Fire Catcher (15 page)

Chapter 38

Clarence’s fat little legs propelled him down the muddy slope.

‘Why is the barge readied?’ he said. ‘There was no order . . .’

Barbara Castlemaine slid from behind the nearest boatman.

‘I gave the order,’ she said. ‘Monmouth was indisposed.’

Clarence drew himself up to his full height. Though even by that stretch Barbara was a clear head taller.

‘You have no authority,’ he said smugly. ‘The Royal Barge is under Parliament’s purse. We must have clear writing from the Keeper of the Barge.’ Clarence permitted himself a little chuckle. ‘From what I hear,’ he added, ‘Monmouth has no great love for you, Lady Castlemaine.’

‘Young men are changeable in their affections,’ said Barbara. She took out a roll of paper and tapped Clarence with it. ‘See for yourself.’

Clarence unrolled it to see Monmouth’s signature and seal. His lips tightened into a thin angry line.

‘I thought you said Monmouth was indisposed,’ he managed.

‘Oh, he is,’ said Barbara. ‘Too much strong wine. You know how young boys are. Monmouth and I are better friends nowadays.’ She winked at Clarence, put a slim finger in her mouth and sucked it suggestively.

Clarence fought to keep the shock from his features. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t have.

‘I hear you’ve been meeting with Louise,’ said Barbara with an affected yawn. ‘But you have a lot to learn about ruthlessness. Ah. Here’s Amesbury. He can school you in that art.’

She smiled widely as Amesbury’s thick boots tramped through the mud of the Royal Wharf. He wore thick leather boots to mid-thigh, and a heavy military cloak. He looked as out of place as was possible before the decorated barge.

‘Lady Castlemaine sent for me,’ said Amesbury, at the unasked question on Clarence’s face. ‘You seem to have forgotten I’m to be present in military matters.’

‘This is hardly a military matter,’ hissed Clarence, glancing at Barbara and then Amesbury in fury at the ambush. ‘A little fire is all.’

‘Lady Castlemaine,’ Amesbury bowed, ignoring Clarence. ‘You’ve prepared us a feast for the eyes.’ He regarded the Royal Barge with its huge swags of red and gold velvet. ‘Striped tulips,’ he added, looking at the deep floral displays on deck. ‘Very rare I’m told.’

‘You can’t keep the disapproval from your voice,’ laughed Barbara. ‘But you are cleverer than Clarence for trying to hide it. Yes, the tulips are rare. And very expensive. As was the velvet. I’ve also ordered the finest French wines, dressed sides of meat, poached fish and hot-house fruits. Oh, and ice to keep us all cool. From the icehouse which Clarence spoke against in Parliament.’

She gave a beatific smile.

‘I think it so important that His Majesty is seen to be King,’ she said. ‘That is what the people want from their monarch. Majesty and fine things.’

Amesbury said nothing.

‘Where is the fire now?’ asked Barbara. ‘Oh, not you,’ she added as Clarence opened his mouth to speak. ‘I can’t trust a word
you
say. What intelligence do you have, Amesbury?’

‘The King comes,’ said Amesbury. He nodded in the direction of the Palace. ‘Better you don’t hear it before him.’

Barbara’s eyes flickered. She gave a slight smile, adjusting the low-cut shoulders of her dress.

‘See how well he looks,’ she said approvingly as the King approached.

Charles was attired valiantly with a silver-handled sword attached by a slash of shining leather across his chest. His enormous curling wig was topped with a rakish wide-brimmed hat.

‘Like a dashing highwayman and a romantic cavalier all at once,’ said Barbara.

‘Better you’d dressed His Majesty as an English King,’ observed Amesbury. ‘Rather than a Frenchie one. If you seek the love of the people.’

‘This is fashion,’ said Barbara. She eyed Amesbury’s boiled-leather coat. ‘I could hardly expect you to understand.’

Chapter 39

Charing Cross steps were in chaos when Lily and Charlie arrived. The wide, muddy steps down to the river were thick with frightened people loading goods.

‘It looks as though Bedlam has emptied on to the river,’ observed Lily, looking at the turgid river. ‘There’s no boats to be had.’ She pointed to a group of desperate people hurling their belongings into the Thames. ‘Those folk hope their possessions will float down river and might be fished out later.’

Charlie was looking up to where smoke was blotting out the sun.

‘It’s midday,’ he muttered, ‘the sky looks dark as dusk.’

