Whatever Sir Thomas Bloodworth thought about it – and the Lord Mayor was nowhere to be seen – houses aplenty were being pulled down in Dowgate and the streets thereabouts, that Monday afternoon. Once again, I pulled on many a fire-hook myself, grappling onto cross beams and bringing down walls and entire buildings. So did all the Sceptres around me, a sturdy party of thirty or so led by Julian Carvell, who had fallen back from the east. All the while, the heat scorched our faces, arms and chests, for few men now deigned to wear shirts before the inferno. And still the blaze advanced, leaping easily over the gaps we had made. The wind, howling like a thousand demons through the lanes and alleyways, was unremitting, and carried the fire westward, ever westward.
The livery halls were falling almost by the minute now. I witnessed Skinners’ Hall go, then the Tallow Chandlers’ next to it, prominent liverymen weeping copiously in the street as their ancient treasures burned. The Steelyard was gone, and with it all the London property of the once-mighty Hanseatic League. Churches galore went up, too. I led a party of Sceptres, dockyard men and plain citizens in trying to save Saint Michael Paternoster Royal, where the famous Lord Mayor Whittington was buried in a fine marble tomb. It was close to the river, so we could establish a bucket-chain along College Hill and Church Lane, but nothing availed. Flames spouted through the windows like satanic tongues, the roof blazed and then fell in, and the tower, ancient and probably already unstable, collapsed in a great cloud of smoke and masonry dust.
We retreated westward, along Thames Street, abandoning to their fate Saint James Garlickhythe, Saint Martin Vintry, and all the streets around those churches. Francis knew the vicar of Saint Nicholas Cole Abbey, so we made our way there, but the man was nowhere to be found. Even so, we climbed the tower, to get a better view of the fire’s progress.
As I stepped out onto the roof, the full force of the easterly wind struck me. Then I saw the fire in all its terror and majesty, a great curtain of flame stretching south-west to north-east across the City, its folds billowing out before it, reaching inexorably toward the buildings in its path. Thames Street was ablaze on both sides, London Bridge glimpsed only occasionally through gaps in the flames. At least the fire did not seem to be threatening the buildings on the bridge, which could have spread it into Southwark. There, in the shadows of Saint Mary Overie and Winchester Palace, crowds were thronging the riverbank, watching the horror unfolding before them as the fire rushed relentlessly northward. Even as I watched, Saint Mary Aldermary on Bow Lane caught fire, its thin tower transformed into a finger of flame, pointing toward Heaven.
If the fire was not stopped soon, the very heart of London would be consumed before the day was out. And over all lay the great cloud of black smoke, often blotting out the blood-red sun, leaving only the countless glowing sparks and firedrops being borne westward to illuminate us.
‘Genesis Nineteen, verses twenty-four and twenty-five,’ said Francis.
I did not reply; I did not need to.
Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.
I stared at the great blaze: stared at it long enough to see what happens every time any man stares into his own grate, only writ large across the sky. I saw the faces of the dead, of those once loved, of enemies long killed, all of them dancing in the flames. I saw angels, their wings reaching out to enfold the city. I saw devils, conjuring up yet more of hell itself. I looked into the fire, and saw the visage of death.
‘No,’ I said, finally. ‘Whatever sins we may have committed, London will stand. It has to stand. Perhaps the next building we pull down will be the one to halt the fire’s advance, Francis. We have to believe that. We have to believe it.’
But as we descended the stairs of the tower – which would, itself, shortly fall victim to the flames – I knew how hollow my words sounded.
All of England will burn, I thought. Everything will be consumed, and it will be God’s righteous vengeance for what we did at the Vlie and Terschelling. For what you did, Matthew Quinton. And even if I managed to put that thought out of my head, another, even more dreadful, one swiftly took its place. Did the Horsemen somehow succeed after all? Goodman was still at large, and what if the fire had resurrected the apparently dead fourth Horseman, like a phoenix from the ashes, to accelerate what his brothers had begun?
The Horsemen.
Experts in fire, yes. But experts in something else, too. And that was when the thought came to me.
How would the Horsemen have stopped a great fire, rather than starting one? The same way any seaman would have done. But I was no true seaman. So, when we emerged from the church, I called over Julian Carvell, who was. He and I talked, and then I sent a Sceptre to find me a pen, paper and ink. This did not prove difficult, given the number of hastily abandoned workshops and offices in the vicinity. Carvell’s eyes nearly sprang from his head in astonishment as I addressed the letter:
His Majesty the King and His Royal Highness the Duke of York
Palace of Whitehall
I was resting in the middle of the afternoon, in a lane a little to the west of Garlickhithe, taking some ale to quench my mighty thirst, when word came that the Royal Exchange was ablaze. That meant the post house would have gone, and Cornhill with all the shops that Cornelia loved so much, and Threadneedle Street. I looked at Francis Gale, as sooty and begrimed as myself, and he at me, but neither of us had any words left. The London we knew was being wiped from the map, street by street, stone by stone, and it seemed there was nothing any mortal being could do about it.
