‘Is he –?’ Sarah began, then had her answer in a high yell. Knew it now as the most glorious sound she’d ever heard.
Another woman held the baby, an older, stouter version of Jenny. She had a mug in her hand, and a spoon. ‘The mother?’ she asked. ‘ ’Tis as well. For I can’t get this little mite to take any ewe’s milk.’
Sarah was across the room in a moment, bending and scooping up her son. The baby yelled louder at the sudden jostling, then calmed down as Sarah sat with him and fumbled to open her young man’s doublet. That first yell had not only produced joy; her breasts, swollen with milk, had flooded on the sound. The boy appeared quite content with that.
Jenny and her sister fussed around her, commenting, gossiping, questioning. Sarah didn’t answer much, couldn’t think of anything to say or do, beyond staring at the wonder in her arms. But she did look up, to the footfalls on the stair, to the door they’d left open. To the man standing there.
With a little difficulty, she plucked the baby from her breast and held him out. ‘William Coke,’ she said, ‘meet William Coke.’
18
AFTERMATH
One week later
It wasn’t convenient. But Pitman had insisted.
‘A short visit only, Captain,’ he’d said. ‘I know ’tis the Sabbath. But if we get the business out of the way first, then we can fully focus on God.’
Coke wished to focus on nothing and no one save his wife and his son, having to make their own way to St Paul’s in Covent Garden. At least they were not alone – for the entire Pitman family was with them, and Dickon too. But Coke did not understand why he must spend even a part of the day of young William’s christening in the company of the Under-Secretary of State. And then to be kept waiting an hour by the rogue, as the bell sounding in Scotland Yard testified. ‘Truly, Pitman, I must go. Sarah will not tolerate any tardiness on this occasion. I have been away enough, as you know.’
‘A few moments longer, please. The ceremony is yet an hour off. And I need Sir Joseph to understand that you are an equal partner in any enterprise we undertake for him. In case one of us is,’ he tapped his leg, ‘laid up again.’
‘Undertake? Pah!’ Coke grumbled. ‘I am reconsidering our partnership, sir. I did not agree to join in your work to become a damned spy. The plan was to take footpads and highwaymen, begod.’
‘And we will, Captain. Yet we are victims of our own success. We have now thwarted two assassination attempts, on duke and king. Marry,’ he laughed, ‘maybe we’ve been summoned here to be knighted.’
‘Pitman, do not jest. I have –’
His further remonstrance was interrupted by the door opening. ‘He will see you now,’ said a bespectacled secretary, passing them and leaving the door ajar.
They rose and entered, blinking against the sunlight blazing through the window behind Sir Joseph Williamson at his desk. Towers of paper covered it; one of which, taller than the rest, began to slip sideways at the vibrations of the large thief-taker’s approach. Pitman’s hand averted catastrophe.
‘I thank you,’ said the Under-Secretary, leaning to remove some sheaves from the stack to make an equally precarious stand next to it. ‘I am, as you see, drowned in reports. The nation will have an answer to the cause of the late fire. Sit, both of you.’
Pitman sat in the chair indicated. ‘The cause is not in doubt, sir. It began with a baker’s carelessness in Pudding Lane. Trust me, I was there soon after.’
‘I know that, uh, Pitman. As do you and any man of sense in the realm. Alas,’ he indicated the mounds of paper, ‘others do not. Including the baker himself, who claims the place was fired deliberately by rivals –’
‘He would say that, wouldn’t he? Hardly going to help his trade being known as the man who burned London down, is it? What will that say for his buns?’
He and Coke laughed. Sir Joseph did not. ‘Oh, you would be surprised how many crave that title. I have confessions here,’ he jabbed a finger, ‘from one Robert Hubert, a Frenchman, clearly a Bedlamite, who claims he started the fire for the glory of our enemy, France. Another here from a ten-year-old apothecary’s boy, Edward Taylor, who swears it was he and his uncle who lobbed fireballs through Farriner’s window to begin the blaze, for mischief’s sake alone.’ He sat back. ‘Then there are all the accusers. Everyone is suspect, but most especially the nation’s enemies. Those without – the Dutch and French – and even more, those within – the Catholics of course. Some even testify here that the papist Duke of York was the arsonist because,’ he picked up a paper and read, ‘ “he wore too cheery a smile as he feigned the fighting of the flames”. Ye gods!’ He dropped the paper and picked up another. ‘And then of course there are the fanatics. Yours and – uh, Captain Coke, is it? – particular field of expertise.’
