Dark Fire (62 page)

‘No? You have the formula safe, Marchamount?’

The serjeant patted his doublet. ‘Yes, your grace. It never leaves my person now.’

The duke nodded, then turned back to me. ‘We shall find the stuff the formula calls naphtha, Master Shardlake. We will make a voyage to where some can be found.’

‘All those places are under the Turks.’

‘Are they? Well, I am not short of gold.’ Norfolk narrowed his eyes. ‘This will be my triumph. The king tires of reform, he sees now the chaos it brings. In the end he will be
persuaded back to Rome and, who knows, perhaps Catherine will give him another son. A Howard heir, in case anything should happen to the little Seymour prince.’ He smiled again and raised his
eyebrows.

‘And you killed all those people to make it so.’

He nodded seriously. ‘Yes. Does that offend your legal sensibilities, lawyer? They were common churls. Rogues and a whore, a common founder. They were nothing, chaff before the wind. I
seek to change the future of England, save three million souls from the heresy of the reformists.’ The duke stood up, walked over and kicked me, casually but painfully, on the shin. Then he
nodded at Toky. ‘I’ll leave you to deal with them. Have what sport you wish, but before the lawyer’s dead I want all the details of what Shardlake found in those old books. The
bodies can go out of the hatchway afterwards. Marchamount, stay and help question him. Note what he says.’

The serjeant wrinkled his nose. ‘Is that really necessary? It will be an unedifying spectacle—’

‘Yes, it is,’ the duke answered shortly. ‘You’re a bookish lawyer like the crookback. These fellows will know no more of old Roman writers than I do.’

Marchamount sighed. ‘Very well.’

‘And now I am going back to Bishop Gardiner’s house to dine with Catherine. Inform me when it’s done.’ The duke inclined his head to me. ‘You’ll find there
are more painful things than burning, lawyer, if I know Master Toky.’ He snapped his fingers at young Jackson and the boy helped him back into his coat, then opened the door to the outer
room. Through the hatchway I saw the sheeting rain and the river surging by, the tide nearly high now. Fletcher and Toky bowed as the duke swept through the doorway, followed by Jackson.

There was silence for a moment, save for the hissing of the rain and their footsteps descending the stairs. Toky pulled out a long, sharp dagger. He smiled. ‘Each cut will be for Sam
Wright.’ He stood up. ‘Here we go, crookback, we’ll start with your ears—’

Marchamount gave me an apologetic smile. ‘This will be an unusual type of discourse for lawyers, I am afraid.’

I felt Barak tense beside me. His hands, untied, shot down to the floor. Balancing on them, he launched a high kick at Fletcher. It was brilliantly done. He caught him in the stomach and sent
him crashing back against the wall. His head hit it with a bang that shook the whole room and he slid down the wall, unconscious.

Barak leaped to his feet and lunged for the corner where his sword had been thrown. I hauled myself up, almost screaming at the pain from my back and my cut wrist, as Toky dropped his knife and
pulled out his sword. Barak reached his weapon, but half-stumbled as he rose. Toky would have stuck him had I not grabbed my dagger and stabbed him in the thigh. As he let out a bellow of pain and
fury Barak slashed at his hand, half severing it. Toky’s sword clanged to the floor.

Marchamount reached to his belt and produced a dagger of his own. Breathing heavily, he lunged at me, but Barak kicked out again and knocked the big man’s legs from under him. He landed on
the floor with a thump. I winced as Barak lunged with his sword, burying it in Toky’s heart. Toky looked down, stared round at us with those savage eyes, unbelieving, then their strange light
seemed to go out and he crumpled slowly to the floor. Barak and I stood for a second, scarcely able to believe the savage force which had dogged our steps these last weeks was gone.

‘There’s a new face in hell,’ Barak said.

There was a moan from the corner as Fletcher came to. Marchamount hauled himself up with the aid of the table, dusty and red in the face. Barak turned and held the sword at his throat.
‘Now, you big old toad, you’re going to come with us and croak to the earl.’

Marchamount swayed. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Listen. The duke will pay—’

Barak laughed. ‘Not us, he won’t. You’ll have to do better than that, you fat toad. Whose ancestors were all fishmongers and serfs,’ he added with pleasure.

Marchamount hung his head. I almost felt sorry for him. Fletcher was struggling to his feet. He stood groggily against the wall for a moment, taking in Toky’s body and Marchamount pinned
against the table. Then he jumped to the door, threw it open and ran. I made to follow but Barak held me back.

