I plunged my head between my legs, fighting the nausea. ‘That was good of him.’
Josselin prowled the inner wall of the churchyard, everything glowing a fiery orange. The wall encircling us rose eight feet tall, with only one other gate, leading directly inside Thomas Apostle, already lit. The leaves of a large oak tree, stood majestically to our left, flickered and glowed like little candles against the black sky as sparks fell onto its branches and nestled against its dry body.
I struggled to remember. ‘Is it day or night?’
Dowling nodded at the horizon to the west. ‘Night still.’
‘We must climb the wall,’ Josselin called, striding through the grass.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘The fire cannot reach us here, nor can Arlington. The fire will burn itself out by tomorrow.’
Josselin stood with hands on hips, staring at the flames like they were a great inconvenience. ‘I have to get to St Paul’s.’
‘We can go when the fire has diminished,’ I replied.
He looked at me as if I were a great fool and stuck his hand up in the air. ‘Feel the wind, Lytle. How long do you think it will take this wind to carry the fire down Watling Street?’
God save us, he was right. The idea that Paul’s might bow to this fire seemed ludicrous. It had stood for six centuries, had seen off fire, lightning, radical Protestants and Cromwell’s Model Army. That it might now fall to the hands of the man that stood before me seemed unthinkable. Yet the fire was already halfway there, in less than a day. ‘What is at St Paul’s you desire so badly?’
‘No.’ Josselin stabbed his finger at my forehead. ‘Let me ask you a question first. What is your relationship with Arlington? I assumed you played some complex game, that you sought to gain my trust on Arlington’s behalf.’ He looked at my pocket. ‘I have seen you smoke your strange leaves, and watched you emerge from Shyam unscathed. I saw Arlington and Withypoll come out of the house and thought they left you there to trap me. But if I hadn’t saved you, you would have died.’
Dowling nodded.
‘We performed but lowly duties for Arlington,’ I explained. ‘Then he asked us to investigate the murder of nobility, Thomas Wharton, the Earl of St Albans.’
‘The torturer?’
‘So it turned out.’ I nodded. ‘Arlington conspired with him, and expected us to point the finger at the wrong man, else get ourselves killed. In the event we had to save his life when he betrayed Wharton.’
‘And he let you live?’ Josselin’s eyes narrowed, suspicious.
‘Until now,’ Dowling replied. ‘I don’t think he expected us to leave Shyam alive, or if we did, the plan was for Withypoll to kill us. It still is.’
Josselin continued to stare, as if trying to work out the rules of an elaborate game. ‘If you betray me I will kill you.’
I shrugged. Arlington, Withypoll and the plague had exhausted my capacity for fear.
Josselin jabbed his finger. ‘You will help me.’
‘As best we can,’ I replied. ‘Though our attempt to gain you an audience with Arlington failed. He wants you dead.’
‘I must get to St Paul’s,’ he said. ‘Then you must carry a message to Arlington on my behalf.’
‘And have him kill us?’ I snorted.
‘Listen to me,’ Josselin snapped. ‘When we get to St Paul’s I will show you the letter. You can see it for yourself. Arlington will not dare kill you once he knows you have seen it.’
‘You have hidden a letter at St Paul’s?’
‘I could not keep it on my person, for if I am caught with the letter upon me then I am lost.’
‘What letter?’ Dowling grunted.
Josselin puffed out his chest and gritted his teeth like he contemplated diving into the Thames. ‘Arlington told you I sabotaged the chance of peace.’
‘Aye. You made sure De Witt saw a letter not intended for him,’ I said.
Josselin nodded. ‘So I did, but not to sabotage peace. In my view it was the only thing to do if peace was ever to be achieved.’
‘By betraying Arlington’s true intent to De Witt you hoped that England and Holland would embrace each other in peace and harmony?’ I said. ‘Arlington is Secretary of State. Once De Witt knew he plotted to spark civil war, there could be no chance of peace.’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Josselin waved a hand in my face. ‘If you work for Arlington then you must know he is Catholic.’
‘There are rumours,’ Dowling said, slowly.
‘You heard right when you heard I betrayed De Buat,’ said Josselin, ‘and God forgive me for it, but De Buat will be alright. De Witt cannot punish an ambassador of the House of Orange.’
