Dark Fire (60 page)

I nodded again. Barak began to move down St Paul’s Walk, his stance casual. On the far side of the cathedral Cranmer’s voice could be heard still rising and falling, a distant
noise.

We reached the pillar; then, fast as a cat, Barak unsheathed his sword and leaped round the side. I heard a sharp ring of metal on metal; Wright must have had his own sword drawn already. He had
been waiting there to kill us.

I ran round the other side of the pillar to see him and Barak with swords raised against each other, circling, Wright moving quickly and fluidly for such a big man. All around people stopped and
flattened themselves against the wall. A woman screamed.

I drew my dagger. Wright had not seen me yet. If I could stab him in the arm or leg, disable him, we should have him. I had never attacked a man in cold blood before but my brain was clear,
every nerve alert, my fear gone. I stepped forward. Wright heard me and turned, even as he parried a thrust from Barak. His expression was as it had been at the priory: brutish, inhuman, though
intent on escape now, not murder.

He bounded to one side and ran down the nave, his sword flashing in the light from the stained-glass windows. ‘Shit!’ Barak said. ‘Come on.’ He ran after Wright and I
followed, as fast as I could, down St Paul’s Walk. Wright had paused, his way was blocked by a large family party heading for the door to the roof. Even if he slashed his way through them,
Barak would have time to reach him and strike him down.

Wright turned and ran for the door. An elderly couple had just reached the bottom of the stairs; the woman yelled as Wright thrust her aside and began running up, Barak at his heels. I ran after
them, my robe billowing around me. By the time I neared the top of the staircase I could scarcely breathe, my throat was burning as it had after the fire and for a second I tasted smoke. I saw the
open door to the roof ahead, a rectangle of sky.

I raced up the last few steps. The breeze, colder and stronger here, struck my burning face. Ahead of me was the broad flat roof, the great wooden spire thrusting five hundred feet into the sky.
Over the low parapet I saw all London laid out before me, the river curling like a snake, dark grey clouds looming right overhead now. Frightened strollers stood crouched against the parapet,
staring at Barak. He had Wright at bay, his back against the steeple, sword held up as Barak circled. Wright was big and fast, but Barak was younger and faster. I ran over to join him, standing
between Wright and the door to the stairs, holding my dagger just beyond reach of Wright’s sword. Behind me, people began running for the door.

A mocking smile appeared on Barak’s face. He waved a beckoning hand at Wright.

‘Come on, bully, it’s all up now. You shouldn’t have left your mate Toky at home. Drop the sword and come quietly. We don’t want you dead, just got some questions Lord
Cromwell wants answered. Answer him nicely and he’ll make you rich.’

‘No, he won’t.’ Wright’s voice was deep and heavy. ‘He’ll make me dead.’ His eyes darted between Barak and me; I could see he was calculating whether he
could rush me and get to the door. My stomach clenched with fear at that thought. But I would not let him escape, not now, no matter what the cost. I took a firm stance. Wright saw my resolution
and his eyes roved between us wildly; he knew he was trapped.

‘Come on,’ Barak said. ‘If you tell Lord Cromwell all, you may be spared the rack, eh?’

Then Wright jumped away from the steeple; not at me but away from us both, further out on the roof. The move took us by surprise. Barak jumped after him and I followed, helping him edge the big
man towards the parapet to trap him again. Wright looked over his shoulder at the dizzying drop. He ran his tongue over his lips, swallowed, then spoke again, his voice suddenly high-pitched with
fear.

‘I always vowed I’d never hang! I vowed it again when I saw that man in the yard.’

‘What?’ Barak paused, his sword held in mid-air. I guessed what Wright meant before Barak and made a grab for his arm but he had already leapt onto the parapet. I believe he would
have jumped anyway, but in glancing round at me he lost his balance and fell over. He vanished into the great void without even a cry. We ran to the parapet, but by then Wright had already hit the
ground. He lay there a hundred feet below, his face a white blob, blood from his smashed body spreading slowly out across the yard.

