Fire Catcher

by C. S. Quinn

  ‘God fans our flames,’ he assured her. ‘London will burn.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps the marriage papers too.’

  Something tugged at the edge of Blackstone’s memory. A flicker, no more. He suddenly had a feeling that his missing marriage papers were close.

  Was it possible?

  After all this time, could he retrieve the papers after all? The power of owning them again. It brought possibilities so rich he could taste them.

  ‘Did you do this?’ Blackstone asked Teresa. ‘Do you send me a sign?’

  He stared for a long time in the dark. Nothing. Perhaps it had been his imagination after all. But something was nagging him now. That the papers were here. Under his own roof.

  Blackstone’s mind travelled down to the kitchen, where the fireballs were stacked in neat, high piles. Did he have time to search the house? The wind had fuelled the flames better than he’d dared hope. But Blackstone was no fool. He no longer relied on God. Every detail had been taken care of. Every contingency thought through.

  Blackstone looked down at the table. The jar of flour was empty. In his hand he held the stripped bone of the mutton joint. Even the cartilage had been gnawed to a nub. He regarded it for a minute, took out his sword and cracked the bone with the heavy handle. Then he began to suck out the marrow.

  His wife stared back at him. Blank. Unseeing.

  And deep in the dark another pair of eyes blinked out.

  Chapter 74

  Charlie awoke to the dark waters lapping at his feet. His head was sunk two inches into soft wet mud, and his face felt like scorched leather.

  There was a moment of uncertainty and then Charlie knew. He was in hell.

  Staring down at him from the jet-black sky was a single blood-red eye. Satan was watching through an air filthy with smuts and cinders.

  Charlie raised a hand to his head and then sat up clumsily. He groaned in pain. His shoulder. His shoulder hurt. Then he saw the flaming warehouses.

  He was on Thames Street. Now he remembered. Just before the warehouses exploded.

  The relief was tempered by his injured shoulder. Charlie muttered a little prayer. It was fifteen shillings to cauterise and amputate. He sat up clumsily and was relieved to find his shoulder supported his weight. His reflection in the water showed new injuries. Burns peppered his face, neck and legs. The trusty leather coat bore a few extra scars but had protected him from chest to mid thigh.

  Charlie winced, feeling a thick bruise under his hair and a painful stiffness in his neck. Falling unconscious in the river must have saved most of him from burning. The flames had rolled over the top of him.

  How long had he been unconscious? He couldn’t tell. It felt like a long time.

  The city was burning much higher now. The fire had a fiendish quality. From the placement of the sun in the sky, it was mid-morning. He’d lost a night and half a day.

  Charlie sat more upright, wrenching his legs from the mud. Then he remembered. Lily. He couldn’t see her on the shoreline. Swallowing, Charlie moved his eyes out to the river. No floating red dress there either.

  He sat for a moment turning the possibilities over in his mind. Perhaps she had floated back out and been drowned by the river. Or maybe she’d regained consciousness and crept away.

  Whilst thinking it over Charlie made a reflexive check of his possessions. He had after all, fallen unconscious in London. His purse and eating knife were still where they should be. A few coins, the tankard. All in order. His fingers reached up to his neck. They paused in disbelief then scrabbled frantically.

  His key was gone. At once he knew.

  Lily.

  ‘No!’ shouted Charlie, striking up a column of water with his clenched fist. ‘No!’

  He sat for a moment in blank angry despair.

  ‘I knew it,’ he muttered. ‘I knew I couldn’t trust that woman.’

  It felt as though she’d taken a part of him.

  Charlie punched the wet mud of the low tide again, but less forcefully. The paralysing feeling of desolation was easing now and something of his more usual sanguinity was inching back. He was a thief taker. There wasn’t a corner of this city where she could expect to hide.

  ‘And send her to the hangman as a thief besides,’ Charlie thought grimly, picking himself up out of the mud.

  He noticed for the first time that his shoulder had been tightly bound in red silk. Charlie moved it experimentally. It felt solid. Lily must have torn off part of her dress to bind it. She’d probably saved his arm before robbing him of his most treasured item.

  Carefully Charlie pieced over what he knew.