‘Let him go. We’ve got our prize.’

‘Please,’ Marchamount groaned, ‘let me sit. I feel faint.’

Barak gestured to the bale of wool. ‘Go on, then, you great bag of guts.’ He watched contemptuously as Marchamount half-fell onto it, then turned to me. ‘Get that
vase.’

‘What?’

‘We’re taking that to the earl as well.’

I picked up the vase. At least it was in my hands. It was very heavy, almost full. ‘I am not sure about this, Barak,’ I said. ‘We have Marchamount, we know about the duke.
That’s enough to save Cromwell and damn the Howards.’

He looked at me seriously. ‘I must have that vase,’ he said quietly.

‘But Jack, you know what it can do—’

‘I must have it. I—’

Barak broke off with a yell. Marchamount, moving faster than I would have thought possible, had bent and grabbed at Toky’s sword, then jumped up and thrust at Barak’s neck. Barak
twisted just in time to deflect the blow, but it caught his sword arm. He grabbed at his bicep, blood welling between his fingers. He dropped the sword, his arm useless. Marchamount hefted
Barak’s sword and glanced at me standing with the vase. He gave me a triumphant look as he drew back his sword arm to give Barak a killing blow.

I threw the contents of the vase at him. A great spout of thick black liquid shot out, its stink filling the room as it drenched Marchamount. He howled, staggered back, and slipped in some of the stuff that had fallen to the floor. He
overbalanced, falling back against the table. The candle overturned. The flame touched his sleeve and before my unbelieving eyes Marchamount’s whole body erupted into a pillar of fire. I
jumped back in horror as he screamed, a mass of flame from head to toe. He beat his hands against his sides, frantically, uselessly. Already there was an awful smell of burning flesh. I saw the
table was burning too, and the floor where some of the stuff had fallen.

Marchamount ran for the open door, his legs swirling with flames, and staggered into the other room. I followed. I shall never forget the sight of him howling and writhing, a living torch of red
and yellow flame, his white teeth bared in agony, his face already blackening, his hair on fire. He made a howling animal noise as he stumbled across to the hatchway, pieces of burning clothing
falling from his body. An awful sizzling sound was coming from him. He leapt through the hatchway, still howling as he fell, a pillar of fire, into the river. He hit the water with a tremendous
splash and disappeared. The horrible inhuman roaring was cut off and then nothing was left of him, only rags of his serjeants’s robe still burning on the floor.

I heard Barak shout and turned back. The other room was an inferno, the vase that had held Greek Fire lying smashed in the centre of the flames, fire licking over the projection apparatus. Barak
made a step towards it, bleeding copiously though he was. I grasped his shoulder.

‘It’s too late now. Come, or we’ll go up with the warehouse.’

He gave me an angry, anguished look, but followed me as I ran for the stairs. We ran down into the body of the warehouse; looking up, we saw flames already licking round the walls of the office.
Barak paused, blinked, collected himself.

‘We must get to the earl,’ he said. ‘We must leave the fire to burn.’

I nodded. We ran outside into the rain. I gasped at the cold water lashing into my face. The ships were still being unloaded; the dockhands, heads bowed, had not yet noticed the smoke that was
starting to pour from the hatchway over the river. I looked down at the water; I thought I saw something black surface for a moment before it was swept upriver on the tide; it might have been a log
of wood, or the remains of Marchamount, Greek Fire’s last victim.

W
E WALKED SLOWLY BACK
along Cheapside then down to the river, through lanes that the rain had already turned into trails of
filthy, clinging mud. There can be something pitiless about rain when it pounds, hard, on exhausted heads, as though cast from heaven by an angry hand. This was a real storm, no half-hour
cloudburst as before. Everywhere drenched Londoners, their thin summer clothes clinging to them, ran to get out of the rain.

Barak paused and leaned against a wall. He clasped his wounded arm and I saw a trickle of blood welling between his fingers.

‘You need that seen to,’ I said. ‘We can walk to Guy’s, it’s not far.’

He shook his head. ‘We must get to Whitehall. I’ll be all right.’ He looked at my wrist. ‘How’s your hand?’

‘It’s fine, it wasn’t a deep cut.’ I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. ‘Here, let me bind your arm up.’ I tied the handkerchief round his arm, pulling it
tight; there was a little spurt of blood and then, to my relief, the trickle stopped.