As he said it, he glanced behind him, to a door ajar there. It was the tiniest of looks but Coke, who’d raised his hand to block the glare from the window, thought it odd, and looked at the door too. ‘Not mine,’ he declared, sitting up. ‘I intend to leave them well alone, and desire of them the same for me.’
‘Though there is some truth there,’ said Pitman. ‘They did not start the fire, certainly. But I am sure they helped spread it. It was, after all, the divine sign they’d been waiting for.’
‘Ah yes. The day foretold in the year of the Beast.’ Williamson licked his lips. ‘At least that’s past.’
‘Forgive me, Sir Joseph. But there’s still near three months left of it to run.’
‘You are right.’ He peered over his spectacles. ‘Have you concerns? Did you not kill their leader?’
‘Saw him killed, aye. But we have killed their leaders before, and others arise to take over. They are a snake with many heads, the Fifth Monarchy Men. Which brings me to another point. We did not fulfil the second part of our mandate.’ Pitman nodded. ‘We did not bring you Captain Blood, or vouchsafe his death.’
‘Ah yes.’ Sir Joseph cleared his throat. ‘It is for those matters that I have summoned you here. To pay you, for your services to date. And to inform you that the second half of your mission has been terminated. You are no longer required to hunt down the Irishman.’
As he spoke, he opened a drawer, took out a purse and placed it on the desk. He also, Coke noticed, gave another tiny glance to the door behind him. It was the second time he’d done it and the captain felt hairs rise upon his neck.
Pitman lifted the purse, frowned. ‘ ’Tis lighter than I’d hoped, Sir Joseph. Why are we not to pursue him still? Did you not, in this very office, tell me that Homo Sanguienus was the most dangerous man in the realm.’
‘He has been dealt with, sir. That is all you need to know. Now you have your orders and your reward, you may go.’ The Under-Secretary reached for another folder of papers, bound in string, and put it before him on the desk. ‘I have much other business with which to deal.’
Muttering, Pitman tucked the purse within his cloak and rose. Coke did too – and squinted. The harsh sunlight was now reflecting off something on the desk, hidden until this moment by the folder Sir Joseph had just picked up. Shifting slightly to the side, Coke saw what it was: a monocle.
He stepped swiftly around the desk. Sir Joseph rose, crying at him to halt. He did not, but marched to the back door and threw it wide.
Sitting on chairs in a small, windowless room were two men.
‘Captain Coke,’ said the elder of them, rising.
‘Captain Blood,’ replied Coke, drawing his sword.
‘Stop!’ shouted Sir Joseph. ‘Put up, I command you.’
‘So this is the rogue, is it?’ Pitman loomed in the door behind the Under-Secretary. ‘He was masked when he stabbed me in St Paul’s.’
‘ ’Tis him. And his whelp,’ replied Coke, not lowering his sword.
Blood raised his hands, open-palmed. ‘I am unarmed, sir.’
‘As was I when you had me tied in a chair in Holland.’
‘Put up, I say!’ Sir Joseph cam
e closer. ‘Would you have me call the guards?’
‘You’ve not seen the captain with a blade, sir. Both Bloods would be dead before your men got here.’ Pitman put a large and restraining hand upon the other’s shoulder. ‘I believe the only way you can prevent him is by an explanation.’
‘And swiftly too,’ added Coke.
Sir Joseph’s eyes showed fury but he took a deep breath. ‘We apprehended the Bloods in Harwich as they landed. We kept the son, while the father –’ he hesitated, ‘did us some service in the protection of His Majesty.’
Pitman whistled. ‘So it was you who shot the villain in St Paul’s churchyard. You were not shooting at the king?’
‘If I’d wanted to kill him, the tyrant would now be dead. Pff!’ Blood replied, blowing out his lips. ‘But so would my son,’ he glanced at the boy who was staring hard at Coke’s sword tip, ‘and not swiftly, I was warned.’
