Fire Catcher (41 page)

Chapter 132

Blackstone looked out on to the blazing city. All but one guildhall had been burned to the ground. He counted twenty churches still burning. The Royal Exchange and Post Office were smoking ash.

London was ruined.

Blackstone rested the barrel on the apex of the roof. Then he assessed.

Strange things were happening to his mind.

Down on the street, he could have sworn he saw a familiar face. Tobias Oakley.

It couldn’t be, of course. Oakley had died years ago. After betraying his brotherhood.

Sally Oakley. Everything was her fault.

Torr had liked Sally too. He’d gone deep into mysticism and wanted to learn of the Old Ways. Sally, a country maid from Wales, had taught him her silly spells. Rites with ribbons and poppets.

He had a sudden image of Sally weaving poppets to protect her sons. She’d known what Blackstone was capable of, when Tobias didn’t.

Because Tobias remembered the old soldier. The Brotherhood man who would have given his life for the King. A man who fought until nightfall in the rain, then slept on the battlefield and rose at dawn to fight again.

After the King’s great betrayal, Blackstone wasn’t that man any longer. And only Sally Oakley saw it. But it hadn’t saved her.

Blackstone felt his feet shift. The lead was soft beneath his boots. Pliable. On the east side it was melting. Torrents poured on to the people below.

Blackstone shifted the barrel. Better move it along where the roof was firmer. He wanted to be sure of a grand flame. A blue fire that would be seen all over London.

Chapter 133

Charlie dodged over softening roof tiles and jumped clear as a section of roof flared into flames.

Lily was at his side, sweating.

Charlie was alive with the forgotten skill now.

‘Through there,’ he said, pointing to a run of buildings.

The heavens rumbled and a dart of lightning shot down. It smashed
a chimney stack, showering Lily and Charlie with burning brick.

‘Jump!’ shouted Charlie, pulling Lily to the side. They pitched away from the broken shingle and landed on an adjoining rooftop. The house they’d abandoned roared a protest, then lurched downwards.

‘What now?’ asked Lily, shaking as she surveyed the destroyed buildings to the left and right of them.

‘Between those two buildings,’ said Charlie. ‘Fast,’ he added, ‘the bricks might explode. It’s the only way,’ he added, catching her horrified expression.

As they made for the gauntlet, bricks began detonating around them. Lily yelled in pain as sharp shrapnel hit her bare arms.

‘Keep clear of the black ones,’ said Charlie, ducking as mortar flew at them.

He pointed. ‘Fix your eyes on the wall ahead. That’s where we can climb up.’

He reached a wooden wall, but it was smoother than he anticipated. Charlie ran his fingers over the flat wood, testing for climbing holds.

A knife thudded to within an inch of his fingers. Charlie turned in shock to see Lily pelting towards him, another knife poised to throw. It thudded two feet higher than the first.

Without waiting to explain she lodged her foot on the first knife and sprung up on to the second.

‘Climb up!’ she shouted. ‘Use the knives.’

Too surprised to protest Charlie levered himself up on the first knife and gripped the second. With effort he pulled over and on to the higher roof.

Lily was waiting for him at the top. ‘Which way now?’ she asked.

‘Through this window,’ said Charlie, breaking it open. ‘St Paul’s is on the other side of this building.’

‘It’s rented rooms,’ panted Lily, catching her breath. ‘Locked doors.’

‘Only ground floors and Catholics lock their doors in London tenements,’ said Charlie. ‘The rooms will connect. We’re only a stairwell away.’

Chapter 134

Charlie and Lily burst out into St Paul’s graveyard. Her mighty roof surged with tongues of flame.

‘No blue fire,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe Blackstone waits for something. We need to get inside.’

His gaze dropped to the vault entrance. It was completely sealed. The stationers had filled it to bursting with books and papers.

‘They’ve made that vault the biggest danger in the city,’ muttered Charlie. He was taking in the candlewax that sealed the doors. ‘Any breach of the cathedral floor,’ he said, ‘and fire will rip through those papers fast as gunpowder.’

His cinder thief experience was telling him to turn and run. A huge building atop a vault of dry tinder. It would blow like a cannon if fire got underneath.