‘Why did you do it?’ I pressed him.
He clenched his fists. ‘Arlington gave me three letters. The first to De Witt pledging peaceful intent, which letter was a lie. The second letter was intended for De Buat only, encouraging him to rouse the House of Orange to fight for the reinstatement of the Prince of Orange. To fight against the Dutch, in other words. He incited them to civil war.’ He held up a hand. ‘I cannot condemn Arlington for that, for De Witt should have guessed. Indeed it might be a good thing for the States that they confront their differences and resolve them now rather than let them drag on for years. The sooner the States resolve their differences, the sooner will emerge a stronger Protestant state, an ideal ally for England.’
I shook my head. ‘I still don’t understand why you would betray Arlington. Why distract them from their internal wrangling? By exposing Arlington’s deceit—’
‘It may unite them, it may not.’ Josselin interrupted. ‘But there will be no alliance with England for the time being, which is the right thing, for there can be no alliance with England the way things stand.’
‘What is in the third letter?’ I demanded.
‘You will not believe me until you read it yourself,’ Josselin answered. ‘So you must come with me to St Paul’s and I will show it to you.’
‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Tell us now!’
Josselin shook his head slowly, staring into the towering wall of flame. ‘We must climb the wall.’
The flames crept stealthily south and north. The wall stood eight feet tall.
I clambered to my feet. Iron clamps squeezed at my chest, forcing me to bend over double. I cleared my lungs and spat more phlegm.
‘You go first,’ Josselin said to me. ‘We will help you up.’
They both stood six feet tall, cupping their hands for my feet. It was easy to wriggle up on to the top of the wall where I sat straddled, wondering if I might help Dowling, but he waved me out of the way. I peered down into New Queen Street, where people scurried up and down, emptying their houses of all possessions, stacking them on the street. Three families loaded their goods into wagons; the rest would have to manage without, for now the whole city was panicked.
Dowling heaved himself arthritically upon the wall next to me, his red face sweating by my knees, leaving Josselin to spring up by himself.
‘Hey!’ a voice cried from the street below.
The shadow beneath the wall was moving. A long line of soldiers stood in a row.
‘Jump!’ roared Josselin, swinging himself into the air and down onto the street. I followed without thinking and landed on my back, Dowling’s huge feet just missing my nose. I felt myself hauled up and turned back to see a line of men stood with legs bent and arms akimbo like giant crabs, faces frozen in disbelief.
‘Don’t just stand there!’ another voice commanded from in the distance. Withypoll’s voice.
‘Run!’ Josselin urged, beckoning us towards Knightrider Street.
Thank God we climbed the wall where we did, I thought, as I urged my short legs to run as fast as they could. Had we chosen a spot away from the corner we would have landed in the middle of Arlington’s army. Careless of them not to guard each end of the street, I thought, a sense of gratitude elevating my senses. Withypoll’s doing; arrogance eve
r his downfall. Though they trailed us by just ten yards.
Josselin surged ahead, weaving his way through the crowded street without breaking his stride. He pulled further and further ahead, leaving me to do my best to keep up with Dowling. He ran with longer stride, but my legs moved quicker. Bread Street loomed.
‘Turn right,’ I shouted.
Dowling heard and made the turn. Bread Street was where I lived. Dowling slowed, allowing me to surge past. Four soldiers followed, the others pursued Josselin. This was my parish; these were my streets. I darted left into a narrow lane that twisted its way onto Friday Street. Two feet wide, the soldiers would have to follow in single file. Then north until we reached St Matthew’s. I led Dowling around the churchyard wall and through a tiny opening out onto Cheapside. Then diagonally towards the mouth of Gutter Lane and into the shadow. We stopped, panting hard, my breath rasping against the lining of my throat.
‘That was close,’ I wheezed.
‘Aye, close.’ Dowling leant forwards, hands on knees. ‘And getting closer. The fire will drive us all up against the wall.’
The wind continued to billow and churn, carrying a sheet of embers above our heads. Some died, others drifted deep into the maze of close-packed houses, dry as dust. I heard the Withypoll shouting in the distance.
