‘And we can ensure Lady Quinton’s safety,’ said Ollivier.
‘Musk is right,’ said Francis. ‘The streets are crowded, even this far west. Even if the fire itself poses no direct threat, the throng will present a heaven-sent opportunity to every cutpurse in London. And you must think of the child, Lady Quinton.’
Cornelia pouted. ‘Think of the child. That is what my husband tells me. Nothing but “think of the child”.’
And with that, she stormed off to her room, not deigning to join the rest of the party for dinner. Francis slept uneasily that night, alternating between looking out of his window toward the red waves in the east and praying for the fate of London. The following morning, though, he went down to find Cornelia dressed for an expedition, Captain Ollivier at her side.
‘Tell them,’ said Musk. ‘Tell them again, Reverend. They won’t listen to me.’
But Cornelia simply raised her hand.
‘The Earl has given his permission,’ she said.
Francis looked at Musk, who rolled his eyes, but nodded. And Francis, knowing the two people in question well enough, knew at once what had happened. Cornelia would have pestered my brother mercilessly, and Charles, desperate for peace and quiet, would have conceded. But then, the Earl of Ravensden always did have a soft spot for his sister-in-law.
‘Then we will accompany you,’ said Francis. ‘Musk, myself, Youngest Barcock. Together, we should be sufficient to deter even an entire gang of footpads. But at the first sign of any trouble, My Lady, we turn and come back.’
‘Of course,’ said Cornelia. ‘I am in your hands, Francis.’
And so, much against Francis’s better judgement, they left the house and made their way east, along the Strand and into Fleet Street, down across the bridge over the Fleet River, then up the hill toward Lud Gate, the city wall, the flames and the smoke. The way was crowded with carts heading west, each piled high with possessions of all sorts. One contained a large spinet; another, a sick old woman on her bed. Men and women alike wept for the loss of their houses.
The trouble began when they were by the site of Paul’s Cross, the old preaching place, which had been demolished by the Roundheads during the civil war. Standing in the shadow of Inigo Jones’ great and still very new-looking west front of the cathedral, the site of the cross was still a favourite spot from which street-preachers harangued passers-by. The fellow standing there now, berating all and sundry, had the look and sound of an old soldier about him (or so said Francis, who was amply qualified to recognise the type): leathery features, a rough black tunic, and a rasping voice that might have expounded many a psalm in front of wartime camp fires.
‘… and, I tell you, they seized another Frenchman, that was throwing fireballs into houses in Lombard Street!’ The substantial mob gathered before him growled its disgust. ‘They’ve searched the houses of Dutch weavers down in Spitalfields, and found fireballs aplenty! Even now, De Ruyter and Beaufort and their fleets are coming into the Thames, ready to invade! But they don’t want you to know that, Clarendon and Arlington and all the rest of them! And why not? I’ll tell ye why not, brothers and sisters! Because the Duke of York’s in league with them – Clarendon’s own son-in-law – and every man knows the Duke’s inclined to Popery. He and King Louis will be celebrating mass in there, in Saint Paul’s itself, before the year’s out! This fire’s no accident, I tell ye!’
‘If Beaufort’s sailing up the Thames, you can call me Charlemagne,’ said Jean-Paul Ollivier to Cornelia. ‘And the same if the French have really fired London.’
Francis looked at him in alarm. The Breton captain was a very large, very noticeable man with a loud voice and excellent English, and even his whisper to Cornelia carried to several people standing nearby.
‘Frenchman! A French spy!’ cried a young girl.
‘Not so!’ cried Francis, stepping forward. ‘All’s well here, my friends. These people are under my protection!’
‘And who the fuck might you be?’ demanded a brazen strumpet.
The mob began to press closer toward the little Ravensden party.
‘Barcock,’ murmured Musk, ‘run and find Sir Matthew.’
‘Where’ll he be, Mister Musk?’ said the pageboy.
‘Wherever the fire’s at its worst. Ask where the men who’ve come from the dockyards are – the crew of the Royal Sceptre – that’s where he’ll be. Now go, lad!’
The boy was small and nimble, and easily dashed through a gap in the crowd between two old crones.
