‘I saved you last time,’ I retorted. ‘Little good it did me.’
‘I humbly beg your forgiveness,’ said Arlington, eyes fixed upon Josselin’s swaying torso. ‘Accept my regrets, and I assure you it will not happen again.’
Josselin lifted his sword and brought it down in a chopping motion towards the older man’s neck. Arlington swivelled on his toes, avoiding the blade. He stepped aside to give himself room before lunging at Josselin’s chest, but Josselin threw himself out of the way.
I watched aghast, uncertain what to do. The fire burnt so loud I couldn’t hear their grunts, nor even the sound of their swords clashing. Dowling grabbed my hair in his fist and shouted in my ear for us to depart, but I was loath to leave Josselin to Arlington’s mercy.
Josselin lunged once more at Arlington, but tripped before he could connect. Arlington opened his mouth wide then brought his blade down heavily across Josselin’s back. Josselin tried to lift himself upon his knees, but failed, crouched afront of Arlington like an old horse, head bowed.
Arlington bared his teeth in cruel satisfaction afore adjusting his breeches and raising his sword two-handed for the final blow. Just as he prepared to swing the sword I picked up a fallen piece of masonry and threw it at his head. He let his sword fall clattering to the floor, and staggered like a drunk, squinting through the smoke as if to see what hit him. My hand burnt, for the rock had smouldered beneath a thin coating of lead. He turned to face me, blood pouring down the right side of his head, arms dangling loose at his sides. His mouth opened and his knees buckled, and he fell face forwards onto the stone floor.
I dashed forwards to where Josselin lay prone. I rolled him onto his back and Dowling lifted his head. A thin layer of soot coated his long nose and gathered among his eyelashes. His eyes dulled, yet looked upon us with peaceful tranquillity. He appeared sane at last. A thin line of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. I shook him gently, but his eyes closed.
‘I thought he loved me,’ he whispered.
‘We must go,’ Dowling shouted. ‘If it is not too late already.’
The smoke descended and lay thick all around so I could see barely twelve inches in front of my nose. ‘The Bishop’s residence is on our way out,’ I yelled, edging forwards into the black inferno.
Dowling grabbed my sleeve, coughing. ‘We don’t have time.’
I shouted above the din. ‘If that letter burns, they will execute us both and Lucy besides.’
‘We shall all be executed, anyway,’ Dowling grumbled, pulling me forwards.
I crouched down in an attempt to avoid the thickening swirl of choking, black smoke and wished I knew this building better. I knew the door to the Bishop’s residence nestled somewhere in the wall back up the nave, beyond the Little North Door. We ran as fast as we could, avoiding the slow-moving river of red metal trickling across the floor. The cathedral writhed in agony, the sound of its bones cracking echoing all around.
Dowling found the door to the Bishop’s residence. Great clouds of smothering smoke billowed from within when he opened the door. I staggered backwards and stopped where I stood. Dowling looked over his shoulder to find me, his face as black as Josselin’s. I willed my legs to move, but something within me cried out in fear.
‘It’s just the hall,’ Dowling cried out. ‘Beyond is clear.’
He grabbed my sleeve before I could protest and hauled me forwards, coughing and spluttering as loud as I. We emerged into an office, bookshelves lining the walls. Through streaming eyes, I saw an ancient chair and large desk, the back of the desk riddled with small drawers, each with its own handle. Papers protruded from the cracks. We pulled all the drawers open and spread the papers upon the desk, looking for the royal seal.
Dowling stood triumphant, letter held up high. ‘Here!’
I grabbed it from his hand and plunged it deep into my jacket pocket. Already the broken seal felt sticky, the room hot as an oven; the smell of burning leather filled my nostrils.
Back out in the nave I saw nothing but fire and smoke away to our left, back where we left Arlington and Josselin. The river of lead grew thicker now. A mighty piece of timber fell from above, flaming as it fell, followed by a great splash of molten metal. The stone pavement cracked and the floor beneath our feet shook and trembled. An almighty roar bellowed from the depths as the floor to our left fell in, revealing the crypt below. New flames soared high above our heads. The fire raged below, consuming the piles of books and cloth stored beneath. A wall of flame barred our passage out, towards the portico. Another beam of timber collapsed with a deafening shriek, and hurtled from high above, showering us with a deluge of sparks.
