Читать книгу The Vagabond Duchess - Claire Thornton - Страница 10

Saturday 1 September 1666

I t was a warm, sunny afternoon as Jack strolled through the City. The wooden shutters of all the shops were opened for business. It was fortunate Cheapside was such a broad thoroughfare because in some cases the lower boards projected as much as two and half feet beyond the shop front. The upper shutters were raised to provide a modicum of protection for the goods displayed on the lower board. Shopkeepers stood or sat in their doorways to guard their goods and attract the attention of potential customers. Often it was women who occupied the carved seats in front of the shops. Cheapside was one of the fashionable meeting places in the City. It had become famous for the pretty tradesmen’s wives who bantered with the men-about-town sauntering past. More trestles and stalls were set up in the street itself, though hundreds of other sellers sold their wares from nothing more than a sack or a basket on the ground.

Jack was in no hurry. He paused to exchange compliments with the blue-eyed wife of a goldsmith, then strolled on a few more yards. He was taller than most of those around him, and an instant later he was grateful for the advantage it gave him. Coming towards him was the last man he wanted to meet in London or anywhere else. He ducked into the nearest shop, which happened to be a mercer’s, and watched the Earl of Windle walk past the door and on towards St Paul’s. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Windle since their encounter at Court six months ago. As far as Jack was concerned, the longer their next meeting was delayed the better.

He left the mercers and continued along Cheapside, his blood quickening in anticipation as he approached Temperance’s shop. He’d enjoyed his encounter with the hot-tempered draper the previous night. They were well matched in several pleasurable ways. For once he was in no danger of getting a crick in his neck when he talked to a woman. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but he’d felt the pull of attraction to her from the moment he saw her in the taproom. It had been impossible to miss her in the crowd. Her personality was so vivid that, even when she was standing quite still, her thoughts and emotions had been easy to read.

Most of all, he enjoyed the way she challenged him at every turn. She was very different from the women who tried to win his favour at Court. He could not imagine Temperance heaping him with false flattery or pretending to trip up at his feet to catch his attention. She’d thanked him for his help with Tredgold, but she clearly wasn’t the woman to gush her undying gratitude. In fact, it wouldn’t surprise him to discover she believed she’d been capable of dealing with the contretemps in the tavern on her own.

As he drew closer he saw the shutters of the draper’s shop were open and goods were laid out on the board, but Temperance wasn’t sitting in the doorway. Mildly surprised by her absence, Jack lengthened his stride.

‘Go back to bed, Isaac,’ said Temperance.

‘But, mistress, I must not shirk my work,’ he protested.

‘You are not shirking,’ she replied. ‘You spent all yesterday afternoon and most of the night groaning about the pain in your head or throwing up. You know when these headaches come upon you, you are fit for nothing the next day. Go upstairs and rest. I will expect you to work doubly hard on Monday.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’ Even though he tried to hide it, she saw the relief in his face.

He was turning to the stairs when the light from the open doorway at the front was suddenly blocked. They both looked towards the customer.

The newcomer had his back to the light, and his appearance had changed in one, very startling way since she’d last seen him, but Temperance recognised Jack Bow immediately.

‘What have you done to your hair?’ The disconcerted question escaped before she had time to think better of it.

He grinned. ‘I traded it for someone else’s,’ he replied, stepping into the shop. ‘No doubt a buxom country lass was glad to sell these locks for a profit.’

He was wearing a black periwig. The hair was as black as his own but, instead of the wild, shaggy mane of the previous night, it fell in thick, graceful curls around his shoulders. It was longer than his own hair, and changed his appearance considerably. He was smooth shaven as well, and Temperance caught the faint scent of orange flower water when he moved. Today he looked far less like a rogue and a lot more like a gentleman. But he still wore the same travel-creased coat, and his lute case was slung across his back just as it had been when she’d last seen him. His hawklike nose and piercing eyes were those of a vagabond.

Her heart began to beat triple time. She was nervous and excited all at once. She wanted to invite him in. She wanted to send him on his way before he turned her life upside down. She was conscious of Isaac staring at her. For pride’s sake she wanted to treat Jack Bow like any other customer, but for several long seconds she couldn’t think of anything to say. All she could do was look at him.

He returned her gaze just as intently. She wasn’t used to such concentrated scrutiny from a man—not unless he was bargaining with her. But Jack Bow wasn’t looking at her like a tradesman. He was just…looking at her. Heat rolled over her body.