‘So now you are a double traitor, eh?’ Coke said. ‘To the realm and to your brothers?’
The Irishman’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am no traitor. I am loyal to my causes. And if I sometimes reach…accommodations with my enemy,’ his eyes flicked to Sir Joseph, then back to Coke, ‘that is the nature of the spying trade, sir. As I am sure you are soon to discover.’
‘Trust me, I am not.’
‘Now that is all the explanation you will get.’ Sir Joseph shrugged off Pitman’s hand and stepped forward to place his own on Coke’s sword arm. ‘You will put up, sirrah, and leave the business of the realm to me.’
Coke stared a moment longer, then sheathed his sword. Both Bloods sighed, lowered their arms, and the elder stepped forward. ‘Will you shake hands, captain to captain?’ he said, smiling. ‘No hard feelings, eh? It was just the trade.’ When Coke simply stared back, he offered his hand again. ‘Come, sir, if we cannot be friends, can we not be honourable enemies?’
Coke looked at the hand, then up into the Irishman’s eyes. ‘Perhaps. Once we are even.’ And with that he drove his fist straight into Blood’s jaw. The man flew back, smashing over the two chairs, crashing to the floor. His son cried out and threw himself down beside his father.
Coke stepped closer, peering down at Blood. ‘You asked me once if you’d broken my jaw with your blow. I replied that you had not. Can you so reassure me?’
Nothing but moans came from the floor. ‘Thought not,’ said Coke, as he turned and walked from the room.
—
William Coke’s christening was at St Paul’s, Covent Garden. The actors of the King’s Company, their playhouse nearby on Drury Lane, had adopted the chapel, and some from the Duke’s Company joined them there each Sunday. Many from both sets of players attended the ceremony, delighting that he, who would perhaps be the newest recruit to their ranks, displayed the required playhouse lungs by yelling throughout the ceremony and most especially when the rector poured water on his head.
‘I baptise thee William Aethelred Pitman Coke,’ pronounced the priest, needing to bellow, player-like, to be heard. Sarah glanced up above their screaming child to her husband, one eyebrow raised again at this second name. He just shrugged. ‘My father’s,’ he’d told her when the matter was first discussed, ‘and every Somersetshire Coke going back from before the Conquest. On this matter, madam, I will not yield.’
The godfather, standing near, simply smiled. His own son, in Bettina’s arms and as quiet as young William was loud, had been baptised in their Baptist meeting house in a secret ceremony only that morning – for they were still not permitted to meet, even in a ruined city. As was their custom, the name he was given was biblical: Eleazar. Though the father suspected that, like him, the boy would reduce it still further and forever be correcting those who would append ‘Mr’ with ‘That’s Pitman to you. Pitman to all.’
The second godmother simply grinned. Jenny Johnson was enjoying the company of the players. Indeed Betterton had even offered her a small role in their next production.
With London still smoking, and people needing sustenance, Sabbath rules had been relaxed and every tavern and inn was open. The congregation retired to one on King Street nearby where the baby’s head could be ‘washed’ again, though liquid was not poured onto him this time – he’d only just ceased shouting from his first dousing – but in great quantity down the players’ throats. Many toasts were made to fortune and a long life. The Dutch and French were ritually damned, the king huzzahed. Before very long, instruments appeared – mandolin, fiddles and fifes – and dancing began.
They stayed for a time, and enjoyed it. But when Coke caught Sarah’s eye across the room and raised an eyebrow, she nodded, rose and joined him. ‘You could stay,’ he said. ‘Pitman and I can deal with this.’
‘Nay. It’s my life. Ours,’ she corrected herself, hoisting a now sleeping baby.
In the end, everyone came – the entire Pitman brood, all in their Sunday best, surrounding the two mothers who walked behind with babes in arms, the captain and the constable slightly ahead. ‘Anything more?’ asked Coke.
The taller man shook his head. ‘The parishes have received the instructions amongst many others and there is yet so much to be done. But the authorities are concerned that when the prisons burned down, most of the prisoners escaped. They will be tracked down. Murderers, thieves –’
‘Debtors,’ finished Coke. ‘Well, we shall see now if there is still one debt to honour. At least Isaac has disclaimed his, now he is fully recovered.’