Dowling roared and pushed me into the fire. ‘Go, Harry.’
I stumbled and nearly fell, pushing forwards with my right leg just in time. I covered my face with my arms and braced myself to be burnt alive. Instead I rolled through the sheet of fire and out into the warm night air. Dowling staggered behind, waving his hands afore him with eyes closed, dancing on his tiptoes.
A huge explosion erupted from the top of the spire, sending giant chunks of masonry flying through the air. Bricks popped from the walls, as lead continued to drip down the side of the cathedral, shooting across the churchyard like grenades. The west gate stood open afore us, bent and crooked, twisting slowly in the heat of the burning houses. As we ran through the small gap I felt the hair wither on my head. We ran down Ludgate Hill, heading for the small black arch beneath the flaming building. I feared I heard thin wailing as we felt our way through a mist of black smoke, emerging out behind the City wall.
Thirty yards ahead down Fleet Street, behind Fleet Ditch, thick crowds blocked the road, a wall of faces glowing orange. In front of them two horses.
‘God’s mercy,’ called out the foremost rider, sitting confident upon a magnificent white charger. The King. He cantered over to where we stood, charred and smouldering, afore leaning down and regarding us with deep, brown eyes. ‘You left it late, good fellows.’ He sat up straight, threw a handful of silver upon the ground and waved a majestic hand in the air as if celebrating his own cleverness at somehow having elicited our escape. The crowd cheered while I picked up all the coins. We might need them.
While the King surveyed the scene before him, we slipped away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Since that first blazing Star was seen Easterly, and near Sun-rise, the Calamities attending seem to follow suddenly.
I sat in a corner of St Bride’s chewing on pie crust while Dowling went in search of a candle. I could barely keep my eyes open, I was so exhausted.
The church filled fast. I recognised many of the faces from St Paul’s. We couldn’t stay here all night, but I planned to take what opportunity I might. My eyes closed and I fell asleep.
Someone kicked the back of my calf. I awoke instantly, pushing myself up to see who assailed me. A small boy looked over his shoulder, scowling, struggling to keep his balance as his mother marched purposefully towards the choir.
‘Be calm,’ Dowling growled softly from behind.
He leant against the cool, stone wall, eyes half open. A candle sat upon the floor to his left, wick burnt halfway down.
I breathed deep in an attempt to cool the bile that simmered in my blood and sat up wide awake. I reached for the letter inside my jacket, terrified for a moment it might be gone.
Dowling reached for the candle. ‘No one has been near you, though I’ve been tempted.’
I pulled the parchment from my pocket. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
Dowling shuffled about so he could read over my shoulder. ‘You needed the sleep. Now unfold it.’
The royal seal appeared unnaturally large and bloody in the low light of the flame. I unfolded the letter carefully and noticed immediately the name at the bottom: ‘Charles R’.
‘God save us,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s written by the King.’
‘To the King of France,’ Dowling whispered, hoarse, almost poking a
hole in the parchment with his thick forefinger. ‘We should not be reading this.’
‘If we don’t read it we won’t know what to do,’ I said, my curiosity impossible to appease. Ne’ertheless, my heart pounded a heavy beat beneath my ribs.
‘Read it aloud,’ Dowling hissed into my ear. ‘I cannot make out the words in this poor light.’
I held the letter up close to my eyes. ‘Know ye that we would welcome entering into a personal friendship, and uniting our interests so for the future there may never be any jealousies between our great nations,’ I began.
‘A pact with France?’ Dowling exclaimed, too loud. ‘Impossible.’
