Marigold Chain (44 page)

‘
Have you
called out the Militia?’ he demanded. And then, ‘Obviously not. So
you’d best do it before you go off to put your feet up.’ And
finally, with an explosion he could not control, ‘You bloody fool!
How long to you expect to fight this thing with volunteers? For
Christ’s sake, use what little sense you have and call out the
troops!’ And leaving the Mayor goggling apoplectically and Mr Pepys
staring with faintly scandalised satisfaction, Alex shot back
towards the wharves.

Within the hour
the City Militia took over demolition work at the riverside, one
detachment going to stop the blaze at Botolph’s Wharf and another
relieving Mr Deveril’s crew west of Dowgate. The river, by this
time, was speckled with barrels, boxes and items of furniture that
had been cast into it and were floating up with the tide to bob
gently amongst the profusion of loaded barges and lighters. The
bridge was burning fast and its terrified occupants descended the
pier stairways to boats tied below in which they embarked with
everything they could carry. Like their human neighbours, the
pigeons were also loth to leave and flew round and round until,
their feathers scorched by the fire, they dropped into the
water.

Water had
become Mr Deveril’s most immediate difficulty. Having left Dowgate,
he and Matt took their men northwards into the City only to
discover that the pumping mechanism at London Bridge had stopped
working as soon as the flames attacked it and that all the pipes
and sluices had been cut by panicky fire-fighters to fill their
buckets. Consequently, though he now had access to the cumbersome
‘suck-and-squirt’ fire-engines, the sole water supply was a quarter
of a mile away and the process of obtaining it made even slower
than necessary by the press of carts, refugees and gleeful
plunderers thronging the streets.

As the
afternoon passed, the fire seemed to spread even faster. Two by
two, Mr Deveril sent his little force off to rest while he himself
worked on. Darkness fell and the night sky glowed red from the
immense blaze as Matthew went with unwilling fury to Southwark; and
still Alex stayed, his brain clogged with fatigue and his body
responding with mechanical slowness. Only when Matt returned
shortly before four in the morning did he finally yield to the
inevitable and leave for home himself.

Fully dressed
and dozing fitfully in the parlour, Chloë was jerked awake by the
sound of the front door closing and, running into the hall, she
found Alex – filthy, dishevelled and swaying with exhaustion.
Summing up the situation at a glance, she flew to his side and,
rapidly revising her plans, flung a series of orders at Naomi
whilst guiding Alex firmly towards the stairs. He tried to say
something but was overtaken by a fit of coughing. Chloë’s grip on
him tightened.

‘
Don’t
talk,’ she said. ‘You’ll be better when you’ve slept.’

She pushed open
the door of his room and made him sit on the bed while she pulled
off his boots – which, like the rest of his clothing, looked beyond
repair. Then she untied the laces of his charred and blackened
shirt, wondering stupidly what had become of his coat.

‘
I’m
afraid,’ said Alex in a hoarse whisper, ‘that I’m going to make a
terrible mess of your sheets.’

‘
It
doesn’t matter. You can bathe later. Lift your arms so I can take
your shirt – ah, good. Thank you, Naomi.’ This as the maid entered
to place a mug beside the bed. Chloë handed her the ruined shirt.
‘This can be thrown away. But can you see what – if anything – can
be done with Mr Deveril’s boots?’

Naomi curtsied,
picked up the boots with a dubious air and withdrew.

Chloë put the
mug in Alex’s hand and closed his fingers round it.

‘
Drink
this,’ she said, frowning at the numerous small burn-marks that
adorned his torso. ‘It’s warm milk and honey to ease your
throat.’

Alex did as she
asked and gave back the mug with a hazy smile.

‘
I’ve
been talking too much.’

‘
You
still are.’ She watched him lie down and cast a light woollen
coverlet over him before crossing the room the close the
curtains.

‘
Chloë?’
His voice was a mere thread.

She moved back
to the bedside. ‘Yes?’

‘
Don’t
let me sleep more than four hours. Promise?’

If she
hesitated, it was only for a second. ‘I promise,’ she said. And
left him.

