London's Burning - Sex Stories

London's Burning

Oh the miserable and calamitous spectacle! Such as haply the world had not seen since the foundation of it, nor be outdone till the universal conflagration thereof. All the sky was of a fiery aspect, like the top of a burning oven, and the light seen above 40 miles round about for many nights. God grant mine eyes may never behold the like, who now saw above 10,000 houses all in one flame; the noise and cracking and thunder of people, the fall of towers, houses, and churches, was like a hideous storm, and the air all about so hot and inflamed that at last one was not able to approach it, so that they were forced to stand still and let the flames burn on, which they did for near two miles in length and one in breadth. The clouds also of smoke were dismal and reached upon computation near 50 miles in length. Thus I left it this afternoon burning, a resemblance of Sodom, or the last day. London was, but is no more! The Journal of John Evelyn – 3rd September 1666 ***** The summer of 1666 had been sweltering hot, with barely any rain to wash away London’s stench. “What’s that smell?” Anne asked. “Rotting fish and faeces?” Meggi ventured, stepping round a stinking mound. Lombard Street was never the most pleasant of places, even by slum standards but the dry weather had reduced the central drain to a sluggish trickle which was incapable of carrying the street detritus away. “Worse,” Anne muttered darkly, directing Meggi’s gaze by lifting her chin. “Catholics.” She spat the word ...

... loud enough that the group scuttled away, their feet kicking up little clouds of dust. “Would you hate me so if I were Catholic?” Meggi enquired. “Meggi! Do not say such a thing! It is bad enough that you are Welsh. Would it be that you were Catholic, we would not be friends.” The words hurt as though Meggi’s heart itself had been stitched. She knew that Anne was a good person deep down; it just seemed that the good had been buried more deeply since she had married her tea merchant. Anne’s husband had been away for eight months and Meggi knew that she waited for her beloved’s letters as a drowning person waits for breath. Still. That was when Meggi saw him for the first time, emerging from the shadows as might a thief - except a man dressed in such a fine-feathered hat, with a full-skirted coat of emerald green and a waterfall of white lace would have no need to steal. Eyes as clear and blue as a mountain stream swept the filthy street for dirt and danger before returning to lock onto Meggi. The stranger dipped his head in acknowledgement before making his way out into the harsh sunlight, stepping carelessly along the most direct route to where Meggi was frozen. “Meggi? Meggi!” Anne said harshly. “What is wrong with you, girl?” A moment later he was there, hat removed to reveal a long mane of wavy brown curls. The stranger bowed, deep and long and Meggi’s heart was stolen in an instant. Meggi shook her head as colour rose to her cheeks. “Surely, you are a thief,” she murmured. ...