I bid him hush before continuing. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea. History would imply that neither one of us might rule the seas alone, for both our nations are too proud and too strong to bow one to the other. As a consequence, we hath allowed others to establish an unnatural presence that serves neither of us well. May God will it that we settle our differences and come to an accord, so it becometh us to honour that obligation. Else God shall surely show his displeasure. Should you consider this testimony give you just cause, then might we enter into discussions of the most secret and confidential kind, for should others learn of the obligations that we shall discuss, it would surely prejudice the potential of our future union.’
‘Is that it?’ Dowling squinted at the text. ‘What of religion in this?’ he demanded. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea? Parliament would say otherwise. They would never sanction a Catholic union.’
Nor would they, as Charles knew well, for had his father not been executed for the very same crime? If Parliament was to find out he sought a union with Catholic France then he would surely be arrested. I scanned our surrounds to make sure none watched or listened, then read it through again slowly. There could be no doubting its content.
‘What was Arlington doing with this?’ I wondered.
Dowling huddled up too close. ‘Arlington has long been suspected to be a reluctant Protestant, the King besides.’
‘It’s a draft,’ I realised. ‘He gave it to Arlington so that Arlington might advise him on how best to proceed. They conspired.’
‘And Arlington gave it to Josselin by mistake,’ said Dowling wide-eyed. ‘The King will execute Arlington on the spot if he discovers his carelessness.’
I sat motionless, staring into the distance. This might be the King’s death warrant in my hands. What must Josselin have thought when he read this letter?
‘Now I understand,’ I whispered. ‘Arlington accused Josselin of sabotaging peace. In truth Josselin saw the only possibility for peace was to force Arlington’s treachery out into the open.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dowling growled.
‘Josselin was staunch Protestant,’ I replied, ‘but also a loyal subject. If he revealed the contents of the third letter, he knew he condemned the King to imprisonment. If he did not, then he condemned the Dutch to English and French betrayal. Holland could not survive the combined might of England and France. No wonder he fled to Shyam.’
Dowling clasped his hands together, his Scotch accent unusually thick. I had never seen him so panicked. ‘And what of us? Where shall we flee to?’
‘Think,’ I replied. ‘What did Josselin plan to do?’
‘He ran away to Shyam,’ said Dowling.
I tapped my finger upon my thigh. ‘So he did,’ I said. ‘But then he sought to meet with Arlington, and spoke also of talking to Clarendon. He wouldn’t meet Arlington without knowing the letter was safe. So he sought safety for himself on the basis of owning the letter.’
‘Which didn’t work,’ Dowling pointed out. ‘For Arlington was determined to kill him.’
‘Arlington must have been sure Josselin would not have shared the letter with anyone else,’ I concluded. ‘Why, though, did Josselin want to see Clarendon?’
‘Clarendon is not a reluctant Protestant,’ said Dowling with approving tone.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But he is loyal to the King, and is the greatest advocate for peace with the Dutch.’
I let the idea settle upon my weary brain.
‘We take the letter to Clarendon,’ said Dowling. ‘Clarendon is horrified and at first refuses to believe it can be true.’
‘But then he looks at the seal and the signature,’ I continued. ‘Reminds himself what a vile creature Arlington is, and realises the King has been plotting behind his back.’
‘So he shouts and screams, and throws things about Clarendon House,’ said Dowling, ‘and realises he must do something.’
‘Clarendon would never countenance a union with a Catholic state,’ I guessed. ‘He would hot-foot it to the palace and remonstrate in private with the King, persuading him the idea is wicked folly.’ I raised a brow. ‘Whereupon the King would be forced to agree, since he could not risk allowing anyone outside his immediate counsel to even suspect him of entertaining the thought.’
‘And what of us?’
What of us indeed? ‘We would be utterly dependent on Clarendon’s whim. If the King were to demand we be put to death, what motive would Clarendon have to argue?’ I pondered. ‘His own safety, perhaps? They say Charles cannot abide Clarendon, that he preys upon the royal nerves. Were Clarendon to tell him that two of his own men knew the secret and possessed the letter, then the King could not touch him.’
‘Which supposes Arlington did not tell the King about us afore he died,’ Dowling said.
