by C. S. Quinn
‘So you told her nothing,’ confirmed Charlie impatiently. ‘Then where did she go?’
‘We told her nothing,’ agreed the gaoler. ‘And we locked her up. In the High Cells. Where the bad people are.’
Chapter 85
Enoch was heaving the lead cauldron on to the rooftop. His bad eye was throbbing in the heat and sweat poured down his face.
Jacob was rolling a barrel up on to the roof. His initiation wound was paining him again. He stopped to stare at the blazing London skyline. Fire was everywhere. Master Blackstone’s plan was working.
‘Careful!’ called Enoch, pointing to the barrel. ‘It’s Bringer of Death inside. Burns if you spill it.’
Jacob raised the crown and three knots on his forearm. It was burned deeper than any other initiate. ‘You think I’ll not be careful?’
They smiled at one another. There was camaraderie between the boys now.
‘Steady the barrel,’ Enoch instructed. ‘You have the flame?’
Jacob nodded. ‘We await the signal,’ he said, wiping sweat from his face.
They stood for a moment, smoke flowing over them in great clouds, as the city around them burned.
‘I think you were right,’ said Jacob after a moment.
Enoch’s bloodshot blind eye twitched.
‘About the higher initiation,’ continued Jacob. ‘I don’t think he ever means it for us low boys.’
‘Don’t matter now, does it?’ said Enoch philosophically. ‘All burns.’
‘I think he tricked us,’ continued Jacob. ‘Told us we’d be part of an avenging army. But what he really wanted was our guild passwords.’
Enoch turned to him in interest.
‘He asked you, didn’t he,’ said Jacob, knowing the answer, ‘the motto to enter your guild?’
Enoch nodded.
‘Me too,’ said Jacob. ‘Now he fires the guildhalls. That’s how the signal works.’
Jacob pointed to the lead cauldron high on the roof.
‘When we light it, they fire the Apothecaries’ Hall. Your old hall,’ he added, looking at Enoch’s damaged eye.
‘How did you know that’s my guild?’ asked Enoch.
‘Seen a boiled eyeball before, in apothecary apprentices,’ said Jacob. ‘They make you stand too near the flasks when they bubble.’ He heaved up a scrawny leg. ‘Got my own,’ he added. ‘Carpenter’s boy.’ Enoch looked at a flattened knee-cap. ‘From chiselling wood,’ said Jacob proudly. ‘Hours on your knees.’
They were silent for a moment, looking up at the huge flames.
‘I’m leaving,’ said Enoch suddenly. ‘After this signal. I mean to run away.’ He hesitated. ‘Come with me.’ His good eye settled on his friend imploringly.
Jacob looked away. ‘Did you hear what Master Blackstone did this morning?’ he said, not looking at his friend.
Enoch shook his head slowly.
‘One of the boys brought a girl back,’ said Jacob, fixing his gaze dead ahead to the city. ‘Blackstone found them together.’
‘’S against the rules,’ said Enoch, his voice tight, ‘girls.’
Jacob nodded. ‘Blackstone made him . . . He said the girl was wicked. They cleansed her.’
Both boys were silent for a moment. They had ideas of what this meant.
‘Blackstone talks of unpure women in his sleep,’ confessed Enoch, feeling sick. ‘I’ve heard him. Says they fester and spread sin.’
Jacob looked away.
‘He screams about his father too,’ said Enoch. ‘Like he’s being tortured.’
Suddenly a blue flame flared in the distance. Enoch was on his feet, bad eye swivelling.
‘There!’ Enoch pointed. ‘Ready the barrel.’ Jacob heaved it up to the lead cauldron. But his foot slipped on the tiled roof and the barrel twisted from his grasp.
‘No!’ Enoch dived for the falling barrel.
The barrel hit the rooftop and split. Enoch closed his arms around it, soaking his chest in liquid. He screamed in agony. The Bringer of Death was burning into his skin.
Jacob raced to his aid, but Enoch waved him back.
‘Send the signal,’ he gasped, through gritted teeth. ‘Or Blackstone will have your guts.’
Jacob hesitated. ‘There’s not enough left in the barrel.’
‘There’s half,’ spat Enoch. ‘It might be enough. He’ll kill us both if we don’t.’