‘What are you two doing?’ a voice cried out from behind. ‘Make yourselves useful or clear the way!’
Two fellows pushed a large barrel down the street to which someone had fixed two sets of wheels. A third fellow led the way, parading afore it with great majesty, urging all to stand aside and let it pass, which was hardly necessary given the troubles the two men at the back were having in persuading it to roll against the cobbles.
‘Where are your buckets?’ the portly fellow bellowed into my face. ‘You may save your goods, but what about your property?’ His gaze fell to our hands, where still we wore our ropes. Then something caught his eye.
‘Stop that man!’ he yelled, pointing at a small thin fellow scuttling along Cheapside clasping something to his chest. The thin man cast a frightened gaze over his shoulder and tried to run faster, but whatever he had beneath his shirt slowed him down.
‘Stop that Frenchman!’ our protagonist shouted again, attracting the attention of all on Cheapside.
Two burly fellows pulling a wagon by hand dropped their load and spread their arms wide, attention fixed upon the poor unfortunate. His hair was straight, black and well oiled, and he wore it pulled back and tied behind his neck. He danced from foot to foot, no chance of escape. As the two big fellows jumped at him, he fell to the cobbles in a ball, knees tucked up to his chest.
The portly fellow rolled his sleeves further up his arms and marched up like a great waddling bulldog to where the little man lay cowering. ‘What does he hide in his shirt?’ He squinted.
The little fellow peered up. His face was thin and angular. A big black mole sat tucked beneath one nostril. ‘My dog,’ he exclaimed, pulling forth a small black creature with hair over its eyes. ‘It is just my dog.’ His accent indeed sounded foreign, but many foreigners lived inside London’s city walls. He clambered to his knees and sat crouched, holding up the dog with both hands like it was a sacred offering.
Dowling shoved his way to the front of the small gathering. ‘What did you think it was?’
The big ugly fellow stood feet astride, gazing down on the smaller man like he hated him with all his soul. ‘They found a Frenchman with a trunk full of fireballs out at Moorfields.’
‘You thought he carried fireballs in his shirt?’ Dowling snorted. ‘He is as frightened as the rest of us. Let him go.’
‘Frightened you say?’ The portly fellow turned to Dowling, thick black eyebrows halfway to the top of his balding head. ‘I am not frightened, nor should any of us be. We must put out this fire.’ He turned again to the little man and his dog. ‘The only ones that have need to be frightened are those that fear being caught.’ He held up a hand high into the air, with great ceremony. One of his colleagues handed him a thick iron bar. ‘The French have started fires all over the City and are descending upon us now, an army of French and Papists, four thousand men.’
Before any could stop him he swung the bar through the air and hit the little man hard across the temple. The short fellow fell to the ground instantly, eyes closed and body limp. The little dog landed sideways upon the cobbles before righting itself. It began to bark: short, snapping yelps aimed at no one in particular. The gathering crowd stood in a silent circle watching blood pour from the small man’s head, trickling between the cobbles in a meandering stream.
‘This is revenge!’ the portly fellow snarled, clasping the iron bar tighter in his fist. ‘Holmes burnt Westerschelling and now the Dutch are trying to burn London.’
Dowling pushed him in the chest. ‘I thought you said it was the French?’ he said. ‘Dutch or French? Make up your mind.’
The portly fellow recovered his poise and took a step back towards Dowling. ‘Who are you, anyway, sir?’ he sneered. ‘Why do you wear rope?’ he nodded at Dowling’s wrists. ‘What prison have you escaped from?’
The crowd now turned to us, murmuring amongst themselves, faces unfriendly and unsmiling. All were terrified, desperate for assurance that someone might save their homes and possessions, and ready to tear to pieces whosoever it was started the blaze.
Why hadn’t we just slunk back into Gutter Lane, I asked myself? Why did we always find ourselves at the midst of every conflagration? Withypoll’s soldiers would be here soon, if they weren’t already watching at the fringes of the mob now surrounding us.
‘We were imprisoned by the Dutch,’ I called out, an unformed lie. ‘Which is why we know it was not the French.’ I waved a hand at the dead man upon the ground. ‘This man was guilty of no crime.’
