'Why should we suffer punishment that others escaped?' said Thorpe, a bony finger raised in anger. 'Think back, Mr Bale. When this country was ruled by Parliament under the leadership of Lord Protector Cromwell, a due severity was introduced into church services. Not that we could accept the new liturgy ourselves,' he stressed. 'We wait in the grace and the truth that comes by Jesus. We need no liturgy and no priest to act as an intermediary between us and our God. And we were ready to suffer for those beliefs. But what of the congregation of St Peter's?' he demanded. 'Did they obey the law? No, Mr Bale. This church continued the hateful practice of dispensing the sacraments.
So many members of the nobility flocked here that they hung the galleries with turkey carpets for the accommodation of those titled sinners. The Lord Protector should have torn the place down.'
'He was not given to defiling consecrated ground,' said Jonathan. 'But I am surprised to hear you speaking with some respect of him. If we must look to the past, let me remind you that the same Lord Protector treated the Society of Friends with great harshness. Hundreds were imprisoned at his command. You were one of them.'
'I wore my ordeal as a badge of honour.'
'What of your wife and children, Mr Thorpe? I venture to suggest that they might have preferred to have you at home with them instead of languishing in a cell with your badge of honour.'
'My family and I are all of one mind.'
Jonathan bit back his rejoinder. There was no point in arguing with a man like Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe. He was a combative Christian who thrived on debate. Mocking the established religion was a serious offence, committed by a headstrong man who refused to swear the appropriate oaths and who declined to pay tithes for the maintenance of the Church he despised. A printer by trade, Thorpe was also suspected of writing and distributing religious tracts which fell foul of the law. It was almost as if he was challenging his companion to arrest him. Jonathan refused to assist him in his search for martyrdom. Though the man was profoundly irritating, the constable had a sneaking fondness for him.
'Go home, sir,' he advised softly. 'I have no quarrel with you. In a bleak time such as this, I look for small mercies. I am pleased that you and your family came through the fire without undue loss. Your house was largely spared its ravages. Most of us were not so fortunate.'
'Indeed not,' agreed the other with genuine compassion. 'It has been a time of trial. Thou art a victim, Mr Bale, I know and I am truly sorry. I came past thy house on Addle Hill today and saw again how little of it is left standing.
Where are thy wife and children?'
'Staying with my parents in Hoxton.'
'Safe, then? That is good to hear.'
'Thank you for your concern.'
'We are neighbours, Mr Bale. I hoped at one time that we could also be close friends. But thou hast chosen another path.'
'It leads in the same direction as yours.'
'I would dispute that, sir.'
'Then you must do so alone.'
'Art thou afraid to discuss thy spiritual life?'
'Good day, Mr Thorpe. I must continue my patrol.'
A note of disappointment. 'Thou art not going to arrest me?'
'Not when there are so many real criminals to apprehend.'
Before the man could reply, Jonathan touched his hat in polite farewell and moved away. He escaped lightly. Jesus- Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was a kind, generous, sincere man of undoubted intelligence but there were times when he could be the verbal equivalent of the Great Fire, raging wildly and consuming everything in his conversational path. Other members of the Society of Friends in Truth waited patiently upon the Lord but Thorpe was altogether too restless to sit in silence. It was only a matter of time before his incendiary disposition landed him behind bars again and Jonathan did not wish to be the man who put him there.
He went north up St Peter's Hill, turned left into Knightrider Street then immediately right into Sermon Lane. Each step of the way took him past ruined houses, empty shops and deserted inns. Yet there were curious survivals - stables which were untouched, a smoke- blackened warehouse with little interior damage, an occasional brick-built property with a tiled roof which had somehow kept the fire at bay. Jonathan wondered if there was any significance in the fact that the home of Jesus-Died-To-Save-Me Thorpe was still standing while his own had collapsed in a heap. Was there some hidden pattern to the Great Fire?
Carter Lane was another scene of carnage, a main thoroughfare which had been largely reduced to rubble, throwing untold numbers of people out of their homes and workplaces, and inflicting a gaping wound on the city. Taverns which had once throbbed with life now lay dead. Civic buildings which had stood like proud sentinels were no more than empty shells. Dozens of people milled about but they looked dispirited and lethargic. The customary bustle of Carter Lane had gone. It was a street of ghosts.
Jonathan picked his way through the debris and went on up to St Paul's churchyard. He was now at the very heart of London, staring in dismay at a cathedral which pumped out the life-blood of the whole city. St Paul's was at once the spiritual centre of the community and its main meeting-place, a venue for buying, selling, preaching, arguing or simply promenading with friends. As the constable knew only too well, it was also the haunt of criminals of all kinds, drawn by the prospect of easy pickings from the large crowds who came there, containing, as they did, such prime targets as gullible countrymen and foreign sightseers. Souls might be saved in St Paul's Cathedral but small fortunes had been lost within its portals and outside in its churchyard.
It was a depressing sight. Jonathan had ambivalent feelings about the great edifice but he felt shocked to see it in such a deplorable state. The roof had burned and left the whole building exposed in the most undignified manner. What made the fire more damaging was the fact that hundreds of Londoners had used the cathedral as their place of refuge, carrying their goods to what they deemed to be a place of safety and filling the nave with furniture, clothing, curtains, carpets, paintings and other combustible material, unwittingly providing the fuel for a huge bonfire, its heat so intense that it had melted the bells which hung in the tower. The sight of St Paul's in ruins and still smoking provided the most vivid demonstration
of the true extent of the catastrophe.
Hundreds of people had congregated around the building. Some came to pray, others to stare, others to walk disconsolately among the gravestones. The person who caught Jonathan's attention belonged to none of these groups. Sitting alone on a stone tomb, he was poring over a sheet of paper supported on a wooden board, sketching with a piece of charcoal and glancing up from time to time at the grim scene before him. The young man, handsome and well-groomed, was dressed almost to the point of elegance and looked incongruous among the shuffling citizens around him. While they were drab and demoralised, the artist seemed to be bristling with excitement. Jonathan's curiosity was aroused.
He was still watching as an old woman slowly approached the man. Dressed in rags, she hobbled along with the aid of a wooden crutch. Straggly hair poked out from beneath the tattered scarf which covered most of her head. Coming up behind the artist, she looked over his shoulder to see what he was drawing then inched closer until she pressed up against him. The woman backed away at once and cringed in apology, expecting at least a reprimand, if not a curse or even a blow. But the young man gave her a smile and beckoned her forward to take a proper look at his work, showing it off with evident pride. After studying it for a minute or so, the woman nodded in approval, gave him a wave of thanks and hobbled off. The artist tossed her a sympathetic glance before returning to his task.
Jonathan Bale showed her far less indulgence. When she drew level with him, he launched himself forward to grab her by the shoulders. A fierce struggle ensured. Dropping the crutch, the woman fought hard to break free and screamed in anger. The constable was just managing to subdue her when the artist came running over.