Fire Catcher (42 page)

Chapter 137

‘Lily!’ Charlie dived for the gap her body had made. He climbed back inside the spire. The bell ropes were swinging. Deep below the monstrous chasm of the cathedral seemed to taunt him.

In the dark depths Charlie couldn’t even make out her broken body.

His eyes blurred. ‘Lily,’ he whispered.

‘I’m not dead yet,’ called a breathless voice. ‘Only cut me down.’

Charlie looked in the direction of the voice and saw her hanging. She was upside down, her leg tangled up in the mass of bell ropes.

‘Help me,’ she gasped, struggling, ‘my foot is trapped.’

As she spoke the rope slipped and she dropped screaming for six feet, before halting with a jolt. The massive bell attached to her rope shuddered.

‘Lily!’ he cried. ‘Were you shot?’

‘No,’ she shouted, ‘I twisted away and slipped. Get me down.’

Charlie looked up. Lightning had flamed the spire. Fire lit the rafters. The joists which held the bell pulls were burning.

His eyes followed the rope twisted at Lily’s ankle. The slightest struggle would unloop it and send her crashing seventy feet down. ‘Don’t move!’ he shouted. ‘I’m coming.’

Charlie closed his eyes. ‘Things would be so much simpler,’ he muttered, ‘on my own.’ And then he jumped.

Charlie landed with both arms and legs wrapped around the nearest bell rope. He slid then halted himself. Lily was two ropes away and twelve feet beneath him. Manoeuvring the next heavy rope with his legs, Charlie wrapped it around his foot, pulled it towards him and swung across.

‘I’m nearly there!’ he shouted, looking up to where she hung. ‘Hold on!’

‘I don’t plan,’ gasped Lily, ‘to let go.’

Charlie looked up into the rafters and then down to the cathedral floor. The bell attached to Lily’s rope was huge. Twenty feet high at least. And the organ stretched up to a third of the cathedral height. If the bell were rung, it might lower Lily enough distance to reach the top of the organ.

‘Do you trust me?’ he asked. ‘Never mind,’ he added, seeing her expression. ‘The bell you hang from. It is too heavy for you to ring.’

‘I do not try to peal the bell!’

‘If I jump on to your rope we will be heavy enough together,’ continued Charlie. ‘The bell will turn,’ he said, glancing at it again. ‘So the rope will drop. I think it will bring us low enough to drop on to the top of the organ.’

‘I am caught,’ said Lily.

‘I will probably have time to cut you free,’ said Charlie, ‘before the bell swings up again.’

‘You
probably
have time?’

‘The rafters are burning,’ said Charlie. ‘Your other choice is the cathedral floor.’ He took a breath. ‘Put out your hand,’ he said.

Lily paused and then her little fingers snaked out in the gloom. He grasped them.

‘Ready!’ he shouted, placing his knife in his teeth. ‘Now!’

Pulling her towards him, Charlie climbed on to her rope. They hung stationary, Lily upside down, Charlie level with her calves.

‘It hasn’t worked,’ gasped Lily. ‘We don’t weigh enough to move the bell.’

‘Wait,’ said Charlie leaning back against the rope as far as he dared.

For a moment nothing happened. Then slowly the great bell began to move down, clanging a muted peal.

Charlie climbed up over Lily, bringing his head level with her suspended feet. Then, working one-handed, he took the blade from his mouth and began sawing frantically at where the rope had caught above her ankle.

At the rafters the bell reached its ascent with a sonorous clang. Charlie looked down. The top of the ornate organ was less than five feet away, but he was only halfway through Lily’s rope.

Having reached its apex, the bell began to swing back the other way. Charlie watched helplessly as the organ grew small beneath them.

Lily was struggling beneath him.

‘Stop moving!’ he shouted, looking up at the rafters. ‘The ropes are on fire.’

Lily looked upwards and froze. The fire had caught the thick bell ropes.

‘The next drop,’ said Charlie. ‘It is the only chance we have.’

The rope next to them screamed a final protest and sped coiling down into the dark cathedral.

‘When I shout,’ said Charlie, ‘let go.’

Lily’s eyes were closed in prayer as the bell gathered speed on the descent, sending them tunnelling down towards the organ.

Charlie watched the fire. Their rope would not last the downwards peal. He took hold of Lily by the waist and pulled her lower half up, to be level with him. His knife was at her ankle.

‘Ready?’ he said as they sped down.

She nodded as two more blazing ropes hit the cathedral floor.

The rope jerked as it rang the bell. Then it untwisted sharply down as fire snapped two of the three threads.

‘Now!’ Charlie’s knife sliced through the last portion, sending them both flying downwards. They sailed through the air for a moment, then landed in a heap on top of the organ. The fall knocked the breath out of them.

‘Your ankle is not hurt?’ asked Charlie, rising to his feet.

Lily shook her head. She took Charlie’s outstretched hand.