‘I’ll tell you, goodwife,’ said Francis Gale. ‘I am the vicar of Ravensden, chaplain to that noble hero, Sir Matthew Quinton…’
‘Priest!’ cried the man at Paul’s Cross. ‘Laudian! We know you bells-and-smells Anglicans – one left-footed step from Rome!’
There were further growls.
‘Start backing down towards Addle Hill,’ whispered Musk. ‘Narrower. Easier to hold them off if we have to.’
‘Good people!’ cried Cornelia. ‘All is well here! I am the wife of Sir Matthew Quinton. We are loyal subjects, just as you are. Good Protestants all, as is the noble French captain here, who has given his parole!’
‘Aye?’ sneered the strumpet. ‘Lady Quinton, is it? Dutch bitch, then! So, a Dutch bitch, a Frog swordsman, and a priest – for all we know, a Jesuit pretending to be a vicar. A pretty collection of rogues! Enemies of good honest English folk, the lot of them!’
‘The Frenchman,’ cried a clerkish-looking fellow, who certainly spoke like an educated man. ‘Captain of the Joan of Ark, it said in the Gazette. So what’s to say he’s not out to avenge that mad bitch by doing to London what we did to her?’
Another growl of assent.
‘The firestarters will have had leaders,’ proclaimed the street-preacher, pointing directly at them. ‘Machiavellis and Torquemadas, ordering where best to throw fireballs. What more likely than that we’re looking at them?’
Cornelia, Ollivier and Francis followed Musk’s lead and started to back into the entrance to Addle Hill, a narrow lane that led down to the river. And the mob began to advance.
* * *
‘You men, with me!’ I cried to the half-dozen Sceptres within earshot.
I wished my best men were closer, the likes of Carvell, Lanherne and Tremar, but those I had with me were good enough: three loyal Cornishmen, Tippett, Penwarn and Gover; a stout Suffolk veteran called Frostick; and Marsh and Sheldon, two sometime pressed men who had stayed with the ship and not deserted when they had the chance.
We ran past Great Saint Thomas Apostle, already ablaze at its eastern end, through Great Trinity Lane and down Distaff Lane. The roads were jammed, and in places we had to barge people aside, or even leap on top of carts, jumping off on the other side. Sparks and firedrops fell continuously. Although it was late morning, at times it seemed like the middle of the night, so thick was the smoke borne upon the still-relentless east wind. And all the while, I had one thought only: Cornelia. My wife, and my unborn child. The unborn heir to Ravensden. Oh dear God, let me be in time – let their fate not be retribution upon me…
We burst out into Addle Hill. I saw Cornelia and the others at once, slightly uphill from us, and called out. She ran into my arms, weeping, and Musk and Francis fell back to join us. But three or four had hold of Captain Ollivier. They were tearing at his fine coat, punching at his face and gut. And all the while, the rest of the mob continued to advance downhill, jeering, throwing dung, shouting insults against the Dutch and French for having fired London.
‘Mad, the lot of them!’ cried Musk. ‘Rabid dogs who’ll listen to no reason!’
I pushed Cornelia to Francis, and stepped forward, directly into the path of the mob.
‘I am Sir Matthew Quinton,’ I shouted. ‘You know my name. You knew my grandfather’s name. Matthew, Earl of Ravensden, who fought the Armada, who defeated the Spinola Galleys, who saved Queen Bess’s throne. You know the Quintons are loyal to England. In the name of the King, I order you
to release the French captain, there. And the first man, woman or child who frightens my wife any longer will have to deal with me, and my sword.’
I drew the blade from its scabbard, and the Sceptres closed around me. But the mob was so crazed with bloodlust, it had the opposite effect to what I intended.
‘Sir Matthew Quinton, is it?’ cried a voice from the depths of the mob. I could just make out the scoundrel: a young man, in the dress of a student from one of the Temples, seemingly intent on rejecting everything he had ever learned about the law. ‘Then if I recall my genealogies aright, your grandmother was a French Papist! Trust none of ’em! Malignants! Firestarters!’
