The Pirate and the Pagan

by Virginia Henley

  She could feel the heat of the pavement through her satin slippers and the air was filled with black soot. She glanced down at her skirt and feet and saw they were no longer cream-colored. She was begrimed with soot and sweat, but there was far more to contend with. She could see the flames of the fire now; surely every warehouse along Lower Thames Street was ablaze. Showers of fire drops rained down, burning her cheeks and singeing her hair. Two Duke of York’s horse guards were forcing everyone back and would not allow them to enter Upper Thames Street.

  Without hesitation she ran up to the guard and grabbed the horse’s bridle to get his attention. “My baby is in danger, I have to get through,” she begged.

  He shouted, “Warehouses are full of pitch, tar, oil, brandy— can’t you hear the explosions?”

  She turned up Blackfriars toward Ludgate Hill, but the crush of people heading to the river so they could get across to Bankside made progress almost impossible. The people were black. They had stayed in their houses until the last possible minute, until the top stories had actually set on fire. She had to fight her way through the throng. Almost there, almost there, she thought, and knew it was the only thing which kept her from screaming. Tears ran down her face freely at the suffering she witnessed. She saw sick children being carried out in their beds, old people being knocked to their knees as younger, stronger ones fled the malicious, bloody flames.

  She looked up and saw church steeples ablaze; she looked down to see a cat fly past with all its tail ablaze. Even the poor pigeons had circled and circled the ledges of the burning buildings until their wings caught fire and they dropped down to the pavement to be crushed underfoot. By the time she reached St. Paul’s Cathedral her lungs felt as if they would burst. She stopped to press her aching side where she felt a cramp beneath her ribs. The massive church gave her a sense of calm. It was immense, it was the heart of London. Surely this building which covered over ten acres would stand its ground in the face of the terrifying conflagration. Summer crossed herself and ran along the south side of St. Paul’s toward Friday Street, muttering, “I’m there, I’m there.” Then she saw a sight that almost drove her mad. One side of Friday Street was ablaze; the opposite side, where her house had stood, no longer existed.

  As she stood there unable to comprehend the enormity of her loss, she wondered why her feet were in such pain. She looked down to see her very shoes on fire. She kicked them off and the pavement scorched the bare soles of her feet. She saw a woman huddled in the middle of the road, but when she bent down to aid her, she saw the woman was dead, her face charred black, her hair still crackling. She screamed, “Mrs. Bishop, Mrs. Bishop.” Debris was falling about her and she took to her heels as if she had just gotten her second wind. She ran into Canning Street blindly, sobbing, not knowing or caring where she was or what she did. A large crowd of men were working furiously, pulling down houses in an effort to thwart the raging inferno. She saw a familiar tall, dark figure stripped to the waist, lifting heavy timbers. She flew to his side through the crowd of men. “Ru, Ru,” she cried, now oblivious to all danger.

  Charles turned to see who grabbed him and couldn’t believe his eyes when he looked through the sweat and grime and recognized Summer. “Sweetheart, what in the name of hellfire are you doing here? Get back to the palace immediately.”

  “Oh, my God, I thought you were Ruark. Where is he? My baby, my baby, my house is gone,” she babbled. “I must find my husband and my baby!”

  He sat down on a doorstep and took her onto his knee. “Listen to me now, Summer,” he said as if speaking to a distraught child. “Ruark had your son and his nurse in his carriage when he came for me at three o’clock this morning. You are in the way here, we are trying to prevent the total destruction of St. Paul’s and the rest of my city. Be a good girl and get the hell out of here. For Christ’s sake, be careful. If anything happens to you, how am I to face Helford?” he demanded.

  Her face beamed up at him as her heart overflowed with joy. His big hand covered her hair to crush out the burning flakes of fire. “Go in that direction, through Doctor’s Common and straight down to Paul’s Wharfe. The water is the only place that’s safe.” The water stairs had scores of people clinging to them. The crowd’s temper was turning nasty as they realized over half the boats had been hired to remove expensive furnishings rather than help the poorer families burdened by too many children. Summer found herself actually helping to tip a pair of virginals out of a boat so that a dozen terrified children could be taken across to Bank-side. Eventually someone made room for her in a boat and she gladly went across the Thames to safety.