  Blackstone was leading the fire to Whitehall. The blue fire worked like a signal, Charlie was sure of it. A signal to fire a guild. Blackstone was using guildhalls and livery houses to tactically advance the flame. He must have guild contacts then. Only guildsmen were allowed in Livery Halls.

  But he didn’t think Lily knew that. All Lily knew was some convicts who’d sailed on the Mermaid might be in the Fleet. And the Fleet was burned. Where might she go next? Perhaps back to Amesbury, he decided. Try for access to official naval papers. Discover something more of the Mermaid.

  Charlie raised a hand to his head, feeling out a bruise with a groan. If Blackstone was advancing the fire to Whitehall, he should try to get a warning to the King. Charlie rejected the idea as soon as it arose. His Majesty was plagued by commoners claiming plots and intrigues. Charlie would be dismissed as a scaremonger and possibly be given a beating into the bargain.

  Shouts interrupted his thoughts. Heaving himself up, Charlie staggered to a slippery standing position and surveyed the fiery distance. A gang of men were emerging from the burning wharves. They were armed with cheap swords and cudgels. Charlie sensed their mood from yards away and instinct told him to run. But they were too close and he was trapped between the precipitous muddy shore and the burning city beyond.

  ‘Hold!’ shouted a gruff voice.

  They were upon him in moments, splashing through the mud. A man with close-cropped hair and bad breath grabbed Charlie by the throat.

  ‘Hold him!’ shouted his companion, pulling up the rear. ‘Looks like we might have another traitor to hang from the lamppost.’

  Chapter 75

  Barbara looked up in surprise. She had been in the midst of organising her children to leave the Palace when Lucy Walter had entered unannounced.

  The King’s first lover had aged, Barbara noticed. The stress of clutching her tenuous claim to courtly favour must be getting to Lucy.

  ‘How did you get in?’ Barbara asked, not bothering to disguise her contempt. Relations between the King’s first lover and his longest-serving mistress had always been strained.

  ‘My son, Monmouth.’ Lucy Walter allowed herself a smile. ‘Charles’s first son,’ she stressed the word smugly, ‘he still has some loyalty to his mother.’ She picked at the glue on a dark horsehair curl.

  Barbara raised her eyebrows. ‘Even though you deserted him in Holland?’

  Lucy ignored the slight and knelt by Barbara’s oldest child, who was shepherding the younger three to dress.

  ‘You must be little Anne,’ said Lucy, her dimpled face smiling. ‘Are you four now?’

  ‘Five,’ said Anne. She was staring at Lucy’s deeply lined cleavage. Barbara moved forward and took her hand.

  Lucy rose, surveying the other children. She adjusted her deep-pink dress. The chaos of flowers and ribbons rippled.

  ‘What little darlings,’ she said. ‘They take after you.’

  ‘How kind of you to say it,’ said Barbara evenly, running an unconscious hand over her own tasteful chemise-dress. ‘Charles thinks they look like him.’

  The smile dropped from Lucy’s face. ‘Charles provides well for you,’ she said. ‘These handsome apartments.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Leave my son alone. He’s barely a man.’

  Barbara managed a smile.

  ‘Is that all? It was a f
leeting thing. Only a little game I played with Clarence. I’ve no interest in Monmouth.’

  ‘I know what you do,’ replied Lucy. ‘You hope to blacken Monmouth. That your boy will be King.’ Her eyes dropped to Barbara’s four-year-old son, Charles.

  Barbara folded him in her skirts. ‘Such is talk,’ she said, sounding tired. ‘Is this all you come for?’

  Lucy bit her lip.

  ‘I need carts,’ she admitted. ‘My fine dresses, jewels . . . Everything I own will burn.’

  Barbara suddenly noticed Lucy was wearing an entire jewellery collection, heavy at her throat, wrists and fingers.

  ‘And you come to me?’ said Barbara.

  ‘Charles won’t hear me,’ admitted Lucy, not meeting her eye. ‘And I thought . . . you might feel you owed me a kindness. Because of these.’

  She opened a pouch at her hip. Inside was a squat, fat ball stamped with a crown and knots.

  Barbara was very still.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked. ‘A fireball?’

  ‘You should know very well,’ said Lucy, ‘since it was in your apartments. Monmouth,’ she added, as Barbara opened her mouth to deny it, ‘is not so foolish as you think.’

