The Book of Fires by Paul Doherty Page B

reason we welcome such slaughter. Sutler has seen to the hanging of some of our comrades, whilst the justices relish their harsh and cruel sentences against the Sons of the Soil.’ He paused. ‘Eat, drink! Please do. You are our honoured guest.’ Another Upright Man scurried forward, knife flashing in the firelight. He cut strips from the coney and put these on an earthenware platter along with a deep bowled cup of rich red wine. The stranger ate swiftly, as did the Upright Men. Once they were finished, the Raven, wiping his fingers on his jerkin, leaned forward again.
    ‘Please accept our condolences on your sad loss.’ His guest nodded. ‘You received,’ the Raven continued, ‘the same information we did?’
    ‘Yes. Where did you get it?’ the stranger asked. ‘That was always regarded as a great secret.’
    ‘It still is.’ The Raven laughed. ‘But not to us. More importantly, did you understand it?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And did you make it?’
    ‘I have brought some. I will show you.’ The stranger rose. ‘You must come with me,’ he insisted. ‘Stand well away from the fire and bring everything you have.’ The Upright Men obeyed. Rising to their feet, they followed the stranger into the dark. He leaned down and picked up an earthenware pot where he had left it on his approach. The pot was no bigger than the palm of his hand. The stranger unstoppered the lid then, like a child playing skittles, weighed the pot in his hand as if it was a ball, gauging the distance between himself and the now dying fire. The Earthworms watched intently. Satisfied, the stranger hurled the pot. It shattered against the smouldering embers and the campfire surged up with a roar as fierce as any furnace. The Upright Men clapped their hands exclaiming in surprise.
    ‘We have our fire!’ the Raven exclaimed. ‘Fire from heaven or, as Gaunt will experience, fire from Hell …’
    oOoOo
    Cranston and Athelstan, huddled in their cloaks, followed Turgot, his face and head hidden by a deep capuchin, out of the Holy Lamb and along Cheapside turning into Poultry, the richest trading area of the city. Its name was ancient but its purpose had changed. No longer were ducks and capons up for sale; Poultry had become the heart of London’s wealth. The day’s trading was finished. Merchants were now clearing stalls and boarding up shop fronts. Bailiffs and hired mercenaries, drawn blades glittering in the dancing torchlight, patrolled the streets vigilant for any felon lurking in the shadows. Such a close guard was necessary. The goods being stored away were costly cloths from Douai, Bruges, Ypres and elsewhere. There were silks from Lucca, linen and flax from Flanders and wool from the Midlands. Even in the fading light the red, vermilion, rose and scarlet cloths shimmered invitingly. The air was rich with the smell of pepper, saffron and salt, sugar from Syria and the purest wax from Morocco. Barrels of cinnamon were being sealed, a precious spice imported from beyond Outremer, whilst the fragrance of cassia reminded Athelstan how the trees which carried it were allegedly guarded by ferocious winged animals. The friar could only marvel at the wealth being taken out, heaped and checked before being moved to the great arca, or strong boxes, deep in the cellars of the palatial houses either side of Poultry. These were gilded mansions boasting highly decorated and embossed gables, gleaming plaster and, in many cases, windows of the purest glass. Athelstan glimpsed a pile of rubies, lapis lazuli, diamonds, pearls and ivory rings all gathered in the dish of a set of scales guarded by two mercenaries with weapons bristling. Cranston and Athelstan were inspected but never troubled. They turned into Old Jewry, dominated by the dark mass of St Olave’s Church. The houses here were truly magnificent, four storeys high and divided from each other by an alley either side. Turgot stopped at a door and knocked. A servant opened it, introduced himself