Hearts of Darkness (24 page)

Darkness crept down the stairs and enveloped us in dusky embrace. The embers in the oven burnt ever brighter.

‘Time to go to work,’ Josselin announced after sitting silent for hours.

He stepped to the main oven and extracted several burning logs with tongs, placing them into the smaller oven and the great fireplace, where he packed them with kindling and fresh logs. The fires caught quickly, wood dry as bone, and soon emitted a heat too much to bear, even by the door. Josselin continued stoking the fires, holding his arm across his face, sweat dripping from his chin. Upon his face I discerned strange excitement. Dowling watched his back, every move he made, like he gleaned his intent and was horrified by it.

Josselin turned, red-faced and wet. ‘What time do you think it is?’

‘Past eight o’clock,’ Dowling replied, wary.

Josselin nodded. He picked up an iron from by the grate and poked at the wooden walls, digging the rod into the cleft between floor and walls where the house stood next to its neighbour. In three places, where the wood was soft and green from years of damp, he managed to chisel out small holes, which soon became large holes, big as a man’s head. Then he dragged more burning logs from the main oven and began piling them on the floor, in the middle of the new holes.

‘What are you doing?’ Dowling demanded. ‘Would you burn the house down?’

Josselin inspected the smaller oven, poking the logs to see how hot they burnt. ‘Not just this house. We’ll set a few ablaze. With this wind it should be simple enough to set the house opposite alight besides.’

Dowling grabbed his arm. ‘To what end?’

Josselin pushed him away, unconcerned. ‘Fret not, butcher. We are surrounded by soldiers, remember? They’ll put out the fire soon enough, but not before we cause a grand commotion.’ He dragged another log from the fire and kicked it against the back wall. ‘I doubt they’ve cleared the whole lane, just persuaded the occupants to remain behind their doors. Once the house is alight, everyone will come out onto the street to watch what is happening. Their first concern will be for their own property, and they will turn to the soldiers, demanding they assist. We’ll split up and join the crowd.’ A long thin flame licked high against the side wall, the planks already glowing.

Josselin laughed to himself, head bowed, staring at the flame, arm across his belly. ‘They won’t recognise us, not in the dark. I will accost a soldier myself and beg him to save my house.’ He laughed again, shoulders trembling.

The skin on my face felt like it peeled from my skull.

Josselin kicked at the burning wall separating this house from the
next. With five well-placed blows he opened a space wide enough to walk through. He disappeared, stepping through the thin flames, pale shirt glowing angelic white. I dashed for the hole in the wall before the flames grew too high, Dowling at my heels.

Josselin stood by the front door, peering through a crack out onto the lane. ‘Here they come,’ he exclaimed, eyes wide.

Voices shouted, loud and frightened. I watched up the lane as Josselin looked down. Neighbours emerged upon the street, slow and cautious, staring at Farynor’s house next door, terror masking their drawn, lined faces. One man stood twitching, like he yearned to fight the fire with bare fists but knew not where to start. His wife bent over double like she tried to swallow herself whole. Children watched between his legs and round her skirts, open-mouthed and fascinated.

A burly man pushed through the gathering crowd. ‘Anyone seen Thomas Farynor?’ he shouted.

The wall against which I leant burnt into my back. The flames crackled loud, smoke rolling through the hole in the wall. We could not stay long. Josselin had the same idea, for he stood straight and opened the door wider afore sliding out into the night.

‘Follow him,’ I cried, almost tripping over my feet in my haste to stop him escaping, but the crowd was thick, and I felt suddenly exposed. Every man knew every man on London’s streets, and we were clearly not soldiers. But every man watched transfixed as the front of Farynor’s house disappeared behind a wall of flame. The fire crept outwards, beckoning, stroking, testing, and the wind blew stronger than it had all day, stretching the flames, bestowing upon them an unholy strength. The top of the house opposite almost touched the top of the Farynor house, and already the fire reached out, charring the old wood.

I heard heavy boots and more shouting. The first soldiers arrived, as open-mouthed as the children, muskets dragging in the dirt. ‘Who has left that house?’ demanded one, searching the faces of those about him.

‘No one,’ shrilled a thin woman, hands clasped to her breast. ‘They have two children. What if they are inside?’ She turned to the soldier, reaching out. ‘You must go inside.’

