by C. S. Quinn
Chapter 112
The Fleet waterfront was ablaze as Clarence slipped and slid through the stinking riverbed. The blockage was before him. An enormous cart had come off the bridge in the mayhem to leave the city. It lay splintered into three huge parts. Two shire horses were sprawled dead. Fire debris, ash and general detritus in the river had caught on the cart and horses, building a dam.
Clarence’s eyes rested on the gunpowder. Images of civil war veterans, hobbling on mangled limbs, flashed through his mind.
Two barrels, joined by the shortest of fuses. A beam of wood crashed down from a burning building, sending down a shower of sparks. He ducked clumsily as they hissed harmlessly on the wet mud.
Clarence was breathing heavily now. He took out his tinderbox, hands shaking. But as he approached the gunpowder, he knew he couldn’t do it.
The blocked Fleet was much more slippery and precipitous than he’d anticipated. He’d never make it out. It had been a fantasy to imagine that he, of all men, could escape exploding gunpowder on a slimy riverbed.
Clarence took a breath. He’d tell them the fuses were too damp, the tinder wouldn’t flare. They’d know him a cowardly old man who’d never been on a battlefield. But he’d escape with his life.
Then he heard a noise. A low whinny. One of the horses was still alive. A mare.
She rolled an eye towards him, bloodshot and terrified. At least two of her legs were broken. Clarence stamped towards her, sliding in the mud. He laid his hands soothingly on the mare’s neck. Her heartbeat fluttered fast under his fingers.
‘You’ve been lying here all alone,’ said Clarence, looking to her shattered body. ‘In pain and frightened.’
He realised he didn’t have a sword to put her out of her misery.
Clarence tightened his grip on the tinderbox. ‘I can end your suffering,’ he decided. The gunpowder would blow everything to dust.
He made to move away towards the powder kegs, but the horse snorted.
‘Easy girl,’ breathed Clarence. ‘Easy.’
Clarence looked to the fuses, then to the frightened animal.
The snaking flame would terrify her further. He should stay, to comfort her. Keeping a soothing hand on the horse, Clarence eased out a foot, and brought the short fuse line nearer.
The mare’s chest was moving rapidly, her eyes flicking in confusion.
Clarence sat against her huge body, feeling light-headed.
‘There’s nothing to fear,’ he said, patting the horse’s sweating neck. ‘I won’t leave you here alone to die.’ Clarence looked to the open kegs.
‘In a moment there will be a loud noise,’ he said. ‘Then all this pain and suffering will be over. It will be very quick, I promise you.’
Clarence rubbed the horse’s nose. He thought she understood him.
‘Very quick,’ he said. ‘And I’m here with you all the while.’
Then he sparked the flint. The horse started as the flame grew. He stroked her flank. Then the fuse hissed and snaked.
‘Nothing to fear,’ said Clarence, resting his head against the horse’s. He felt her breathing relax a little. He stroked her dusty mane. There were a few sad-looking flowers entwined in it, drooped and closed.
‘My daughter made me daisy chains,’ said Clarence, turning them in his chubby fingers. ‘Long ones. I wore them more proudly than any chain of office. I never told her that.’
There was a booming explosion. Clarence felt himself lifted up. He tightened his grip around the mare’s neck. Somewhere another barrel detonated. There was a sound of water rushing. Then nothing.
Chapter 113
Charlie scanned the medley of Guildhall crypt, surprised he’d not deduced the arrangement straight away.
‘The order is based on the sacred god of all guilds,’ said Charlie, grinning at Lily.
‘Which is?’
‘Money.’
Lily smiled. ‘The piles are in order of the richest guilds?’
Charlie nodded. ‘The wealthiest get the safest place. Simple as that.’ His eye roved the crypt. ‘Goldsmiths right in the centre. Everything spans out from that.’
‘Where would soapmakers be?’ asked Lily.
‘Somewhere in the middle,’ said Charlie, picking over the piles. He reached a barrier of goods stacked to ceiling height and began climbing over it. ‘Soapmakers sell to fine ladies,’ he added. ‘There’s money in vanity.’
They moved further into the possessions. It was darker and lower towards the centre. More like a cellar. Charlie felt the familiar unease close around him with the damp air.