‘Mistress?’ Isaac said uncertainly.

With an effort Temperance wrenched her gaze from Jack’s face. She could see from Isaac’s expression that he was worried, unsure what he should do.

‘Go to bed,’ she said. Her voice didn’t sound as if it belonged to her.

‘Bed?’ said Jack. ‘It’s the middle of the afternoon.’

‘He is not well,’ Temperance defended her apprentice.

‘Ah.’ Jack’s shrewd gaze rested on Isaac for a few moments. He nodded as if accepting the accuracy of her claim. ‘You may safely obey your mistress, lad. I’ll not do her any harm.’

‘No, you won’t!’ Temperance retorted. ‘And I’ll thank you not to make so free with your orders in my shop, sir!’

Jack grinned. ‘Why don’t we step outside so you can keep an eye on your goods?’ he suggested.

Temperance followed him to the door as Isaac went upstairs. She looked across the width of board, automatically checking nothing had gone missing while her attention was elsewhere. She smoothed a piece of linsey-wolsey beneath her hands, then glanced up to see he was watching her with a half-smile on his lips.

‘Why were you so extravagant?’ she burst out. ‘There was nothing wrong with your hair. If you’d only combed and dressed it properly—’

‘Don’t you admire my new locks?’ His long fingers briefly caressed one of the black curls that lay against his shoulder. The gesture reminded her of the preening fops she sometimes saw strolling past her shop, but there was nothing remotely foppish about the wicked gleam in his dark eyes.

‘I suppose you’re bald underneath,’ she said, feeling disgruntled and not sure why.

‘Not quite. Are you regretting the lost opportunity to run your fingers through my hair? You should have mentioned your preference last night.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ Temperance ordered, alarmed at his indiscretion. She glanced around to see if anyone had heard him. Fortunately, Agnes Cruikshank, her neighbour to the left, was engaged with a customer.

‘Yes, Madam Tempest.’ Jack grinned.

‘All my cloth is of the finest quality,’ she declared. ‘Are you thinking of a new coat, sir? Something to do honour to your fine new hair. This pink would go nicely with the sweet little curls.’

‘Black or blue might be more appropriate,’ he mused, testing the quality of the fabric between his fingers and thumb. ‘To match my bruises when you pull out the stick banging against your thigh.’

‘I never beat my customers—’

‘Unless they refuse to pay,’ he reminded her.

‘I didn’t! I just kicked his chair. It was you who—’ She broke off. How on earth had he lured her into this ridiculous argument? But all he had to do was look at her with that exasperating, disturbing gleam in his eyes and she forgot all proper reticence.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

‘I came to make sure you’re none the worse for your adventure last night.’

‘Thank you. As you can see, I am very well,’ Temperance replied, trying for a note of sedate formality.

‘Very well indeed,’ he said. ‘Your eyes are as clear as the summer sky…’

‘Blue,’ she said weakly.

‘Obviously, otherwise I’d have compared them to something else. And your hair…’

‘Brown,’ she said.

‘Are you determined to destroy the poetry of the moment?’ He frowned at her. ‘I am famous for my sonnets, you know.’

‘You are?’

‘Humorous, witty or romantic, as the occasion requires.’

‘I’ll bear you in mind, should I ever find myself in need of a rhyming couplet,’ Temperance said.

‘Excellent. Would you, perchance, accept a sonnet in praise of your beautiful eyes in exchange for a length of this nearly as fine blue broadcloth?’

‘No.’

Jack put one hand over his heart and assumed a pained expression. ‘You’re a hard woman to do business with, Mistress Tempest.’

‘I can’t buy coal with pretty compliments,’ she said, feeling flustered.

‘Have you ever tried? The coal merchant might be susceptible to cornflower blue.’

‘I don’t think so. He… You do talk nonsense!’ She pulled herself together.

He smiled, and butterflies swooped in Temperance’s stomach. His smile was quite different from his teasing grin. It revealed a kinder, quieter side of his personality and called forth a much more profound emotional response from her than his cocky grin.

‘How long have you been mistress here?’ he asked.

‘My father died nearly two years ago,’ she said.

‘A difficult time to take on such a responsibility.’

‘Yes.’ She pushed a strand of hair back from her face, her eyes unfocussed as she remembered that time.