‘The papers,’ said Charlie. ‘Blackstone knows where they are.’

‘Blackstone will come down the main stair,’ said Lily. ‘We can get to the chapel before him.’

There was a splintering shriek of glass and they both twisted in the direction of the sound. It had come from the nearest window, which had thrown off a portion of brightly coloured glass.

‘The stained glass,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s held together with lead.’

The rainbow of beautiful glass was shifting and twisting in the heat. Various bible scenes were depicted in lush colours.

Something occurred to Charlie. Torr’s last words.

Alchemists look at the big picture.

What if Torr had meant it literally? The ultimate irony for an allegory spinner. What if Torr meant they should look at a picture of the Wedding of Cana?

Charlie’s eyes tracked the stained-glass windows. It wasn’t an uncommon scene to depict. And he was sure he’d seen it in St Paul’s.

Charlie’s eyes settled on the right window, just as the bride and groom shattered and fell across the stone floor. Then Jesus and Mary, gazing benignly on water pitchers, fractured into a thousand coloured pieces.

He shook his head. There was nothing there. Just an ordinary bible scene.

The last portion of window showed two disciples. They splintered apart raining down. For some reason, Charlie couldn’t place these particular men.

Something about the way the marriage was set out didn’t quite make sense. The bride, the groom. Jesus and Mary. Disciples. And then it hit him.

They’re not disciples. They’re witnesses. Witnesses to the marriage ceremony.

Suddenly Charlie knew what the marriage papers were.

Torr’s last words.

To be an alchemist you must question known truths.

With a sinking heart Charlie realised he’d shown Blackstone where to find the greatest power in England.

‘We must find the papers,’ said Charlie, throwing a leg over the side of the organ. ‘I know what they hold.’

And without waiting for her, he began making his way down.

‘What?’ shouted Lily, following after him.

‘I thought you needed three people for a wedding,’ said Charlie. ‘A bride, a groom, a minister. The stained glass reminded me. A true wedding needs five people in total.’

‘Five?’ Lily looked confused.

‘All this time,’ said Charlie, clambering down the ornately carved organ, ‘I thought Thomas and Teresa’s names on the certificate meant they got married.’

‘It didn’t mean that?’

‘No.’ Charlie dropped to the ground. The molten rain had eased now and only a few scant drops fell between the belfry and the private chapels.

‘Two witnesses.’ Charlie scanned for the best route. ‘To make things legal. Thomas and Teresa signed those marriage papers, because they were witnesses. At someone else’s wedding.’

He pointed to the front of St Paul’s, where a familiar crest hung.

‘Lead into gold,’ breathed Lily. ‘A commoner into royalty. You had it right.’

‘The right idea,’ said Charlie. ‘The wrong commoner.’

Chapter 138

The King wheeled on his horse. The fire had come too quickly. He knew it and the men knew it too.

The Carpenters’ Hall had fired. Flames had burst through the guild without warning. Any hope they had of securing extra commoners had vanished. Flames now came from all directions. They’d fought all through the night, but still had no hope of winning.

‘It’s not as fierce as we’ve fought,’ said Charles. ‘But we’ve a tenth of the men.’

‘Orders have been sent,’ said James. ‘I’ll have twenty naval men here within the hour.’

‘It won’t do us any good.’

‘Sailors race up rigging,’ said James. ‘They can climb the buildings and settle the firehooks. Each naval man is worth two troops. They’ll pull buildings twice as fast.’

‘Even so,’ said Charles. ‘Even with sailors, we haven’t enough men.’ He was looking at the Tower, thinking.

‘How much gunpowder is in the Tower?’ asked Charles.

‘Two hundred barrels at least,’ replied James, making a quick calculation of the arsenal. ‘Once fire hits, the whole Tower will explode.’

‘Send men,’ said Charles. ‘Start rolling out the barrels.’

‘There’s no time,’ said James. ‘We can’t clear out that amount of gunpowder. You’d best set your troops to make firebreaks. Slow the blaze.’

‘Send men,’ ordered Charles. ‘Remove the gunpowder.’

The Duke of York opened his mouth to protest and then decided against it. His brother would lose the crown tonight. There was no harm in obeying his last ill-judged order.

Chapter 139

Two candles winked out in the gloom of St Paul’s crypt.

Teresa Blackstone’s empty eye sockets glared out accusingly. They watched as two shadowy figures approached the edge of her magic circle. Then whispered voices echoed.

‘This is it,’ said Charlie, looking up at the crest. ‘Blackstone’s family chapel.’

It was a narrow room leading off the main cathedral. Carved wood screens partially barricaded the entrance. A high stained-glass window cast twisting colours on to the weaving nest of Teresa Blackstone’s possessions.

‘The smell.’ Lily was covering her nose. ‘It’s unbearable.’

‘The light comes from deeper inside,’ said Charlie. He was moving like a sleepwalker. ‘There.’

Charlie had stopped.

