Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

  Her eyes ranged for somewhere to sit. She looked at Blackstone, trying to assess him. His huge body was well dressed in black, with a cavalier’s hat and sturdy boots. Something simple, she decided, was what military men usually wanted.

  ‘Should you like me to play a harvest maid?’ she suggested. ‘Or a fairy queen?’

  Blackstone removed his hat. Her eyes widened at the shiny rash of scarred sores between clumps of black hair.

  ‘Speak only when I tell you,’ said Blackstone. He began removing his large leather gauntlets. The woman shut her mouth. Fear animated her features.

  Blackstone took her in. The dark crown. The green dress. A horrible memory of his first woman tunnelled up. The cloying perfumed flesh. Hot and sickly, like overripe fruit. The rotten-sugar taste of the sin rose up in his throat like bile.

  ‘Women need a stern hand,’ said Blackstone, taking her in with distaste. ‘Or they fall to sin and drag men with them.’

  He was remembering his gentle sister. The measures his father had been forced to take to keep her obedient. His sister was a good, pure Catholic. This Protestant whore symbolised everything that was wrong with England.

  ‘As a boy I was haunted by the idea of sinful women,’ Blackstone added. ‘The disgusting things they let men do to them. My own strange compulsion to rut with them. I’ve mastered such thoughts now.’

  He approached a shadowed part of the cellar and threw off a cover. A harsh squawking sound echoed forth. The woman started. He had a bird in a cage. A raven, she thought, by the noise it was making.

  ‘Get up,’ said Blackstone. The woman rose uncertainly. More and more things were tugging at her instincts now. She desperately wanted to leave.

  Blackstone closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar smell of Teresa’s room. Something inside of him twitched to life.

  ‘Lie there.’ He pointed to the damp ground. The woman moved forward. This was more familiar territory. She arranged herself, prostrate with her skirts over her head.

  ‘Not there,’ came his voice. ‘There.’

  She drew her skirts down in confusion. He was pointing a little to the side of where she lay. And then she saw it. Some sort of . . . circle had been made. Candles and dead things. Her blood turned icy. He was a witch. She sat up.

  ‘I’ll not be part of a spell,’ she managed. ‘’Tis a burning crime.’

  Blackstone looked down. Then suddenly he was on her.

  ‘You dare?’ he whispered. ‘Defy me? With your withered body and scabbed soul. Do you think you’re worth anything compared to her?’

  The woman was looking around the cellar in terror. She couldn’t understand who he was speaking about. But she knew her mistake now. He was a madman. From experience it was better not to fight. Let him do what he wanted and get out.

  She lay back, shaking, and drew up her skirts again.

  Blackstone’s eyes widened.

  ‘You think I want you for that?’ he was laughing. A chill, dead sound.

  ‘What then?’ she managed.

  ‘You,’ said Blackstone, ‘will return my wife to me.’

  He was looking around the cellar now.

  ‘Her poppets,’ decided Blackstone. ‘She cannot return without her poppets.’

  He turned away and seemed to vanish in the darkness. There was a scraping sound and then he eased free a large preserving jar. Blackstone placed it gently on the ground and then brought out another.

  ‘There,’ he said, after a third was brought. ‘Your poppets.’

  The woman had backed as far as she could away from the glass jars. One of her cork cheek-plumpers had made it to the front of her mouth and it fell to the ground soundlessly. She didn’t attempt to retrieve it.

  Floating in the jars . . . Women burned such things.

  Chapter 41

  Charlie knew Lily could hustle. But he hadn’t bet on how good she was. He watched in awe as she laughed and flirted with the man in the blue doublet. Never trust an actress, he reminded himself.

  They’d fashioned a bundle of valuables from Lily’s underskirt. And she laboured so convincingly under the weight of it, Charlie would have helped her himself.

  He watched as the nobleman assisted Lily to set down her possessions, pointing to the ferry he’d just hired.

  The first part of the plan in place, Charlie made towards the lighter boats. The next step was to convince the lighterman that Lily was a favourite mistress to a wealthy lord.

  By the time Charlie had made the deception and pushed back through the crowd Lily was holding a tankard of ale and a griddled pork chop.

  ‘I found a lighter,’ he said. ‘So we may go now.’