A lad was running up the lane toward us, shouting, but at first I could not hear him over the din of the fire and falling houses. What new horror could he be proclaiming? Had the flames reached the Tower? If so, was the vast powder arsenal about to explode? Or had the street prophecies been fulfilled, and the French and Dutch really were invading? Part of me prayed for the latter to be true. At least Frenchmen and Dutchmen were tangible enemies; foes who could be confronted, and defeated, unlike the inexorable flames.
‘Looters!’ The word was clear now. ‘Looters at the wharf by Black Swan Alley! My father’s business…’
I stood, and grabbed hold of the boy.
‘Take us there,’ I said.
Francis beckoned to the dozen or so Sceptres closest to us, led by Carvell and John Tremar.
Down we went, through the warren of alleyways toward the river, fighting our way through the carts and people trying to get west, the stench of burning tar and pitch getting stronger with every step we took. The wharf was no different to any of its neighbours: a narrow piece of land, fronted by rickety wooden pilings and a crane, warehouses stretching behind it, up toward Thames Street. Lighters and barges were crowded up against it. Vintners Hall stood behind and a little to the east of the wharf, its roof ablaze.
On the wharf, a man was being beaten into a bloody pulp by three rough-looking fellows. Behind them, a dozen or so of their kind were rolling barrels of wine out of the warehouse, then stacking them on the deck of a lighter.
‘Father!’ cried the boy.
I drew my sword and advanced. The three men drew daggers, and turned toward me. The lad ran to his father, who fell to the ground.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ demanded the largest robber. ‘This place is ours, so fuck off and find your own.’
‘Your place? I don’t think so. And here and now, I am the King’s justice.’
The other looters had left their barrels, and were forming into a tight formation behind their leader. They had cudgels and knives, and they looked like the sorts of fellows who had seen many a fight in their time.
‘King’s justice? Like we give a shit for the Papist whoremaster Charles Stuart? With me, boys!’
The gang charged. The leader came at my right side, abetted by a plague-scarred, pockmarked fellow on the left. They had to avoid the greater reach of my sword, but if one of them could get under my guard while the other kept my swordarm occupied.
Pock-Mark feinted low, and the leader attacked high, stabbing for my neck. But such an obvious move was meat and drink. I pivoted, threatening Pock-Mark and then bringing my sword back up to block the leader, whose dagger struck my blade.
To my left, Francis Gale was engaged in a ferocious fist-fight with a dusky fellow who might have been a Spaniard or an Italian. To my right, Julian Carvell was exchanging vicious knife-thrusts with a young, nimble, one-eyed creature. All over the wharf, Sceptres and looters battled each other, while fire raged above the nearby rooftops and flame-flakes fell on us at every moment.
Now Pock-Mark and the leader came at me together, both jabbing for my chest, stepping away from each other in the hope that I would leave a gap in my guard. But this exposed Pock-Mark’s left flank, just for a moment – I lunged, below his knife-arm, piercing him in the ribs, below the heart. He screamed and backed away, clutching at the bloody wound. The leader pressed home his attack, and as I swung around, his knife sliced a gash across my right arm, a mere second after it would have done the same to my neck. I felt the pain, saw the blood flow, but had taken enough wounds in my life to know it would not hinder me. I cut for the leader’s shoulder, but he ducked out of the way in time. In doing so, though, he showed me his left side. I shifted my weight and thrust for his head. My blade ripped through the flesh of his left cheek and took off his ear. The fellow grabbed at the wound, screaming pitifully. Then he turned and ran, his minions breaking off from their own battles to follow him.
Julian Carvell came up to me. He picked up one of the many bottles of wine scattered across the wharf, smashed the top off it, and poured it onto my wound. I gasped, for it stung hideously. Then he tore off the sleeve of his shirt, which he wrapped around my wound without a by-your-leave.
‘Beggin’ pardon, Sir Matthew,’ he said, ‘but you’ll soon have as many scars as me.’
The pain from the wound was dreadful, but I could still move the arm freely. If necessary, I could still wield a sword, or take hold of a fire-hook.
Suddenly, flames erupted from the head of the alleyway just to the east of the wharf where we stood. The first swirls of smoke rose from the roof of the warehouse behind us.
‘Back!’ I cried. ‘Fall back on Queenhithe, men!’
Francis Gale helped the beaten merchant to his feet. The man and his son turned, and looked at the abandoned barrels of wine littering the wharf, where they would shortly fall victim to the fire. It did not take a seer to divine what they were thinking.
