‘No. Except I think the monks hid the formula and the barrel for fear of the destruction Greek Fire could cause.’ I looked at him. ‘They were right. The devastation such a weapon could wreak would be terrible.’
He returned my look. ‘But if it could save England from invasion. Surely anything is worth that.’
I did not reply. ‘Tell me what it was like. At the demonstration.’
‘I will, but tomorrow at the wharf. I came to tell you I’m going out. I have to fetch some clothes from the Old Barge. And I am going to ask around the taverns, see if any of my contacts know of that pock-faced man. Then afterwards I’ve a girl to see, so I’ll be back late. Got a key?’
I looked at him disapprovingly. ‘Ask Joan for hers. We must start very early tomorrow.’
He smiled at my look. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t find me wanting in diligence.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Nor will the girl.’ He gave me a lubricious wink and turned away.
Chapter Ten
THAT NIGHT I COULD NOT SLEEP, from the heat and from the tangle of images that chased each other through my mind: Elizabeth in her cell, Cromwell’s drawn, anxious look, that pair of dreadful corpses. Far into the night I heard Barak come in, footsteps creeping quietly upstairs to his room. I rose and knelt by the bed in the sticky darkness to pray for rest and guidance on the morrow. I was praying less and less these days, feeling often that my words did not ascend to God but merely dissolved inside my head like smoke, but when I returned to bed I fell at once into slumber and woke with a start to the light of early morning, a warm breeze wafting through the open window and Joan calling me down to breakfast.
Despite his night of rousting, Barak seemed fresh as a new pin, eager to be off. He told me he had been unable to trace the man who had followed us, but had set enquiries in train among his acquaintances. Straight after breakfast we walked down to catch a boat at Temple Stairs. It was not yet seven; I was seldom abroad at such an hour on a Sunday and it was strange to see everywhere deserted. The river, too, was quiet, the wherrymen waiting idly at the stairs pleased to have our business. The tide was at low ebb and we had to walk to the boat across a wooden catwalk laid over the thick, rubbish-strewn mud. I turned my head from the smell given off by the bloated carcass of a dead donkey. I was glad to step into the boat. The wherryman steered us into the middle of the river.
‘D’you want to shoot the rapids under London Bridge?’ he asked. ’It’ll be an extra half-groat.’ He was an ill-favoured young fellow with the scar of some old fight running down his face; the Thames boatmen were ever a battlesome crew. I hesitated, but Barak nodded. ‘Ay, the water’s at its lowest, there won’t be much pull under the piers.’
I gripped the sides of the boat as the great bridge, crowded with houses, loomed up, but the wherryman steered us deftly through and we floated on downriver past Billingsgate, where the big seagoing ships lay docked, past the looming mass of the Tower of London. Then we passed the new naval docks at Deptford, and I stared in wonder at the king’s great warship Mary Rose, in for repair, her enormous masts and rigging soaring high as steeples above the surrounding buildings.
Beyond Deptford signs of habitation ended and the river broadened, the far bank growing distant to the view. Wastes of marsh and reeds crowded to the water’s edge. The occasional wharves we passed were mostly abandoned, for shipworking was concentrated upriver now.
‘That’s it,’ Barak said at length, leaning over the side. A little way off I saw a crumbling jetty rising on wooden piers. Behind, a space of weed-strewn earth cleared from the surrounding reed beds fronted a large, tumbledown wooden shed.
‘I expected something larger,’ I said.
‘My master chose it because it was out of the way.’
The wherryman guided the little boat to the jetty, grasping at a ladder fixed to the end. Barak climbed nimbly up. I followed more carefully.
‘Come back for us in an hour,’ Barak told the boatman, passing him his fare. He nodded and cast off, leaving us alone. I looked round. Everything was silent and still, the surrounding reeds whispering in the light breeze, richly coloured butterflies flitting among them.
‘I’ll just check the shed,’ Barak said, ‘in case some vagabond has made a home there.’