  ‘How dare he,’ muttered Barbara. ‘What could a boy like Monmouth know of anything?’

  ‘I’ll write to the King,’ threatened Lucy. ‘Tell him of your deception.’

  Barbara shook her head. ‘No one would believe you,’ she said. ‘Your lies are the talk of Westminster.’ She began to list them on her fingers. ‘You are related to Henry Tudor on your mother’s side and have a claim to Hampton Court Palace.’ Barbara drew a second finger, ‘You and Charles secretly married and Monmouth is the heir to all England.’ Barbara shook her head as Lucy reddened.

  ‘And we mustn’t forget,’ added Barbara, ‘that the King of France himself wanted you for his Queen, but you rejected his advances.’

  Barbara shook her head. ‘You have no talent for lying,’ she said gently. ‘You’ve made yourself ridiculous.’

  Lucy’s face fell.

  The youngest child, Charlotte, was tugging at Barbara’s skirts now. Unthinkingly she heaved the little girl up on to her hip. Charlotte’s tiny hand began reaching for her necklace.

  ‘When fire comes, we discover what we truly hold dear,’ said Barbara. She seemed to be arranging her thoughts, angling her neck away from the grasping fingers. ‘You come to me for a cart? To keep your dresses from fire?’ She kissed her daughter and set her down. ‘I am more concerned with my children.’

  Lucy reddened under the implication. ‘I knew Monmouth would be safe,’ she said. ‘He’s been under Charles’s care since he was seven. I must look to my goods, or have nothing.’

  ‘Charles will be sure Monmouth is protected,’ said Barbara. ‘He loves his children. Even yours.’ She sighed. ‘Talk to the footman,’ she said. ‘Once the children are safely taken there should be room in the last cart. You may store some dresses and trunks there.’

  Lucy sagged in relief. She nodded, then began fiddling with a bracelet.

  ‘I loved Charles,’ she blurted. ‘No matter what he told you. About the other men. I truly did love him, in my way. And Monmouth is his, I’m sure of it.’ Her eyes were on Barbara’s. ‘Then you came to Holland and it was too late to make amends.’ Lucy gave a little laugh. ‘But I always thought I might. I didn’t think you would stay so long, Lady Castlemaine.’

  Lucy’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Do you know what the people call you?’

  Barbara shrugged. ‘Whore?’ she suggested, ‘Harlot? Strumpet? I think Clarence calls me “England’s ruin”.’

  But Lucy was shaking her head.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘They call you the uncrowned Queen.’

  Chapter 76

  ‘Are you a Catholic?’ the man demanded of Charlie, pawing for a rosary. He held a crossbow in his free hand. His cropped hair suggested him to be Puritan.

  ‘Do I look like a Catholic?’ asked Charlie, batting the questing fingers away. He eyed the men. ‘By whose authority do you come mauling citizens?’

  The cropped-haired man stood a little more upright. The others clustered closer. Charlie noticed a wooden arm on one and a third man who looked like a weasel.

  ‘The City Watch,’ announced the leader proudly. ‘Appointed by Parliament.’

  Charlie rubbed his shoulder. He nodded to the crossbow.

  ‘Expensive weapon,’ noted Charlie, ‘for a watchman.’

  The man’s eyes slid away and Charlie knew he’d guessed right. They’d been bribed by some noble or merchant to protect a private property.

  ‘You’re appointed by Parliament to find Catholics?’ asked Charlie.

  The leader’s face faltered. He was chewing wormwood, Charlie realised. Which explained the bitter stink.

  ‘To halt the fire,’ replied the watchman. ‘And to press any citizen to fight the flames.’ He pointed to his crossbow meaningfully.

  ‘Where do you fight fire?’ asked Charlie, knowing they were about to press him into service.

  The watchman signalled with his shoulder. ‘South, near Maiden Lane.’

  ‘The fire goes west,’ said Charlie. ‘The riverfront is already burned out.’

  ‘We make an important stand,’ said the watchman evenly, his eyes daring Charlie to disagree.

  ‘The Strand,’ said Charlie, ‘is where you should make firebreaks. Between here and Westminster.’

  The men eyed each other. The leader sucked his teeth.

  ‘And risk our lives?’ he suggested with a barking laugh. ‘Those buildings fall.’