  ‘Then take my bundle,’ Lily shot back haughtily, full into character. She turned and laid a hand on the blue doublet. ‘You were so kind,’ she whispered seductively. ‘Perhaps we may meet up river? Hatton Gardens?’

  As the lord’s servants watched the exchange, Charlie picked up Lily’s bundle. Then he heaved it off towards the lighter-wharf with her following behind.

  A burly man was slapping a bouncing barrel across the wharf as Charlie approached. ‘Have a care!’ he bellowed, heaving the barrel upright and slamming it on to the deck of the lighter.

  Charlie moved away and hailed the lighterman on the animal skins boat.

  ‘Quickly then,’ barked the lighterman. ‘I’m almost loaded.’ He dumped down a heavy bale of leather, sending up dust from the furs beneath.

  Lily appeared, still clutching the pork chop, and looked from the bundles of furs back to Charlie.

  The lighterman eyed the pork chop. Ladies didn’t eat in public.

  ‘You’re sure she has coin?’ asked the lighterman, looking at Charlie uneasily.

  In answer Charlie heaved the bundle on to the deck. It clanked expensively.

  ‘She’s well favoured,’ he replied.

  The lighterman sucked his teeth and nodded.

  ‘Four pounds when we reach St Catherine’s Dock then?’ he said. ‘As we agreed.’

  Lily glanced at Charlie, but he was nodding.

  ‘And a stop at Bermondsey to gather her sister,’ he added. The lighterman picked up his pole. ‘All aboard then. I’ve to get these furs to Medway.’

  Chapter 42

  ‘Lucy, you have to stop this.’ The Duke of York was trying his best to be kind. But Lucy Walter could test the patience of a saint. The King’s first mistress had arrived in her usual eye-wateringly inappropriate dress, demanding transportation for her goods.

  ‘I must have a cart,’ she blazed. She was breathing dramatically, a dash of her ageing nipples nudging above deep-pink silk. ‘I am mother to the King’s firstborn son.’

  ‘The King tries to save the city,’ said the Duke of York. He was trying not to stare at Lucy’s substantial bosom, hoisted to within an inch of its life by garishly embroidered corsetry.

  ‘Let me past,’ demanded Lucy, rearranging a curl of cheap fake hair. ‘I know Charles will hear me. I must have a carriage and carts.’

  James blocked her way and Lucy blew out her cheeks in frustration. She had been an exceptionally pretty woman, dark-haired and shapely. But almost two decades after her affair with Charles, her famous looks had drooped. Now it was the vulpine cunning in her dark eyes that was most noticeable. James felt sorry for Lucy. She wasn’t a clever woman. Her bad dress sense and wild stories made her a joke in court.

  ‘Lucy, if you need a cart I suggest you speak with your husband. Or Lord Buckingham,’ James added meaningfully.

  ‘My husband and I haven’t spoken for many months,’ admitted Lucy. ‘Some court gossip told him his heir is Buckingham’s.’ She looked furious. ‘Charles has a duty to protect me. For the love we once bore one another.’

  ‘Charles cannot give you what he doesn’t have,’ soothed James.

  ‘This necklace!’ Lucy’s voice rose hysterically, clutching at some bright jewels at her throat. ‘Was a gift from the King of France himself! Rubies from his own personal mine i
n Versailles. If my goods burn, he’ll likely declare war.’

  James rubbed his forehead.

  ‘Lucy,’ he said exasperatedly. ‘You’ve never met Louis XIV. Nor are rubies mined in France. Charles doesn’t owe you a debt. He’s been very kind to you already.’

  James was watching her carefully. He could never tell when Lucy’s mercurial temper would erupt. She was full of childish spite when angered.

  But instead of storming into a rage, Lucy gave an affected sob.

  ‘To Monmouth,’ she protested. ‘Charles is kind to our son. Not me. Never me.’

  ‘You weren’t kind to him either,’ said James. ‘If you remember.’

  ‘It was lies,’ huffed Lucy. ‘I was faithful to Charles.’

  ‘I saw you myself,’ said James, exasperated. ‘You were hardly discreet.’

  ‘Monmouth is Charles’s son,’ continued Lucy, her voice rising. ‘I swear it on all that is Holy.’

  The Duke of York raised his hands. He hadn’t meant to get into all of this.