‘Not I,’ he snorted. ‘The Farynors left their house this afternoon, leaving three guests inside.’ He crashed his gun against the ground in an attempt to win the crowd’s attention. ‘Who saw
anyone
leave that house?’

The house opposite burst into flame, creating a fiery arch above our heads like some celestial sign. Dowling stayed apart, white head clearly visible off to my right. I cursed myself for not chasing after Josselin the moment he vanished. He talked of making his way to the bridge to catch a boat, in which case he had run in the wrong direction, for the river was down the hill, not up. Meantime the crowd pushed backwards as the heat intensified, heaving against a forward swell, as more and more people came to watch. With so many people crammed into such a small space I reckoned I could talk to Dowling discreetly enough, and I edged sideways.

I stretched up to reach his ear. ‘What say we go to the river?’

He stooped to listen. ‘He won’t go to the river, not now. The wharves will be packed, all the boats pressed.’

‘Aye,’ I reflected. ‘So he’ll walk the City wall looking for unguarded gates, or …’ I watched the soldiers pushing the crowd further back. ‘What’s more likely now?’ I thought aloud. ‘That Josselin escapes the City to find Arlington at Whitehall, or Arlington comes to the City?’

Dowling’s face folded into a study of intense concentration.
‘Josselin will wait,’ he concluded. ‘He’ll wait close by, close to Duke’s Place.’

I looked around. ‘Withypoll will come. We need somewhere safe to watch.’

‘If Arlington comes, he’ll come by boat,’ said Dowling. ‘That’s where Josselin will go. Not to catch a boat, but to wait for Arlington.’

I tugged at his sleeve. ‘Come on, then,’ I said. ‘We’ll go round by Fish Street Hill.’

‘Stand aside for the Mayor!’ a voice cried from behind. A determined little band of soldiers pushed forwards, pikes lowered, jaws jutting. One man dawdled and was spiked in the arse. They marched steady, resolute and determined.

The crowd squeezed us backwards against the wall. A portly gentleman strode at the middle of the group, soldiers surrounding him on all sides. He struggled to keep pace, determined at the same time to keep his back straight and chin raised. He perspired heavily, a stout fellow unused to exercise. His burgundy coat flowed behind, periwig perched happily on his head. Sir Thomas Bludworth, Mayor of London and pompous windbag.

A tall fellow with wild yellow hair and blackened face stepped forward to meet him. ‘We must pull down the neighbouring houses immediately,’ he declared.

Bludworth visibly recoiled as if slapped across the face. ‘We cannot pull them down else we must pay for them. Put out the fire.’

‘It burns too fierce,’ the soldier protested. ‘The wind is too high. If we pull the houses down now, we can stop the fire. Leave it and it will spread.’

The Mayor stabbed the soldier in the chest with his forefinger. ‘Extinguish the fire.’ He scanned the crowd quickly, gauging the intent
of those that listened. His eyes settled upon a granite-faced woman watching with arms folded, mouth drawn in an angry line. ‘Why, this old maid might piss it out.’

The soldier made no attempt to hide his contempt, mouth curled in a great sneer. He watched as Bludworth straightened his jacket and eyed the towering blaze as if it was but a small bonfire.

Bludworth waggled a finger. ‘I am going home to bed. Tell me when it’s done.’ He pivoted on his heel and returned the way he came, his escort accompanying him. I spotted Josselin staring from atop the hill.

‘Come on,’ I yelled, pushing after Bludworth’s entourage. Josselin vanished. The crowd surged in upon us once more as it continued to swell and swarm. More soldiers barged their way through Bludworth’s wake, angry and frustrated. There were simply too many people for any man to find another.

We fought our way to the crossroads at Eastcheap from where we could see all the way down the hill to the bridge and beyond. Fish Street Hill was packed from wall to wall, two great streams pushing against each other, creating currents running north and south; one current streaming up the hill to approach Red Rose Lane from the north, the other streaming south to approach from the water. No sign of Josselin.

The wind blew hard from east to west. If they left the house to burn, the fire would spread rapidly west. We stepped into the throng and were swept away towards the riverbank.