Wind blowing from the water was so strong that the women were fighting to keep their skirts down, and Lily was nearly blown off her feet as a gust swept her petticoats high over her head and then buffeted them back around her legs like a disapproving mother.

‘Seven magpies,’ said Lily, counting a line which had settled near the riverbank. ‘Seven for a secret never to be told.’ She added glancing at Charlie. ‘A bad omen.’

‘Or,’ said Charlie, ‘it signifies that the Hatton Garden berry bushes are full of refugees fleeing fire. I don’t believe in omens,’ he added.

At the water steps the burning city smell was intermingled with roasting meat. Butchers from Smithfield were griddling chops which would be spoiled before the markets reopened. Hungry Londoners were queuing to buy them at half price.

‘People bury their goods,’ Lilt observed as two sweating men worked with shovels to dig a pit.

‘Every boat, cart or wagon for twenty miles is used,’ explained a woman with a wide basket of fish on her head. ‘Only the rich can afford it.’

She tilted her basket hopefully towards them, but Charlie shook his head.

‘How far is the fire along the river?’ asked Charlie.

‘They stopped it at London Bridge,’ said the woman. ‘Firebreaks. But it raged all along Cheapside. They try and hold it back at the Fleet. But it goes north to Lothbury and the Stock Exchange makes a bonfire tall enough to carry sparks all over the city. Now they fear the London Stone. And everyone knows what happens if the stone cracks.’

Lily looked to Charlie.

‘The city will fall,’ he said. ‘It’s an old legend. The Stone was put there by the Romans to protect London.’

Lily raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in omens.’

Charlie looked at the river steps jammed with frantic refugees loading hastily bound goods from boats. ‘How many houses do they say?’ he asked.

‘Three hundred and more besides,’ said the fish-wife, resettling her basket and looking past them for possible customers. ‘And still it burns bad. All of Fish Street and Cannon Street are burned, and it makes its way along Thames Street like a great rampaging monster with this fierce wind behind it. You’ll not get a boat unless you’ve gold,’ she added, glancing to the water. ‘This last half hour the people turn frantic.’

‘It’s hopeless,’ said Lily, staring out on to the crowded river. ‘Those boatmen are only taking people with huge purses of money.’

They watched as a scuffle broke out between two families surrounded by household goods.

Charlie assessed the steps. Bickering Londoners surged and elbowed. He estimated over a hundred people fought for ten boats.

Charlie looked along the riverfront.

‘Ferries are all taken,’ he muttered, ‘but there’s another docking area for commercial boats.’

Lily watched a handful of sweating men heaving wine, animal skins and lengths of timber at speed across the wharf.

‘We don’t need a row boat,’ Charlie decided. ‘We can stow on a lighter-craft. The kind shunted by a pole,’ he added, pointing to the flat-bottomed boats.

‘The wine lighter is too valuable to risk passengers,’ he said. ‘And the timber is too heavy. But the animal skins . . .’ He watched as heavy bales of furs and leathers were tossed on to the deck. ‘There would be enough room for a few passengers.’

‘The lighters won’t take commoners,’ said Lily, eyeing the gold crest on each boat. ‘Only guild merchants or nobles.’

Charlie was looking thoughtfully at the gold embroidery on Lily’s red silk dress.

‘You should have learned to wear shoes,’ Lily was saying. ‘Your coat is fashionable cut. Wide cuffs, flared at the bottom.’ She mimed the shape. ‘It covers your cheap shirt so we need only borrow a pair of stockings.’

‘My legs are too thin,’ said Charlie. ‘And bare feet are useful.’

‘What possible use . . .’

‘You don’t look noble either,’ interrupted Charlie. ‘But a mistress of a noble. Perhaps.’

His eyes were roaming the crowd. They settled on a wealthy man in a blue doublet. A lord or a duke, Charlie thought. He was holding up a weighty purse, pushing past a slew of poorer people.

‘Something might be done for passage,’ Charlie decided, watching two harassed-looking servants follow the lord with a chest and several bundles. ‘Could you distract that lord? Work a deceit on him?’

Lily’s eyebrows arched.

‘I forgot,’ said Charlie mockingly. ‘You are London’s best trickster.’

She nodded, a faint smile on her lips.

‘You truly think you could convince that lighterman to take us?’ she asked.

Lily looked at the scrum of people waving coins at the boats and again at the lighters.

Charlie was looking at the riverbank, where old barrel hoops and broken cart parts lay caked in dried mud.

Charlie’s eyes moved back to Lily.