B
ARAK PULLED ME FROM
the roof and hustled me down the stairs. At the cathedral entrance a number of people who had already
run down were talking excitedly to some cathedral officials; as we neared the door a woman ran in screaming that a man was fallen from the roof. The officials raised their hands and bade them speak
quietly, concerned above all with not interrupting the archbishop’s sermon. We slipped out unnoticed.

Barak led me at a half-run into the maze of alleys round Foster Lane. He stopped at last near the Goldsmiths’ Hall, leaning against the wall of a candlemaker’s shop where a
moon-faced apprentice stood in the doorway calling out, ‘Tallow candles, farthing a dozen!’ over and again. I collapsed against the wall, gasping for breath.

‘Take off your robe,’ Barak said. ‘They’ll be looking for a man in lawyer’s garb.’

I pulled it off, bundling it under my arm. Barak straightened his doublet and looked around. The apprentice ignored us, calling his master’s wares and occasionally pushing a lock of
sweat-soaked hair back from his face.

‘Come on,’ Barak said. ‘There’ll be a hue and cry out soon. Bishop Bonner will be furious, a sword fight in the cathedral while the archbishop himself was
preaching.’

‘It’ll be a murder hunt. And I’ll be identified – a hunchback lawyer will be easily remembered. They’ll be looking for a bald young man too. Here.’ I gave him
my cap – his own had fallen off during the struggle in the cathedral. He put it on.

‘Thanks. I have the earl’s seal, but we haven’t time to argue with thick-headed constables.’

I wiped my brow. Over the roofs I could see the upper storeys of the Guildhall. Was it really only a fortnight since I had stood there as a respected barrister? Before Joseph came and set me on
this dreadful, frantic journey?

‘What now?’ I asked wearily. ‘The warehouse?’

‘Ay, we should do it now.’ He looked at me. ‘God’s nails, you’re sweating.’

‘I’m not used to fighting for my life, Barak. And it is so close.’ I looked at the sky. The cloud had covered it completely and was thickening, darkening.

‘We’ll go by the back ways. Come on.’

I followed him through the lanes, jostling people and animals, squelching through the stinking channels. To reach the river we had to cross Cheapside, and as we crossed to the southern side
someone called my name. I spun round, fearing to see a constable, but it was only Jephson, an alderman I knew, striding towards us with an attendant in tow. I bowed hastily.

‘Master Shardlake, good morning. I must speak with you.’ The expression on his round, clean-shaven face was serious. I cursed inwardly. If he had heard the news from St Paul’s
he might call the constable or even order passing citizens to arrest us. I did not relish a melee in the street. Already Barak’s hand was slipping to his sword.

‘I must tell you, sir. The Common Council wishes to thank you—’

‘What?’

‘For ordering those old stones from Ludgate to be brought to our attention. The Hebrew shows they were indeed from an ancient synagogue. Why, we have no other such examples of Hebrew
writing in all London.’

My heart lurched with relief. I swallowed. ‘I am glad I have been of service, sir. Now, urgent business awaits—’

‘We shall arrange for the stones to be displayed at the Guildhall. The Jews are only a memory, but still these stones are a part of our City’s history and should be
preserved.’

‘Thank you, Master Jephson. But now, you must excuse me—’ I bowed quickly and turned into the lanes before he could say more.

‘Arsehole,’ Barak said as soon as we were out of earshot. ‘I’d’ve liked to knock him down, just to prove I’m no memory.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t.’

He pointed to where a man was selling small ale from a barrel. ‘I’m thirsty.’

I needed a drink too and we each bought a half-pint, quaffing it down from the man’s wooden cups. As we drank I looked down the lane leading to the river; I felt for a moment someone was
watching, but I could identify no one among the sweating, bustling crowds.

S
ALT
W
HARF WAS
a wide triangular inlet which had been carved into the river bank to allow small boats to unload. There was a
street of warehouses running along one side of Queenhithe dock. We walked round the dock, where two sea-going ships were unloading oranges, and began to look for Pelican Warehouse.