‘Why don’t you like cellars?’ asked Lily. She was watching him and Charlie realised his discomfort must have shown on his face.
‘As a boy,’ he said, moving over piles of leather goods, ‘I lived in Blackstone’s house. There was something in his cellar. A witch. I was very afraid of her.’
Charlie peered through the gloom and made out the edges of another pile. Saddlers. And there. Cooks. He cycled through his knowledge of the London trades and their incomes. Saddlers beat cooks, but came under soapmakers. Charlie switched left.
‘A witch?’ Lily was following behind him.
‘Blackstone’s wife,’ said Charlie. ‘Rowan, my brother, was drawn to her. He’d take her things. Tributes. Dead mice and the like. She’d make spells for him. Blood magic.’
‘Did she have powers?’ asked Lily, her eyes widening.
‘I don’t know,’ said Charlie. ‘But she was dangerous. She showed me a bloodied poppet once. A corn dolly. Told me she’d killed Blackstone’s sister.’
Charlie had a sudden image of Teresa Blackstone, holding a blood-filled chalice, chanting. He gave an involuntary shudder, moving over piles of saddles and reins.
‘Here,’ he called back. ‘This side.’
Charlie was standing motionless as Lily made her way over the mound of goods. She looked in dismay at the pile he stood by. It seemed to be one of the larger ones.
‘How will we ever find Blackstone’s things in here?’ she asked.
Charlie pointed. ‘There.’
A rush of sadness was washing over him. He’d recognised an item in the pile. Something from long ago.
Lily followed the direction of his finger. She looked back at him.
‘I only see a bundle of cloth,’ she said confused.
‘Do you not see?’ said Charlie. ‘It is the same stitching as your handkerchief.’
Charlie strode into the pile and pulled it gently free.
‘You can recognise stitching at a distance?’ said Lily, confused.
‘I’ve seen it before,’ said Charlie. ‘It was my mother’s.’
It was the strangest feeling to be handling her things. Part of him wanted to put them back. To tuck them in the pile and pretend he’d never found them. There was a deep feeling of unease at the pit of his stomach.
‘So this must be Blackstone’s pile.’ Lily was pointing excitedly. ‘And there! Blackstone’s chest!’
Chapter 114
The King rode out having made a tactical change of outfit. A thick pig-skin tabard now hung heavily from his broad shoulders and he wore high boots of the buccaneer style with thick wool stockings.
‘We’re losing,’ said Amesbury bluntly. ‘A firestorm sweeps the city. It sucks in air and fires out heat from buildings. Witnesses say the ruins on Gresham Street exploded again in flame. An inferno sweeps over Guildhall.’
‘The merchant goods?’ asked the King.
‘I don’t think even the crypt can protect them. The heat. No man has seen anything like it. It explodes stone.’ Amesbury’s face was grim.
‘The city will be bankrupted,’ said Charles. ‘Thousands and thousands of pounds in that crypt. The wharfs of timber and metals. There are no commodities left in London.’
He shook his head. ‘You must have faced worse odds in battle,’ he suggested hopefully.
‘No.’ Amesbury shook his head. ‘I never faced a worse enemy than
this. It comes from all sides. It has a furious power. We’ve lost an engine and there’s no pressure in the pipes for the ones we have.’
‘The waterwheels,’ asked Charles. ‘Burned beyond repair?’
‘So I hear it,’ said Amesbury.
‘James defends the Fleet,’ said Charles. ‘Send a fire engine to him. They can fill it straight from the river.’ He wiped sweat. ‘If my brother can hold off fire there, we have a chance to save the Palace,’ he said.
‘The Fleet is blocked,’ said Amesbury. ‘A large cart fell yesterday.’
‘No,’ said Charles, bringing out a letter signed by Monmouth.
‘My son cleared the blockage himself,’ said Charles proudly. ‘He lit gunpowder with a short fuse at great personal risk.’ The King sat higher on his horse. ‘Monmouth has become a good soldier.’
Amesbury said nothing.
Charles eyed the wall of fire. His troops were stoically shovelling, fitting firehooks. But the pressed men were barely trying.