‘Did you stay in London?’

‘During the plague?’ She glanced at him. ‘I had nowhere else to go. We all survived.’ She shuddered as she recalled some of the terrible things she’d seen. ‘But it does seem the worst is past now,’ she added optimistically. ‘And I pray it will not return.’

‘So do I,’ Jack said quietly.

‘Were you here then?’ She looked at him curiously.

He shook his head.

‘Venice?’ she asked, remembering his comment the previous night and wanting to lighten the mood. ‘Or some other exotic location?’

‘Last year I was very dull. I went to Bruges…Oxford…but mostly I stayed in Sussex.’

‘Oxford? The King and Court went to Oxford to escape the plague.’

‘So they did,’ Jack acknowledged with a half-smile.

‘Did you…? Have you ever played for the King?’ Temperance asked, and held her breath waiting for the answer. He would surely laugh at her for asking such a silly question. But he was such a fine musician she could easily imagine him entertaining kings and queens.

Jack grinned.

‘What does that smirk mean?’ she demanded.

‘The King has more appreciation for my sonnets than you do,’ he replied. ‘The witty ones at any rate. He particularly admired one I composed about a lady’s—’

‘Never mind,’ Temperance interrupted, sure it would be scandalous. ‘Have you really spoken to the King? Or are you just teasing me?’

Jack smiled his quiet smile. ‘I have spoken to the King,’ he said. ‘And played my lute for him. I’ve played for Louis too, though that was several years ago.’

‘Louis? The King of France?’ Temperance stared at him. ‘We’re at war with France.’

‘We weren’t when I attended the French Court,’ Jack replied. ‘But the war was a cursed inconvenience when I was making my way back from Venice this summer. I got stuck at Ostend, waiting for the packet boat to form part of a convoy. By the time I’d languished in an inn for several days I could hardly afford to pay my fare home.’

‘What did you do?’ Temperance was half-fascinated, half-horrified by his revelations. She couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying than being stranded so far from home.

‘Played my lute, of course.’ This time his grin was shot through with pure wickedness.

Temperance knew—she just knew—his next revelation would be outrageous, but she had to hear what he did next.

‘Did you convince the captain of the packet boat to exchange a sonnet for your passage?’ she asked.

‘No. It was the good housewives of Ostend who showed the greatest appreciation for my talents,’ he replied.

‘What?’ She looked at him warily. ‘They gave you money when you sang?’

‘Yes, they did,’ he recollected. ‘I was sitting on the beach and they came to watch and throw me coins. Then a couple of them invited me to go home with them—to sing for them privately. Because they so greatly admired my talents.’

‘You are a rogue and a scoundrel!’ Temperance wanted to cry.

‘Only if I accepted their invitations,’ he said.

‘I’m sure I don’t care to know how you paid your way home,’ she said coldly.

‘I was rescued by my cousin,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you sell me some of this blue cloth?’

‘Not for a sonnet. And after buying that ridiculous wig I doubt you’ve enough coins left.’ She crossed her arms and glared at him.

‘How much?’

When she grudgingly named a price he delved in his pocket and produced the necessary coins.

‘Cut me a length,’ he ordered.

‘Yes, sir.’ She mutinously complied.

He leant his hip against the edge of the board and watched her.

‘There I was, playing my lute to pay for my supper, wondering how I could afford the packet fare without sacrificing my virtue—’

‘Your virtue,’ Temperance exclaimed, then snapped her mouth shut.

‘Indeed. When who should I see approaching but my cousin. A splendid, prosperous fellow. It turned out he was waiting for the packet too. So I prevailed upon him to sponsor me.’

‘Really?’ Temperance didn’t even try to keep the scepticism out of her voice. ‘What a coincidence. What was your cousin doing in Ostend?’

‘He’d gone to visit another cousin of ours in Bruges. But she wasn’t there.’

‘She? You may cease with this nonsense.’ Temperance folded the broadcloth with quick, angry hands. ‘And pay for your purchase.’

‘I really do have several cousins.’ Jack’s eyes twinkled at her as he handed over the coins. ‘One of them was a guest at the English convent in Bruges for several years. It was her fault I went to Venice this summer. I went to Bruges in April to fetch her home and found she’d already left for Italy, so I had to follow her.’

Temperance held the folded cloth in front of her and looked at Jack. Was it possible he was telling her the truth? He’d already mentioned visiting Bruges, and he’d told her about his trip to Venice more than once.

