The Vagabond Duchess

Jack frowned thoughtfully, then went to get his sword. He didn’t put much credence in rumours—at the end of a hot summer fires were a predictable hazard in the crowded timber buildings of the City—but he made it a habit to be prepared for the worst. If the Dutch were about to launch an attack on London, he’d not go to meet them unarmed.

‘Even the pigeons are burning.’ Tom sounded close to tears.

‘Yes.’ As Jack watched he saw a pigeon hover too close to its familiar perch. A sudden gout of fire singed its wings and it tumbled down through the smoke-filled air.

‘Why didn’t it just fly away?’ Tom said.

‘I don’t know. Most of them are.’ Jack offered the small comfort without taking his eyes off the horrific scenes all around them.

They were in a lighter on the Thames. All around them the river was full of lighters and wherries loaded with household goods, but some people were as reluctant to leave their homes as the pigeons. Jack saw a man shouting from a window only yards from where a house was already being consumed by the leaping flames. Other people clambered about on the waterside stairs. Even from a distance Jack had the impression they were scrambling from place to place without clear purpose, too confused and shocked to know what they should do.

Some people trembled in silent fear and others shouted and cursed. The roar of the fire made it impossible to distinguish one cry from another. In this area of London the wooden houses were packed tightly together and the narrow alleys made it impossible to get close enough to the fire to fight it. There were timber warehouses near the river, some of which were thatched, and many of which were filled with dangerously combustible goods: pitch, oil, wine, coal and timber. The fire had taken a strong hold, and it burned hot and savage. To make matters worse, a strong easterly wind was driving the flames relentlessly into the City.

The houses on the northern end of London Bridge were also ablaze. Only a break in the buildings caused by a fire over thirty years earlier saved the whole bridge from destruction. The gale blew hard across the flames, sweeping a searing rain of fire droplets over the boats below. The waterman Jack had hired cursed and manoeuvred the boat closer to the south bank. Smoke swirled around them in choking clouds.

Jack covered his mouth and nose with his handkerchief. He heard Tom coughing beside him. The surface of the river was full of objects that had fallen from the overladen boats. A chair smashed against the side of the lighter. Jack pushed it away, then looked up. Above him smoke coiled around the rotting heads of traitors displayed over Bridge Gate. The dead features were hideously illuminated by sulphur bright flames.

‘’Tis hell on earth!’ Tom gasped. ‘It was prophesied. ’Tis the year of the number of the beast.’

‘Sixteen sixty-six,’ Jack murmured. ‘Six, six, six.’ He was aware that many almanac writers had predicted the year would be significant. But until he had evidence to prove otherwise, he would continue to assume the fire had been caused by human actions—either accidental or deliberate.

‘I’ve seen enough here,’ he said to the waterman. ‘Take us back upriver.’

The streets were in chaos. Temperance found her way blocked over and over again by people, carts and horses. A man in front of her, carrying a huge load on his back, tripped and sprawled headlong. One of his packs broke open as it hit the ground. Bits of broken pottery, spoons and a couple of iron pans rattled on to the cobbles. Before Temperance could offer to help, he pushed himself upright and collected the unbroken utensils, cursing continuously. All around people shouted and pushed and got in each other’s way—but there were others who wandered or stood aimlessly, clutching their hands and doing nothing of use at all.

The wind plastered Temperance’s skirts against her legs and whipped her hair across her eyes. The smell of smoke pervaded everything. The fire was still far away from Cheapside, but it was devouring everything in its path. Temperance pushed her way through the crowds until she was close enough to see the fire leaping and roaring towards her. Even at this distance the heat was intense and the noise deafening. She was so shocked she stared into the horrible, mesmerising flames for several seconds, her thoughts emptied of everything except blank horror.

She gasped and shook herself back into a more practical state of mind, but she understood better now why some people did nothing but huddle close to their threatened homes and wring their hands. The fire was a hideous monster, beyond the scale of everyday human imagining. How could anyone hope to defeat it or even comprehend it?

She headed back to Cheapside. She was nearly home when she heard a shrill shout cut across the confused babble around her.

‘It was him! He’s one of the devils who started it!’ The accusatory voice was so filled with panic and rage Temperance didn’t immediately recognise it.

‘I saw him here yesterday. With my own ears I heard him call on the devil! He’s not English. He hates England!’

Temperance suddenly realised it was her neighbour, Agnes Cruikshank. For an instant she didn’t understand, then she remembered Jack Bow’s exasperation at her comments on his hair.