Which speech did nothing to settle the atmosphere. I realised, too late, that to suggest a murder took place was to suggest all were party to it. I would have to work twice as hard.
‘We came back from Colchester yesterday.’ I held up the rope for all to see. ‘The Dutch attempted to land at Hythe but were thwarted. Their spies captured us in the Dutch Quarter, and Lord Arlington’s men rescued us. We are members of Lord Arlington’s secret service.’
The portly man didn’t know what to say. He stood with mouth open, eyes gleaming, still holding his iron bar. I did my best to look like a battle-hardened soldier, staring back, expressionless.
‘We don’t have time for this,’ said Dowling, breaking the silence. ‘Stand aside, all of you. The army will root out the perpetrators of this great fire, if perpetrators there be. Gather your possessions and leave, else stay and fight the fire.’
He shoved the portly man aside and strode with great confidence towards the Little Conduit.
‘Who speaks of Arlington?’ shouted a voice from behind. Withypoll’s voice again.
‘Fish teeth!’ I exclaimed, running fast afore any could think to stop us, diving into the crowd that thronged about the Little Conduit pumping water into buckets.
Opposite the Little Conduit stood a gate, a passageway into St Paul’s Churchyard, which swarmed busier than Cheapside. All of London carried their possessions here, it seemed, assuming like me it could never burn down.
‘God help the good people of Colchester,’ Dowling grumbled, slowing to a walk, rope bundled in his fists in an attempt to hide it.
‘God help the good Dutch people of London,’ I retorted. ‘What should I have said? Or should I have stood there silent, like a big fish, with my mouth wide open? Like you.’
He muttered something beneath his breath and shook his big head, ruefully, eyes moist. I thought of the poor Frenchman, if Frenchman he was, lain dead upon the street. ‘I hope someone looks after his dog,’ I said.
‘The dumb ass speaking with man’s voice forbad the madness of the prophet,’ Dowling grumbled.
Did he call me a dumb ass?
No matter; we had to get to St Paul’s.
> Chapter Thirty-Two
Many Nations are deprived of their Grandees, their best and supreamest Officers and Commanders.
The old cathedral was in a sorry state. Already falling to pieces before the Civil War, Cromwell allowed his military to brick off the choir from the rest of the building, converting the nave into a stable for eight hundred horses. They dismantled the scaffold set up in the south transept and the vaulting collapsed. They destroyed the bishop’s throne and the choir stalls and demolished the Bishop’s Palace. The walls leant and the tower stood crooked, supported by a complicated trellis of timber.
We entered the nave through the Little North Door with a crowd of others. Huge columns towered high above our heads. Every voice sounded thin and shrill beneath the formidable, vaulted ceiling, blackened arches hanging above our heads like a terrible judgement. A steady stream of men, women and children scuttled about, carrying their possessions into the nave from all directions, hunting for a bare patch of floor to claim for their own. A notice instructed all who passed to deposit a penny into a box for every burden fetched into the building, but the box was empty. The mercers, goldsmiths and booksellers hurried faster than everyone, bustling impatiently, fetching their stock down into St Faith’s where they might guard their wares against thieves. We stood, backs against the cold stone wall, searching for Josselin.
‘If he was mad before, he’ll be lunatic now,’ I said in low voice. ‘All this destruction because he lit a fire in Pudding Lane. What will that do to his conscience?’
I stepped out across the busy stone floor, picking my way carefully through the melee. So many bodies crammed together created an unnatural warmth, leading all to feel uneasy. A fight broke out away to the left, afront of Bishop Kempe’s chapel. Two men squabbling over a square foot of stone floor, anxiety and frustration turned to violence.
‘A long time since so many came to church,’ I said, crossing the transept into the choir, treading through the rubble beneath the shadow of the four enormous pillars that held up the lead-covered tower.
The Rose Window glowed red and orange, shimmering and flickering, casting a fiery pall upon the walls and ceiling, and upon the marble tomb of Thomas Ewer lain just afore us. Past the bust of Dean Nowell, we entered the Lady Chapel, past the skeletal brass figure of Bishop Braybrooke. Unsettling to walk amidst the fine carved figures of men long dead, across a rubble-covered stone floor glowing red like the pits of Hell.
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