  It had begun to get dark and the fire seemed an evil, insatiable monster. The flames smoldered and crackled, seeming to enjoy their wicked orgy of destruction.

  As Summer watched London all ablaze from the opposite shore she could feel the presence of death’s angel. She saw the fire grow, fresh blazes breaking out every minute. It was easier to see in the darkness. One corner after another caught fire, jumping across streets, arching across roofs, dropping down from blazing church steeples. It ran for well over a mile up the hill of the city. It devoured everything in its path—houses, churches, factories, prisons, alehouses, brothels. London was surely a city damned. It was still staggering from the devastation of the plague when the devil reached down to torch Sin City.

  She sat on the grass all night watching the holocaust annihilate, ravage, and destroy the greatest city in the world. By morning even St. Paul’s had caught fire and the King, the Duke of York, and the lord mayor of London decided to blow up whole rows of houses so the insatiable fire would have nothing to feed upon. Summer hugged her knees, wondering why she had been blessed. It was a miracle that Ruark had gone to Friday Street in time to save Ryan and Mrs. Bishop. She felt very guilty over her good fortune in the face of so much misery. The fact that she had lost her home and all her possessions never entered her head.

  Eventually she got back to the palace, but it took her most of the day. Some of the stories she heard were hard to believe. Stories of suffering and heroism and impossibilities the mind could hardly grasp, like the lead roof of St. Paul’s melting in the inferno, sending molten lead spewing down Watling Street.

  Every stitch she wore went into the midden, then she bathed and washed the black soot from her singed hair. She was so tired she found it a great effort to lift her hands high enough to shampoo her head. The bed looked very inviting, but she knew she must get to Cockspur Street because that was the most likely place Ruark had taken Ryan. She cut through Pall Mall, which was the shortest distance to Auntie Lil’s, and when the familiar condescending footman opened the door, she could have kissed him.

  The minute Lady Richwood glided into the reception room in oyster-colored silk Summer asked anxiously, “Did Ruark bring Ryan here in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes, darling, but wherever have you been? We’ve been out of our minds with worry!”

  “Oh, Lil, it will take me a week to tell you of my ordeal by fire.” Suddenly she broke down and sobbed. Lil saw that she needed the release of tears and quietly let her get it all out. Finally Summer sniffed and gulped. “I’m sorry, I suppose it’s the relief of knowing my baby is here.”

  “Darling,” said Lil with understandable reluctance, “I said Ruark brought the baby and Mrs. Bishop in the middle of the night. I didn’t say they were still here.”

  “Where are they?” asked Summer blankly.

  “Darling, you look absolutely done in. Why don’t I put you to bed and I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

  Summer shuddered as a goose walked over her grave. She looked Lil straight in the eye and said, “I walked into Dante’s Inferno today looking for my son and it seems I still haven’t found him.”

  “Lord Helford came back at midday with a traveling coach and took the baby and his nurse away with him. He left a note for you.” Lil bit her lip as she handed her the sealed letter. She dreaded Summer’s reaction. Her relatio
nship with her husband had always been volatile, to say the least, and by the looks of her niece the last thing she needed was another emotional upheaval.

  Summer tore open the note with impatient fingers and read the words in disbelief.

  I am removing my son from your care for reasons which are obvious. London is unfit and his permanent home will be Helford Hall. I have made my wishes on this clear to you in the past, so it should come as no surprise. I also rescued the Helford rubies, which you carelessly left behind in your haste to return to Court.

  R.

  She crumpled the note in a clenched fist and jumped to her feet so quickly the white Persian cat ran straight up the curtains. “Whoreson! Swine! May lightning blast the man from the face of the earth!” She sloshed wine from a decanter and drained it. Then she wailed, “I gave an oath not to drink or swear and the bloody man has me doing both!” She paced up and down the small salon as if it caged her. “Well, here’s another oath—if my son’s permanent home is to be Helford Hall, then so is mine. I’ll stick closer than fog on London Bridge, aye, and he’ll fasten the Helford rubies about my throat before I’ve done with him!”