‘Thank you.’ Barak took a deep breath. ‘Come, let’s get a wherry.’ He heaved himself away from the wall. ‘We’ve won,’ he said as we struggled on
to the river stairs. ‘It will be Norfolk who suffers, not Cromwell. Norfolk tried to gull the king and that won’t ever be forgiven.’

‘If the earl is believed. We’ve no proof now Marchamount is dead and everything destroyed in that fire.’

‘Norfolk will be interrogated. And we’ll get Fletcher picked up.’ He whistled. ‘Shit, the earl may have us appear before the king himself and tell our story.’

‘I hope not. Whoever he believes, he’ll be furious if there’s no Greek Fire for him.’

Barak gave me a searching look. ‘You saved my life by throwing that vase at Marchamount.’

‘I did it without thinking – it was instinct. I’d not have had even Marchamount die like that.’

‘But what if he hadn’t attacked us? Would I have had to take that vase from you by force?’

I met his gaze. ‘It’s all one now,’ I said. ‘Past mattering.’

Barak said no more. There was a wherry waiting at the stairs, and soon a surging tide was carrying us rapidly upriver to Whitehall. The rain lashed down, churning up the river, rumbles of
thunder still sounding overhead. A world of fire turned to a world of water, I thought. I could not help glancing into the river, fearing Marchamount’s blackened corpse might reappear, but it
must have long since sunk or been washed beyond the City by the tide. I hoped the people at Salt Wharf had managed to stop the warehouse fire from spreading; thank God the building was brick.

I huddled into my soaked clothes, watching the rain bouncing from the heads of Barak and the boatman. I saw from a church clock that it was almost three. I remembered I should have gone to the
Wentworths today; I had only tomorrow left now. Joseph would be fretting and worrying.

‘What did Norfolk mean when he said he’s had more help than we guessed?’ Barak asked suddenly.

I frowned. ‘It sounds as though I was right earlier – someone close to us has been acting as a spy.’

‘But who? The man I use to send messages is someone I trust.’ He frowned. ‘That old Moor knows much of what’s been going on.’

I shook my head impatiently. ‘Guy would never have any truck with murder.’

He grunted. ‘Not even for the papist cause?’

‘Believe me. I know him.’

‘Or Joseph?’

‘Come, Barak, can you see Joseph Wentworth acting as anyone’s spy? Besides, he’s a reformer.’

‘Then who? Grey?’

‘He’s been at Cromwell’s side these fifteen years.’

‘Well, who then?’

‘I don’t know.’

The boat bumped into Whitehall steps. While I paid the boatman, Barak showed his seal to one of the guards and we were waved on into the palace. Climbing the stairs, I found it hard to get my
breath, little white flashes danced in front of my eyes and I had to pause at the top. Barak was breathing hard too. I looked through the veil of tumbling water at the grand buildings, shivering,
for a sudden cold had come with the rain. Barak blew out his cheeks and plodded on, and I followed him wearily.

Once again we made our way to the Privy Gallery and on to Cromwell’s quarters. The guard admitted us to the outer office, where Grey sat over his papers. He was checking some documents
with a clerk and looked up in surprise at our drenched, muddy forms.

‘Master Grey,’ I said, ‘we have a message for Lord Cromwell. It is of the greatest urgency.’

He looked at us a moment, then bade the clerk leave. He came round his desk, fluttering his arms anxiously. ‘What has happened, Master Shardlake? Barak, your arm—’

‘We have the answer to Greek Fire,’ I said. ‘It was all a fraud, planned by Norfolk to discredit Cromwell.’ I quickly told him what had happened at the warehouse, my
words tumbling over each other. He sat with his mouth open.

‘Please,’ I concluded urgently, ‘we must tell the earl at once.’

He glanced at Cromwell’s closed door. ‘He’s not here. He had a message to go to Hampton Court, Queen Anne is there and sent for him. He left by boat an hour ago. He’s due
back at Westminster this evening, some parliamentary business—’

‘Where is the king?’

‘At Greenwich.’

‘Then we’ll go to Hampton Court.’ Barak stepped away from the table, then groaned. He staggered and would have fallen had I not caught him and sat him on a chair. Grey’s
eyes widened.

‘What ails him? Look, his arm is bleeding.’

I saw the tourniquet had loosened and Barak was bleeding again. He was deathly pale and there was sweat on his face. ‘God’s teeth, I’m cold.’ He shivered, plucking at his
soaked doublet.