A tall, orange flame climbed high above the rooftops, thin and strangely still, lurching left with every gust of wind, then regaining its poise, elegant. Men rushed hither and thither. Soldiers shouted instruction to other soldiers, to citizens and boatmen, but with little
evidence of organisation. A long line of coatless citizens passed a slow chain of leather buckets from the river to the bottom of Red Rose Lane, a feeble effort, far too little water to make any impact on the fire we saw. The bells of Magnus Martyr began to peal, stutteringly, a call to the whole City.

We walked up and down the riverside, about the towering wall of the Fishmonger’s Hall and the back of Magnus Martyr, searching for Josselin. Then the fire exploded, silencing the whole crowd, who crouched as one, as though fearing the sky would fall upon their heads. Fire leapt from Red Rose Lane to Fish Street Hill, engulfing Star Inn. The crowd cried out ‘Fire, Fire!’ The wind fanned the flames further, carrying burning embers up into the sky where they flew south, over the river. And still no one appeared to be doing anything.

I kicked my heel and watched frustrated as soldiers continued to fling their arms in the air and shout obscenities at each other. If they didn’t start pulling houses down soon, the whole City would catch fire. Star Inn was ablaze within just a few minutes, all three storeys engulfed in fire. The flames reached out and lapped against St Margaret’s.

We continued shoving our way through the masses, the grim and the terrified pushing against each other. It would not be long before fighting broke out. Still no sign of Josselin, though I experienced a strong sensation he hid somewhere, watching. After an hour or more of constant jostling we sat apart and watched Fish Street Hill burn.

Then the wind turned, blowing out onto the river, towards us. I feared the heat might burn the brows off my face. The flames reached high into the sky, a magnificent, blazing orange against the black night. The crowd continued to grow, but still no one appeared to exert any effort to quell the fire. More and more people came to gaze
in fascination, filling the streets. Every now and again there sounded a great crash, a noise echoed by the great crowd, who seemed to breathe in harmony with the ebbing and flowing of the fire and the gusting of the winds.

Suddenly the fire surged at us, grasping then falling away again, like a wave upon a beach. It was time to retreat.

‘This way,’ I cried, above the raging din of the panicking masses. I pulled Dowling west, for though east was safer, if Arlington arrived he would land this side of the bridge. Dowling groaned as the flames leapt upon Magnus Martyr, the large square church next to the bridge. I held my hand up against the heat wondering where Bludworth was now, whether he slept soundly in his bed.

‘The King!’ someone screamed.

Down upon the river his long barge flew through the water, eight oarsmen rowing in perfect synchrony, bow raised, standard flying frantically in the gale. It drew alongside the stairs outside the Fishmongers’ Hall, and Charles himself stepped out onto the wharf, throwing his jacket back into the boat. He was followed by two more regal-looking fellows in long wigs: the Duke of York, it looked like, and the Devil himself, Arlington. All three stared up into the flames as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Arlington and the Duke of York followed the King’s lead, tossing their coats into the boat, before rolling up their sleeves and heading up to Thames Street, followed by the soldiers that rowed them, fixing swords to their belts as they walked.

‘Follow fast,’ I urged Dowling, who stood fanning himself with the back of his hand. The King would soon be swamped, impossible to approach, which meant Arlington too would vanish from sight. Arlington was the bait, Josselin the fish.

I hurried forwards, following the King’s black hair. He stood lean and energetic, head and shoulders above the throng, walking with an easy grace. Arlington followed at his heels, portly and stiff. The Duke of York, the King’s brother, followed them both, more watchful, inspecting his surrounds with sharp eye.

On Thames Street the King stopped, hands on hips, shaking his head. I couldn’t hear what he said above the noise, but he beckoned two men towards him, two soldiers I recalled seeing upon Red Rose Lane. He asked questions, waving a hand in the air regally, while the soldiers appeared to mumble, lips moving while they stared at the ground. The King jerked his right hand up and down, clearly demanding why they didn’t pull down houses to stop the fire spreading. I wondered if Bludworth would be executed. Then the King pointed west, directing Arlington’s attention away from the blaze, waving his hands from side to side above his head. Arlington nodded, before ordering two soldiers to clear a passage towards All Hallows. We waited half a minute before following. It was easy to trail him, for both soldiers carried pikes, which waved in the air above everyone’s heads.