‘The vestry,’ said Charlie, pointing at the church. ‘There’s no flame on the west side yet. We can get in that way.’

‘People have already broken the window,’ said Lily, eyeing the shattered stained glass as they climbed up at the vestry.

‘Commoners turn desperate to store goods,’ said Charlie, easing himself through. ‘This is the last unburned church.’

As they slipped through and landed, Charlie covered his mouth.

There was a smell on the air that was all too familiar.

‘Blackstone’s here,’ he breathed. ‘Somewhere in the church. He hoards food. I can smell it.’

Lily looked around the vestry. It was crammed with pitifully cheap goods. Broken chairs and makeshift tables had been jumbled in. Alongside sacks of flour, barrels of ale and half-eaten sides of meat.

‘This is Blackstone’s?’ Lily was looking around her.

‘No,’ Charlie shook his head. ‘This is commoner’s stuff. Cheap barrels of preserves, smuggled goods from the Shadow Market.’

He looked through the piles to the vestry beyond. It seemed as though every Londoner had stored goods here.

‘Teresa’s pyre is somewhere out there,’ said Charlie. ‘In the cathedral.’ He was eyeing the huge space, which ranged on and out of view.

‘The altar?’ suggested Lily. ‘That would be the holiest place.’

‘No,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t think he’d put her out in the open. Something happened to Teresa Blackstone during the war. She never went outside.’

‘There’s a vault,’ said Lily uncertainly.

‘It’s jammed floor to ceiling with books and papers from Paternoster Row,’ said Charlie. ‘And sealed up so tight not even a spark could get in.’

He looked down the long body of the cathedral. Charlie pointed to a section with a number of private chapels spiralling off the sides.

‘Remember Blackstone’s family tree?’ he said. ‘The crest. I’ve seen it in this church. I think they have a private chapel here. That would be the place.’

They began heading towards the private chapels, entering the cavernous space of the mighty cathedral.

Suddenly Charlie heard Lily gasp in pain. He felt something red hot drop on his arm. Charlie looked down to see a drop of grey liquid.

‘The roof,’ he called back to Lily. The enormous arc of lead above them was spilling drops.

There was another splash, this time towards the back of the nave. And then the drops started to become regular, like light rain. Hot lead sprayed up as it splattered and cooled on the stone floor.

Lily exclaimed as boiling drops splattered her bare arms. Charlie’s gaze swung around the huge space. His eyes lighted under the belfry where no lead fell. The leaded spire was tall enough to resist the melting heat.

‘This way.’ Charlie threw his coat over both of their heads, and they raced to the belfry like young lovers escaping a rainstorm. The metal splashed on their skin in hot coin-sized spatters and drummed hard on to Charlie’s thick coat, but they emerged singed and panting under the belfry.

‘What now?’ said Lily despairingly, looking out to the unceasing barrage. It echoed around the cathedral, building to a crescendo. ‘We can’t get to the chapels.’

Charlie looked across the cathedral. Eventually the roof would run out of lead. The burning deluge would stop. But they didn’t have time for that.

‘St Paul’s is aflame,’ said Charlie. ‘Blackstone’s pawns are all in place.’

He looked up to see the spire curling away above them.

‘We can get to the roof,’ said Charlie. ‘The belfry has a stair up to the steeple.’

‘But Blackstone will be armed,’ said Lily, following behind uncertainly. ‘We have nothing to defend ourselves. We need the papers . . .’

‘We can’t get to them in time,’ said Charlie. He looked at her. ‘We have to take our chances.’

‘You’ve waited your whole life for those papers,’ protested Lily. ‘London is as good as burned in any case. If they hold riches as Torr says . . .’

‘There is more to this than treasure,’ said Charlie. ‘I have waited my whole life for the papers. I can wait a while longer. Stay and search if you wish. I know how gold holds sway with gypsies.’

He put a foot on the ladder to the spire and hoisted himself up.

‘Then toss me the key,’ called Lily hopefully, ignoring the slight.

She cast around the overflowing cathedral and then pushed up behind him.

