long as anyone could remember. The wooden giants conferred protection for the city merchants. But today they had ropes slung around their necks. As Charlie and Lily approached the first statue was felled. Gog hit the ground with an ominous crack, his benevolent face split in two.

A terrified horse reared up, sending the contents of a wooden cart flying free. Tumbling barrels split apart on the cobbles. Salt spilled out in snowy drifts and people dived to fill their tankards.

Warm winds were whipping the people into a frenzy and the firefighting had broken down. A large fire engine stood unused. There was a muddy puddle nearby where men had dug out the pipes. But the pressure was run out and the water pooled to nothing.

Two apprentice boys jostled past carrying a large painting. It was an enormous tree bearing the guild trades across its branches, root and trunk. Picked out in gold leaf were the names of the Lord Mayors.

Charlie watched it go past. The old song London boys learned to memorise the guilds sounded in his head.

The Mayor of London’s Guilds. Butchers, saddlers, soapmakers, goldsmiths, carpenters, cooks, barber surgeons, vintners, drapers, coopers, cutlers, skinners, fishmongers
.

Charlie froze.

‘Lily,’ he said, ‘give me the round robin.’

‘But why . . . ?’

‘Give it to me.’

She rustled in her dress and handed it over, looking annoyed. Charlie snatched it up.

‘We’ve been carrying a clue to Blackstone all along.’ Charlie pointed to the round robin. ‘This paper of common men’s names. They’re not names. They’re guilds.’

Lily peered at the paper, mouthing the words.

‘Saddler, Goldsmith, Cooper . . .’

She looked up at Charlie in amazement.

‘Cutler, Cook, Barber,’ she read. Her eyes flicked up to Charlie. ‘The Cutlers’ Guild. The Worshipful Company of Cooks, the Barbers’ Company.’ She looked at him. ‘You have it right. They are guilds, every one.’

‘Nine names,’ said Charlie. ‘And there are ten guilds in the city. So whichever guild is not on here,’ he stabbed the paper, ‘that is Blackstone’s guild.’

They looked back at the map in earnest. Lily’s finger shot out.

‘Here!’ she said. ‘Soapmaker. Blackstone is of the Soapmakers’ Guild.’

They looked at one another.

‘Lye,’ said Lily. ‘Lye is not just for laundresses. The best soapmakers use lye.’

‘So Blackstone uses lye,’ said Charlie. ‘To make balls of soap. That’s how he comes to know the alchemy. The guild of soapmakers taught him their secrets.’

‘Which guilds store their goods here?’ Charlie called to one of the apprentice boys struggling with the painting.

‘All of them.’ The boy seemed confused by the question. ‘Every guildsman is entitled to keep possessions in the vaults,’ he added, pointing to a heavily bolted and locked door. ‘But the vaults are full. No one allowed in.’

Charlie and Lily looked at one another. The entrance seemed impregnable.

‘Did a man come bearing this mark?’ asked Charlie, holding up his key. ‘A soapmaker?’ But the boy only shook his head and hurried away.

‘We need to get inside,’ said Charlie, eyeing the ornate stone-carved front of Guildhall. A huge door decorated with gargoyle heads was open a crack.

‘Perhaps if we can get into Guildhall,’ he suggested, ‘there’ll be another way down to the vaults.’

‘There’s no way into Guildhall,’ said Lily, looking at the burly men on the door. ‘It’s heavily guarded.’

‘They’ll guard it until fire is at the door,’ agreed Charlie, looking at a well-dressed Alderman with two large guards. ‘Knowing the guilds there’ll be some sign or secret words to get inside.’

‘Do you know it?’

Charlie shook his head.

‘Being part of a guild is about integrity,’ he said. ‘Keeping your word. Working hard. Freemen believe that noble deeds outweigh noble birth.’

‘Freemen?’

‘It’s the title of a man once he’s joined a guild,’ said Charlie. ‘A freeman of the city.’

Charlie eyed the entrance thoughtfully. He turned his key.

‘All guilds have a motto or some such. The right words would get us inside.’

He thought for a moment. ‘They won’t let us in the Guild without authority,’ he said. ‘But Guildhall is part of St Lawrence Jewry church. The Mayor’s church. By rights every Londoner should be entitled to say their prayers inside. Come on,’ he decided. ‘Nothing ventured nothing gained.’

And he walked purposefully to the door with Lily shuffling uncertainly behind. The Alderman was looking at Charlie’s feet as they approached.

‘The crypts are full,’ said the Alderman. ‘And for guildsmen only.’

‘I wish to enter the church,’ said Charlie. ‘To say a prayer for the city.’

The guards rearranged themselves.

‘The church is for freemen of the guilds only,’ said the Alderman. ‘And fire will be here soon. You’d best get yourself and your wife to safety.’

‘I’m London born,’ said Charlie. ‘The King decrees I have the right to pray in the Mayor’s church.’

The Alderman shook his head. ‘The King might say so. But he has no sway here. Here is Guildhall law. And we say our men only.’

Charlie held up his key. ‘I’m of the guilds,’ he improvised. ‘I’ve already brought goods. For Master Blackstone. Of the soapmakers.’

The Alderman looked at him. ‘I don’t recognise the sign,’ he said. ‘Each guild has their own marks and practices I suppose.’

‘Fire comes,’ said Charlie, desperately turning over what could gain them entry. ‘Master Blackstone wants a prayer said to be sure it won’t burn.’

‘The whole of Guildhall could burn and the crypt will hold,’ said the Alderman. ‘It’s stood since old King Stephen.’ His tone became sardonic. ‘I hear Blackstone’s soap is bought by the King’s ladies,’ he added. ‘So he might use Barbara Castlemaine’s personal quarters.’ The Alderman winked at the guard.

‘I hear she is generous with them,’ sniggered the guard.

‘Guilds only in the church.’ The Alderman’s eyes settled back on Charlie. He seemed to be waiting for something.

‘Lord guide us,’ said Charlie, trying for the Lord Mayor of London’s motto. The Alderman’s face shifted. It hadn’t been the answer he was looking for.

‘We must hope so,’ he replied, looking up to the heavens. ‘Tell Master Blackstone he must come in person if he wishes entry. Or send a boy of the guild.’ He waved his hand and the guard adjusted his stance.

Charlie’s heart sank. There was no other way into Guildhall. He felt something at his ear. Lily was leaning close.

‘Freemen of the City. Breed not birth right,’ she whispered.

Charlie looked at her. Then he repeated the words to the Alderman, who was looking at Lily.

There was a slight pause. Then the Alderman nodded and moved away from the door.

‘That’s Guildhall password,’ he said. ‘So I must let you enter. Work with honour and keep our word,’ he added. ‘You might go in the church if you wish but you are foolish. Our firefighters have fallen to disarray. If flames come we can’t hold them.’