As he went to peer through the warped boards of the shed, something dangling from a ring in an iron bollard caught my eye. A thick, knotted hemp rope, such as might be used to tie up a boat, hung over the end of the jetty. I drew it up. There were only about two feet of rope; the end was charred. It had been burnt right through.
Barak rejoined me. ‘All clear.’ He passed me a leathern bottle. ‘A drink?’
‘Thank you.’ I unstoppered it and took a draught of small beer. Barak nodded at the rope which I still held. ‘That’s all that’s left of the boat I tied up there.’
‘Tell me,’ I said quietly.
He led me into a patch of shade cast by the shed. He looked out over the river for a moment, then took another draught of beer and began his tale. He told the story with more fluency than I would have expected, a sense of wonder overcoming his usual brashness.
‘Back in March my master told me to buy an old crayer, in my own name, and have it brought down here. I found one, a big thirty-foot tub, and had it rowed down and moored here.’
‘I travelled from Sussex to London in a crayer once.’
‘You know what they’re like then. Long, heavy barges. This one was a big solid thing, with sail and oars, that used to carry coal down the coast from Newcastle. Bonaventure, she was called.’ He shook his head. ‘She was to have an adventure all right.
‘Like I said, my master chose this place because it was out of the way. He asked me to be here at first light on a March morning, when hopefully there wouldn’t be any river traffic, and wait for him. He told me I might see something strange. “More likely, though,” he said, “you won’t.”
‘Anyway, I rode down here before dawn, and damned difficult it was, following the trackways through these marshes in the dark. The old crayer was where I’d moored her, for she wasn’t worth anyone stealing. I tied Sukey up and walked about, stamping my feet to keep warm as the sun came up. The strange noises those river birds make as the day starts, they made me jump a few times.
‘Then I heard horses’ hooves, and a creaking sound, and through the reeds I saw my master approaching on horseback. It was strange seeing him out there. He had a lowering look on him, kept glaring at the two men accompanying him. They were on horseback and one of the horses was pulling a cart with something heavy hidden under a pile of sacking.
‘They got to the wharf at last and dismounted. I got a good look at the Gristwoods for the first time. I thought them poor folk, God rest them.’
I nodded. ‘Michael was an unqualified attorney. The sort who deals with small cases, pushes business for the barristers.’
‘Ay, I know that sort,’ Barak said with a sudden sharpness that made me glance at him. ‘They were both small, skinny men, kept glancing at my master with apprehensive looks. I could see he thought all this beneath his dignity; I thought if they didn’t satisfy him they’d smart for it. One of the brothers wore a skullcap and a long alchemist’s robe, the complete paraphernalia, for all that it was spattered with mud from his trip through the marshes. My master had on a simple black cloak, as he does when he travels alone. He introduced me to the Gristwoods and the pair doffed their caps and scraped to me like I was an earl.’ He laughed. ‘I thought they were the crookedest-looking pair of arseholes I’d ever seen.
‘My master ordered me to tie the horses to posts by the shed, where I’d put Sukey. When I got back, the brothers were unloading their cart. I’d never seen such a pile of strange stuff: a long thin brass pipe and a big metal handpump like some of the conduits have. The earl came over and said quietly, “Look over that boat with me, Jack. I want to be sure there’s no trickery.” I dared to ask him what it was all about, and he looked dubiously to wher
e the brothers were unloading an iron tank of some sort; by the way they were sweating and grunting there was something heavy inside. He told me then that Sepultus was an alchemist and had promised to show us a great wonder with that apparatus. He raised an eyebrow, then walked over to the boat.
‘I helped him in and he looked the ship over from end to end. We even went down to the hold and walked about, coughing for there was a little coal dust. He said to look for trickery, anything strange. But there was nothing; it was just the empty old tub I’d bought cheap from the ship merchant.
‘When we got back on deck the brothers had set up their apparatus on the jetty. The metal tank had been attached to the pump at one end and to the pipe at the other. I caught a whiff of something from the tank. It was like nothing I’d ever smelt before, a harsh tang that seemed to go right up your nostrils into your skull.’