‘You owe me half the treasure,’ she grumbled. ‘I cannot very well claim it if you are burned alive.’ But Charlie noticed she didn’t manage to keep her voice as casual as she’d intended.

They inched upwards, coughing against the rising smoke. Ancient rickety steps coiled around the narrow spire, barely a foot’s width across. And as the angle of the building became more acute, it forced them to lean outwards as they climbed.

‘Do you think we have a chance?’ Lily called up.

‘Blackstone will have got on to the roof by the main stair,’ said Charlie. ‘We’ll come out a different way. He won’t be expecting us. We’ll have the element of surprise at least.’

They drew level to the enormous bells. They sat sedentary, each the size of a small house. A mass of thick coloured ropes tumbled down from their innards.

‘There are hand-holds,’ called Charlie, pressing himself against the inside of the winding spire. ‘But they are well worn. Be careful.’

‘There is a seventy-foot drop,’ panted Lily, swinging to grasp the hold behind him. ‘You need not tell me to be careful.’

As they reached the mid-point, Charlie’s hands found the edges of a small door secreted in the edge of the spire. It led out on to the roof.

‘Here,’ he called. ‘This is the way.’

Lily breathed out. She retrieved a knife from her skirt.

‘I’m right behind you,’ she said.

Chapter 135

‘I don’t believe it.’ Amesbury’s soot-streaked face was raised to the burned-out walls of Chancery.

The troops had dropped the firehook and turned to look. One pointed.

‘We’ve met the fields!’

The gaggle of men turned to one another hardly able to believe it. A grassy firebreak stood between Westminster and Temple Bar. All around lay flattened buildings.

Charles let the shovel in his hand drop. James was dousing the last of the rubble. Deeper in the city flames still roared. But the west had been barricaded. ‘Do you think it’s enough?’ asked Charles. ‘Fire has got to St Paul’s,’ he added, looking with devastation to the cathedral in the distance.

James nodded. ‘A quarter-mile stretch of demolished buildings lays between the Strand and Westminster,’ he said. ‘Most remaining in the west are stone. Lead or slate tiles. The wind dies. Fire is fading even now.’

Charles allowed himself a cautious breath out.

‘We’ve done it then,’ he said. ‘The Palace is safe?’

James clapped his brother on the back in reply. Then both looked out to the roaring inferno in the city beyond. Deep in the city, lightning still forked across the sky. There was a storm in the east.

A rider was approaching, expertly steering his horse through the mire of smoking rubble.

Charles recognised him.

‘Monmouth!’ he hailed. ‘We think Whitehall is protected by firebreaks. Your bravery has been rewarded. Now we should fortify in the north and south.’

But Monmouth’s face was ashen.

‘They say fire goes east now.’ He looked as though he might cry. ‘Will this fire never abate?’ he wailed.

‘He’s like a fainting woman,’ muttered Amesbury, eyeing Monmouth with disgust.

‘To St Giles? The slums?’ said Charles, less certainly now. The wind blew west. East had never concerned them.

‘Not to the slums. To the Tower.’

Charles felt icy fear run through him. The Tower held the country’s entire munitions. Gunpowder. Arms.

‘My God,’ breathed Charles. ‘We’ve no men there.’

‘There are three hundred houses between London Bridge and the Tower of London,’ said Monmouth.

‘Wooden houses,’ said Charles. He turned to Amesbury. ‘How can it have got so far east?’ he whispered. ‘The wind goes west.’

Amesbury spoke carefully. ‘Were there a plot,’ he said, ‘this would be a good strategic move. Draw your resources west. Leave the Tower undefended.’

‘Think you it then? This has the marks of a plot? To attack the Tower?’ The King was white as Amesbury nodded.

‘If it is a plot,’ said Charles, ‘then we’ve walked straight into it. The east is completely defenceless. All our resources and engines have been drawn west. We’ve handed them London on a plate.’

Amesbury’s face was grim. ‘I think this has the marks of a well-schemed attack.’

‘You’re sure?’ asked the King.

Amesbury shrugged. ‘It’s what I would do,’ he said.

