A Plague of Sinners (11 page)

Carts and wagons jammed the bridge tight, loaded high with essential possessions. The procession reached as high as the crossroads ’twixt Fish Street Hill and Eastcheap, almost to the door of the Boar’s Head. We burrowed through the crowds, shoving when we needed to.

‘You think ye are the King?’ shouted a man sat upon a stationary cart. He glared at me then spat on the ground.

‘I am a King’s
man
.’ I stabbed a finger at him. ‘Spit on me again and I’ll smooth your passage to Newgate.’

I prayed we would not get stuck long enough to incite a riot, but the wall of people ahead of us loomed solid and unbreachable, no room to stick out an elbow. Dowling peered over the top.

‘Albemarle’s men are preventing passage,’ he called. ‘Hold
onto my coat.’ He propelled himself the last few yards like a cleaver slicing meat.

A flustered soldier blocked our progress, struggling to keep his balance. He banged his pike upon the cobbles. ‘You cannot cross the bridge this morning,’ he shouted above the din.

‘We are King’s men,’ I yelled back. ‘On King’s errand.’

‘No matter.’ The sentry clattered his pike into the face of a man who pressed too hard. ‘A cart lost its wheel and cannot be moved nor mended. As you can see, there be no room for a carpenter to reach it.’

‘Then we will walk past it.’ I nudged him.

‘Aye, if ye have all day to do it. Then you might reach the Square. Beyond the Square there is no hope for any without a fine pair of wings.’ The Square was a wide open space that sucked the traffic in, yet blocked its passage out.

Ahead red faces stretched upwards, searching for breath. Men held children to their chests and tried to shield their women. The sentry spoke truth. I twisted myself about and pushed back the way we came, escaping the frantic congregation.

‘To the river then,’ I suggested, smoothing the creases in my jacket.

‘If you have the funds,’ Dowling growled.

‘I do,’ I owned with sinking heart. It would cost us at least five shillings to cross the river and another five to return.

Boats covered the water, a vast flotilla of wherries, old ferries and naval longboats, all dressed with canvas and waxed cloth to protect from sun and rain. These citizens took to the river to wait out the plague’s tempest. Ferrymen were obliged to negotiate a winding path, for if you ventured too close to one of these vessels, you risked attack. Some of these people floated
a month or more already, a way of living that invited madness.

Fat drops of rain started to fall before we reached halfway and thick, grey clouds swept across the skies, exposing us to a chill, sodden breeze. I wished we went to Bedlam instead. The boatman strained hard and got us to St Mary Overy Stairs before the water penetrated to my drawers.

We ran up the stairs, towering brick buildings on either side, across Clink Street, to shelter beneath Stoney Street arch, one entrance to Winchester Palace. The rain poured down in a single sheet, battering the cobbles in relentless assault.

‘The well house is as good a place as any,’ I shouted above the noise.

We pushed through the door next to which we shivered. The well house nestled this side of the great hall. Wooden pipes carried water from the river to the cellars beneath us. The well had once supplied the kitchens, afore the palace was deserted forty years before and broken up into tenements. Now any man might buy water here.

A short, stout woman waited within, next to the well. ‘Raining?’ she asked, sharp eyes watching the water drip from our sodden clothes.

‘Raining,’ I confirmed.

‘You come in for shelter then?’ she asked.

‘Aye, we also hoped you might direct us.’

The woman stuck out her jaw and scratched her head. ‘Where would ye like me to direct you?’

‘We’re looking for four men.’

She shrugged. ‘I could point you in any direction and you’ll find four men eventually.’

‘Four particular men,’ I clarified. ‘We know them only as black dogs. Friends to the Earl of St Albans.’

‘Him what is dead.’ She nodded. ‘I know who you refer to, and if you are wise ye will not call them black dogs.’

‘What then should I call them?’

‘Call them what ye will, but I should not call them dogs.’

I calmed the impatience within. ‘Where might we find them?’

‘The Cock and Two Hoops,’ she replied.

Stoney Street led us west of the old palace through Deadman’s Place. What was once a great garden now decayed into a straggling mess of unsteady wooden cottages. A channel was cut for a sewer, heading back down towards the river, but the land ran flat, the ditch was clogged and the air stank. The rain drummed a steady beat upon my head, trickling down my neck in cold rivulets. We hurried through the shadows of the stone walls until we reached the tavern.

All conversation stopped when we entered. Five tables spread about the dark and dingy room, each occupied by five or six men. We sat at a space at the end of the table closest to the door. A wench brought two mugs of ale without asking what we wanted. I tried to engage her in conversation, but she ignored me, so I went in search of someone who might tell us more, leaving Dowling at the table.

‘Will you talk to me?’ I asked a fellow who stood holding a brush, watching from a passageway.

He squinted and showed me his teeth. ‘About what?’

‘I am looking for the four men who worked close with the Earl of St Albans.’

‘What for?’ he said with disdain.

‘We need to talk with them.’

‘I will fetch them if you like.’ He placed the brush against the wall and disappeared into the gloom behind.

I followed tentatively. Three small rooms branched off the corridor, each of them piled high with rubbish. At the end of the corridor a door led out towards the cathedral, stood ajar. The fellow was gone into the downpour. I returned to Dowling and we settled to bide our time. Conversation about us resumed, though quieter than before.