Jacob heaved up the half-empty barrel and managed to fit it into the cauldron. Bringer of Death streamed into the lead. A fountain of steam poured up.
‘Flame it!’ managed Enoch as the agony bit deep into his chest.
Jacob wielded the flame and a font of blue fire rose majestically upwards. With only half the Bringer of Death, the light was smaller than usual.
The boys exchanged panicked glances. It wasn’t high enough.
Then the fire was answered with another blue flame and then another. The final flame flared by the Apothecaries’ Guild. The sonorous rumble of an explosion echoed out.
Enoch was gasping in pain. Jacob helped him off the rooftop and on to the street.
‘Is it bad?’ asked Enoch, taking in the crowded streets near Moor Gate. The gatehouse was packed in both directions.
‘No,’ lied Jacob, ‘we’ll find water.’ He looked desperately to the citizens moving possessions out of London. Country folk, who’d heard how much their carts could be rented for, were trying to steer traps and horses into the blazing city.
‘It won’t work,’ stammered Enoch, struggling to make words through the pain. ‘The Elixir.’
‘He burns!’ shouted Jacob in panic. ‘Help! Somebody!’
Heads turned in the crowded street. They saw the burned boy and recoiled. It was only then Enoch truly realised how bad the burn must be. Faces were contorted in horror. Enoch risked a glance down and felt vomit rise up. There was no skin left on his chest.
Jacob grabbed a pitcher of milk from a reluctant woman and threw it. Nothing. No relief. The burn continued to blaze.
‘He won’t live,’ muttered the woman, snatching back her tankard and eyeing Enoch’s burned body. ‘Best get him to a priest.’
Enoch gritted his teeth. His good eye had rolled back in his head.
‘No!’ cried Jacob. He shook Enoch’s fainting form. ‘No.’ Jacob’s voice was firm. ‘What you said before. You’re right. We’ll escape together.’ He was shouting in Enoch’s face, desperately looking for signs of life. The boy lolled, breathing fast.
‘We’ll go to the country, Enoch,’ pressed Jacob, ‘he’ll never find us. We’ve both got trades . . .’
Enoch was trying to speak and Jacob brought his ear close to hear over the noise of the crowd and the fire.
‘Anthony,’ croaked Enoch.
‘What?’
‘That’s my name.’ Enoch managed a smile. ‘Anthony Cary.’
Jacob took his hand. ‘Peter Carpenter,’ he said, shaking it.
Enoch bit his lip. ‘Good to meet you,’ he said. His bad eye was twitching violently back and forth. ‘I’m done for,’ he said. ‘Get back to Blackstone and save yourself.’
‘No,’ Jacob hoisted his friend up. ‘We’re going to get you the Elixir. From Master Blackstone’s cellar.’
Chapter 86
Charlie dived deeper into the stinking warren of old courtly rooms which housed London’s poorest prisoners.
Fire was coming. Bridewell had turned perilous. The remaining prisoners were attacking their cell doors and killing guards.
The most secure cells in Bridewell were second storey, in the gallery. But besides this rudimentary knowledge, Charlie had scant idea where Lily might be. Or even how to get to the higher storeys. The prison was enormous and maze-like.
With relief Charlie reached an enormous grand staircase. The carved bannisters had been torn off and tiny pigs cavorted on the wide stair. They scattered as Charlie approached, little hooves resounding on the bare wood.
There were shouts behind him and Charlie saw a
clutch of people. Vigilantes. They were manhandling a bloodied captive along the prison corridors.
‘Are you a gaoler?’ a broken-toothed man heading the gang rounded on Charlie. ‘We can’t find no gaolers,’ he added, with an accusing shake of the captive.
‘You can’t imprison this man here,’ said Charlie. ‘The prison will burn.’
‘He’s a Frenchie!’ shrieked a woman from deep in the mob. ‘He’s confessed to starting the fire!’
Charlie’s eyes switched to the woman. She was thin-faced and venomous. Then he looked at the accused. The man’s head lolled slightly and his face was battered. By his clothes he was clearly Dutch rather than French. And Charlie was willing to bet his confession hadn’t come willingly. He eyed the little mob.
‘He threw a fireball!’ accused the broken-toothed leader. ‘Liza here saw him.’
Charlie assessed the situation. The Dutchman was well dressed. Expensive clothing that would be quickly ripped from him the moment he entered a cell.