‘These are her things,’ he said. ‘Teresa’s.’

They had reached the edge of a jumble of possessions which glowed from behind by an eerie light. At first they seemed to be household items. Books, a few chairs. But as their eyes adjusted to the candlelight everything was wrong.

The furniture was broken and old. Little animal corpses lay in piles in and around the broken furnishings. Birds, mice and squirrels had been wrapped into corn dollies, their dead eyes peering out. Some had been crowned in leaves and others tied with ribbon and anointed with candlewax.

‘Poppets?’ whispered Lily uncertainly. She was looking at the decorated animal corpses.

‘It was for magic,’ said Charlie trying to remember. ‘She collected them. I think . . . Rowan brought her some of them.’

A memory was flickering through his mind. Two boys descending into a cellar. Ribbons. Blood.

‘What are the branches?’ whispered Lily. She was staring at the twisted dead foliage that tumbled over the edges of a broken chair. It was knotted at points, giving the appearance of a crazed nest.

‘Oak for strength,’ said Charlie, ‘willow for power. Purple ribbon for enchantment.’

His hand sought out the faded purple ribbon that held his key.

Lily glanced at him and then back. She was staring at them both reflected in a broken mirror. The glass forked Charlie’s face with an ugly crack.

‘This is all household furniture,’ said Charlie. ‘I don’t see her personal things.’

‘It’s a circle,’ he added. ‘The way her things are arranged. A witch’s circle. So she will be at the centre.’

Charlie’s mind was rolling with dark remembered things.

I am the magic, I am the power.

‘You’re sure you want to go on?’ asked Lily.

Charlie nodded, eyeing the pile. ‘There will be a way in,’ he said. ‘If Blackstone means to burn her then he must have left a path.’

He began moving around the edge of the broken furniture and knotted branches. After only a few steps he found where the possessions were parted by a foot.

‘Here,’ he called. ‘By the east,’ he added, mentally remapping the church above. ‘This is all symbolism. Her better things are here,’ he added, moving towards the candles.

A tapestry had been draped barring the way ahead and pewter plates and cutlery were arranged on the ground. Pinned to it was a torn part of a picture.

‘The missing part of his family tree,’ said Charlie. ‘Teresa’s half.’

‘It’s empty,’ said Lily, turning to Charlie. ‘The only face is hers.’

Charlie’s mind was ticking. The portrait of Teresa’s face was so familiar.

He could see it in his nightmares. Charlie tried to separate the dark shifting memories, to apply thief-taker logic. The face. There was something about Teresa’s face. But then it slipped and danced away and shadows crowded in.

‘Come, we must find the chest,’ Charlie decided, moving the tapestry. His fingers seemed to tingle as they swept it aside.

Beyond the fabric lay a circle of flickering candles.

Charlie’s eyes tracked around the low light, searching for the chest.

Then he saw the body.

The lips had rotted back in a ghoulish toothy smile, but part of the cheeks and upper face remained. A curtain of white hair cascaded over the plinth. The familiar features had been eaten away. A leering crone lay beneath.

The empty sockets seemed to wink out at Charlie. As though she could work dark magic from beyond the grave.

One drop of blood, Charlie Oakley.

He felt Lily bump against him as she stopped short.

‘Gunpowder.’ Lily pointed. Teresa’s remains were circled with kindling and faggots of wood. In among them were kegs of black powder. The lids were off, and fuses were set, ready to blaze through the pyre.

‘When he lights the fuses this whole chapel will blow,’ said Charlie.

He moved a little closer to the body.

‘It was not the dress she died in,’ said Charlie. ‘You can see how she was mauled into it.’

The green fabric was in the old court style. Wide at the bottom with thick lace at the neck and wrists. Teresa’s arm had been twisted at an obscene angle through the narrow bodice.

‘Her wedding gown?’ suggested Lily, regarding the elaborate lace. She moved closer to the body and examined the plinth.

Charlie nodded, drawing back.

A tablecloth lay covering something low on the ground and Charlie pulled it away. It was only when he heard Lily gasp that he truly understood what he’d revealed.

Three jars had been arranged around the base of the plinth. Crowns of drooping flowers decorated their rims but did not hide the contents.

‘Are they . . . ?’ Lily could not say the words.

‘They must be hers,’ Charlie said. ‘She must have preserved them. After they . . . After they were born early.’

Each jar was filled with clear liquid. And floating inside an unformed child.

‘They’re deformed,’ said Lily, eyes riveted to the grisly embalmings.

Charlie swallowed.

‘I’ve seen this before,’ said Lily, looking sick, ‘in the country. When the blood is too close.’

Charlie looked at her, uncertain of her meaning.

‘Sisters and brothers,’ said Lily. ‘The children come wrong. Early.’

Charlie covered his mouth in shock.

‘Teresa Blackstone’s missing family tree,’ he said. ‘She didn’t have one, because hers was Blackstone’s. They were brother and sister.’