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.
He led us past the Steelyard and up Dowgate Hill, our passage lit by an eerie, red glow from which the inhabitants of this busy street retreated, to hide behind closed doors. The crowd was thinner here. Halfway up the street I spotted Josselin, creeping beneath the eaves of the houses ahead. He walked with strange, elongated stride, each step measured and deliberate. I poked Dowling and gestured to him to slow, so Josselin wouldn’t see us. We allowed the soldiers to pull fifty paces ahead while we focussed on trailing Josselin instead.
Josselin moved with stealth. We lost him for a minute or more, until his pale breeches reflected the candlelight from a window we