‘Douse it! Douse it!’ cried North in alarm, abandoning his skirmish with Thurloe. ‘Quickly, or we are all lost. The gunpowder!’
‘Metje!’ shouted Chaloner. He pushed Faith away from him. ‘Come with me.’
‘I do not want–’ She backed away.
‘Just come,’ he yelled, watching the flames creep towards the first of the fireballs, despite North’s attempts to smother them with aprons, cushions and bare hands. ‘Do not die in here.’
The door crashed open, and Sarah stood there, a number of the Lincoln’s Inn porters ranged behind her. She was breathless and her hair was awry. Kelyng stood next to her, sword in his hand.
‘Where is the chicken?’ he demanded, eyes darting around the room. ‘Martha?’
Sarah shoved him back into the hallway. ‘Fetch water,’ she ordered, taking in the situation at once. ‘Organise the men, or the entire street might be lost. Hurry!’
Her voice carried such authority that Kelyng obeyed without another word. Chaloner glimpsed a flicker of movement at the window. It was Bennet, and he had reloaded. When he spotted Sarah, his eyes gleamed with evil delight. Chaloner grabbed one of the spent guns and lobbed it as hard as he could. It cartwheeled through the glass and struck the chamberlain’s head. Chaloner saw him drop away with a howl before Faith fastened her hands around his own neck and began to squeeze. She was as strong as any of the men he had ever fought, and he felt himself losing ground.
The first of the grenades popped with a deafening crack. One of the maids screamed, blood pouring from her throat. Sarah dealt Faith a hefty thump with a serving bowl, and the older woman fell away, dazed, allowing Chaloner to struggle away and breathe again. Henry picked up another fireball and hurled it at Thurloe, putting all his frustration and fury into the throw. It missed the ex-Spymaster and cracked into the wall behind him, setting the panelling alight. Time was running out. Chaloner seized Temperance’s wrist and shoved her towards the door.
‘Take her out!’ he yelled to Hill, who was making his own bid for freedom on hands and knees. The preacher obeyed with what seemed like agonising slowness. ‘Hurry!’
He looked around for Metje, and saw her on the far side of the room.
‘The barrel will go up soon,’ shouted North, flailing desperately with his cloak. ‘It–’
Another fireball ignited, and Metje’s hair erupted in an orange blaze.
‘No!’ yelled Chaloner. He started to move towards her, but someone gripped his ankle. It was Faith again, and he wasted valuable moments trying to extricate himself from her clawing hands.
‘Everyone run!’ shouted North. He collided with Chaloner, breaking Faith’s hold, but knocking the spy to the floor. ‘Everyone outside!’
Chaloner struggled towards Metje, but another grenade exploded killing North and throwing his body into him. Henry, burning like a torch was rushing around in a shrieking frenzy, setting furniture alight. Flames began to lick across the keg of gunpowder. Chaloner tried to stand, but his movements were uncoordinated, and North’s shattered corpse lay heavily across him. By now, the barrel was well and truly ablaze, and Metje was motionless as flames engulfed her.
Someone seized Chaloner’s arm and tugged him towards the door. Other hands helped, and then he was outside in the cool, clean air. Yet another grenade ignited, and this time he could feel its blast vibrate through the ground. Then he was staggering across the street and tumbling behind the shelter of a dung cart. He tried to stand, but someone held him fast.
‘Easy, Tom.’ It was Thurloe. ‘Stay down.’
‘The gunpowder,’ said Chaloner hoarsely. ‘Metje.’
‘It is too late,’ said Sarah gently. ‘Too late for her.’
Thurloe put an arm around his shoulders and shielded him as the first of several large explosions ripped towards them.
Epilogue
It was several days before Chaloner felt like going home. He stayed with Leybourn at Cripplegate, trying to take his mind off Metje by reading. The Lord Chancellor sent two messages, both asking whether he had recovered the remaining six bars of gold, and Chaloner furnished him with curt replies saying he had not. Temperance visited once, and her white face and red-rimmed eyes moved him to pity. A sheepish Hill had arranged for her to lodge with a sympathetic Puritan widow until lawyers had decided what should happen to North’s estate – Downing claimed it should be forfeit to the Crown, while Thurloe was firmly asserting that it should be devolved on his surviving daughter.
Eventually, Chaloner decided he had imposed on Leybourn’s hospitality long enough, and left early one afternoon to return to his rooms. Leybourn offered to accompany him, and they walked through streets that were full of people, all talking about the grand audience of the Russian ambassador in the Banqueting House, which had taken place that day.
North’s once-fine home was a mass of blackened timbers. The fire had been fierce but brief, and although the building would have to be demolished, it had not damaged the neighbouring houses – or at least, not damaged them to the point where the authorities deemed them uninhabitable. There were new and alarming cracks in Ellis’s walls, and Chaloner was sure the roof was sagging in a way it had not done before. Ellis waved a dismissive hand, and declared it was natural subsidence – his tenants had nothing to worry about. And there was certainly no reason to reduce the rent.
Chaloner climbed to the top floor and unlocked his door. He was glad Leybourn was with him, because even the stairs evoked sharp memories of Metje, and the bookseller’s aimless chatter was a welcome diversion. He stopped abruptly when he saw what stood on the floor by the bed. Leybourn pushed past him, and went to inspect the two boxes.
‘Grenades,’ he said, startled. ‘I assume they do not belong to you? We were lucky the fire did not spread to this house, because there are enough of them here to eliminate half of London.’
Chaloner pointed to the side of the box, and started to laugh. ‘That is one of the least subtle things I have ever seen! Did they really expect that to work?’
Leybourn read the offending label aloud. ‘To be delivered to Thomas Chaloner of Fetter Lane, on behalf of Mr John Thurloe and Sir Richard Ingoldsby. So, this is what they were doing. They claimed they were going to leave weapons in a place where the last two members of the Seven would be hopelessly implicated, and where better than with Thurloe’s spy? You laugh, but we are fortunate Kelyng did not find them. He would have seen nothing staged about this.’
‘What shall we do? If we dispose of them legally, Kelyng may leap to the wrong conclusion. He may have saved us by extinguishing the fire, but he wasted no time after in telling us that he intends to resume his persecution. You should not have locked him in that cupboard and incurred more of his wrath. He is still angry about it, even though Sarah believed his story and let him out as soon as you had left Lincoln’s Inn and included him in her rescue plan. Damned fanatic!’
Leybourn was thoughtful. ‘We shall do what North – I cannot call him Swanson – intended.’
‘Use them to have Thurloe and Ingoldsby accused of high treason? That is not a good idea, Will. Think of something else.’
Leybourn was impatient. ‘You just said that Kelyng still intends to hunt Thurloe, and I want him to stop. We shall send these infernal devices to him, with a message from Thurloe saying he has uncovered another devilish plot to kill the King, and these are the proof.’