Ollivier pushed forward, trying to free himself from the clutches of the louts who held him, but one of them pulled a knife and held it to the Frenchman’s neck, drawing blood as Ollivier struggled. Someone in the crowd threw a loose cobble. Cornelia screamed, and I saw a bloody gash on her forehead. Francis took her in his arms and turned her, shielding her with his own body.
‘Cavalier scum!’ cried another voice, this time from the back of the crowd. ‘Dutch, French, Papists! Rush ’em, boys! String ’em all up, this day, to avenge London!’
A growl of approbation – those at the front of the mob stepped toward me – I swung my sword, felt it tear cloth and pierce flesh, and a man screamed – red flames of rage and guilt burned my eyes – infuriated, one of the mob slung a noose over Ollivier’s head, and another struck out at Francis with a cudgel, trying to hit Cornelia – I swung again, ready to thrust my sword for the kill.
None in the mob heeded the sound of approaching hooves upon cobbles, coming down Addle Hill behind them; men riding hither and thither upon horseback were legion as London burned, men fleeing the flames or barking orders to others.
But the mob heeded the roar of a musket fired into the air, right enough. Heads turned, my own included. Eyes took in a troop of red-coated dragoons, one of whom held the smoking weapon in his hand. A troop that rode behind a tall, dark, moustachioed man, dressed in a purple frock-coat and mounted upon a fine grey stallion.
‘Good day to you, Sir Matthew,’ said the man. ‘You appear to be in a little difficulty.’
I inclined my head.
‘No longer, thanks to your timely arrival, My Lord Craven.’
The mob was silent, and fell back respectfully at the mention of the name. Even those who did not know William, Earl of Craven, by sight, certainly knew him by reputation. He was a legend of England: a veteran soldier and the lover of a Queen, he had earned the undying respect of every man in London during the previous summer, when he stayed behind to maintain control in the plague-stricken capital after the King, the court, and virtually every man of rank deserted the pestilential city.
‘Excellent,’ he said, ‘for we have more pressing business, this day. A city to save, in fact.’ He turned in his saddle, and addressed the mob. ‘You hear me, my friends? No more idling in the streets. No more seeking out phantom French and Dutch firestarters. And release the honourable captain, there. Release him now, you hear me?’ The men holding Ollivier let him go, and the Frenchman came to us, holding a kerchief to the blood at his neck. Lord Craven nodded grimly, then turned to the mob again. ‘Listen to me, good folk. Every woman here, attend to saving London’s children. Every man here, with me, to fight the fire! I have the King’s personal orders, direct from the Palace of Whitehall!’
‘God save the King!’ cried Musk.
Many of those in the mob, who moments before had been as republican and murderous as Noll Cromwell, now took up the loyal cry. A few cast ashamed sideways glances in our direction before slinking off, back up toward Saint Paul’s. Most, though, stayed where they were, ready to obey Craven’s commands.
‘Musk, Captain Ollivier,’ I said, ‘pray take Lady Quinton back to Ravensden House, and this time, make sure she stays there.’ Cornelia mumbled something, but kept her tearful eyes to the ground. Musk was cleaning the graze on her forehead, but thank God, it was evidently no more than that. ‘You men,’ I said to my six Sceptres, ‘go with them, and guard the house. Francis, I leave the choice to you. You can either return to the house, or come with me, or go where you will.’
Francis smiled. ‘Oh, I think I shall go with you, Sir Matthew. Perhaps my prayers and my wielding of a firebucket will tip the balance in favour of saving London.’
The Earl of Craven nodded. He bore a startling resemblance to Prince Rupert, which was somewhat unfortunate, as he had spent several decades as the lover of that prince’s mother, the Winter Queen of Bohemia; not even the undoubted fact that the Earl was only eleven when the Prince was born could silence the credulous.
‘Amen,’ he said. ‘Above all, pray for rain, Father. We are come to a sorry pass indeed if rain has forsaken England.’
Chapter Twenty
Whatever Sir Thomas Bloodworth thought about it – and the Lord Mayor was nowhere to be seen – houses aplenty were being pulled down in Dowgate and the streets thereabouts, that Monday afternoon. Once again, I pulled on many a fire-hook myself, grappling onto cross beams and bringing down walls and entire buildings. So did all the Sceptres around me, a sturdy party of thirty or so led by Julian Carvell, who had fallen back from the east. All the while, the heat scorched our faces, arms and chests, for few men now deigned to wear shirts before the inferno. And still the blaze advanced, leaping easily over the gaps we had made. The wind, howling like a thousand demons through the lanes and alleyways, was unremitting, and carried the fire westward, ever westward.