Chapter 136

Charlie pushed the spire door open and climbed out. The huge roofs of St Paul’s rolled out before him. There were smoking flames in some parts, but others were a wide expanse of lead tiles.

There was no sign of Blackstone beneath the scalding sky.

The spire where Charlie stood was wreathed in wooden scaffolding. He grabbed the nearest thick strut, clambering down on to the roof. Behind him, he heard Lily emerge.

‘I can’t see Blackstone,’ called Charlie, above the inferno of burning London.

They both stared out on to the blazing city, holding tightly to the scaffold.

‘My God,’ said Lily. ‘All is gone.’

A third of the city was a smoking shell. The blaze all around St Paul’s spread out to embrace another third, with a half-mile of glowing embers in its wake.

‘The Tower still stands,’ said Charlie, squinting into the distance. ‘There are no blue flames on the roof. And the Carpenters’ Guild hasn’t been fired. There is time.’

He cast his eye across the rooftops. The steepled roofs enclosed a multitude of areas where Blackstone could cast his lye. The east side of roof was melted almost all away now, revealing the open joists. But huge quarters of the enormous cross-shaped roof were intact.

Above them the dark sky boiled and churned. Lightning was striking down all over the city, sending up plumes of fire and destruction.

There was a sudden movement, a half rooftop away from where they stood.

‘There!’ hissed Charlie.

Blackstone loomed like a demon against the blood-red sky. He was heaving a huge barrel into position on the apex of a thickly leaded roof.

‘I can get him.’ Lily raised her knife.

‘You’re sure?’ said Charlie, looking at the smoky distance. ‘If you miss he’ll know we’re here.’

‘When have you known me miss?’ Lily adjusted her grip on the scaffold, securing her footing. Then she breathed out, and drew back to throw.

Blackstone ducked down, sending his cascade of lye pouring down the roof. Great clouds of hissing steam rose up.

Lily cursed and adjusted her aim.

‘Now!’ said Charlie. ‘Before he flames it.’

Thunder crashed directly above their heads, and the scaffold shifted. Lily’s hand jerked free and she slipped.

Charlie put out his arms to stop her fall and her momentum pulled him from the scaffold. They slid three sharp feet down the steep spire. Charlie’s feet hit the base, shattering tile and he broke Lily’s fall.

He righted himself, breathing heavily, and looked towards Blackstone.

‘No,’ said Charlie, refusing to believe it.

Blue fire zigzagged along the roof. It rolled down like a fiery fountain, then roared upwards triumphantly.

They could only look in horror as the west roof blazed blue. Then at the Carpenters’ Guild, they saw an answering blue light. Lily put her hands over her mouth.

‘The guild is fired,’ said Charlie, trying to keep the hopelessness from his voice. ‘The Tower will burn.’ He looked up to the storm. ‘The papers,’ he decided. ‘Perhaps we can still stop Blackstone.’

‘He’s already won,’ said Lily. ‘All of England’s defences are in the Tower.’

Lightning cracked, illuminating the rooftops. Lily started.

‘We’re concealed by the scaffold,’ Charlie reassured her. ‘Blackstone hasn’t seen us.’

‘I was more concerned about being stood on a steeple during a thunderstorm,’ said Lily.

‘This steeple was hit by lightning twenty years ago,’ Charlie said. ‘Lightning never strikes . . .’

Light flashed and the steeple exploded. A shower of burning lead and timber rained on to the roof, tearing huge holes and tumbling into the vaulted chasm below.

Charlie ducked reflexively, throwing out his arm to protect Lily. On the west roof Blackstone whipped around to follow the source of the light. His eyes fell on Charlie.

Then on his key.

Charlie grasped it instinctively, shielding the symbol with his fist. But it was too late. Blackstone’s mouth twisted slowly upwards. He had seen the key. And he knew what it meant. In the next moment Blackstone’s hand was at his hip, reaching for a pistol.

‘Lily,’ said Charlie, ‘get . . .’

Blackstone’s gunshot blew her backwards. Charlie snatched at her dress but the silken fabric tore through his fingers. He could only watch as Lily fell back, crashing through the weakened spire and down into the cathedral below.