‘Tell me more about how the apparatus looked.’
‘The pipe was about twelve feet long, and hollow, like a gun barrel. Under the end they’d fixed a wick, a pot of string greased with candle wax. The other end was fixed to the tank, as I said.’
‘How big was the tank? Enough to hold, say, a large barrelful of liquid?’
He frowned. ‘Yes. Though I don’t know how full it was.’
‘No. I’m sorry, go on.’
‘When my master and I got back on land we saw they’d heaved the tank onto a big iron tripod. To my surprise, they were trying to light a fire of sticks underneath it now, fussing about with flints.
‘Then Michael Gristwood gave a great shout of excitement. “It’s lit!” he cried. “It’s lit! Move away, my lord, away from the pipe!” My master looked scandalized at being addressed so familiarly, but went to stand behind the brothers. I went with him, wondering what on earth was to happen.’
Barak paused a moment. He looked out over the water, swirling with little gurgling eddies as the tide swept in again.
‘It happened very quickly then. Michael took a twig from the fire and lit the wick, then ran back, and he and Sepultus worked the pump up and down. I saw a movement at the front of the pipe and then a great sheets of yellow flame, a dozen feet long, shot out with a roaring sound, flew through the air and hit the boat amidships. It seemed to twist in the air like a live thing.’
‘Like fire from a dragon’s mouth.’
He shivered. ‘Ay. The wood caught light immediately, the flames seemed to stick to it and devour it like an animal eating its way along a carcass. Some of the flames fell down on the water and by the throat of God I saw the water burning. Saw it with my own eyes, a patch of flames leaping up and down on the river. For a minute I was terrified the whole river might burn up, fire leaping all the way to London.
‘Then the brothers turned the pipe round at an angle, pumped again, and another long gout of flame, too bright to look at, shot out and hit the stern. It seemed to leap at it like something alive. The boat was burning merrily now. The heat from that flying fire was tremendous. I was twenty feet away but my face felt scorched. Another burst of fire, and another, and then the poor old crayer was blazing from end to end. Everywhere birds were clattering up from the marshes and flying off. By Jesu, I was frightened, I’m no godly man but I was praying to Our Lady and all the saints to protect me and if my master allowed rosaries I’d have been fondling the beads till they broke.
‘We watched the boat, just a mass of flame now, clouds of thick black smoke rising into the sky. I looked at my master. He wasn’t afraid, he just stood watching with his arms folded, a gleam of excitement in his eyes.
‘Then I heard the screaming. I think it had been going on for a while but I hadn’t noticed. It was the horses, they’d seen those huge gouts of leaping fire and they were terrified. I ran to them and they were kicking and flailing, trying to escape from the posts. I managed to calm them before they did themselves real harm, for I’ve a way with horses, and thank God there were no more sheets of flame; what was left of the boat was sinking now. When I went back to the jetty it had gone, even the rope holding it had burned away as you can see. My master was talking with the Gristwoods, who were looking pleased with themselves for all that their clothes clung to them with sweat. They began packing up their stuff.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘The river was quiet again, the boat had sunk and the fire on the water had gone out, thank Christ. It was like nothing had ever happened: except a thirty-ton crayer had been burned to nothing in moments.’ Barak took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. ‘And that’s it, that’s what I saw with my own eyes. Afterwards, when the Gristwoods had driven off again, my master told me that what I had seen was called Greek Fire, told me how Michael Gristwood had found the formula at Barty’s, and swore me to secrecy.’
I nodded. I walked to the end of the jetty, Barak following. I looked down into the dark, heaving waters.
‘Were you at the second demonstration?’
‘No. My master commissioned me to find another, larger, ship, an old balinger, and have it taken here, but he attended that one alone. He told me the second ship was destroyed in exactly the same way.’ He looked into the river. ‘So there’s the remains of two of them down there.’
I nodded thoughtfully. ‘So to get Greek Fire to work you need that apparatus. Who built it for them, I wonder, and where did they keep it?’
