The Ashes of London. Andrew Taylor

King had gone by barge to the Tower, inspecting his ruined capital on the way. From there he intended to ride to Moorfields, to address the crowds of refugees. Master Williamson would have liked to go with him.

      Instead, he was obliged to walk to Barnabas Place in Holborn to see Henry Alderley about a dead servant, with me in attendance on him. It was much hotter here, even in the unburned streets, than it had been by the river. In the normal run of things, he would have taken a coach, but the streets were so congested with traffic that this was impracticable. He was not habitually an active man and his face was soon shiny with perspiration.

      These were strange times. There had been riots last night, and rumours of food shortages. Foreigners had been attacked on the assumption that they had been responsible for the destruction of London, purely by virtue of their being foreign. The King had summoned the militias of neighbouring counties, ostensibly to help fight the Fire but also to keep order if the riots spiralled out of control.

      But even in the middle of this crisis in the nation’s capital, Master Alderley was still a man of importance, not just a goldsmith and an alderman of the City. His wealth was enormous, and the King himself was said to be one of his principal debtors.

      So Williamson naturally wished to treat Master Alderley with due respect. But I was puzzled, all the same. Why come himself at a time like this? He was not a justice. He was not a lawyer. He was not a courtier.

      Williamson frequently glanced over his shoulder, as if worried that I might slip away, leaving him alone among the refugees and the desolation. This was probably the first time that he had left Whitehall since last week. He must have known in theory what the Fire had done to London, but the reality of it took him by surprise.

      We skirted the remains of the City, avoiding the worst of the destruction. He was visibly shocked by what he saw: the smoking ruins, the blackened chimneystacks rearing out of the ashes, and the sluggishly moving crowds of homeless people encumbered with possessions and with the weaker members of their families.

      These horrors affected me, too, but I had my own worries to distract me. Williamson had no reason to trust me, let alone like me. I had worked for him only since the beginning of the summer. The connection between us had come about in a most unexpected way, and he could not have welcomed it.

      In May, I had petitioned the King for the third time, begging that His Majesty might in his infinite mercy see fit to release my father from the Tower. He had been imprisoned since the suppression of Venner’s Rising in 1661. Though my father had not taken part himself in this abortive attempt to seize London on behalf of King Jesus, he had been a known Fifth Monarchist before the Restoration, and the authorities had seized treasonable correspondence that implicated him in this new rebellion. Since my father was a printer by trade, the conspirators had asked him to print a proclamation announcing the change of monarchy from the terrestrial to the divine. Fool that he was, he had agreed.

      The Fifth Monarchists took their beliefs from the second chapter of the Book of Daniel, in which the prophet interpreted King Nebuchadnezzar’s dream of a great image made of gold, silver, brass, iron and clay. Daniel prophesied on this evidence that four kingdoms would rise: and that then would come a fifth kingdom, which would break into pieces and consume all the others, and that this kingdom would last for ever. My father and his friends had had no doubt whatsoever that this fifth monarchy would be that of King Jesus. To bring this about they had been the implacable foes of the King in the late civil wars, and had done much to bring about the execution of Charles I.

      Unfortunately the King’s death had not ushered in the reign of King Jesus after all. Instead it had led to the Commonwealth, which had soon become a military dictatorship under Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell, a king in all but name, grew increasingly hostile towards his former allies among the Fifth Monarchists. A year or two after his death, the monarchy was restored amid great popular acclamation in the person of Charles II.

      My father had not given up hope, and the burning of London could only encourage this. Despite everything, he was still waiting for the destruction of terrestrial empires, still waiting for King Jesus and the reign of heaven on earth. And I was still trying to keep his mouth shut about it.

      The King had not responded to my petition for clemency, which had come as no surprise since he hadn’t responded to the other two. But, ten days later, Master Williamson had written to me and commanded me to wait on him at Scotland Yard.

      Yes, he said, His Majesty in his infinite mercy had decided that my father could, on conditions, be released into my custody. The first of these was that he should live in retirement and undertake not to meet those of his former associates still at large. There was no question, of course, of his house, business and possessions being restored to him. The second condition was that I should stand surety for his good conduct.

      The third condition was that I should enter the employment of Master Williamson, and undertake any tasks that he might see fit to give me.

      When disgrace had fallen on us after Venner’s Rising, I had been nearing the end of my apprenticeship to my father. In other words, I had the knowledge and the skills of the trade. That was one reason why Williamson wanted me to liaise with Master Newcomb, the printer of the Gazette, to make sure that he did not cheat the government.

      He had given me other tasks, however, from the very beginning. My years at St Paul’s School had not been altogether wasted – I had an education that most other apprentices lacked. So he set me to copying letters. Taking notes. Running errands. Even talking to people on his behalf, sometimes when he did not wish his interest in them to be known.

      But why take me with him now, when he went to call on one of the richest men in the kingdom?

      Why me?

       CHAPTER NINE

      BARNABAS PLACE WAS not far from Holborn Bridge, where my Lord Craven’s men had brought the Fire to heel yesterday. The streets around it were mean, but the house itself was ancient and of considerable size. It also appeared to be built largely of stone, which must be a great comfort (Master Williamson remarked) in these inflammatory times.

      I rapped on the great gate with the hilt of my dagger. Williamson stared about him, his mouth twisting with distaste. Refugees had swollen the crowd of beggars and supplicants that usually gathered at a rich man’s gate.

      I knocked again. This time a shutter slid back and a porter asked me what we wanted.

      ‘Master Williamson is here on the King’s business. Tell Master Alderley he is here.’

      The porter let us in, shaking his staff at two women, one with a baby wrapped in a shawl, who tried to slip in after us to beg for alms or find shelter. He showed us up a short flight of steps and into an anteroom.

      All this was to be expected, but for some reason the porter was not at his ease. His eyes were restless, and he could not wait to leave us alone. After he left the room, we saw him whispering to another servant, and then both men turning to look towards the room where we were.

      Moments passed. I stood by an oriel window overlooking a small courtyard. Williamson paced up and down, occasionally pausing to make a pencilled note in his memorandum book. It was strangely quiet after the hubbub of the streets. The thick walls of Barnabas Place made it both a sanctuary and a prison.

      ‘Why in God’s name is Alderley keeping us waiting?’ Williamson burst out, his Northern accent particularly marked.

      ‘Something’s going on, sir. Look.’

      While I had been at the window, nearly a score of servants had gathered in the yard; they waited, uncharacteristically idle for the time of day, moving restlessly to and fro, and holding short, murmured conversations with each other. There was a furtiveness about their behaviour, and a strange air of uncertainty.

      At that moment the door of the anteroom opened and a young lady entered. Williamson and I uncovered and bowed.

      ‘Mistress