‘If he has told the King, we have no defence at all,’ I pointed out. ‘Once he discovers Arlington is dead, he will send out his whole army to find us. But I doubt he told the King anything, for to do so he would have to confess to the King what he did with the letter.’
‘We should seek Clarendon’s help,’ Dowling concluded. ‘Either way, it is our only chance.’
‘And quickly,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Afore we are arrested.’
The roads about Fleet Street and Shoe Lane teemed thick, crowds hurrying somewhere or another with great intent. Soldiers pressed the fit and healthy into passing buckets from Fleet Ditch, forming a chain all the way to Ludgate. At the end of the chain an optimistic fellow threw the contents of every pail in the direction of the roaring fire, without discernible effect.
Some slipped surreptitiously between the shadows, preparing to flee, seeking wagons and horses to carry their possessions away, for fear the fire would escape the City walls. Those already dispossessed got in everyone else’s way, wandering aimlessly, silent and confused, else loudly bewailing their plight to all and sundry.
We hurried along The Strand towards Haymarket. By Charing Cross the crowds dissipated and I noticed we were not the only ones walking fast. Three men, wearing brown leather jerkins over their shirts, hurried behind.
‘Stop!’ one shouted. ‘Where are you going?’
We obliged, for they were too close to escape, and all were armed.
‘To St Giles’ Fields,’ I called. ‘I would know if my cousin is safe.’
‘You take a long route to St Giles’ Fields,’ one of them panted, pulling up alongside. ‘A shorter road to Clarendon House.’
‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘Do I look like the Earl of Clarendon?’
‘No,’ he smiled. ‘You do not. You look like the two fellows Lord Arlington wishes to talk to.’
‘Arlington?’ I felt my mouth go dry. ‘Lord Arlington is dead.’
The three men regarded each other with knowing expressions.
‘Not dead, friend,’ the leader replied. ‘Pan-fried and crispy, perhaps, but not dead.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tell us, Oh stranger, what Nation of Europe, or almost of the World, shall be in a peaceable condition within three years?
A boat and three more soldiers waited for us at the river. A crowd of angry citizens shouted and threw stones, desperate to cross to the south bank, for now the bridge was ina
ccessible.
The soldiers bundled us through the crowd, clearing a path without decorum, shoving and waving their swords. A tall man with wild eyes and red cheeks thrust his face towards us, and the soldier stabbed him just beneath the ribs. He stumbled forwards, grasping for my arm, just as I fell into the bottom of the skiff.
I lay there prone while the boat lurched out to the middle of the river. When I looked up, heavy-headed, I saw the whole terrible glory of it all. The entire City blazed, from west wall almost to the Tower, flames pushed left by the swirling gale. Plumes of poisonous smoke blanketed the sky, high as a man could see. Boats covered the water, small and large, many sinking dangerously deep into the river, overburdened with the possessions of those that fled.
I sat frozen, entranced by the sight of it, bewildered by the notion that Arlington could possibly still be alive. How else could he have escaped other than down Ludgate Hill? Yet flames engulfed the hill just minutes after we ran through the gate.
‘Have you seen Arlington yourself?’ I asked one of the soldiers.
He threw back his head and brayed like a donkey. ‘Aye, I saw him. Stood there smoking, shirt and his breeches still smouldering. An angrier man I have not seen in my life.’ He laughed again. ‘Angry with you, I’ll be bound.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘You will see him yourself, soon enough,’ the man replied, smile fading as we neared the Tower.
We rode the current fast through the starlings, past the bridge and out onto stiller waters the other side, before the boat lurched left for the Tower. More soldiers waited at Tower Wharf. As we neared the quay I thought of the Spanish donkey. Today would be the day I rode her, I wagered, unless God affected some unlikely intervention. I pictured Arlington piling up the weights in anticipation of our arrival. My bowels loosened, and I sought Dowling’s attention. He frowned so hard I could barely see his eyes.
They dragged us through the Tower Gate and out along the high-walled passage leading to the ruins of the Develin Tower. As we climbed the stone stairs I listened acutely for any sound from above, but all was quiet. What was God thinking, I thought, to save Arlington of all people?
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