Fire Catcher (12 page)

Chapter 30

Charlie moved past the barrels in the centre of the cellar. Lily was standing by a wide stone hearth peppered in burn marks. A collection of dusty rings on the floor suggested a number of flasks had been cleared out.

The glow of Lily’s tinderbox was in no way reassuring. Dark corners loomed. Weak lines of sunlight shone down from the tavern floorboards above.

Not quite regular
, thought Charlie, noticing a broken pattern in the lines of light. There were marks too, on the far wall. Four points where a cross might have hung.

‘What do you make of this?’ asked Lily, prodding at the stone hearth. ‘Alchemy?’

Charlie switched his attention to the hearth. It looked to him like an alchemical set-up. Colourful burns pock-marked the stone. A crucible for heating metal was lain on its side. But there was another smell on the air besides chemicals. Incense.

‘Maybe alchemy,’ he said. ‘But I think this place is a secret church.’

Lily turned to him, raising her tinderbox. Charlie was pointing to a pitted area of ground.

‘I can smell incense on the air,’ he said. ‘And see there.’

She raised the flame.

‘Four points where a cross was nailed,’ he said. ‘And the ground is more worn here as though a body of people shuffled. Less at the back where the priest stood. Incense smoke marks on the ceiling.’

‘Then what of that?’ asked Lily, waving her tinderbox towards the hearth.

Charlie approached it and saw symbols carved carefully into the stone.

There were circles arranged in a pattern. But they didn’t have the look of witchcraft. The arrangement looked older somehow. It was surrounded by crystallised marks.

‘Runes?’ suggested Charlie, running his hand over them. Each circle had a strange symbol in the centre of it.

Lily shook her head. ‘The circles mark the Tree of Life,’ she said. ‘I recognise it. Gypsies sometimes use it,’ she added. ‘With tarot cards.’

‘You think they were telling fortunes here?’ asked Charlie. It seemed unlikely. Fortune-tellers in London clustered by the Sign of the Merlin’s Head and conned silly maids out of pennies.

‘Tarot is about contemplation.’ Her hands plotted the circles. ‘This is Kaballah. The soul’s path. It’s an ancient way of understanding God.’

Charlie studied it.

‘A sect then?’ he said uncertainly. ‘A mystic sect?’ Sects were common in London since Cromwell. Mystics believed God could be experienced with no church or priest.

Charlie was looking back at where he imagined the altar to be.

‘They experimented with fire,’ observed Lily, touching the scorched hearth with her toe.

Charlie’s gaze switched to the stout barrels in the centre of the cellar. He moved to investigate.

‘Bring the flame over here,’ he called.

The barrels flared into soft light. Charlie took out his eating knife and levered off a lid. Inside was a dark black powder with a very familiar smell.

‘Gunpowder,’ he said, leaning closer to confirm the odour.

He waved Lily back with her flame and resealed the lid.

Charlie shook away the feeling that sorcery was afoot. It was time to view things practically.

‘Gunpowder,’ he said. ‘In a secret church or sect. So perhaps Torr plotted. There was a struggle down here,’ he continued, approaching the upended table. ‘And the bottom rung of the ladder is broken. Something removed by force. Or someone.’

He dropped to his haunches, considering.

The circles on the hearth. Incense. Alchemy.

Charlie moved back to the alchemy hearth, certain there was more to be gleaned from it. Then he stopped short, listening.

‘What is it?’ asked Lily.

‘Shhh,’ he held up a hand. There was that noise again. Like tense breathing. ‘You hear that?’

Lily listened. ‘I hear the wind,’ she said. ‘The gale is up.’

‘That’s not it.’ Charlie turned back to Lily. ‘Something’s not right.’

Charlie scanned the dark cellar. The floor was packed earth. The walls damp-slicked brick. His eyes looked up to the ceiling seeking out the anomaly he’d noticed earlier. The pattern of light was wrong. Straight line, straight line. Then an interruption. As though something were blocking the light.

Charlie walked to the central point of the cellar. His hands began gently probing the beams. Dust and cobwebs dropped free.

Lily moved towards him with the tinderbox but Charlie had stopped. His fingers were working something free.

‘You’ve found something?’ Lily’s flame lurched in surprise. ‘A book?’

‘I think it’s a register,’ said Charlie, pulling it down. ‘Not well hidden,’ he added with a sense of growing unease. ‘Not well hidden enough.’

He opened it and a clutch of papers fluttered free. Lily stooped and picked one up.

‘Empty marriage certificates,’ she said. ‘For Fleet Weddings. This must be how Torr was making his money. A few pence for sailors and silly women to marry.’

