Fire Catcher (40 page)

Chapter 128

Blackstone was taking in the vaulted ceilings.

Cromwell had used this holy place as stables. He had no respect for godly grandeur.

Blackstone gave a cold smile. ‘But then again,’ he muttered to himself, ‘neither does fire.’

He was looking at the mounds of possessions. Valuables and domestic goods lay in disordered piles. Ahead was a wide set of stone steps leading to the roof.

Blackstone began heaving the great barrel up.

Teresa was in her circle. Gunpowder had been laid around her. As her soul was cleansed, London’s holiest building would be shaken to its foundations.

A fitting sacrifice.

Blackstone paused. He could see the door to the rooftop now. His boys were in place at the Carpenters’ Guild. When Blackstone signalled with blue fire, the Tower could not be defended.

His skin prickled in the dry air. Fire came.

Blackstone thought of Teresa on her holy pyre. All her worldly goods around her. Her cursed wedding trunk. The black dress she’d worn for the ceremony.

His thoughts went to his long-dead sister. Then to the day he’d found Teresa dead, her own knife deep in her belly. The images seemed to flash over one another.

Teresa with the knife. His sister. Blood.

I killed your sister.

He’d never blamed Teresa. Blackstone had secured her dowry for the Sealed Knot. But it was her he’d wanted.

Blessed blood.

That’s what Blackstone’s father had said of his bride, before the soldiers came.

Teresa had blessed blood.

She wasn’t royal, or highborn. She was far more special than that. They’d made the ultimate marriage. Blackstone still remembered their wedding night. The revulsion on Teresa’s face as she’d regarded his large body.

If you must do it, husband, I will bear it.

Thoughts were coming thick and fast now. Teresa, burning on a wheel in hell. Blackstone began pushing the barrel again, mapping through his strategy.

First, send the signal. The Carpenters’ Guild would burn and the Tower would be impossible to defend. Then he would descend to Teresa. Once he’d lit the gunpowder, London’s greatest landmark would be obliterated. His wife would be cleansed as the traitor King lost his Kingdom.

All sin would be purged.

Blackstone was nearly on the roof now. The end of his great plan was in sight.

Chapter 129

Charlie and Lily were running across the hot soot of Foster Lane. Above them thunder swirled.

They made it on to Watling Street which stood eerily empty, lead-windowed fabric shops cleared of stock.

Charlie looked up at the sky. It was deep night-time. But fire lit the city bright as day.

The towering edifice of St Paul’s was in view now and he stopped short. The cross-shaped building was enormous. It sprawled into its own quarter of the old city, big as a village. Smoke wreathed its endless grey rooftops like clouds.

‘We have it wrong,’ Charlie said, looking up at the huge structure. ‘Blackstone doesn’t make his signal here.’ He looked at Lily. ‘He couldn’t make a flame large enough. It would be hidden in all the smoke.’

‘Then Blackstone has misjudged it?’ suggested Lily. ‘He did not expect the fire to be so great?’

Charlie shook his head. Nothing he knew of Blackstone suggested a man who planned poorly. 

‘We have the place wrong,’ he said, frowning. ‘Blackstone plans to signal from somewhere else.’ Charlie shook his head. ‘Highest and most holy. I was so sure . . . Unless . . .’

Something occurred to him.

‘Wait,’ he said, ‘we have it right. This is where he will make his signal.’

‘But how?’ said Lily. ‘If you say he can’t make a flame big enough.’

‘The roof,’ said Charlie. ‘The roof is lead. All Blackstone need do is pour his lye down the tiles. The Cathedral will flame like a blue torch.’

Charlie was certain now. St Paul’s fit so exactly with what he knew of Blackstone. A grand gesture to take revenge.

Red clouds eddied above them. There was a long rumble of thunder.

A warren of backstreets led to St Paul’s, but each route held different perils.

Paternoster Row was the stationers’ street; dry books and paper. The alleys could trap them in smoke and flame. And the merchant streets were lined with cellars that could collapse. Not to mention gunpowder and muskets to deter robbers.

‘Back alleys are safest,’ said Charlie, deciding fire was more predictable than gunpowder.

An explosion sounded behind them. Lightning had struck deep in the back alleys. Wind billowed through setting the close wood houses alight.

‘Fine merchants then,’ said Charlie.

