Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘If he was mad before, he’ll be lunatic now,’ I said in low voice. ‘All this destruction because he lit a fire in Pudding Lane. What will that do to his conscience?’

I stepped out across the busy stone floor, picking my way carefully through the melee. So many bodies crammed together created an unnatural warmth, leading all to feel uneasy. A fight broke out away to the left, afront of Bishop Kempe’s chapel. Two men squabbling over a square foot of stone floor, anxiety and frustration turned to violence.

‘A long time since so many came to church,’ I said, crossing the transept into the choir, treading through the rubble beneath the shadow of the four enormous pillars that held up the lead-covered tower.

The Rose Window glowed red and orange, shimmering and flickering, casting a fiery pall upon the walls and ceiling, and upon the marble tomb of Thomas Ewer lain just afore us. Past the bust of Dean Nowell, we entered the Lady Chapel, past the skeletal brass figure of Bishop Braybrooke. Unsettling to walk amidst the fine carved figures of men long dead, across a rubble-covered stone floor glowing red like the pits of Hell.

We returned back the way we came, discouraged, for Josselin was

more cunning than us. I feared we might walk straight past him and not recognise him. Yet he knew where we were, I was certain.

The merchants, booksellers and goldsmiths queued at the two entrances to the crypt on either side of the transept. Stairs led down into the bowels of the cathedral, the parish church of St Faith’s. Yet these fellows didn’t push and shove in order to pray. Their boxes and chests were full of worldly goods. However unlikely it seemed that Josselin would expose himself to the attention of so many, I had no doubt that if the letter was down there, he would be down there too.

We joined the line and stood self-consciously with arms bare. A fog of stinking sweat hung about our heads. These men’s faces shone red and wet, despite their fine clothes. We dared not skirt the queue, for tempers simmered, so we descended the steps slow, one at a time, hemmed in the midst of the angry crowd.

At the base of the stairs stood a man with parchment and pen, surrounded by merchants, wearing a frayed dark coat, fingers stained black. A row of five great brutes, each with pike and sword, prevented further passage. The crypt spread the whole length of the church, like a giant warehouse. Crates of books and lines of chests and trunks stood in long, neat lines. The room was bare of furniture. The edges of the space hid in darkness.

The man with the ledger peered up at me through rheumy eyes. ‘What do you want?’

‘We have come to help,’ I replied. ‘We were told to come down here and move some books.’

‘Told by who?’ he asked, looking me up and down.

I remembered a name. ‘Edward Taylor.’

He stared. ‘Edward Taylor,’ he repeated. ‘Edward Taylor is here. Is it worth my while fetching him?’

I pursed my lips and shook my head. The man with the ledger shuffled over to whisper into the ear of one of the sentries, pointing at me and making hissing noises. Time to leave. Through more crowds of anxious squirrels, all desperate to hoard their nuts.

‘Josselin cannot be there,’ I said, once we reached the transept, looking anxiously back over my shoulder.

‘Josselin has more wit than you and I put together,’ replied Dowling. ‘If he wishes not to be found we will not find him.’

I gripped his sleeve. ‘We’ll try the Chapter House.’

I hurried across the transept and out into a tiny square, surrounded on three sides by a two-storeyed cloister. Here we were alone, for the sky hung heavy above our heads, a dull, dirty orange flecked with grey clouds of wafting smoke speckled with ash.

‘Why did Josselin leave his letter here in the first place?’ I grumbled, pushing open the door of the Chapter House. It was a strange, round building, ten paces wide, wall to wall.

‘He was in a hurry,’ said Dowling. ‘Accused of murder and treachery. He passed by on his way out east.’

‘Why enter the City at all?’ I replied. ‘Faster to go round the wall.’

‘Aye,’ Dowling replied. ‘Perhaps there is no letter after all.’ He wandered back out into the courtyard. ‘When a man says he possesses a box and refuses to tell ye what it holds, usually it’s because he has only just made up the lie and hasn’t had time to finish it.’

The cloisters were shallow, impossible to hide therein without being seen. We toured the square slowly, scrutinising every inch of stonework.

‘The roof?’ Dowling suggested.

‘Why should he hide on the roof?’ I spoke as if the idea was ridiculous, for I had no desire to climb such a decrepit structure.

‘The roof is covered in timber where they are repairing it. Even if he climbed all the way up where could he have hidden a letter?’

‘We’ve been everywhere else.’ Dowling stared upwards. ‘Who knows what hiding places there might be.’

I followed his gaze. My head spun, the ceiling was so high. Dowling headed to the door leading to the staircase

‘Attention!’ shouted a voice from around the corner. ‘Attention!’ it shouted again, more urgent. ‘The fire has spread nearly to the wall,’ a soldier pronounced. ‘Soon Ludgate will be ablaze. The prisoners have already been moved elsewhere. Everyone must leave now, through the west gate, before it is too late.’ The soldier stepped into view out of the choir, repeating his message, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

A low moan filled the air, rising to the top of the ceiling and reverberating about our ears in strange echo. A woman screamed and men began to shout. Soldiers streamed from the choir down into the nave, rousing the inert and forcing everyone to pick up what they could and hurry away to our left.

Dowling and I stayed where we were. Keen to leave, but not before we found Josselin. We allowed ourselves to be swept along by the crowd towards the choir. Soldiers lined the steps, armed and anxious, surveying the crowd that swarmed the nave, nervous and afraid.

‘No more time,’ shouted another soldier at the merchants that fought against the tide, arms full. ‘Take the rest of your goods with you and seal the doors. No more time.’

I ducked my head just in time to avoid being spotted by Arlington and Withypoll.

I tugged at Dowling’s sleeve. ‘Lower your big head,’ I hissed.

He bent his knees and tried his best, but his white head shone like a beacon, glowing in the gloom.

I pulled him sideways, towards a thick wooden door. Behind it a narrow staircase, twisting up into the gloom.

‘How did they know where to find us?’ I panted, dashing up the first few stairs in case we were followed.

‘One of his spies,’ said Dowling, close behind. ‘Unless it’s Josselin’s doing.’

‘Why should he do that?’ I snorted, though I feared he might speak the truth. ‘Save us from the flames, then unleash those two beasts upon us.’

‘Just climb,’ Dowling snapped. ‘You’ll need every breath you’ve got.’

I had to stop and rest twice before we finally reached the top of the stairs, five hundred feet above the ground. The wind gusted strong, rattling loose timbers strewn all about, the sky awash with black smoke. My legs felt weak, petrified by the fear of being blown off the top, yet I couldn’t help but follow Dowling to the edge to contemplate the horror that played itself out before our eyes.

The whole of London was ablaze. We sat as if upon the mast of a giant ship floating on a small lake, the cathedral protected on all sides by the expanse of the churchyard. It was the only empty space betwixt the City walls, and so the flames below us happily consumed every house and every building, not a single hole in the sheet of fire. All gone. The churches, the halls, Cole Harbour, the Exchange. My little house on Bread Street and Dowling’s house and shop. Nothing survived.