As the sun fell, he blinked and turned to Dowling. ‘Time to release the Farynors, butcher.’
Dowling hurried up the stairs. A few moments later the children appeared, cautious and smelling of urine. The father followed close behind, avoiding my eye.
Josselin opened the front door. ‘Tell them you left the ovens cold,’ he said to Farynor. The baker cast him a glance of disgust afore hurrying the children out into the wind.
Josselin stretched himself to his full height and breathed out deeply. ‘I have a plan,’ he said to me.
‘What plan?’
‘You will see.’
Chapter Thirty
When Saturn leaveth one sign, and enters another, there are strange sights or apparitions, or other prodigies of the nature of fire.
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.