‘He’s a papist French devil!’ Agnes shrieked. ‘He wants us all to burn in our beds. I saw him throwing fireballs…’

Horror gave Temperance added strength as she forced her way through the increasingly hostile crowd. She broke through a gap to see Jack surrounded by angry, suspicious men and women. The threat of violence crackled in the air. Her neighbours—quiet, reasonable people she’d known all her life—were on the brink of turning into a lynch mob.

Chapter Three

T emperance flung herself forward, almost throwing herself into Jack’s arms in her urgency to reach him before anyone else. He reacted to her presence faster than any of his accusers. She saw the flash of recognition in his eyes, then he caught her shoulders and steadied her. She pulled out of his grasp and spun to face her neighbours, holding out her arms to either side to create a barrier between them and Jack.

‘He’s not French! He’s English!’ she shouted. ‘His great-grandfather was a grocer! Here, in the City. You’re an idle gossip, Agnes Cruikshank. But it’s evil to accuse an innocent man of such a sinful crime… What?’ she demanded over her shoulder at Jack. ‘Why do you keep pushing me?’

‘Because I don’t normally hide behind a woman’s skirts,’ he replied mildly, managing to reverse their positions so he was closest to the crowd. ‘Even when she defends me as well as you just did, Madam Tempest.’

‘Tempest?’ A man in the crowd repeated, in a snort of half-amused disbelief. ‘He’s got the measure of Mistress Temperance, right enough.’

‘He’s got the look of a foreigner,’ said another man.

‘I’m as English as anyone here,’ said Jack. ‘My great-grandfather was a grocer, but I was born in Sussex.’

Temperance tried to get in front of him again, but he caught her arm and wouldn’t let her.

‘I heard the rumours the fire was started by our enemies too,’ Jack said. ‘I came out this morning ready to defend us from the Dutch—but from what I’ve heard the fire started by accident, in the house of the King’s baker in Pudding Lane.’

‘Why did you speak in the heathen’s tongue yesterday?’ Agnes came close and peered up at him through slitted eyes. ‘I did hear you. You pulled off your wig and called on the devil.’

Jack grinned. ‘How long have you lived next door to Mistress Temperance?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-three years, near enough,’ Agnes replied, glowering at him. ‘I was there at her birthing.’

‘And in all those twenty-three years, haven’t you ever felt the urge to clutch at your hair and swear?’ he asked.

Several people laughed. Only the improvement in the crowd’s mood stopped Temperance from giving Jack a swift kick on his ankle. She’d thrown herself into the breach, determined to save him, despite his annoying behaviour and questionable morals—and now he repaid her by making fun of her!

‘In English.’ Agnes prodded him in the chest. ‘I chastise her in English. Not French.’

Jack caught Agnes’s hand and held it. ‘But when I was three years old the Roundheads drove my mother out of our home,’ he said, his attention apparently focussed entirely on Agnes. ‘She fled in fear of our lives. I had to wait seventeen years to return home to England. I am not at fault for what happened when I was still a child in arms.’

‘You visited the French Court. After so long there you must have French sympathies,’ Agnes said, but she no longer sounded so hostile.

‘I went to the French Court when I was fourteen,’ Jack said, releasing Agnes’s hand. ‘That’s a long time ago. I am not a French spy.’

‘What was your great-grandfather’s name?’ asked an elderly man Temperance recognised as Nicholas Farley. ‘I’m a grocer, perhaps I knew him.’

‘Edmund Beaufleur.’

‘Edmund Beaufleur!’ Farley exclaimed. ‘He was Lord Mayor in Queen Bess’s reign.’

‘That’s right,’ Jack said.

‘Well, well, well.’ Farley nodded with interest. ‘Edmund Beaufleur’s great-grandson. Who’d have thought it?’

Temperance couldn’t believe it. London was on fire yet, by the looks of things, any minute now Farley would drag Jack off to examine the Company records in the Grocers’ Hall. At least most of the potential lynch mob had dispersed.

‘It has been an honour to meet you, sir,’ said Jack to Farley. ‘I look forward to seeing you again in happier times. I’d enjoy learning more about my great-grandfather when we can talk at leisure.’

‘Yes.’ Farley looked up and Temperance saw the animation in his face replaced by grim anxiety. ‘There is much to do.’

‘Let’s go inside, sweetheart.’ Jack took her elbow and guided her towards her door.

‘Yes. Yes.’ She gathered herself and fumbled with her key. A few moments later they were standing in the shop. With the shutters closed the only light came from the open door. Temperance stared at Jack in the gloom.

‘They might really have hurt you,’ she whispered, remembering the volatile, angry mood of the crowd when she’d arrived. She started to tremble and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘They were going to attack you—just because Agnes Cruikshank always has to push her nose into other people’s business and n-never gets her f-facts right.’