He looked to the blaze of alleys behind them and to the gunpowder basements ahead. Something was wrong with the airflow. He turned to Lily.

‘Run,’ he said.

They raced at full pelt along Watling Street. Ahead of them a flame exploded from a merchant’s window in a tinkering of glass. Then it vanished down into the belly of the furthest building.

Within seconds they heard the first basement fire. The ground beneath their feet shuddered and then the shop to the side of them exploded. Lily lurched as cobblestones vanished beneath her feet. Charlie pulled her away as a cloud of burned coffee fumes puffed up.

From the direction of Paternoster Row a wave of fire surged forth. The wattle-and-daub homes of Friday Street had ignited. Behind them a wall of heat shimmered and then charged out, sucking up the draft of ventilation greedily and flinging it out as a white-hot force.

A cellar ahead of them detonated in a spray of burning lavender oil.

‘This way!’ Charlie zigzagged away from the collapsing ground and Lily followed close behind. They pelted over cobblestones.

‘It’s the firestorm,’ panted Charlie. He swung, trying to predict where the next blast would come from. Up ahead Carter Lane seemed to ripple. Then the corn dollies hanging from the eaves of shops burst into flame.

‘Back,’ said Charlie, flinging out an arm to protect Lily. The half-timbered shops shook off a scattering of plaster, then combusted before their eyes.

There was only one way to St Paul’s now.

Charlie wheeled towards Lud Gate Hill. He smelled it before he saw it. The scorching aroma of lead smelting. Then he saw it. A river of melted lead was pouring down the narrow street.

Lily raised her eyes in horror.

‘Holy Jesus!’ she said. ‘St Paul’s!’

The building was on fire. The towering east wall was rolling in dripping lead. It cascaded down the side of the building, splashing on to the cobbles below.

Charlie pointed.

‘The lead roof,’ he panted. ‘It’s melting in the heat.’

A waterfall of grey metal was cascading from St Paul’s. People below were trying to escape as hot lead splashed and scalded. A man looting a shop turned too late. Lead burned his legs and he fell. Fiery molten metal rolled over him as he screamed and flailed.

Charlie’s gaze swung wildly.

On the ground the lead was forming a fast-moving torrent. It spilled down Lud Gate Hill and poured through the narrow backstreets. People were screaming and running, caught in the unexpected surge. The streets glowed fiery red.

Charlie and Lily were trapped between flaming streets and scalding lead.

There was a flash of lightning and Charlie caught the shape of a bulky figure high on St Paul’s.

Blackstone.

‘He’s on the cathedral roof,’ gasped Lily.

‘We must hurry,’ said Charlie.

Chapter 130

The King raised and fixed, raised and fixed. The sky was dark but the city was bright heat. His muscles ached. Next to him the troops were visibly flagging. They knew the truth. The fight was impossible.

The last floor of the building was rent to timber. They paused for a moment, exhausted. Flames leered down at them from the city beyond.

‘Your Majesty,’ gasped one of the troops, ‘the men are tired. We cannot beat it.’ He was shouting over the deafening roar of the fire.

The King clasped his blistered hands to the firehook. ‘Temple Bar is where Westminster Parish begins,’ he said. ‘We cannot let fire cross. Raise!’ he shouted, ‘fix!’

Reluctantly the men shuffled to take their posts. They all knew it was hopeless. Lawyers had begun streaming forth from Temple Bar. The legal heart of London had fallen foul of its own expertise. No lawyer would pull another’s property without official documentation. Now their precious gold and papers burned.

The Duke of York arrived by Charles’s side. Behind him came a small troop of men carrying a single extra firehook.

‘Where are the other firehooks, James?’ asked Charles, his gaze fixed up to the wavering pole in his own hands.

‘Lost, broken.’ James coughed against the thick smoke. ‘What does it matter in any case?’

‘We fight to the end,’ said Charles. ‘Bring this bank of buildings down. We can still do some good.’

‘Raise and fix!’ called James. His men began swinging the pole into place.

‘How goes the fire to the north?’ shouted Charles.

‘Regrouped west in Cloak’s Lane and cut us off,’ admitted James. ‘We had to run. Jonathan’s Coffee House blew behind us,’ he added.

‘One good thing,’ said Charles heaving back. ‘I always hated those coffee shops.’