Barak looked at me quizzically. ‘You believe in it now that you’ve heard what I saw?’
‘I believe you saw something very extraordinary.’
A merchantman came into view, sailing up the middle of the river, a huge carrack returning home to London from some far corner of the world. Its sails were unfurled to catch the light breeze, the high castellated prow riding the waves proudly. The seamen on deck, seeing us, shouted and waved; probably we were the first Englishmen they had seen in months. As the ship passed up to London, I had a terrible vision of it aflame from end to end, the sailors screaming, no time to escape.
‘You know there are many who say the last days of the world are upon us,’ I said quietly. ‘That soon the world will be destroyed, Christ will return and the Last Judgement will come.’
‘Do you believe that?’ Barak asked.
‘Not until now,’ I said. I saw another boat, tiny by comparison, pass the carrack and approach us. ‘Here’s our boatman, we must get back to London, look for that librarian.’
WE GOT THE WHERRYMAN to take us on to Westminster, for the Court of Augmentations’ offices were housed in a room off Westminster Hall. We climbed Westminster Stairs and paused in New Palace Yard to get our breath. The sun was high now; it was another hot day. The water in the fountain was low; I thought of pumps, siphons, tanks.
‘So this is where the lawyers come to argue,’ Barak said, staring with interest at the high north face of the hall with its enormous stained-glass window.
‘Ay, this is where the civil courts sit. Have you never been here?’
‘Like most honest people I keep clear of the place.’
He followed me up the steps to the north door. The guard, seeing my lawyer’s robe, nodded and we passed inside. In winter the interior of the giant stone building is icy, everyone shivering except for the judges in their furs. Even today it felt chilly. Barak looked up at the giant carved ceiling and the statues of ancient kings by the high windows. He whistled, the sound echoing as every noise did there.
‘Bit different from the Old Bailey.’
‘Yes.’ I looked down the hall, beyond the empty shop counters to the courts behind their low partitions, King’s Bench and Common Pleas and Chancery, the benches and tables deserted and silent. Tomorrow the law term would begin and every inch of the place would be thronged. I remembered I was to argue against Bealknap here next week: somehow I would have to find time to prepare. I looked across to a door in a far corner, from behind which a murmur of voices was audible. ‘Come on,’ I said and led Barak to the Court of Augmentations’ office.
It was no surprise that Augmentations had obtained a dispensation to open on a
Sunday. Responsible for the sale of hundreds of monastic buildings and for the pensions of the former monks, there was no busier place in the land. Inside there were counters on two sides of the room where clerks dealt with enquiries. A gaggle of anxious women in sober dresses stood arguing with a harassed-looking clerk.
‘Our abbess was promised the High Cross,’ one of the women was saying plaintively. ‘That she might have it to treasure, sir, a memory of our life.’
The clerk gestured impatiently at a paper. ‘It’s not mentioned in the surrender deed. Why d’you want it anyway? If you ex-nuns are still meeting together for papist services, that’s against the law.’
I led Barak on past a little group of well-dressed men poring over a ground plan which showed the familiar shape of a monastic church and cloisters. ‘It’s not worth a thousand if we’ve to bring the building down,’ one was saying.
We came to a counter marked ‘Pensions’. There was nobody there. I rang a little bell and an elderly clerk appeared from behind a door, looking cross to be disturbed. I told him we wished to trace the address of a former monk. The man began to say that he was busy, we should call back later, but Barak delved in his doublet and produced a seal with Cromwell’s coat of arms. He slapped it on the table. The clerk looked at it and at once became servile.
‘I’ll do anything I can, of course. To help the earl—’
‘I’m looking for one Bernard Kytchyn,’ I said. ‘Former librarian at St Bartholomew’s Priory, Smithfield.’
The clerk smiled. ‘Ah yes, Barty’s—that’ll be easy. He’ll collect his pension from here.’ He opened a drawer and, producing a massive ledger, began leafing through it. After a minute he stabbed at an entry with an inky finger.