The streets they passed through first had not been touched by the fire, the cataclysm being evident only in more people being about, with refugees having found shelter where they could. As they proceeded further east, though, the signs were there – in an occasional burnt-out shell where a house had stood before a wind-borne spark had fired it. And as soon as they stepped from under the eaves of narrow Magpie Yard and onto the wider road at its end, a very different sight appeared.
Fetter Lane, running north–south, was the westernmost boundary of the great fire. Behind them, most houses still stood; before them – hardly any did. They all regarded the devastation, and even the chattering children were struck silent. The sight Coke and Sarah had seen from Highgate was even grimmer close to, with smoke still curling from a thousand scorched cellars, and charred timbers leaning together like a fleet wrecked by fireships. Yet not everything was the uniform black of soot. Everywhere, different things had been consumed, leaving their residue – grey from the riven and calcified stones, red from powdered brick. As far as any could see, multi-hued dirt had settled over the city like a thick and filthy blanket. Everywhere, people moved upon it like fleas, seeking, beginning to clear – and to extinguish further flames. The main fire may have been put out, but even within their sight they could see a dozen smaller fires, with men clustered about them.
It was not a wilderness any would choose to walk through. But both men had tried and failed to dissuade their families.
‘Come then,’ the big man called and led the way. Their destination wasn’t far, though the way to it took time as they had to go around the jumble of the streets, the remains of pulled-down houses, the remnants of lives lived within them. The children fell upon items with delight – here a scorched poppet, there a partially melted glass figurine – and were commanded to put them down. Another game could not be stopped – the constant dancing that was required to walk over ground still glowing with embers.
Yet when they reached their destination, all fell silent, aware of the attention of the two men upon what was before them, and that of the two women who joined them.
‘Well,’ said Coke, unable to say more.
The house he’d bought for Sarah was, like all the others around it, a gutted shell. Most of the brick had withstood the flames, though the back wall had collapsed and the roof joists had burned and fallen in. Because it had been unoccupied, the dirt and soot within was a uniform black: no possessions, no wall hangings, no tapestries had dissolved, no glass lay melted on the floor. But it was a ruin none
theless.
‘Door arch stands, husband,’ said Sarah at his elbow, an eyebrow raised. ‘Do you still wish to carry me over the threshold?’
He was prevented from replying by the children’s shrieks. He looked to where they pointed – and indeed a monster did appear to be emerging, as covered with soot as Coke had been only days before.
‘Bastards,’ the apparition muttered. ‘Bloody –’ The man ceased speaking when he saw them. ‘Your pardon, sirs. Ladies,’ he said, taking off his hat which let fall yet more dust as he did. ‘I did not see you there. In sooth, I have little sight for anything but my,’ he looked back, ‘disaster.’
‘Yours, sir?’ said Coke. ‘How so?’
The man looked to spit, noted the women again, and thought better of it. ‘This house, sir, and the three each side of it – my father and I built them and they were near complete before the fire. Now –’ This time he did not withhold the spit. Wiping his mouth, he continued, ‘The worst of it is that not only did my father die in the flames, they took all our records too.’
For some reason, Pitman felt that the man looked sadder about the latter loss than the former, a feeling confirmed when he murmured a condolence.
‘Aye well, by his belief he is in a far happier place now. His new Jerusalem. For ’e was one of those, whatcha-ma-call-’ems. Saints!’ He spat again. ‘But the bastard’s gone and left me in his old bloody Jerusalem.’
‘I take it,’ said Coke, ‘that you are not of his beliefs?’
‘Nay, despite how often ’e tried to impress them on my arse with a switch. Apologies, ladies,’ he said, not looking sorry at all, as the children giggled. ‘But it ’as been a trying time,’ he added with a sigh.
‘Sir,’ said Coke. ‘I am sorry for your troubles. And I hesitate to add to them. But you are standing in my house.’
‘Yours? Are you –?’ he pulled out a small, black leather notebook, ‘Coke? William Coke?’
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