The building shrieked against the firehook and unexpectedly gave way. Charles and the other men were propelled back. Huge timbers and joists tumbled towards them. James grasped his brother and pulled him out of the way. A soldier shouted in pain. They looked to see a beam had passed clean through his arm.

‘Get that man to a surgeon,’ shouted Charles.

James shook his head. ‘He won’t make it an hour.’

‘Your Majesty!’ A shout came from the troops and Charles turned, expecting to see more injury. Instead one of his soldiers was pointing. Charles followed the direction of his finger.

Water was bubbling up from the ground. From where the underground elm-pipes had been breached.

‘I don’t believe it!’ said Charles. He turned triumphantly to James. ‘I knew this fire would be the making of Monmouth. That water comes from the Fleet! My son blew the blockage. High tide will help us. The west pipes flow again!’

James was wondering at the truth of Monmouth’s bravery. He would have words with Monmouth later. If there was still a Kingdom to defend.

They watched as water erupted in several more little spurting spots. Fire spat and retreated from the wet ground.

‘Set to!’ bellowed Charles. ‘Get this water on the blaze!’

The exhausted men surged forward. It was the first good omen they’d had since the fire started. They dug in, hurling water and angling the firehooks.

‘We can pull here now!’ said Charles, pointing to a building they’d left standing, for fear of it fuelling fire on the dry ground. ‘It will fall in the water.’

Charles gripped with blistered fingers and pulled back on one of the higher storeys. It fell sizzling on to the wet ground.

The partially demolished building afforded an unexpected view. Charles’s men drew back, wonder glowing on their tired faces.

There, like an earthly paradise, was the yellowed grass of Lincoln Fields.

‘Get to the firehook!’ shouted Charles. ‘If we can topple this building we might stand a chance yet.’

Chapter 131

Charlie looked up to the nearest building. It was half-timbered with black beams. Hot lead was running fast towards them.

He looked up. Blackstone had vanished from sight.

‘He hasn’t flamed the roof yet,’ Charlie called to Lily. ‘There’s still time.’

‘We can’t get there.’ Lily was looking to the fiery lead covering the streets. ‘The route is blocked.’

‘Climb on to the half timber,’ shouted Charlie. ‘We can scale up and use the rooftops.’

‘Are you mad?’ shouted Lily above the roar of the blaze. ‘Those buildings are aflame!’

Charlie heaved himself on to the first beam. ‘Use your fingertips,’ he called. ‘It’s easier than it looks from the street.’

Lily pulled herself on to the sill just as the first flow of lead snaked past. She stared down at the smoking metal in disbelief. Then she began clambering upwards.

Charlie reached the second-storey window, which had a jutting window box.

‘Bridge with your legs!’ he shouted, bracing himself against the opposite building. ‘And walk up.’

Beneath him Lily was positioned with her back braced. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be praying. Charlie grasped thatch, hauled himself on to the roof, then reached down with both hands to hoist her up.

They stood on the uneven thatch and breathed hard.

Below them screams issued up. Guttering from St Paul’s had burst and was directing a font of molten metal into the fleeing crowd. Lead was rolling down the hill in a heavy torrent. Londoners were racing in all directions as burning lead from the roof splashed down towards them.

Charlie glanced across the rooftops. Blackstone had vanished from sight.

His sixth sense for London’s jumble of dark buildings was firing. He gauged the gaps between the roofs, plotting a route.

‘This way.’ Charlie ran and jumped the divide, his heels sinking into thatch.

Charlie looked out at the higher buildings of Carter Lane, mapping the levels through which the fire might pass. ‘That room contains hay,’ he muttered, plotting a route around it. ‘That roof is painted with pitch.’ He gauged the distance. ‘We get on to a tile roof,’ said Charlie, pointing. ‘Stay on tile and go only where I do.’

The thatch under them had started to crackle with flames. Charlie ran to the edge of the roof and jumped to the next.

They were closing the gap now, nearing the cathedral.

Ahead of them the straw roof collapsed inwards like a great yawning mouth. Charlie dodged, hopped across two more roofs and then his feet hit tile. Lily landed next to him, her shoes leaving imprints in the softened tiles.

‘We can make it,’ said Charlie, ‘St Paul’s graveyard is the other side of that building.’

‘It’s too far away!’

‘We can make it.’