Charlie was staring at the certificates.

‘I’ve seen a marriage paper like that before,’ he said. ‘It’s the same as my mother hid.’

Charlie eased open the large book to reveal a list of names in crabbed text.

‘So Mr Torr was a minister,’ he said slowly. ‘The same minister who performed Blackstone’s marriage.’

Chapter 31

A bathtub had been placed in the centre of Barbara’s sumptuous chambers. The steaming water swirled with rose petals. She lay back, letting her long auburn hair eddy and drift.

There was a knock at the door and Barbara sat up in her bath.

‘Come,’ she called.

Monmouth strode self-importantly into the room. He was dressed like a gaudy clone of the King, in a slash-sleeved brown
velvet coat, short hose and white stockings. Silver brocade, flouncing ribbons, frothy lace and jewelled buttons decorated every available edge and opening
.

He was so preoccupied with making an imposing entrance that he was halfway through a courtly bow when he noticed Barbara was naked. He stopped short, mouth working comically.

Barbara’s smile grew wide.

‘Monmouth,’ she said. ‘Don’t be bashful. Come closer.’

‘You summoned me?’ Caught by the arresting sight of Barbara, Monmouth’s tone didn’t achieve the disdain he was hoping for.

Barbara let out a throaty laugh. ‘I should like to get to know you better.’

‘I do not recognise your authority,’ began Monmouth, his eyes swinging wildly for a suitable resting place, ‘to request my presence. I am the first son of a King. You . . .’

In reply Barbara stood. Warm water cascaded down her naked body. Monmouth began blinking rapidly.

‘We all know what I am,’ smiled Barbara, her eyes alive in their depths. ‘And why should you recognise me?’ she added, stepping gracefully from the bath and sashaying to where he stood. ‘I am nothing to the King’s eldest son.’

Monmouth flushed. His eyes lighted briefly on a filigree desk, flicked down to the thick rug and back to the cherub cornicing.

Barbara’s smile grew wide.

‘Don’t be bashful,’ she said. ‘I do not mind you looking. You are a grown man now. Fifteen and married. I imagine you often look on your wife’s naked body.’

She eyed him carefully. ‘Perhaps not so often,’ she concluded.

Monmouth opened his mouth to reply, but she took his face in her hands.

‘Let me look at you,’ said Barbara. Monmouth had inherited Lucy Walter’s long-lashed dark eyes and pouting mouth, giving his face a girlish quality.

‘Such a handsome boy,’ decided Barbara, lifting his chin gently. ‘You have a lot of your mother in you. Those pretty dark eyes.’ Her face flickered.

‘They say I have my father’s countenance,’ said Monmouth, entranced by the touch of her fingers.

Barbara smiled. ‘Oh, courtiers will say things to flatter.’ She assessed him again. ‘Perhaps a little curve on the nose,’ she decided. ‘And of course you wear your hair like Charles.’ Her hand caressed his curling brown locks.

He picked at the pearl detailing of his slashed sleeves, then began toying with his silver buttons.

Barbara smiled. ‘The human form is a thing of beauty. You have seen my portrait in the King’s rooms?’

Monmouth let out a breath. ‘Yes.’ He was looking determinedly at her face now. She was gleaming with sweat from the warmth of the bath and her auburn curls were damp.

‘Well then,’ she leaned in to whisper at his ear. ‘You have already seen all of me.’

Monmouth swallowed.

‘You must tell me which you like best,’ she added, her violet eyes sultry. ‘My body in the portrait or that in the flesh.’

Monmouth allowed himself a glance along her body. She was perfect. The little curve of her white belly. The soft pink hue of her nipples.

‘The flesh,’ he admitted.

‘Such a handsome boy you are.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder. Then locking her gaze to his, she moved her hand down slowly.

‘But you are quite the grown man now,’ she observed.

‘Yes.’ Monmouth attempted to deepen his tone.

Barbara smiled and walked across the room to her couch.

‘Come and sit with me,’ she invited. ‘We’ll have some wine.’

Monmouth’s legs moved of their own accord to the sofa. He sat beside her rearranging his crotch embarrassedly.

She poured him a glass of red wine and he took it clumsily and gulped.

‘Slowly,’ she instructed. ‘Savour it.’

He slowed his gulps to reflexive sips.

‘They say you are trying to have my title taken,’ he said, wrestling to take control of the situation.

Barbara laid a warm hand on his thigh. Reason fled.

‘Why should I do that?’ she asked, circling her fingers. ‘Are we not friends, you and I?’

‘I . . .’ the rush of warmth to his body had hit his brain like a warm fog. ‘That is . . . what they say,’ he managed.

