London, Wednesday 22 August 1666

The journey from Westminster to Fleet Street was hot and dusty, even though it was only mid-morning, and the real heat of the day had yet to build.

The streets were busy, as many of the vendors who came to the markets early had already sold their wares, and were eager to get home.

The noise was deafening, as itinerant street-sellers advertised the last of their wares to passers-by in stentorian tones - new-baked pies, fresh fish, fine candles, sweet pastries, best leather and anything else that could be hawked to the city's population of nearly three hundred thousand souls.

A year ago, during the plague, weeds had grown between the cobbles at Charing Cross, because human footfall had not been enough to trample them away. There were no weeds now, and London seemed as busy as it had ever been. The only reminder of the terrible sickness that had claimed so many lives was the occasional stark cross painted on a door, showing where the disease had struck but no one had yet washed the mark away.
As always, Chaloner overheard plenty of gossip as he walked. Most unsettling was the claim that the Dutch fleet was already at sea, along with the news that the Lord Mayor was recruiting men to fight off any invader who might sail up the Thames to take the capital.

There were also the usual tales of omens and portents of doom: strangely shaped clouds, talking animals, miraculous cures, and sightings of Satan. It seemed the whole country waited with baited breath to see what dreadful calamity would befall it next: over the last twenty years it had endured civil wars, a beheaded king, a Commonwealth led by a man many had considered a tyrant, and a devastating plague. And now it was in the unlucky year with three sixes, so what else did fate have in store for it?