But for today at least, he refused to worry about the future. Today, the King enjoyed his own again, and England was at peace.
TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 4, 1666
The Battle for St. Paul’s
“The stones of Paul’s flew like granados, the melting lead running down the streets in a stream, and the very pavements glowing with fiery redness, so as no horse nor man was able to tread on them; and the demolition had stopped all the passages, so that no help could be applied, the eastern wind still more impetuously driving the flames forward. Nothing but the almighty power of God was able to stop them, for vain was the help of man.”
All through the night the Dragon has prepared, nurturing the power stolen from below, and as dawn breaks it begins its attack.
The fall of the Bow Bells heralds the onslaught. The inferno roars up the southern streets from Soper Lane to Old Change, crushing the church of St. Mary-le-Bow in its maw. The great bells, emblem of London’s soul, toll their last against the hard ground. East and west, all down the broad lane, Cheapside burns.
The precious works of the goldsmiths have been stolen away to safety, but other treasures cannot be moved. The Dragon strikes fast at the Standard, disabling the water conduit, further crippling the City’s defense. The Mermaid Tavern of story and song crumbles into cinders and ash.
In the narrow lanes to the north, where the houses stand so close together their jettied upper floors almost touch, the people flee like rats. Some drag beds, makeshift litters for those who cannot move themselves. Upon one, a mother clutches her infant daughter to her breast, baptized not two days ago at the church that now burns so fierce.
Had the defenses been ready, Cheapside might have stayed the beast; the broadest street in the City offers a natural place to stand. But those who have fought for two days straight now falter in their weariness, and what might have been a bulwark instead becomes a highway.
Riding the wind, the Dragon flies westward, into the Newgate Shambles, and beyond.
THE ONYX HALL, LONDON: eight o’clock in the morning
Jack winced as Lune pulled a deerskin glove over the ruin of her left hand. He knew a bad burn could render flesh insensate, but all his medical instincts screamed at him to prevent the damage she would do by continuing to use the injured limb. It will putrefy and fall off…
But fae were proof against such infections, and Lune had work to do. As did he.
“The wall,” she said, flexing her fingers to settle the glove. “Soon the Dragon will reach it—at Aldersgate first, I expect. We can make a defense there.”
They spoke in her council chamber, surrounded by half a dozen others with knowledge of warfare, from the barguest Bonecruncher to the noble Captain of the Onyx Guard. To a man—to a faerie, rather—they stood straight and proud, unbowed for the first time since the Cailleach’s cold wind began to blow. The Dragon had drawn power from the Onyx Hall, but the fire Jack and Lune had transmuted gave new strength to the fae. And, it seemed to Jack, united them in a common purpose: they were more than ready to fight.
Yet dispatching them to the City wall could hardly accomplish much. “We haven’t enough people to cover the entire wall,” Jack said, “and even if you defend the gates—what can you do that the human defenders cannot? They’re bringing in sailors and dockhands, with gunpowder to blow up houses and make firebreaks.” Samuel Pepys might have suggested it with the protection of the Naval Office in mind, eastward in Seething Lane, but it would be useful elsewhere, too.
Lune smiled faintly. That strange fire still burned in her, too, though she was no longer the eldritch creature he had kissed. And I still cannot believe I did that.
“We will not be at the wall,” she said, either oblivious to or ignoring his flush. “Not outside. As above, so below: we can strengthen it from here.”
Several of their lieutenants looked puzzled, but Jack followed her meaning. The wall was one of the physical anchors of the Onyx Hall—though not, thank God and whatever powers the faeries honored, one that afforded access into the palace. Because this place reflected the land above in twisted fashion, its edges were not those of the City; Jack’s head hurt, trying to trace the path the wall followed through the chambers and galleries.
Judging by the orders Lune gave, she traced it without having to think. It would be a strange defense indeed, fae stringing themselves in a tortuous line through the palace, but she seemed to believe it would hold. Or was that merely the confidence one played when one’s subjects needed to hear it?
He didn’t think so. There was a serenity in her now, despite the paired dangers that threatened them; it had been there ever since the kiss. She seemed to float an inch above the ground, though he had looked and found her shoes firmly planted.
Jack himself did not feel so serene. Not with the words currently burning a hole in his throat, waiting for the right moment to be spoken.
There is no right moment. There were wrong moments, though, and included in their number any moment in which they were not private. The court’s advisers knew Nicneven wanted Vidar, but no more. Lune would not thank him for revealing the rest publicly. And while he didn’t need Lune’s thanks, he did need her to listen.
So he waited while Lune gave her orders, and when she turned to instruct the nightmare Angrisla about a final group on the surface, he spoke in an undertone to Amadea. “Please see to it that we are not disturbed. I have a matter I must address with the Queen.”
The Lady Chamberlain raised her eyebrows, but curtsied in acceptance. She left on Angrisla’s heels, and the instant the door swung closed, Jack began. “I’m still new to my title, so forgive me if I misunderstand. But I’m here to speak for the good of London’s mortals, am I not?”
“You are,” Lune agreed.
“As I thought. Then on their behalf, I say this: you must negotiate.”
Lune’s gloved hand curled into a claw, and she held it against her breast as if the shattered nerves pained her. Were she a mortal woman, he would be a monster for demanding anything of her; she deserved quiet rest, and relief from the burdens she bore. But she was a faerie woman, and moreover a Queen. She would find no rest while her realm was in danger.
Jack spoke with deliberate bluntness. “Half the City is burnt already. With the strength the Dragon stole from this place, it bids fair to burn the other half by day’s end. The men above slow it in any way they can, but the wind is driving the flames onward like a fleet of fire-ships, and carrying them over every break we create. If there’s to be anything left standing next week, then the Cailleach must be stopped. And that means you must reach some terms with Nicneven.”
Her lips thinned into a pale line. Lune had been here, trapped in the freezing chambers of the Onyx Hall, while he fought the Fire above; he suspected she didn’t understand the extent of the destruction there. Oh, she could trace it, through her bond with the palace—but she had not seen it. It was easy to forget what one had not seen.