The livery halls were falling almost by the minute now. I witnessed Skinners’ Hall go, then the Tallow Chandlers’ next to it, prominent liverymen weeping copiously in the street as their ancient treasures burned. The Steelyard was gone, and with it all the London property of the once-mighty Hanseatic League. Churches galore went up, too. I led a party of Sceptres, dockyard men and plain citizens in trying to save Saint Michael Paternoster Royal, where the famous Lord Mayor Whittington was buried in a fine marble tomb. It was close to the river, so we could establish a bucket-chain along College Hill and Church Lane, but nothing availed. Flames spouted through the windows like satanic tongues, the roof blazed and then fell in, and the tower, ancient and probably already unstable, collapsed in a great cloud of smoke and masonry dust.
We retreated westward, along Thames Street, abandoning to their fate Saint James Garlickhythe, Saint Martin Vintry, and all the streets around those churches. Francis knew the vicar of Saint Nicholas Cole Abbey, so we made our way there, but the man was nowhere to be found. Even so, we climbed the tower, to get a better view of the fire’s progress.
As I stepped out onto the roof, the full force of the easterly wind struck me. Then I saw the fire in all its terror and majesty, a great curtain of flame stretching south-west to north-east across the City, its folds billowing out before it, reaching inexorably toward the buildings in its path. Thames Street was ablaze on both sides, London Bridge glimpsed only occasionally through gaps in the flames. At least the fire did not seem to be threatening the buildings on the bridge, which could have spread it into Southwark. There, in the shadows of Saint Mary Overie and Winchester Palace, crowds were thronging the riverbank, watching the horror unfolding before them as the fire rushed relentlessly northward. Even as I watched, Saint Mary Aldermary on Bow Lane caught fire, its thin tower transformed into a finger of flame, pointing toward Heaven.
If the fire was not stopped soon, the very heart of London would be consumed before the day was out. And over all lay the great cloud of black smoke, often blotting out the blood-red sun, leaving only the countless glowing sparks and firedrops being borne westward to illuminate us.
‘Genesis Nineteen, verses twenty-four and twenty-five,’ said Francis.
I did not reply; I did not need to.
Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that
which grew upon the ground.
I stared at the great blaze: stared at it long enough to see what happens every time any man stares into his own grate, only writ large across the sky. I saw the faces of the dead, of those once loved, of enemies long killed, all of them dancing in the flames. I saw angels, their wings reaching out to enfold the city. I saw devils, conjuring up yet more of hell itself. I looked into the fire, and saw the visage of death.
‘No,’ I said, finally. ‘Whatever sins we may have committed, London will stand. It has to stand. Perhaps the next building we pull down will be the one to halt the fire’s advance, Francis. We have to believe that. We have to believe it.’
But as we descended the stairs of the tower – which would, itself, shortly fall victim to the flames – I knew how hollow my words sounded.
All of England will burn, I thought. Everything will be consumed, and it will be God’s righteous vengeance for what we did at the Vlie and Terschelling. For what you did, Matthew Quinton. And even if I managed to put that thought out of my head, another, even more dreadful, one swiftly took its place. Did the Horsemen somehow succeed after all? Goodman was still at large, and what if the fire had resurrected the apparently dead fourth Horseman, like a phoenix from the ashes, to accelerate what his brothers had begun?
The Horsemen.
Experts in fire, yes. But experts in something else, too. And that was when the thought came to me.
How would the Horsemen have stopped a great fire, rather than starting one? The same way any seaman would have done. But I was no true seaman. So, when we emerged from the church, I called over Julian Carvell, who was. He and I talked, and then I sent a Sceptre to find me a pen, paper and ink. This did not prove difficult, given the number of hastily abandoned workshops and offices in the vicinity. Carvell’s eyes nearly sprang from his head in astonishment as I addressed the letter:
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