Charlie stepped forward and took the man roughly by the shoulders.
‘You’ve done well to bring him here,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure he’s locked away.’
‘You’re a gaoler then?’ said the leader, suddenly looking uncertain. He eyed Charlie’s thin legs. ‘What if he struggles? We should help you bring him to the cell.’
‘You’ve done your part,’ said Charlie. ‘The fire comes. The Apothecaries’ Guild is only the other side of this wall,’ he added. ‘You shouldn’t want to be here if that fires. Strange explosives and potions they keep inside.’
The little gang shuffled quickly away and Charlie put a proprietary arm on the bloodied Dutchman.
‘Come,’ he said, speaking in Dutch. ‘Come with me. I’ll take you to safety.’
At the sound of his native tongue the Dutchman sprang to life suddenly.
‘It was a piece of bread!’ he cried. ‘That was all. A piece of bread I threw. For a pauper.’
‘Shhh,’ said Charlie. ‘I’m no gaoler. Only wait until the mob has gone and you can be on your way.’
‘You’re Dutch?’ asked the Dutchman.
Charlie shook his head. ‘I’m a Londoner.’
‘How came you to speak it?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie truthfully. ‘From as far back as I can remember I’ve always spoken it.’
It was one of the unsolved mysteries of his orphan past that he didn’t like to dwell on.
The Dutchman considered this. He seemed disinclined to trust another Englishman.
‘You say fire comes here?’ he asked.
Charlie nodded. ‘On the north side. Over there,’ he added, pointing at the far wide walls of Bridewell. ‘So we have time yet. I’m looking for a prisoner in the gallery,’ he added. ‘Stay with me until we find you some different clothes.’
‘Clothes?’ the Dutchman looked confused.
‘You can’t go back on to the streets dressed that way,’ said Charlie, gesturing to the man’s foreign fashion. ‘You’ll be lynched.’
‘But where can I get clothes in a prison?’ The Dutchman was looking at Charlie’s battered leather coat with some disdain.
‘Prisoners have broken out,’ said Charlie. ‘Some will have died in the trying. Dead men don’t need breeches.’
The Dutchman looked appalled but didn’t protest.
Charlie led them both up the staircase and was confronted with an array of long corridors. Voices were echoing from deep within. But it was impossible to tell which direction. The high ceilings played tricks with the noise. Taking a guess Charlie picked a narrow corridor stretching south.
‘Shouldn’t you take the other way?’ asked the Dutchman. ‘You said you go to the gallery.’
Charlie hesitated. ‘How would you know that?’ he asked.
‘I’m an architect,’ said the Dutchman, adjusting his bloodied neckerchief. ‘For the Dutch Royal household. I’ve made great study of Tudor palaces. Galleries are always south facing for the sunlight. So it would be built there.’ He pointed to a thick wide corridor.
‘What were you doing out on the streets?’ asked Charlie, turning to follow the Dutchman’s directions. ‘An architect for royalty shouldn’t be so foolish.’
The Dutchman passed a thoughtful hand over his blackened eye.
‘A lady in the city,’ he said smiling. ‘I promised I would meet with her.’
They moved past high windows sending large shafts of sunlight down. But the rooms leading off were eerily deserted. Voices could be heard more clearly now though. Charlie’s skin prickled. Prisoners were still locked in here. Deep in the depths.
‘Was your lady worth the danger?’ asked Charlie distractedly.
‘Yes,’ said the Dutchman. ‘She was.’
They rounded on a wide arcing gallery and the Dutchman gasped. Ranged on the ground were the bloodied remains of a battle. Three prisoners lay dead, their scabbed legs splayed, bodies broken. Two had brutal head injuries, the third a scorch at his chest which spoke of cheap pistol fire.
Charlie knelt by the first body.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘This man will fit you.’ He looked up. ‘Take off your clothes.’
The Dutchman hesitated.
‘We’ll change them over,’ said Charlie pulling off the shirt. ‘You can carry your nice ones under your arm,’ he added at the expression of trepidation on the Dutchman’s face. ‘I don’t try to rob you of them.’
The Dutchman took a breath and then began pulling off the ribbons at his white silk stockings. He rolled them down, then dropped away his breeches.