When she went
back shortly after nine he was still sound asleep – which, after
forty-eight hours of continued and strenuous activity, was hardly
surprising. Chloë set down her tray, watching him; his face was
turned into the pillow and he lay with one arm outstretched, its
fingers lax and curved inwards towards the blistered palm. A great
wave of emotion welled up inside her, so intense that it robbed her
of every thought but one and, sitting lightly at his side, she
enclosed the beautiful, desecrated hand in hers for a long moment
before raising it to her lips. Then, laying it gently down again,
she drew a long, unsteady breath and set about rousing him.

As she had
expected, Alex was too tired to wake easily but eventually he
rolled over and propped himself on his elbows, his face driven into
his hands. Chloë left him rigidly alone while she opened the
curtains and poured warm, honey-spiced mead, then she sat down
again on the edge of the bed and put the cup in his hand.

‘
Naomi
will be up in a minute with hot water and there’s some salve for
the worst of your burns on the wash-stand,’ she said, as if it were
perfectly normal to sit on his bed while the City was in flames.
‘I’ve laid fresh clothes on the chair and we’ve done the best we
could with your boots. Is there anything else I can do for
you?’

Mr Deveril set
down the cup and sat up with a smile that was plainly an
effort.

‘
No.
Thank you. Can - - ?’ He stopped and Chloë set her teeth and
waited. ‘I’d like to talk to you. Later, when I’m thoroughly awake.
Will you be here?’

She got up and
smiled back with flawless, if superficial, composure.

‘
I’ll be
here,’ she promised, walking to the door. ‘Indeed, I’ve no
intention of going anywhere – or of letting
you
go anywhere – until you’ve had a proper
meal.’

When Alex
joined her in the dining-parlour half an hour later, he was largely
restored and able to do justice to a plate of chops whilst
rendering an astringent account of the situation across the river.
Chloë made a pretence of eating an apple she didn’t want, her eyes
never leaving his face.

‘…
and
add to that the fact that, in most cases, the buckets, ladders and
axes stored in the churches are either rotten with age or have been
pilfered,’ he said, ‘and what you have in not only a disaster – but
a
stupid
disaster.’ He laid
down his knife and fixed her with a sudden, penetrating gaze. ‘None
of this is what I wanted to say to you – but, as usual, this isn’t
the time. It seems that I owe you a great many apologies and
explanations and thanks – not least for your patience. Is it asking
too much for you to bear with me till this is over?’

Chloë flushed a
little. ‘No. And you owe me nothing.’

A vagrant smile
lit the intent face as he got up and walked towards her.

‘
Not even
for the warehouse?’

She shook her
head. ‘You had no choice.’

‘
No, I
didn’t. But you mind – and I’m sorry for that.’ For the space of a
heartbeat, brown eyes met silver-blue and then he said abruptly, ‘I
have to go.’

Chloë stood up
and discovered that her knees felt like jelly.

‘
Yes. But
don’t work so long without rest this time,’ she said, striving for
her usual tone. And finding it, ‘Or I’ll be forced to use drastic
measures. Again.’

*

Alex picked his
way through the smouldering wreckage of what had once been Fish
Street Hill towards the so far untouched reaches of Gracious Street
and Cornhill. Fenchurch Street was choked with carriages and
frightened pedestrians scurrying to deposit their belongings on
Tower Hill, while Leadenhall Market swarmed with people haggling
noisily over the possession of a cart – the cost of which had risen
from ten shillings to twenty pounds.

He came upon
Matt just east of St Mary-le-Bow and, without preamble, asked what
new measures had been taken in the last few hours. Mr Lewis
responded with a grimy, sardonic grin and the information that the
Duke of York, now officially in charge, was attempting to quell the
panic by riding about with his guard.

‘
Wonderful,’ said Alex. ‘And that’s all? No gunpowder? No
soldiers?’

‘
God, no!
They think they’re going to douse it with those daft bloody
machines,’ snorted Matthew. ‘Man – you’d as well try to do it by
spitting!’

Mr Deveril
smiled grimly. ‘All right. You carry on here. I’m going to see
York.’