  ‘No one doubts Monmouth’s paternity,’ he lied. ‘Charles himself acknowledges him. I only meant . . .’

  But Lucy had sensed the potential for a scene.

  ‘I am the mother of Charles’s firstborn,’ she continued, her voice raised theatrically. ‘I have expectations which must be met. A carriage. Carts.’

  Servants were watching openly now. Lucy made to push past the Duke of York again. He barred her way bodily.

  ‘London burns,’ he said, ‘we have not time for your drama.’

  Lucy gasped, her mouth a square of rage.

  ‘You,’ she shouted, ‘you speak to me of theatre?’

  James opened his mouth to reply but she spoke over him.

  ‘Everyone knows of your secret marriage. All of England you’ve jeopardised.’

  Lucy narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Does she know how kind you were to me once?’ she added in a breathy whisper. ‘Your Catholic wife?’

  James breathed out hard.

  ‘Charles cannot see you,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Go back to your husband.’

  Lucy turned so sharply her enormous skirts propelled her by their own momentum.

  ‘Charles shall hear of this,’ she threatened. ‘He is not so heartless as his brother.’ She raised her voice to include the nearby servants.

  ‘And I didn’t tell you true,’ added Lucy spitefully, as she stormed away. ‘Charles is much bigger.’

  Chapter 43

  The lighter jolted as the choppy waters nudged it, causing Lily to shriek in alarm. She grappled for Charlie’s arm and righted herself.

  ‘Frightened of water?’ he said, holding her steady as she positioned herself on a stack of furs. He was surprised.

  ‘You can’t trust it,’ she said, settling herself more comfortably. ‘Same as unmarried men,’ she added, looking pointedly at his hand on her arm.

  ‘How do you know I’m not married?’ he said, removing the hand.

  ‘You have that dangerous look men get,’ said Lily.

  Once they were safely loaded, the lighterman raised and plunged his pole in the easy automation of the well-practised hand, taking them out into the centre of the river.

  ‘Was it recent?’ asked Lily as their boat drifted into the thick flow of heavily laden boats. ‘The woman,’ she quantified, at Charlie’s confused expression.

  ‘Spring,’ he said, after an uncomfortable pause. ‘A long time ago now.’

  ‘Someone was unfaithful?’ Lily guessed.

  ‘She was too reliable,’ said Charlie moving to survey the river. ‘It brought out the worst in me.’

  ‘I can see that in you,’ decided Lily. ‘You need a woman to solve.’

  On the horizon, smoke pumped steadily upwards in black plumes tipped with orange flames.

  ‘It’s like the river to the underworld,’ said Lily as the lighterman raised and lowered his pole. ‘Where the dead are ferried away.’

  She was studying the mournful passengers in the surrounding boats. The rolling smoke made them vanish and reappear like pale ghosts.

  They rounded the curve in the Thames. The water swirled amber and red now reflecting the towering inferno on the bank.

  Even Lily’s mouth dropped open in amazement. The entire bank, from Bread Street to the head of London Bridge was on fire, in one seamless ugly arc of flame. It leered forth in a myriad of forked tongues.

  ‘Look at the red way it burns,’ said Lily, blinking and spitting against the torrent of air-borne ash and soot which hit their faces as they turned into the straight.

  ‘Aye,’ said the lighterman sadly. ‘It’s not like the fine yellow flame of a fireplace. Here is as bloody and malevolent a fiend as ever breathed in the city.’

  He paused to right the little craft and send it straight towards London Bridge. ‘They’ll scarce be a spare hedge to sleep under tonight,’ he predicted.

  Charlie stared out at the flames.

  ‘See that?’ Lily was suddenly standing, pointing. ‘Blue fire.’

  The flame flickered, surged up and then died almost as quickly.

  ‘And another,’ said Charlie.

  As if in answer another blue flame surged up on the riverfront. Then it was gone.

  ‘What does it mean?’ asked Lily.

  ‘Blackstone uses some alchemy to further the flame,’ guessed Charlie. ‘Or perhaps to signal.’

  He watched as a blue flare appeared deeper in the city. Then a sudden explosion rumbled in the depths.

  ‘A signal,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m sure of it.’ He was watching a tower of flames tunnel up. ‘The signal is made, then one of those exploding bottles dropped. Like in Torr’s cellar.’