‘Why don’t they work harder?’ asked Charles. ‘It’s their city they save.’
‘They’ve nothing worth saving,’ said Amesbury. ‘They’re homeless and beaten. The only thing they’re here for is ale and bread.’
He turned in surprise. King Charles was off his horse and heading towards the blaze.
Amesbury swore and hurried after him. It was dangerous near the fire. Not to mention the general ill-feeling in the city towards the King.
But Charles was displaying a hitherto unseen common touch. Amesbury watched as he took a shovel from a wide-eyed commoner and directed the man to help with an undermanned firehook.
‘Come on, men!’ called Charles above the blaze. ‘We can win this yet.’
Amesbury was speechless. An old man sidled up and gave him a toothless grin.
‘I’ve been watching from the sidelines,’ he admitted. ‘I’ve an art for dodging press gangs. But if the King is fighting, well, there’s something in that isn’t there?’
And to Amesbury’s surprise the old man trotted towards the blaze and began scooping soil with his hands and tossing it.
The other commoners had also been galvanised into action. They shovelled harder and cheered as the firehook demolished the top storey of the nearest building. It collapsed in a shower of splinters and a young man pulled the King bodily away from the tumbling debris.
Amesbury was impressed. He knew the power of leading from the front. And though the King couldn’t hope to save the Palace, he would certainly go out in a blaze of glory.
Chapter 115
Charlie followed the direction of Lily’s gaze. She was tugging a household trunk from the pile.
‘That’s not it,’ he said. ‘The chest we seek is a sea chest.’
Lily’s face fell. She ceased pulling.
Charlie was taking in the heap of goods. There was something wrong and it took him a moment to work it through.
‘None of his wife’s things are here,’ said Charlie.
‘What?’
‘His wife, Teresa,’ said Charlie. ‘Nothing of hers is in this pile. It is only his things. Blackstone’s. Her wedding chest must be somewhere else.’
Lily was searching the pile for evidence of Blackstone’s whereabouts. She tugged at household furniture and tapestries.
‘Maybe there’s a clue in my mother’s things.’ Charlie settled on to his haunches and unrolled the embroidery. A pewter tankard and three corn dollies wrapped in ribbons dropped free.
Charlie stared at them.
A pewter tankard. Poppets.
‘You’re sure it’s your mother’s?’ asked Lily, moving to stare down at the fabric.
‘She took these things from Blackstone’s house,’ said Charlie, nodding as he ran his hands over the fabric, ‘before he murdered her. I recognise them. But I’d . . . forgotten them.’
As a child Charlie never questioned the little corn poppets. Now questions were coming thick and fast.
‘Why would Blackstone have kept them?’ asked Lily.
‘I don’t know.’ An uncomfortable idea was shifting in his mind. Perhaps Blackstone had given his mother’s things to Teresa. So she might perform some finding spell or curse. He pushed it away.
Charlie stared at his mother’s possessions. It felt like he was dreaming. They brought with them a feeling, rather than a memory. Something soft and warm. Tinged with a deep fear.
Charlie turned a corn dolly. It was dulled to a dun colour. Corn stubble pointed up at the head like a crown and it was bound with faded ribbons.
‘How did they get here?’ asked Lily.
‘Blackstone must have kept or hidden them,’ said Charlie. ‘She was a maid. These were what she put aside as proof she would not turn thief.’ He frowned as the unexpected memory shuffled into place. ‘I remember her wrapping this bundle and handing it to the mistress of the house. She was . . . sad I think.’
His attention was back on the corn dollies. There were three. Two small and one larger.
‘Poppet magic?’ asked Lily, looking at the doll.
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
Lily frowned and eased the larger dolly gently from his fingers.
‘It is a harmless thing,’ she said. ‘A dolly for protection is all.’
‘Then why were they not burned and buried? Only witches keep poppets past the harvest.’
‘No,’ said Lily. ‘Many country folk practise the old ways. Poppets and ribbons for luck and love. Herb medicines.’ She looked at him. ‘There’s no harm in it.’
Charlie didn’t reply.
