‘We must go,’ Dowling shouted. ‘If it is not too late already.’
The smoke descended and lay thick all around so I could see barely twelve inches in front of my nose. ‘The Bishop’s residence is on our way out,’ I yelled, edging forwards into the black inferno.
Dowling grabbed my sleeve, coughing. ‘We don’t have time.’
I shouted above the din. ‘If that letter burns, they will execute us both and Lucy besides.’
‘We shall all be executed, anyway,’ Dowling grumbled, pulling me forwards.
I crouched down in an attempt to avoid the thickening swirl of choking, black smoke and wished I knew this building better. I knew the door to the Bishop’s residence nestled somewhere in the wall back up the nave, beyond the Little North Door. We ran as fast as we could, avoiding the slow-moving river of red metal trickling across the floor. The cathedral writhed in agony, the sound of its bones cracking echoing all around.
Dowling found the door to the Bishop’s residence. Great clouds of smothering smoke billowed from within when he opened the door. I staggered backwards and stopped where I stood. Dowling looked over his shoulder to find me, his face as black as Josselin’s. I willed my legs to move, but something within me cried out in fear.
‘It’s just the hall,’ Dowling cried out. ‘Beyond is clear.’
He grabbed my sleeve before I could protest and hauled me forwards, coughing and spluttering as loud as I. We emerged into an office, bookshelves lining the walls. Through streaming eyes, I saw an ancient chair and large desk, the back of the desk riddled with small drawers, each with its own handle. Papers protruded from the cracks. We pulled all the drawers open and spread the papers upon the desk, looking for the royal seal.
Dowling stood triumphant, letter held up high. ‘Here!’
I grabbed it from his hand and plunged it deep into my jacket pocket. Already the broken seal felt sticky, the room hot as an oven; the smell of burning leather filled my nostrils.
Back out in the nave I saw nothing but fire and smoke away to our left, back where we left Arlington and Josselin. The river of lead grew thicker now. A mighty piece of timber fell from above, flaming as it fell, followed by a great splash of molten metal. The stone pavement cracked and the floor beneath our feet shook and trembled. An almighty roar bellowed from the depths as the floor to our left fell in, revealing the crypt below. New flames soared high above our heads. The fire raged below, consuming the piles of books and cloth stored beneath. A wall of flame barred our passage out, towards the portico. Another beam of timber collapsed with a deafening shriek, and hurtled from high above, showering us with a deluge of sparks.
Dowling roared and pushed me into the fire. ‘Go, Harry.’
I stumbled and nearly fell, pushing forwards with my right leg just in time. I covered my face with my arms and braced myself to be burnt alive. Instead I rolled through the sheet of fire and out into the
warm night air. Dowling staggered behind, waving his hands afore him with eyes closed, dancing on his tiptoes.
A huge explosion erupted from the top of the spire, sending giant chunks of masonry flying through the air. Bricks popped from the walls, as lead continued to drip down the side of the cathedral, shooting across the churchyard like grenades. The west gate stood open afore us, bent and crooked, twisting slowly in the heat of the burning houses. As we ran through the small gap I felt the hair wither on my head. We ran down Ludgate Hill, heading for the small black arch beneath the flaming building. I feared I heard thin wailing as we felt our way through a mist of black smoke, emerging out behind the City wall.
Thirty yards ahead down Fleet Street, behind Fleet Ditch, thick crowds blocked the road, a wall of faces glowing orange. In front of them two horses.
‘God’s mercy,’ called out the foremost rider, sitting confident upon a magnificent white charger. The King. He cantered over to where we stood, charred and smouldering, afore leaning down and regarding us with deep, brown eyes. ‘You left it late, good fellows.’ He sat up straight, threw a handful of silver upon the ground and waved a majestic hand in the air as if celebrating his own cleverness at somehow having elicited our escape. The crowd cheered while I picked up all the coins. We might need them.
While the King surveyed the scene before him, we slipped away.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Since that first blazing Star was seen Easterly, and near Sun-rise, the Calamities attending seem to follow suddenly.
I sat in a corner of St Bride’s chewing on pie crust while Dowling went in search of a candle. I could barely keep my eyes open, I was so exhausted.
The church filled fast. I recognised many of the faces from St Paul’s. We couldn’t stay here all night, but I planned to take what opportunity I might. My eyes closed and I fell asleep.
Someone kicked the back of my calf. I awoke instantly, pushing myself up to see who assailed me. A small boy looked over his shoulder, scowling, struggling to keep his balance as his mother marched purposefully towards the choir.
‘Be calm,’ Dowling growled softly from behind.
He leant against the cool, stone wall, eyes half open. A candle sat
upon the floor to his left, wick burnt halfway down.
I breathed deep in an attempt to cool the bile that simmered in my blood and sat up wide awake. I reached for the letter inside my jacket, terrified for a moment it might be gone.
Dowling reached for the candle. ‘No one has been near you, though I’ve been tempted.’
I pulled the parchment from my pocket. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
Dowling shuffled about so he could read over my shoulder. ‘You needed the sleep. Now unfold it.’
The royal seal appeared unnaturally large and bloody in the low light of the flame. I unfolded the letter carefully and noticed immediately the name at the bottom: ‘Charles R’.
‘God save us,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s written by the King.’
‘To the King of France,’ Dowling whispered, hoarse, almost poking a hole in the parchment with his thick forefinger. ‘We should not be reading this.’
‘If we don’t read it we won’t know what to do,’ I said, my curiosity impossible to appease. Ne’ertheless, my heart pounded a heavy beat beneath my ribs.
‘Read it aloud,’ Dowling hissed into my ear. ‘I cannot make out the words in this poor light.’
I held the letter up close to my eyes. ‘Know ye that we would welcome entering into a personal friendship, and uniting our interests so for the future there may never be any jealousies between our great nations,’ I began.
‘A pact with France?’ Dowling exclaimed, too loud. ‘Impossible.’
I bid him hush before continuing. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea. History would
imply that neither one of us might rule the seas alone, for both our nations are too proud and too strong to bow one to the other. As a consequence, we hath allowed others to establish an unnatural presence that serves neither of us well. May God will it that we settle our differences and come to an accord, so it becometh us to honour that obligation. Else God shall surely show his displeasure. Should you consider this testimony give you just cause, then might we enter into discussions of the most secret and confidential kind, for should others learn of the obligations that we shall discuss, it would surely prejudice the potential of our future union.’
‘Is that it?’ Dowling squinted at the text. ‘What of religion in this?’ he demanded. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea? Parliament would say otherwise. They would never sanction a Catholic union.’
Nor would they, as Charles knew well, for had his father not been executed for the very same crime? If Parliament was to find out he sought a union with Catholic France then he would surely be arrested. I scanned our surrounds to make sure none watched or listened, then read it through again slowly. There could be no doubting its content.