Marchamount ran for the open door, his legs swirling with flames, and staggered into the other room. I followed. I shall never forget the sight of him howling and writhing, a living torch of red and yellow flame, his white teeth bared in agony, his face already blackening, his hair on fire. He made a howling animal noise as he stumbled across to the hatchway, pieces of burning clothing falling from his body. An awful sizzling sound was coming from him. He leapt through the hatchway, still howling as he fell, a pillar of fire, into the river. He hit the water with a tremendous splash and disappeared. The horrible inhuman roaring was cut off and then nothing was left of him, only rags of his serjeants’s robe still burning on the floor.
I heard Barak shout and turned back. The other room was an inferno, the vase that had held Greek Fire lying smashed in the centre of the flames, fire licking over the projection apparatus. Barak made a step towards it, bleeding copiously though he was. I grasped his shoulder.
‘It’s too late now. Come, or we’ll go up with the warehouse.’
He gave me an angry, anguished look, but followed me as I ran for the stairs. We ran down into the body of the warehouse; looking up, we saw flames already licking round the walls of the offlce. Barak paused, blinked, collected himself.
‘We must get to the earl,’ he said. ‘We must leave the fire to burn.’
I nodded. We ran outside into the rain. I gasped at the cold water lashing into my face. The ships were still being unloaded; the dock-hands, heads bowed, had not yet noticed the smoke that was starting to pour from the hatchway over the river. I looked down at the water; I thought I saw something black surface for a moment before it was swept upriver on the tide; it might have been a log of wood, or the remains of Marchamount, Greek Fire’s last victim.
Chapter Forty-five
WE WALKED SLOWLY BACK along Cheapside, then down to the river, through lanes that the train had already turned into trails of filthy, clinging mud. There can be something pitiless about rain when it pounds, hard, on exhausted heads, as though cast from heaven by an angry hand. This was a real storm, no half-hour cloudburst as before. Everywhere drenched Londoners, their thin summer clothes clinging to them, ran to get out of the rain.
Barak paused and leaned against a wall. He clasped his wounded arm and I saw a trickle of blood welling between his fingers.
‘You need that seen to,’ I said. ‘We can walk to Guy’s, it’s not far.’
He shook his head. ‘We must get to Whitehall. I’ll be all right.’ He looked at my wrist. ‘How’s your hand?’
‘It’s fine, it wasn’t a deep cut.’ I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. ‘Here, let me bind your arm up.’ I tied the handkerchief round his arm, pulling it tight ; there was a little spurt of blood and then, to my relief, the trickle stopped.
‘Thank you.’ Barak took a deep breath. ‘Come, let’s get a wherry.’ He heaved himself away from the wall. ‘We’ve won,’ he said as we struggled on to the river stairs. ‘It will be Norfolk who suffers, not Cromwell. Norfolk tried to gull the king and that won’t ever be forgiven.’
‘If the earl is believed. We’ve no proof now Marchamount is dead and everything destroyed in that fire.’
‘Norfolk will be interrogated. And we’ll get Fletcher picked up.’ He whistled. ‘Shit, the earl may have us appear before the king himself and tell our story.’
‘I hope not. Whoever he believes, he’ll be furious if there’s no Greek Fire for him.’
Barak gave me a searching look. ‘You saved my life by throwing that vase at Marchamount.’
‘I did it without thinking—it was instinct. I’d not have had even Marchamount die like that.’
‘But what if he hadn’t attacked us? Would I have had to take that vase from you by force?’
I met his gaze. ‘It’s all one now,’ I said. ‘Past mattering.’
Barak said no more. There was a wherry waiting at the stairs, and soon a surging tide was carrying us rapidly upriver to Whitehall. The rain lashed down, churning up the river, rumbles of thunder still sounding overhead. A world of fire turned to a world of water, I thought. I could not help glancing into the river, fearing Marchamount’s blackened corpse might reappear, but it must have long since sunk or been washed beyond the City by the tide. I hoped the people at Salt Wharf had managed to stop the warehouse fire from spreading; thank God the building was brick.
I huddled into my soaked clothes, watching the rain bouncing from the heads of Barak and the boatman. I saw from a church clock that it was almost three. I remembered I should have gone to the Wentworths today; I had only tomorrow left now. Joseph would be fretting and worrying.
‘What did Norfolk mean when he said he’s had more help than we guessed?’ Barak asked suddenly.
I frowned. ‘It sounds as though I was right earlier - someone close to us has been acting as a spy.’
‘But who? The man I use to send messages is someone I trust.’ He frowned. ‘That old Moor knows much of what’s been going on.’
I shook my head impatiently. ‘Guy would never have any truck with murder.’
He grunted. ‘Not even for the papist cause?’
‘Believe me. I know him.’
‘Or Joseph?’
‘Come, Barak, can you see Joseph Wentworth acting as anyone’s spy? Besides, he’s a reformer.’
‘Then who? Grey?’
‘He’s been at Cromwell’s side these fifteen years.’
‘Well, who then?’