‘That depends,’ he said.

‘On?’

‘How clean are your underclothes?’

Lily’s eyes widened.

‘Clean,’ she managed, ‘and too expensive for your concern.’

‘Good,’ said Charlie. ‘You need to take them off.’

Chapter 40

Blackstone eyed the woman.

In the darkness of the street, she had seemed to look very much like Teresa. She had long blonde hair, like his wife on their wedding day. But in his candlelit cellar she looked more like what she was. An ageing whore with a cheap wig and cork cheek-plumpers to pad out her sunken face.

‘What is thish?’ asked the woman, manoeuvring the cork balls in her mouth with difficulty. ‘Witchcraft?’

There was a hint of terror in her laboured consonants.

Blackstone followed the direction of her gaze. He supposed Teresa’s cellar did look intimidating to the initiated. The dank room was filled from floor to ceiling with her talismans. Corn dollies. Sheaves of ash and elm steeped in rank water. Bloody ribbons and tattered feathers.

‘Put this on,’ he said, handing her a crown of leaves in reply.

The woman took it and settled it over her rats-tail wig. She seemed relieved at having a more obvious role.

Her eyes ranged for somewhere to sit. She looked at Blackstone, trying to assess him. His huge body was well dressed in black, with a cavalier’s hat and sturdy boots. Something simple, she decided, was what military men usually wanted.

‘Should you like me to play a harvest maid?’ she suggested. ‘Or a fairy queen?’

Blackstone removed his hat. Her eyes widened at the shiny rash of scarred sores between clumps of black hair.

‘Speak only when I tell you,’ said Blackstone. He began removing his large leather gauntlets. The woman shut her mouth. Fear animated her features.

Blackstone took her in. The dark crown. The green dress. A horrible memory of his first woman tunnelled up. The cloying perfumed flesh. Hot and sickly, like overripe fruit. The rotten-sugar taste of the sin rose up in his throat like bile.

‘Women need a stern hand,’ said Blackstone, taking her in with distaste. ‘Or they fall to sin and drag men with them.’

He was remembering his gentle sister. The measures his father had been forced to take to keep her obedient. His sister was a good, pure Catholic. This Protestant whore symbolised everything that was wrong with England.

‘As a boy I was haunted by the idea of sinful women,’ Blackstone added. ‘The disgusting things they let men do to them. My own strange compulsion to rut with them. I’ve mastered such thoughts now.’

He approached a shadowed part of the cellar and threw off a cover. A harsh squawking sound echoed forth. The woman started. He had a bird in a cage. A raven, she thought, by the noise it was making.

‘Get up,’ said Blackstone. The woman rose uncertainly. More and more things were tugging at her instincts now. She desperately wanted to leave.

Blackstone closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar smell of Teresa’s room. Something inside of him twitched to life.

‘Lie there.’ He pointed to the damp ground. The woman moved forward. This was more familiar territory. She arranged herself, prostrate with her skirts over her head.

‘Not there,’ came his voice. ‘There.’

She drew her skirts down in confusion. He was pointing a little to the side of where she lay. And then she saw it. Some sort of . . . circle had been made. Candles and dead things. Her blood turned icy. He was a witch. She sat up.

‘I’ll not be part of a spell,’ she managed. ‘’Tis a burning crime.’

Blackstone looked down. Then suddenly he was on her.

‘You dare?’ he whispered. ‘Defy me? With your withered body and scabbed soul. Do you think you’re worth
anything
compared to her?’

The woman was looking around the cellar in terror. She couldn’t understand who he was speaking about. But she knew her mistake now. He was a madman. From experience it was better not to fight. Let him do what he wanted and get out.

She lay back, shaking, and drew up her skirts again.

Blackstone’s eyes widened.

‘You think I want you for that?’ he was laughing. A chill, dead sound.

‘What then?’ she managed.

‘You,’ said Blackstone, ‘will return my wife to me.’

He was looking around the cellar now.

‘Her poppets,’ decided Blackstone. ‘She cannot return without her poppets.’

He turned away and seemed to vanish in the darkness. There was a scraping sound and then he eased free a large preserving jar. Blackstone placed it gently on the ground and then brought out another.

‘There,’ he said, after a third was brought. ‘Your poppets.’

The woman had backed as far as she could away from the glass jars. One of her cork cheek-plumpers had made it to the front of her mouth and it fell to the ground soundlessly. She didn’t attempt to retrieve it.

Floating in the jars . . . Women burned such things.