‘I see.’ Barbara sat back. ‘Do you know what else they say about me?’

‘No.’ Monmouth gulped more wine.

She leaned in. ‘They say that after four children, I am tighter.’

Monmouth froze, the wine goblet halfway to his mouth. His lips were moving slightly, trying to fit what he thought he’d just heard with reality.

‘See for yourself,’ Barbara suggested. She relaxed back again, letting her legs fall apart.

Monmouth’s eyes swam. His lips parted slightly. He was floating in a dreamlike haze of lust. Barbara Castlemaine’s naked legs were parted. She smiled seductively.

‘Do you think they’re right?’ she asked, moving a hand to caress her thigh. ‘Children haven’t changed me?’

Monmouth nodded mutely.

‘So tell me,’ Barbara continued silkily. ‘Who says I try to disinherit you?’

‘Clarence,’ he mumbled, the wine beginning to work on him now. ‘And he says you’ve turned Catholic.’

Barbara’s violet eyes flashed. She sat up a little straighter, letting the gap between her legs close.

‘Religion has fallen apart since Cromwell,’ she said airily. ‘Charles and I were in Holland, we saw it all. Enlightenment. Mysticism.’ She gave a little cough of disdain.

‘Men in cloaks telling fools they may experience God.’

‘I thought mystic sects taught ancient secrets,’ said Monmouth, curiosity piquing his young voice.

‘They make death rituals,’ said Barbara, ‘so a man might have holy visions without priest or church. I hope you have no interest in anything of that kind,’ she added sharply. ‘What would Lucy Walter say? England’s prettiest little liar.’

Monmouth flinched at the mention of his mother’s nickname, but didn’t defend her. Loyalty to his mother had been defeated by his acute embarrassment of her.

‘She says I should stay away from heretics.’

Barbara nodded.

‘Your mother is right.’

She thought for a moment. Her bare legs drew apart a little again.

‘Should you like to play a game?’ she said.

‘Yes.’ Monmouth drank more wine. ‘Though I am not so good at cards.’

She laughed. ‘It is not cards we play at.’

An uncertain blush rose in his face.

‘Take off your clothes,’ she said silkily. ‘I think we should get better acquainted, you and I.’

‘My father . . .’ began Monmouth.

‘Oh, do not be so silly,’ clucked Barbara. ‘Your father and I . . . Well you have heard what we do. He takes his lovers where he chooses and so do I.’

‘But he . . .’

She raised a finger to his lips.

‘Charles will be pleased,’ she said. ‘His eldest son must be properly educated in such things. Such a noble boy cannot be left to the fumblings of a whore or servant.’

She lowered her eyes at him.

‘You haven’t yet? With your wife . . . ?’ She left the question hanging.

‘Of course I have!’ said Monmouth.

‘I don’t speak of your enjoyment,’ said Barbara. ‘I talk of hers.’

‘I . . . There have been many times,’ blurted Monmouth. ‘I can hardly count them.’

‘That is an unappealing quality,’ said Barbara sharply. ‘To lie. Be careful you don’t take after your mother. People have already begun to speak of your untruths.’

Monmouth blushed red.

‘I council for your own good,’ said Barbara. ‘Lucy is famed for her tall tales. Courtly people begin to speak of your exaggerations.’

She assessed his face.

‘You are an ambitious boy,’ she said. ‘I imagine you tried with your wife. But you did not win her. I can always tell.’ She slid a finger under his chin and raised his gaze to hers.

‘I can teach you things you can hardly imagine,’ she whispered, her fingers working to loosen his shirt. ‘Things your wife will beg for. Tricks which will make you irresistible to women.’

A deep blush was spreading up Monmouth’s neck, but he didn’t stop her.

‘If you think of it,’ observed Barbara as Monmouth’s youthful chest was revealed by inches, ‘I could be like a mother to you.’

Monmouth began to unbutton and Barbara’s hands moved to help him.

‘You poor boy,’ she crooned, stroking the side of his face. ‘Your own mother deserted you. I know it all.’

‘But my relationship with your father . . .’ she said, letting his shirt fall to the floor. ‘Means I can be a very loving mother to you.’

She moved his hand to her naked breast and planted a gentle kiss on his lips. ‘Should you like that?’ she whispered, keeping her face close to his.

Monmouth hesitated.

‘Shall we play it, that I am the mother and you the son. And you shall sit in my lap whilst I play with you?’ she suggested.

Monmouth said nothing but his body was betraying him.

‘Come sit,’ she said. ‘We’ll play. I will teach you to always listen to your mother.’