The King's Evil

The building suddenly crumbled to the ground in front of them and forced them to jump back. The man beside Jonathan - a tall, thin, wiry individual with rolling eyes - flung up his arms in despair.

'It is hopeless!' he wailed.

'The fire must be checked,' said Jonathan. 'They must pull down a row of houses in its path and create a firebreak.'

'The Lord Mayor has forbidden it.'

'Why?'

'He fears the cost involved in rebuilding.'

'Would he rather lose the entire city?'

'Sir Thomas would not give the order.'

'Somebody must,' insisted Jonathan. 'Where did the fire start?'

'Who knows?' said the man. 'I was fast asleep when the alarm was raised. By the time I got here, Fish Street Hill was ablaze and the houses at the northern end of the bridge were alight. In the past half-hour, we have been driven back a hundred yards or more. We are powerless.'

'Fire posts must be set up at once.'

'Tell that to the Lord Mayor.'

'More water!'

'What is the point?'

'We must fight on!' urged Jonathan, exhorting the others in the chain. 'More water there! Keep the buckets coming! We must not give in. Something may yet be saved.'

It was a forlorn hope. Though he tossed gallons of water at the fire, he made no discernible impact. It blazed up defiantly in front of him and encroached on both sides. Hysteria mounted. Many people fled west along the crowded thoroughfare but most scurried towards the river with their belongings, hoping to put the broad back of the Thames between themselves and certain extinction, only to find the myriad boats and lighters already filled with frightened refugees. Quick to take advantage of the situation, watermen doubled and trebled their prices before rowing their passengers to the uncertain safety of Bankside. When they scrambled ashore with their money, their furniture, their musical instruments and anything else they had salvaged, they looked back at a fire which seemed to engulf the whole of the riverfront from London Bridge to Dowgate and beyond. Flames danced madly on the water as the Thames mirrored the calamity.

Jonathan Bale struggled on against impossible odds for well over an hour. His hair was singed, his face was running with perspiration and holes had been burned in his coat by flying sparks. His whole body ached and smarted but he would not give up. Only when the water supply ceased did he have any respite. He looked down the long line of exhausted bodies between him and the conduit.

'More water!' he ordered, panting from his exertions.

'There is none!' called a voice at the far end. 'It has dried up.'

'How?'

'Someone must have cut into the pipe further up to fill buckets of their own. There is barely a trickle down here.'

'We have done all we can, my friend,' gasped the man next to Jonathan. 'We must look to our own salvation.'

'There is too much to do here. That is why I came.'

'Where do you live?'

'On Addle Hill.'

'Near Baynard's Castle?'

'Yes.'

The man was surprised. 'You came all this way to help?'

'I was needed.'

'You and a thousand like you are needed, my friend, but there would still not be enough of us to put out this fire. I'll home to Cornhill. I have done my share here. It is time to worry about my own house. Do likewise.'

'The fire will never reach Addle Hill,' said Jonathan.

'Do not be so sure,' warned the other. 'If this wind holds, the blaze will spread all the way to the Palace of Westminster to burn the royal breeches. And so it should,' he added with bitter reproach, 'for the King is the true cause of this fire.'

'That is treasonable talk.'

'It is the plain truth.'

'Fires are caused by folly and neglect.'

'The King's folly and the King's neglect.'

'I will not listen to such nonsense.'

'Then look around you,' urged the man, waving an arm. 'See for yourself. This is no ordinary fire. It is a judgement on us. King Charles and his vile Court have corrupted the whole of London. The fire has been sent to purge the city. We must all suffer for his sins.' He gave Jonathan a nudge. 'Go home, my friend. Return to Addle Hill. Protect your family. Save yourself while you still may. Nothing can stop this blaze now.'

The man staggered off. Jonathan watched him go and reflected on what he had said. His position as a constable obliged him to reprimand the fellow but he had considerable sympathy with the view expressed. England was ruled once more by a Stuart king. A monarchy which Jonathan had been pleased to see ended was now emphatically restored. As a result, London was indeed a wicked city and nobody was better placed to see the extent of its depravity than someone who patrolled the streets in the office of constable. Jonathan was a God-fearing man who always sought guidance from above and he was bound to wonder if the conflagration really was a sign of divine anger. There were Biblical precedents of cities being punished for their corruption.

The problem was that the innocent would suffer along with the guilty. Jonathan thought about his wife and children, still asleep, quite unaware that their blameless lives might be under threat. Their safety came first. He had to get back to them. The fire now raged totally out of control and buildings were crashing to the ground all around him. Smoke stung his eyes and caught in his throat. Scorching heat pushed him back like a giant hand.

Chaos reached a new pitch and he was heavily jostled in the ensuing tumult. Brushing some sparks from the sleeve of his coat, Jonathan pushed his way through the seething mass of bodies and trotted back down Thames Street in a futile attempt to outrun disaster.

Chapter Two

Christopher Redmayne could not believe what he saw. On the journey from Oxford, they encountered a number of people who had fled from London but their tales of woe smacked too much of wild exaggeration to be taken seriously. The evidence of their own eyes robbed Christopher and his companions of their scepticism. They were still miles away when they caught their first glimpse of the rising smoke which sullied the clear blue sky and hung over the city like a pall. The travellers reined in their horses to stare open-mouthed at the phenomenon ahead of them. It was truly incredible. London was destroyed. The most vibrant city in Europe had been burned to the ground.

As they considered the dreadful implications, everyone was struck dumb. It was minutes before an anguished voice shattered the silence.

'Dear God!' exclaimed Christopher. 'How did this happen?'

He had joined the others for security on the journey but he now spurned all thoughts of safety. Kicking his horse into life, he rode off at a steady canter to cover the remaining distance alone. Anxieties crowded in on him. What of his own house? Had that perished in the blaze? Were his possessions burned to a cinder? His precious drawings lost? Was Jacob, his servant, still alive? Did the fire reach his brother's house? Where was Henry Redmayne? And what of Christopher's friends? His neighbours? His parish church? What happened to all those magnificent buildings he so admired and from which he drew his inspiration?

How much of his London survived?

As he rode towards the smoking ruin, his mind was also ablaze.

The consequences of the Great Fire were soon all too apparent. Desultory groups of refugees trudged past him to uncertain destinations. The outer reaches of the city seemed to have been colonised by gipsies for there was hardly a spare patch of land which did not have its tents or its makeshift huts. Some families had no shelter whatsoever and simply sat by the roadside amid their vestigial belongings. Fires had been lit to cook food. Water was drawn from every stream or pond. A sense of fatigue pervaded the whole scene. Less than a week earlier, these same people all had homes, occupations and the promise of a future. Now they were nomads, exiled citizens of a capital which no longer existed.