It was not hard
to convince the King’s brother that stronger measures were
necessary; he had realised for himself that their only hope lay in
the use of explosives but, with the Aldermen against him, his power
was limited. He did, however, call out the troops – and after that
Alex had a very busy afternoon.

While Mr
Deveril dashed from one fire-post to the next, Chloë stood at
Bankside in a crowd of strangely silent onlookers and watched the
blaze gain in strength until she could bear it no longer. It was
then that she became aware of the large number of refugees sitting
huddled along the waterfront, pitifully clutching their few
belongings and too dazed to move further. Chloë stopped, looking at
them. There seemed to be a great many children, some of them very
young and all of them hungry, holding fast to mothers who stared
blankly out of dark-rimmed eyes filled with shock. Her heart wrung
with pity, Chloë did not hesitate. She walked straight home to her
kitchen and confronted Mistress Jackson.

‘
Pack up
as much food as you can and take it to Bankside. There are people
with nothing but what they stand up in and the children are
starving. Get Naomi to help you.’

‘
But
Madam, we can’t feed them all – there’s too many of
them!’

‘
I know
that,’ replied Chloë tersely, ‘but we can at least try. Take
everything you can spare and divide it into small parcels to make
it to further. Go on!’

*

As Monday night
drew on the fire raged with greater and greater intensity, filling
the sky with a brilliant, blazing light visible for forty miles. By
daybreak on Tuesday, Cheapside was in ashes and the fire was moving
north to Aldersgate and west to encompass the decaying, gothic
splendour of Paul’s Cathedral. It was also spreading towards Tower
Street … and it was this that, around noon, finally produced the
order Mr Deveril had been seeking since Sunday.

Although the
wind had begun to show signs of abating, the fire continued to burn
towards Cripplegate and the Tower; and the White Tower was London’s
main arsenal, containing enormous supplies of gunpowder. So when
the flames reached Tower Street, His Majesty hesitated no longer
but issued an order for the necessary demolition to be accomplished
with explosives.

Receiving the
news, Alex remarked that it was about bloody time and set off
eastwards to lend a hand. He arrived to find the King personally
supervising the unloading of the gunpowder, his wig lightly dusted
with ash and his well-kept hands engrained with dirt. He surveyed
Mr Deveril with unaccustomed gravity and said, ‘They tell me you’ve
done sterling work so far. But do you know how to lay a fuse?’

Alex nodded.
‘Yes. I’ll see to it. But you should move back beyond Water Mark
Lane, sire. You’re in too much danger here.’

Charles
replied, ‘So are many of my people. And if these men can hazard
their lives, the least I can do is to be here with them. Now – the
barrels are ready. Shall we begin?’

So begin they
did, His Majesty assisting with his own hands and only retiring
when Alex and the men working with him flatly refused to proceed
until he did so. After he had gone, Mr Deveril lit the first
slow-match, watched with clinical interest till he was satisfied
that it would achieve its objective and then moved very fast
indeed, stopping just once to scoop up a small dog that strayed
across his path.

He made cover
just as the explosion occurred, hurling himself violently around a
high wall to land, complete with dog, on top of Charles Stuart –
while, behind him, the houses came down with a deafening roar and
filled the air with slivers of flying timber. Over the head of the
dog – which was trying to lick his chin – the King’s dark eyes met
Mr Deveril’s light ones.

Charles said,
‘This is a particularly ugly little dog.’

Alex stood up
and examined the dirty bundle of fur.

‘
It is,
isn’t it? Fortunately, my wife has a fondness for waifs and
strays.’

An odd smile
crossed the swarthy face. ‘Has she? But I was under the impression
that you wanted to be free of her.’

‘
Once,
sire.’ Alex looked back steadily. ‘But it was a mistake. And now,
if you’ll excuse me, I should get back to work.’

The King nodded
slowly. ‘When this is over, come to Whitehall. I’m in your
debt.’

Mr Deveril
smiled, his teeth gleaming white against the smoke-blackened
skin.

‘
Then
perhaps Your Majesty would be gracious enough to have this conveyed
to Southwark.’ And he held out the dog.