‘Is your cousin a Catholic?’ she asked, noting his reference to the convent.

‘No. At least, she wasn’t when she first became a guest of the nuns. She may have become more sympathetic to their mode of worship over the past few years,’ Jack replied. ‘But I can assure you she doesn’t have horns and a tail.’ There was an unusually acerbic tone in his voice. ‘My other cousin, the one I travelled with to Dover, is a good Swedish Lutheran. No doubt far more acceptable to your English sensibilities.’

Temperance stared at him, trying to unravel everything he’d just said.

‘Aren’t you English?’ she said. ‘I thought you were. You sound like an Englishman. You said your great-grandfather was a grocer here in London.’

‘Yes, I’m English. By birth at least,’ he replied.

‘But you have a Swedish cousin?’

‘Half-Swedish. One of my uncles decided to make his fortune in Sweden and married a Swedish lady,’ Jack explained. It was only when she noticed a slight relaxation in his posture she realised he’d tensed in response to her earlier question.

‘Don’t you feel English?’ she asked.

‘No. Yes.’ He lifted one hand towards his head, then abruptly lowered it.

‘You nearly forgot it’s not your hair,’ she taunted gently. ‘If you hadn’t wasted your money, every time you feel frustrated you’d be able to tug at your hair to your heart’s content. As it is…’ She let the words fade aggravatingly away.

‘Why are you prejudiced against my handsome periwig?’ he demanded. ‘It is no different from that of any courtier—even the King himself. Would you make fun of his Majesty if he came to buy linen from you?’

‘Of course not. But you must cut your coat to fit your cloth.’

‘Very apt. Are you ever going to give it to me? Or just clutch it against your breast until Judgement Day?’

‘Are you thinking a gentlemanly appearance will help you win another audience with the King?’ Temperance asked, experiencing sudden enlightenment. ‘I can see, if you believe it will help you win greater advancement, it might be worth the investment.’

‘I’m glad I’ve finally won your approval.’

‘I didn’t say that. If it was from pure vanity—’

‘Diable!’ Jack snatched the periwig from his head and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘There, are you satisfied?’

Her breath caught. His black hair had been cropped close to his head. Now there was nothing to soften his angular features and the predatory jut of his aquiline nose. His dark eyes simmered with impatience. He looked lean and dangerous. A hard, dark man capable of unimaginable deeds. Her first instinct was to take a step back, but she refused to give ground before him. Why had she allowed herself to forget her first impression of him? He was a vagabond.

Then he started to laugh. ‘You would try the patience of a saint, Madam Tempest. And Heaven knows, I am no saint. Let us call a truce on the subject.’

‘As…as you wish.’ Temperance’s hands felt unaccountably shaky as she turned away to finish preparing the cloth for him. ‘So where is your cousin now?’ she asked over her shoulder.

He shrugged. ‘Somewhere between London and Dover, I imagine.’

‘You left him behind?’ Temperance exclaimed.

Jack grinned. ‘I was in a hurry. There was only one good riding horse at the inn, so I took it. It was his own fault for going for a walk around the town.’

‘You abandoned him after he paid for your passage across the Channel?’ Temperance forgot her resolve not to get embroiled in any further arguments with Jack. ‘How could you have repaid his kindness so ill?’

Jack raised one eyebrow at her. ‘I took his clothes as well,’ he said, casting a disparaging glance down at the olive coat he wore. ‘Surely you didn’t imagine I normally wear such drab attire? But my own clothes had been worn to a thread by the time I reached Dover.’

‘You stole—’ Temperance clapped her hand over her mouth. Accusing a man of being a thief in the middle of one of the busiest shopping thoroughfares of London was a sure way to call unwanted attention upon them.

‘How could you be so ungrateful?’ she demanded in a furious under-voice, smacking the bundled cloth against his chest. ‘Heedless! Have you no conscience? What will you do when he catches up with you?’ she asked. ‘He’ll disown you—or worse.’

‘No, he won’t,’ Jack said. ‘And if he did, it would just mean one less relative to worry about.’

‘To be worried by you, you mean.’ Temperance pushed her hair away from her overheated face. ‘You’re a heedless knave. If you’re not careful, you’ll end at Tyburn.’

‘Would you come to wish me farewell?’