  Lily nodded. ‘It’s a plot then,’ she said. ‘Someone has placed gunpowder throughout the city.’

  They exchanged glances.

  The current dropped off suddenly.

  ‘Why does the river slow?’ shouted Lily over the noise of the fire. She was looking anxiously at Pickled Herring steps in the distance. The lighterman was grunting with effort as he wielded his great pole.

  ‘London Bridge waterwheels make a partial dam,’ said Charlie, raising his voice in turn. ‘The big pillars and the jetties slow the water too,’ he added, pointing to the wooden platforms built around the thick stone arches of the bridge.

  Breathing heavily with effort, the lighterman punted them south towards Pickled Herring steps and the fire volume decreased to an ugly rumbling.

  Charlie looked anxiously at Lily. Her elfin face was contorted in dismay at something in the sky over Thames Street. A flight of pigeons fluttered over the burning church of St Laurence Poultney.

  ‘Why don’t they fly away?’ she asked, her dark eyes sad.

  ‘The church keeps nest-boxes for them,’ said Charlie. ‘For pigeon pie.’

  ‘They’re frightened,’ said Lily, and Charlie was surprised. It was the first time he’d entertained the idea she might have emotions.

  ‘They’ll be burned,’ said Lily, covering her mouth with her hands.

  They watched as the birds fluttered in confusion over the burning roofs. Then one by one their wings singed and they plummeted into the fire below.

  ‘First place of calling,’ cried the lighterman. ‘Pickled Herring steps.’

  Chapter 44

  Blackstone knelt by the ageing whore. She’d accepted her fate now, he thought. Women like her always did.

  She lay wide-eyed on the cellar floor. Her wrists were bound with blood-splattered white ribbon. The harvest crown was wedged over her rats-tail wig. Blackstone was winding a length of ivy around her legs. The bare skin was creped and veined, but it didn’t matter. She was a vessel, nothing more.

  He drew out a knife. The woman closed her eyes and began to pray. Her lips tumbled over the Lord’s Prayer and then back again.

  ‘White for rebirth,’ said Blackstone. ‘Is that not how it is?’ he patted her wrist. ‘And see? I have brought fresh ivy. From the
house over the river.’

  His grip on her wrist intensified. The cold knife pressed into her arm.

  ‘From air and water, earth and fire,’ he incanted. ‘I am the magic. I am the power. Do you remember? Your words? As Sally Oakley taught you.’

  Blackstone was at her torso now, winding more ribbon.

  ‘Green for fertile hopes,’ he said. His hand rested there.

  Then the woman felt the knife at her wrists again and tensed. But to her surprise the ribbons fell away. She sat up, rubbing her freed wrists, eyes darting to the cellar exit.

  Then she saw the blood. Her wrist was pumping a steady stream. Blackstone loomed close. He laid a white feather in the pool of warm blood. It darkened as it soaked up the crimson liquid.

  ‘Dirty blood,’ he said. ‘I offer this dirty blood. I ask for your blessed blood to flow through these veins. My one true wife,’ said Blackstone. ‘Teresa.’

  The woman managed a halting smile. His hand moved to stroke her crown. Then he brushed her forehead gently with the bloodied feather. She thought he made a Satan star and shuddered.

  ‘For you I do this,’ said Blackstone. ‘For you I chance my faith.’

  She nodded uncertainly.

  ‘I invoke you,’ said Blackstone. ‘I command it.’

  The woman knew what was happening now. He was a widower. Driven mad with grief, conjuring his dead wife. She steadied her breath. If she could play along, she might survive this yet.

  Blackstone was staring at her intently. She tried to adopt a loving expression.

  ‘I have seen your face,’ he said. ‘In my dreams. You must tell me . . . Tell me you are not in hell.’

  The woman blinked back at him in shock. She hesitated and Blackstone nodded she should speak.

  ‘I am not . . . not in hell,’ she said slowly, struggling to keep a tremble from her voice.

  Blackstone nodded.

  ‘I fear it,’ he whispered. ‘I have seen you with demons. They do terrible things. After the war . . . What the men did to you . . .’

  He looked up at her to reassure himself.

  ‘The devil plays tricks,’ he nodded. ‘You are with the angels. God is merciful and has forgiven you.’