‘Truly.’ Lily put her hand on his. ‘See the white ribbon? It’s for protection. Against evil spirits and bad things. Three dollies.’ She looked at him. ‘You, your mother and brother?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Charlie.
‘Then your mother thought something bad came,’ said Lily. ‘And tried to protect you all.’ She took the smallest dolly. ‘You should keep this,’ she said, pushing it towards him.
Charlie hesitated, then put it in his coat. He moved his attention to examine the cloth.
‘It’s a sampler,’ he said. ‘That’s why it uses the same stitches as your handkerchief.’
‘What’s a sampler?’
‘Seamstresses plan the stitches and colours they mean to use on a larger work,’ Charlie explained. ‘They refer back to the sampler as they stitch.’
‘Like drawing a plan for a building?’ suggested Lily. Charlie nodded.
‘It hung on the wall,’ he added. ‘I remember it. My mother must have used it to sew many things.’
He turned his attention to the tankard and ring.
It was an ordinary tankard, slightly battered. On the side was engraved Sally Oakley and Tobias Oakley circled with two hearts. The names were inscribed in a rustic kind of way, the heart shapes imperfect.
Tobias Oakley.
‘My father’s name,’ he said, tracing the letters. ‘I never knew it before.’
‘The ring is good,’ Lily pointed out. ‘Her wedding ring?’
Charlie lifted and turned it. It bore the mark of the Goldsmiths’ Guild on the inside. ‘It has a guild hallmark,’ he said. ‘Made by a London goldsmith. I don’t remember this ring,’ he added, examining the gold band and ruby. ‘But you’re right, it is good.’
‘Perhaps your father was a wealthy Royalist,’ suggested Lily. ‘Who lost his life and wealth to the Civil War.’
‘Then why did my mother work as a maid for Blackstone?’ asked Charlie. ‘If Tobias Oakley was from a fine family my mother would have been a respectable widow. Someone would have taken care of her.’
The mystery of it was swirling in his mind. He picked up the sampler again.
Tobias Oakley. And a ruby ring.
Then came a memory, fresh and clear.
Charlie was staring at the cloth. ‘I can see it clearly,’ he said. ‘This sampler, hanging on a wall. Even the view from the window.’ He spoke slowly as though it were an effort to dr
ag up the words.
Lily waited for him to continue.
‘I remember,’ said Charlie swallowing. ‘I remember Blackstone’s house.’
Lily gave a gasp of excitement. ‘There must be something there to reveal his plans.’
‘It was in the old part of the city.’ Charlie was speaking like a sleepwalker. ‘Blackstone’s house was on a small street. There was a . . . a sign of the Merlin’s Head.’ He closed his eyes. ‘A smell. Some industry.’ He tried to pull it out of the air and then it materialised. ‘Brewery,’ he said. ‘There was a brewery at the bottom of the garden.’
His eyes snapped open. ‘Breweries are by Puddle Dock,’ he said. ‘Fire goes there now.’
Above them was a sudden thunderous crack. Charlie’s gaze flew upwards. The thick stone ceiling above them shuddered. And then a large split ran fast from pillar to pillar and spread into a network of fissures. There was another boom above them and then the crack widened to a fist-size opening, raining rubble down on them.
Guildhall crypt was splitting apart.
Chapter 116
Teresa Blackstone’s circle of power was almost complete.
The Thing lay at the centre, bony hands crossed over her chest. Blackstone and Jacob had surrounded her with a wide thicket of her strange possessions. Aged and broken furniture formed the outer ring. Towards the centre, her more personal effects. Dresses hung like ghoulish women. They were an old courtly style that Jacob had only seen in pictures. Wide skirted and moth eaten.
It reminded him of a fairy tale he’d once heard as a boy. Sleeping Beauty. Only things had been mixed up. The wicked witch was at the centre. A kiss would open her rotting eyes and she would swallow her hapless rescuer.
Blackstone was staring. ‘Her dress,’ he muttered.
Jacob swallowed. He couldn’t tell from the remains what she’d been wearing when she died.
‘The gown she was married in.’ Blackstone decided. His gaze landed on an old green dress, elaborately skirted and embroidered with winding yellow ferns.
‘Look away,’ he barked to Jacob. ‘You mustn’t see her undress.’