Temperance glanced sideways at him, furious with herself because she did care what happened to him. Just the thought of him meeting the hangman’s noose filled her with sick anxiety.

‘Folly,’ she muttered under her breath. She’d known him for less than one full day, and he done nothing but irritate her the whole time. Except for when he’d saved her from Tredgold and made sure she received fair payment for her linen and muslin. But apart from that….

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

‘Stupid.’ She turned on him. ‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Go and play your knavish tricks on someone else.’

He grinned. ‘I’ve played no tricks on you at all, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘But if you prefer me gone, that is easily arranged. Allow me a moment to restore myself.’

Before Temperance’s disconcerted gaze he replaced the periwig on his head and arranged it about his shoulders to his satisfaction. The contrast between his hawkish features and the long black curls now framing his face was compelling.

‘Farewell, Madam Tempest.’ He bowed and strolled away.

Temperance watched him go, then dropped into her chair. He was gone. She should feel relieved. Instead she felt flat. Disappointed. He’d gone. And even though he was a scoundrel of the first water, he’d taken all the sparkle of the day with him.

Covent Garden, Sunday 2 September 1666

Jack woke to the smell of coffee and muffled sounds from the coffee room downstairs. He climbed out of bed and stretched, bending his arms to accommodate the low ceiling. He’d enjoyed a convivial evening of music and conversation last night, but it was his afternoon encounter with Temperance that lingered in his thoughts. He smiled as he remembered her reaction when he’d told her he’d taken his cousin’s clothes and left him behind at Dover. She’d been just as entertainingly scandalised as he’d expected—and perhaps she was worried about his fate if his vengeful cousin caught up with him. Jack had no such fears, but he was flattered by her concern.

During his years of exile before the Restoration of Charles II, he had often travelled under the name of Jack Bow. It had given him a freedom of action he’d lacked when he’d been trying to maintain the dignity of his title without the support of either estates or fortune. But he hadn’t meant to assume the guise on his trip to fetch Athena. He’d only done so after he chased her all the way from Bruges to Venice and back again. By the time he’d reached Milan all his entourage had left him for one good reason or another. Once he was travelling alone it had been quicker and more convenient for him to do so as Jack Bow, rather than the Duke of Kilverdale.

He still hadn’t spoken to Athena, but he had caught up with the man who’d brought her back to England—and held a sword to his throat. The Marquis of Halross hadn’t turned a hair at having his intentions towards Athena questioned under such hazardous circumstances. Jack was reasonably satisfied Halross would make his cousin a good husband, but he couldn’t ask Athena if she wanted the marriage because Lord Swiftbourne had taken her to visit her family in Kent. Jack had decided to wait in London for her. He hadn’t yet resumed all the usual trappings of his rank, because he’d never before had a chance to wander unnoticed through the crowds of London. From the day he’d been part of Charles II’s triumphal return procession to the City, he’d always been surrounded by the pomp and formality associated with his title. It was a novelty to entertain a London tavern audience as Jack Bow, and know their praise for his music and story-telling was genuine—not prompted by the hope the Duke of Kilverdale would reward them for their flattery.

Half an hour later he wandered down to the coffee room. The serving boy had finished sweeping the floor and was scattering fresh sawdust over the boards.

‘Morning, Tom,’ said Jack.

‘Sir!’ The boy set aside his pail of sawdust at once. ‘There’s rumours of a fire in the City!’

‘A fire? Where’s your master?’

‘He went out to hear more. Three hundred houses burned already, so one fellow told me,’ Tom said, following close behind as Jack went to the door.

The coffee house was located in Covent Garden, well away from the heart of the City, but when Jack went outside he saw the street was unusually busy for an early Sunday morning.

‘It’s down by London Bridge,’ said Tom at his elbow. ‘They’re saying the Dutch started it. Do you think they did? I know you’ll want to see for yourself. I’ll come with you—to…to summon the lighter if you want to go by water.’

‘What about your duties here?’ Jack asked, looking at the half-finished floor.

‘Oh, Mr Bundle just wanted me to be here to wait on you,’ Tom replied. ‘Now you’re up I can wait on you wherever you like. And I’m sure you’d like to see the fire.’

Jack laughed at the boy’s opportunism. ‘Fetch me some bread and cheese, then. I can eat while we walk, but I’m not going fire-chasing on an empty stomach.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Tom tore off to the kitchen.

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.