It was the last of the buildings, hard by the river and solidly constructed of brick, four storeys high. A faded sign showing a bird with a huge beak hung outside. The windows were well
shuttered and barred against thieves and the door was secured with a big padlock. Although people were working in the adjacent buildings, Pelican Warehouse seemed deserted.

We walked to the far end of the building, where its south end dropped directly into the river. I looked down at the brown water. The tide was low, revealing green slime on the bottom of the
wall. Peering up, I saw an open hatchway at the first-storey level, with a winch to draw goods from boats below projecting from it. A rope hung from the winch, swinging lightly in the cool breeze
from the river.

‘No sign of life,’ Barak said at my elbow. ‘I’ve knocked but there’s no reply. There’s a hollow echoing sound, like nothing’s stored here. Shall I try
and break in?’

I nodded and he produced his little metal tool and bent to pick the lock as he had at the Wentworths’ well. I looked uneasily across the dock at the men unloading the boat, but they paid
us no attention.

‘I hope the bastards haven’t gone,’ he muttered. ‘They might move the stuff regularly to avoid being found.’

‘There may only be Toky left.’ Even alone, I thought, he would be a dangerous adversary.

There was a click and the padlock fell open. ‘There!’ Barak said. ‘Let’s see what’s inside.’

The door opened smoothly on well-greased hinges. Barak shoved it back against the wall lest anyone was concealed there. It made a hollow, echoing bang. A dark interior was revealed, lit only by
one glassed window high up. The warehouse was as wide as the nave of a church and, I saw, quite empty. There was a musty smell of cloth and the stone floor was littered with tiny pieces of wool
fibre. Drawing his sword, Barak stepped in. I followed.

‘Empty as an old nun’s womb,’ he said.

I looked up at the end of the warehouse. A flight of wooden steps led up to an upper floor, which was merely a wooden platform running round the wall except for a room next to the stairs, its
door closed.

‘That must be the office,’ I said.

‘Shall we go up?’

I nodded, my heart beating fast. We climbed the rickety wooden staircase carefully. I looked at the door, afraid that it might open and that Toky might fly out at us. Barak held his drawn sword
in front of him and I clutched the dagger at my belt. But we reached the platform safely. I saw that the door to the office was also secured by a padlock. It seemed darker now; glancing up at the
high window, I saw the sky was dark as a winter dusk. I heard a faint rumble of thunder.

Barak bent to the padlock. I coughed at the fibre dust our feet had stirred up. The place looked as though it had not been used for months. I cast my eye along the platform. There was a bale of
cloth in one corner. Barak grunted with satisfaction; he had the padlock off. He stepped back and kicked the door open.

The room was empty, there was nothing at all in there, just the big open hatchway giving a view of the lowering sky, the end of the winch secured to the floor with bolts. Then I saw a door to a
second room. I nudged Barak and he threw it open, then whistled at what was inside.

A table stood in the middle of the room. There was a beer jug and three plates, an unlit tallow candle and a hunk of bread. Another bale of cloth by the table served as a seat. We stepped
inside.

‘Someone’s been here very recently,’ I said.

Then Barak stopped as he saw what was stacked against the far wall. A long metal pipe with a wick at one end, a complicated-looking pumping machine, and a metal tripod, all bundled together
beside a large metal tank.

‘The Greek Fire apparatus,’ he breathed. ‘And look at this.’

I saw, beside the ugly tangle of metal, a tall, narrow porcelain vase about two feet high. It was the type that might be used to plant a bush for display in a courtyard. I had seen ones like it
at the House of Glass. I approached and, very carefully, lifted the little lid. Inside I saw a dark viscous liquid. The familiar vile stench of Greek Fire set the hairs at the back of my neck
prickling.

I felt Barak’s hot breath on my cheek as he stood beside me, peering into the vase. He dipped a finger into the stuff and lifted it to his nose. ‘We’ve got it,’ he
breathed. ‘God’s blood, we’ve got it!’ He stepped back, his face alight, gripping his sword handle hard in his excitement.