Charlie worked stoically, wrenching the remaining clothes off the dead man.
‘You’ve done this before?’ ventured the Dutchman, his face twisted in distaste.
Charlie spoke without looking up. ‘I grew up in an orphan home,’ he said. ‘The beds often held a dead boy by morning. If you wanted to live you stole their clothes.’ He handed the tattered garments to the Dutchman.
‘Put them on,’ he said, ‘and go out the way we came. Do you know that way?’
‘Down the gallery, past the grand stair and through the two quads,’ said the Dutchman, displaying his knowledge of Tudor buildings.
Charlie nodded. ‘Put them on,’ he repeated, noticing the Dutchman had hesitated to dress.
‘They’re stinking,’ complained the Dutchman as he raised the shirt to go over his head.
‘You’ll stink worse as a rotting corpse.’
Charlie looked back along to where a few gaol rooms were still closed.
‘You’re fortunate that mob brought you here,’ he added. ‘In St Giles they would have lynched you.’
The Dutchman pulled up the ragged breeches. He looked down at himself sadly.
‘I have nothing to give you,’ he said as he turned to go. ‘Yet I owe you my life. Might I take your name at least?’
‘Charlie Tuesday,’ said Charlie.
‘You’re looking for a girl in here?’ asked the Dutchman hesitating.
‘Yes,’ said Charlie.
‘She is worth the danger?’ suggested the Dutchman with an indulgent smile.
‘No,’ said Charlie firmly. ‘She is not.’
Chapter 87
Barbara’s face was haunted. ‘Charles would never have agreed to it,’ she whispered.
Amesbury looked away. He’d come to be sure Barbara’s children were safe. But she’d interrogated him on how fire would affect the city prisons.
‘We have no choice,’ said Amesbury. ‘We can’t have prisoners escaping.’
Barbara shook her head as though she couldn’t believe it.
‘Monstrous,’ she said. ‘It’s a monstrous thing you do.’
‘And what would you do?’ demanded Amesbury. ‘Set them free? Women know nothing of . . .’
‘This woman knows something of war,’ said Barbara, the strength in her voice matching his. ‘This woman travelled to Holland and bedded an exiled King. This woman listened to the campaigns
, the strategies. The hopelessness.’
She ran an angry hand through her long hair.
‘Charles would have married me,’ said Barbara. ‘In Holland. That’s how little he believed he’d ever return to England. I said no. Because I had faith in him. I loved him too well to spoil the dowries and allegiances he could make.’
‘And you have more power as a mistress,’ said Amesbury.
Barbara looked annoyed. ‘You weren’t there,’ she said. ‘You chose the winning side. But I know what it is to lose at war. And I know this, Amesbury. Win or lose. I would not burn men alive.’ Her violet eyes were aglow with fury.
‘These are murderers,’ said Amesbury. ‘Child killers. Rapists. Men who would choke a whore rather than pay her shilling.’
‘Do you think this shocks me?’ demanded Barbara. ‘Nothing men are capable of shocks me, Amesbury. Remember that.’
Amesbury sighed. ‘Most are due to hang tomorrow,’ he said.
‘In the Clink!’ said Barbara, ‘not in Bridewell. Paupers and gentle lunatics.’
Amesbury shook his head. ‘Bedlam has religious dissenters,’ he said.
Barbara hesitated. ‘Charles set them free,’ she said.
‘As did Cromwell,’ said Amesbury. ‘Being high up. It gives you the luxury of idealism. Practical matters fall to men like me.’
‘The King commanded those men be released from prison,’ said Barbara. ‘Your duty is to carry out orders.’
‘Bedlam is not a prison,’ said Amesbury.
‘You had the dissenters locked away for lunacy?’ Barbara seemed torn between horror and admiration.
‘England was torn apart by holiness,’ said Amesbury. ‘The streets are thick with religious plotters as it is. Imagine if more of them were loose, spreading their poison.’
‘Bedlam is a dreadful place,’ said Barbara.
‘So you hear,’ said Amesbury. ‘You are fortunate. Stay here in your fine dresses. Leave the horrors of running a country to men like me.’
Chapter 88
Lily sat on the straw of her cell, hugging her knees defiantly. She listened to the streams of hysterical French and Dutch from wrongly imprisoned foreigners.