  If only Ruark Helford could have been there to hear her reaction to his note, he would have smiled with deep satisfaction, for it was exactly the reaction he had hoped to provoke.

  “Darling, can we go to bed now? I was particularly partial to those curtains.”

  “Lil Richwood, you should be ashamed. Half of London have no windows tonight and you’re worried about bloody curtains.”

  It took until Thursday to put out the great fire of London and even then some places still burned. The Clothmakers Hall had a cellar filled with oil and would have to burn itself out. The entire fleet had been ordered from the Pool of London into the Channel as soon as the fire started and now reports were everywhere that the Dutch and English fleets were in sight of one another.

  Summer and Auntie Lil took the coach into the city to see if they could learn the whereabouts of Solomon Storm. His place of business had been in Cheapside and, alas, Cheapside now lay in black ruins. “Summer, I have a ghastly feeling that the gold we had on deposit has gone up in smoke.” They sat in the coach, stunned.

  It took Summer a few moments before the full impact hit her, then she said slowly, “I’ve lost my son, my jewels, my house, my gold … I’ve even lost all my beautiful clothes, save that damned feathered creation. How the hell will I get to Cornwall?”

  Lil shook her head, too stunned by her own losses to consider Summer’s plight. The first person Summer thought of was Black Jack Flash. Oh, how she needed him now! She closed her eyes and saw his lazy, amused smile, his unshaven beard, his flash of silver hair. If only it were possible to locate the Phantom.

  Back at Cockspur Street Summer knelt down before her old trunk and lifted its heavy leather lid. The black garb which lay folded there seemed symbolic.

  She remembered once before when she had been stripped of everything and had been reduced to relying on her wits. She took out the black breeches and doublet and was relieved when she could squeeze herself into them. She put on the boots, then brushed her hair up into a tight knot and lifted up the wide-brimmed black hat. Beneath it lay her pistol and mask. She shoved them inside her doublet and strode in front of the mirror. The male attire gave her a surge of confidence she hadn’t felt in an age. She strutted about admiring herself, a devilish smile curving the corners of her lips.

  With a long-legged, male swagger, she strolled to the palace stables. She didn’t have the luxury of picking and choosing, she simply stole a horse which wasn’t being attended. She went down to the London docks, offering to exchange gold if anyone could get a message to Black Jack Flash, who sailed the Phantom. She had no gold, of course, but it didn’t matter since she was soon convinced Rory was not in London. She knew he preferred a port like Southampton or Portsmouth if he’d illegally taken any ships. That’s where she’d last seen him, and she made her decision quickly, firmly. She had nothing to lose. If she didn’t find Rory, at least she would be halfway to Cornwall.

  Lil Richwood did her utmost to dissuade Summer from such reckless behavior. She laid out her arguments one by one. It was too far to ride, she was a woman alone, she had no money, bad weather and gales threatened, but she finally realized the more Summer was told she couldn’t do a thing, the firmer her resolve became.

  The first night she only made it as far as Dorking. She selected a field with haystacks next to a stream. She watered her horse and let him crop the grass beside the water, then she curled up beneath one of the stacks and ate the bread and cheese she’d brought. She awoke before dawn to the crowing of a cock and realized she was freezing. She rubbed her arms and legs furiously and stamped about until her blood warmed a little. To hell with this, she thought. Tonight I need a bed and Dobbin here will need some oats or he’ll be in danger of floundering.

  She rode doggedly through a bitter wind blowing in from the Channel. At dusk she chose a carriage heading out of Portsmouth to eliminate the chance of coming face-to-face with her victim later on. She tied on her mask, pulled her hat low, and halted the startled carriage driver. Portsmouth was a rough seaport where you had to look over your shoulder every minute, but the driver had relaxed once he’d left the crime-ridden streets behind him. The occupant of the carriage was outraged. “Why didn’t you shoot the fellow?” he demanded of his driver.

  “Because he’s got more brains than you,” growled Summer, “and he doesn’t want them spilled all over the road.”

  “I’ll have you whipped for this!” he told his driver. “And as for you, I’ll see you hanged, drawn, and quartered.”