  ‘Has Parliament given you no orders?’ suggested Charlie. ‘No muster stations?’

  ‘Aye.’ The leader spat wormwood. ‘We’ve been ordered to fight fire. And press men to do likewise.’

  ‘And if we see any Catholic dogs,’ supplied the man with the wooden arm, ‘we takes ’em and puts ’em in Bridewell.’

  Charlie hesitated. The prisoners on the Mermaid flashed suddenly to mind.

  Bridewell Prison. He’d forgotten that it was not only debtors. Political and religious prisoners were also held. And religion or politics might explain why a mysteriously small group were gaoled at sea.

  ‘Unless they resist or throw insults,’ weasel-face was sniggering. ‘Then it’s a worser fate.’

  But Charlie was only half listening. The small group of convicts on the Mermaid. Fifteen men. A small sect. Seekers or Quakers. Such men weren’t physically dangerous. But their words could undermine the fragile new republic. Better put them out to sea. Out of the way.

  ‘Does Bridewell burn?’ Charlie asked.

  Weasel-face grinned evilly.

  ‘Fire started up again near there this last hour. Those Catholics in Bridewell will be tight dust before the day is out.’

  Charlie looked up at the smoke. He could be at Bridewell long before flames reached it. But he doubted these men would make it easy. Something else struck him.

  ‘Lily’s a Catholic,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Of course she knows Bridewell has religious prisoners.’

  Charlie was suddenly sure she’d made the Bridewell connection immediately and kept it to herself. He was marvelling at the depths of her betrayal.

  ‘Catholics started the fire,’ said weasel-face, mishearing him. ‘Everyone knows it. Catholics and foreigners. They love only Rome and would have us all in thrall to the foreign pope.’

  The leader was nodding vigorously.

  ‘They throw fireballs all over the city. What other business could a Catholic have in England,’ he demanded, ‘if not to plot?

  Charlie was thinking through the best route to Bridewell.

  ‘I’m no good to fight fire,’ he said, indicating his shoulder. ‘Best find some other men.’

  The leader hefted his crossbow.

  ‘They all say that,’ he grinned. ‘’Til we convince ’em otherwise.’

  Weasel-face waved his cheap sword.

  ‘Better you obey,’ h
e said. ‘If you don’t want to fight the fire, then you hate England. Like the Catholics,’ he concluded.

  ‘And we’ve just lynched a nest of Catholics and foreigners from a shop sign,’ supplied the man with the wooden arm. ‘So you must do what we say.’

  Chapter 77

  Whitehall was in chaos. Servants had removed the first wave of valuables. But now the supply of carts and carriages was running out.

  Queen Catherine of Braganza was vacating her apartments when the first familiar wave of miscarriage hit. She drove back a grimace with effort.

  Her eyes sought her maidservant, Dolly. ‘Oh, Your Majesty,’ said Dolly, her face wracked with sympathy. ‘Again?’

  ‘It could be nothing.’ Catherine let out a long breath and sat. ‘There,’ she said. ‘I am better.’ But she was twisting her rosary over and over in pale fingers.

  Dolly raced to the door. The corridors were crowded with servants packing away Catherine’s overtly Catholic furniture and possessions. The Portuguese Queen had never tried to disguise her religion.

  Dolly was a resourceful girl, born to a middling family of dubious nobility. Dolly had risen to the Queen’s side, because her captain father had bestowed her with two gifts – fluent Portuguese and a middle name of Bombay, honouring Catherine’s dowry to Charles.

  Dolly raised her voice to the servants.

  ‘The Queen wishes to pray for London,’ she improvised, shutting the doors. ‘Her Majesty will say her prayers alone.’

  Catherine eyed Dolly gratefully but was shaking her head.

  ‘My ladies-in-waiting,’ she said, reverting to Portuguese. They both knew protocol didn’t allow lengthy privacy. The rosary was still skating over the Queen’s fingers.

  ‘News of the fire surprised you,’ soothed Dolly. ‘All will be well. They beat it back on the Strand. Fire won’t reach the Palace.’

  Catherine fixed her eyes on her favourite religious tapestry. A depiction of St Anna of Avila with a white dove. She slowed her breathing.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Catherine closed her eyes.