That afternoon and early evening, we pulled down more houses, around Trinity Lane and thereabouts. But the fire was merciless. Queenhithe itself, the principal dock on that part of the river, was consumed, and all the buildings around it – countless houses, warehouses, the glorious old Three Cranes in Vintry where in happier times I had enjoyed many a meal and good companionship with my old, dear, dead friend, Vice-Admiral Sir William Berkeley. I watched as flames took hold on the roof of Baynard’s Castle, the squat, ancient riverside fortress where so much of England’s history had been written. There, Edward the Fourth was crowned, his brother Richard the Third proclaimed King, Bloody Mary proclaimed Queen. But not even the weighty armour of history can defend a building from a disaster such as this. Soon, all of the castle’s multiple octagonal towers and narrow gables that fronted the river were ablaze, flames spouting forth like dragon’s breath from its countless windows, sheets of fire issuing from its roof like infernal mainsails blowing in the gale from Satan’s breath.
That is how Whitehall will burn, I thought. That is what the destruction of Parliament will look like.
Dispirited, the Sceptres and I made our way up Saint Peter’s Hill. We slumped in front of an alehouse at the back of the Heralds’ office, eating and drinking in silence, trying to recover our breath and our senses. I felt overwhelmingly tired, my arm was painful, and I was on the verge of sleep, when a loud voice stirred me.
‘Make way, there! You men, out of the way!’
I looked up, and saw familiar red uniforms. Life Guards. Bloodworth must have allowed them into the City, or else he had been given no choice in the matter.
In the middle of the Life Guards was a face I knew. A proud-looking, hawk-faced man in his early thirties, wearing a soot-stained grey coat, looked intently from side to side. I stood. Francis Gale and the rest of the Sceptres followed my lead.
I bowed.
‘Your Royal Highness,’ I said.
The man looked at me uncertainly, then screwed up his eyes to look at me more closely.
‘Quinton? Dear Lord in Heaven, is that really you, Sir Matthew?’
‘My apologies, Highness. I have not had the occasion to clean or dress myself for an audience.’
It was intended as a jest, but I should have known better than to attempt such a thing with the notoriously serious man before me, who merely frowned.
‘No. You have been busy, I see. Would that more men in this City had been as busy as you.’
James, Duke of York, Lord High Admiral of England, the King’s brother and heir, was the opposite of his sibling in so many ways: fair rather than dark, dour rather than frivolous, stupid rather than intelligent. But he was a man of action, who had led our fleet heroically in battle the year before, so he had my respect and that of the Sceptres around me.
‘It’s all gone between here and the river, Highness. Queenhithe, Baynard’s Castle – all of it.’
‘I feared so, but wanted to see for myself. Your report makes that unnecessary, Sir Matthew.’
‘We have to stop it, sir. You and His Majesty received my note?’ He nodded. ‘There is only one way. You are a seaman yourself, Your Royal Highness, you know it to be true.’
The Duke’s thin lips creased, in what might have been taken for a smile. Few things visibly pleased this serious prince, but being counted a true seaman was one of them.
‘If it were left to me, I would give the order this very minute,’ he said. ‘I said so to my brother the King, when we received your letter. But there are still many who baulk at it – who think of the amount of property that will be destroyed, and raise one legal nicety after another. They are still convinced that the wind will drop at any moment, and the river will rise. Seamen know differently, Sir Matthew, but the Privy Council of England and the Common Council of London contain precious few seamen, more’s the pity. What’s more, my brother has recalled the Duke of Albemarle from the fleet. Only he can save London, it seems. Only he can give the King his capital for a second time.’ Now, there was no hint of a smile upon the face of the man who would, one day, be King James the Second. The Duke would surely have known of my fraught relationship with Albemarle. Did he, too, wonder why both his brother and the people of England had such unaccountable faith in the obese old turncoat? ‘Until His Grace arrives, though, or His Majesty sees fit to adopt the stratagem you proposed, I have set up posts at Temple Bar, and then four more north and east of there. A hundred men to fight the fire at each, along with thirty soldiers. Advance posts at Aldersgate, Coleman Street, Cripplegate. All of them commanded by two or three gentlemen of good rank. God willing, we can halt the fire at those positions, if we can pull down enough properties in good time. And the Fleet River ought to be a natural barrier that the fire will not cross.’
I offered up a silent prayer that he was right. Ravensden House, with Cornelia and my brother, stood not far to the west of the Fleet River. But much still stood to the east of it, directly in the path of the blaze. One building above all. Occasional gaps in the pall of smoke made it possible to make out its tower, rearing proudly above every lesser building, every lower steeple. But I could also see the waves of flame just to the east, still blown upon the gale, still clawing their way west like the fingers of Beelzebub.
The Duke of York’s eyes followed mine, round to the north.
‘Paul’s Church is doomed,’ he said, flatly, ‘unless a miracle saves it. And I do not think this is a time of miracles in London, Sir Matthew.’
‘Perhaps not, Highness. But when the story is written of how London burned, let it not be said that men did not fight for it.’
‘Amen to that. God go with you, Matt Quinton.’
I called the Sceptres together. Taking a respectful leave of the Duke of York, we made our way uphill, toward Saint Paul’s Cathedral.