  “Shut your cake hole and empty your pockets,” she said, waving the pistol in his face. She relieved him of his money, but to her great consternation the minute she let the carriage go on its way, the driver must have received orders to turn about and head back into Portsmouth. Summer had little stomach for this highway robbery; she would try to make the coins last.

  When she rode into the inn yard at the Three Cranes and dismounted, she’d been so long in the saddle she thought she’d never be able to make her knees touch again. She paid for oats and stabling the horse, paid for a bed and a bowl of hot stew, then walked out along the quay to see what ships lay at anchor. Wobbly on her legs from fatigue, she almost decided to turn back to the inn when a large ungainly vessel caught her eye. As she drew closer she saw it was unloading women in chains. “What in the name of God is going on?” she asked a seaman who was taking a keen interest in the unloading.

  “Prisoners from London,” he told her. “Jails all burned … women from Bridewell and Fleet Debtors’ Prison to be housed here and Southampton.”

  She stared up at the women in fascinated horror as their chains clanked together. Suddenly she got the weirdest feeling, as if someone were staring at her. She glanced about quickly, then froze. Looking straight down into her eyes was Sergeant Oswald.

  “Grab him!” he shouted to the men on the dock. Summer bolted immediately, but her legs betrayed her, turning to rubber as she tried to escape. Before she knew it, four burly seamen closed in on her to block her escape. She swept off her hat and shook her head. The black silken mass of hair tumbled to her shoulders and she begged them with her eyes. “Please, please, if any of you know Black Jack Flash of the Phantom, get a message to him. I’m his woman, I’m Cat.”

  The men were startled by her beauty and touched by her low urgent plea. They looked at each other, ready to let her go, but before she could get to her feet, Oswald had his beefy hands on her. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the notorious highwayman the Black Cat,” he ridiculed.

  “Let me go, Sergeant Oswald, or I shall report you to the King himself,” she vowed.

  He gave her arm a savage twist. “It’s Sergeant-Major now, Lady Bitch.” He quick-marched her to the end of the line of women who now stood on the dock and shackled her to the last one. A combination of hatred and pride kept her on her legs
as Oswald and six militiamen under his command marched the women from the ship, through the port, and down to Portsmouth Prison. The forty women were made to stand in the prison yard until all the paperwork was sorted out. The fact that it had begun to rain and the cold wind slanted icy raindrops against their faces made little difference to the harassed jailer.

  “I’m overcrowded now,” argued Bludwart in the cluttered room he used for office cum living quarters. “The magistrate that looks after Hampshire and Dorset counties has been ailing for over a year. There’s been no hangings here in all that time. The prisoners just sit and eat their bloody heads off!”

  A well-dressed man stood beside a cluttered desk with a look of disgusted outrage on his face. “Bludwart, I’m trying to report a criminal act. How dare you make me wait? If you ordered militiamen out now, you’d apprehend the fellow! I don’t know what the country’s coming to!”

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, Mr. Blackthorn. I can’t be expected to do everything. I’m short of militiamen, short of guards, short of victuals, and what do they do? Send me forty bleeding drabs to feed and house—I tell you I’ve not room for four, let let alone forty!”

  Oswald’s brain was working overtime to see how he could take advantage of this situation. His insides seethed with excitement at the prospect of having Helford’s whore in his power. Of the forty women who stood outside in the downpour only one obsessed him, the rest didn’t matter one iota. He rustled the official list of prisoners in his beefy hands and said low, “If I pull strings to get you out of this mess, Bludwart, I’ll expect something in return.”

  The warden’s eyes narrowed and he stepped closer to Oswald. The sergeant-major almost recoiled at the reek of the man. He smelled of filth and sweat and gin. His eyes were bulging and bloodshot, the veins continually breaking down from his love affair with the bottle. “Most of these female felons are pickpockets, thieves, prostitutes, and I can take them over to Southampton. Half a dozen are murderers and I’ve orders to jail them here in Portsmouth because its security is stronger. You give me a private room for interrogation any time I want it and I’ll lumber you with only six of them. What do you say?”