The door opened again, the cacophony of rain against cobbles drowning out all other sounds until the man closed it behind him. He stood dripping, black jacket drenched and heavy, wide-brimmed hat sodden and misshapen. A sword protruded behind his legs. He tipped off his hat and threw it to the table, revealing the same bony face we saw before at the Vintners’ Hall.

He removed his coat and straddled a chair, adjusting the sword so it swung free to his right. ‘Lord Arlington sent you here, did he? How did you know where to come?’

‘We were sent in search of four black dogs.’ I remembered too late the well house woman’s advice.

‘Dogs, you say?’ He spoke with soft tone and stony intent.

‘Know ye who these four dogs might be?’ Dowling asked in his soft Scots brogue.

The man’s blue eyes shone hard as sapphire and the skin of his face gleamed, thick as tanned leather. ‘Call me a dog again, cur, and I shall kill you where you sit.’

‘I didn’t call you dog.’ Dowling folded his arms and stuck out his chest. ‘Others did.’

‘No matter.’ The giant smiled broadly, revealing an enormous mouth full of big, yellow teeth. ‘You are here now and we must share with you our hospitality.’ He tapped the table with thick forefinger. ‘Come! And I will introduce you to the other dogs.’ He jumped to his feet and donned his watery clothes once more.

‘Is it far?’ I asked.

‘No,’ he beckoned us, impatient. ‘Five minutes’ walk.’

We followed him back into the deluge, Dowling as anxious as I. He headed back towards Clink Street, rather than towards the slums on St Margaret’s Hill, and soon we were back at the well house. He waved an arm west down the street towards The James Brewhouse. ‘Here we are.’

Two more men stepped out onto the wet cobbles from a doorway to our left. They too wore black cloaks and breeches. The rain fell heavy as slate and I couldn’t make out their faces.

‘War,’ called one.

‘Pestilence,’ our man shouted back to him, and ‘Famine,’ to the other.

What code was this?

‘Come.’ Our man took me by the elbow and directed me to a low archway.

‘The Clink?’ I thought the Clink was closed up years ago. I tried to jerk my arm from his grasp and dig my heels into the slippery cobbles, succeeding only in falling back into his arms. There was no one to call to, none who might help. The other two took Dowling by the arms, forcing him down the steep stone stairs.

They dragged us down into a dark, dank hole, tiny streams flowing from the black walls. They said the river ran through it when the tide was high. I felt more frightened than ever afore in my life, for what motive could there be to haul us down here?

Torches lit the way ahead from holders on the walls, creating black shadows in which lurked all manner of creeping insect. Quiet squeaking somewhere far ahead, a nest of mice or rats. We were the only prisoners.

They jostled us forward, ever deeper. The last torch signalled our destination, a small, square cell with low stone bench and chains about the floor, connected to four rings set into the wall. They flung us towards the bench and forced us to sit, then one of them fitted manacles to our ankles. Dowling attempted to resist, but even he was helpless against these great behemoths. They stood before us, admiring their handiwork, afore carrying away the last torch. The last thing I saw before the light died was a large cockroach creeping across the floor towards my feet.

‘Will they come back, do you think?’ I whispered, barely able to speak.

Dowling reached over to grasp my hand. ‘Have faith in God.’

Have faith in God to do what? If he was happy to send us plague, why should he save us from Clink? I sat frozen, listening intent. All I could hear was the air rolling noisily in and out of Dowling’s nostrils. None would think to search for us here. If they left us, we would die. Perhaps that was their objective then, to play upon our fears, to destroy our spirit. I took a deep, gulping breath and clung to the thought. Dowling started muttering beneath his breath, reciting passages from the Bible. Thank God he was there with me. Every second, every minute, I struggled to maintain my emotions. Refused myself permission to consider we might never leave. So when eventually I heard footsteps it felt like I lived again, joy abounded in my heart and seeped out my eyes. I rubbed a hand against my wet cheeks.

The man with the craggy face appeared, torch in hand, his companions behind. ‘You may call me War,’ he declared. ‘These you may call Famine and Pestilence.’

Horsemen of the Apocalypse? A vain pretension, but where was Death?

‘You went to The Bull Head last night,’ War said, as if it were a sin.

‘We were summoned.’

‘You pulled a man out of a barrel,’ Famine said, sharp brown eyes belying the fleshiness of his face. ‘That was Death.’

Pestilence stared like he would kill us there and then, straight-backed and severe, hairline receded halfway back his skull. A trickle of sweat rolled down my spine and into my breeches.

‘We pulled him out,’ I protested. ‘Not put him in. We came seeking your help in bringing the killer to justice.’

War laughed out loud. ‘Arlington’s men come here promising justice?’ He spat on the floor.

Pestilence fidgeted, as if impatient.

‘What did Arlington tell you about Thomas?’ War demanded.

‘Little,’ I replied. ‘He met us at the Vintners’ Hall and told us to find out who killed him. Not long afore you arrived.’

‘Nothing else?’ There was a warning edge to his voice.

‘Said he was a shirker and a shammer,’ said Dowling. ‘Said he cheated Henry Burke of a fortune in wine.’

‘Burke the wine merchant.’ War leant over and breathed into my face. ‘And whoever killed the Earl put a wine bottle down his throat and money in his eyes. Whoever killed Death packed him into one of Burke’s barrels.’

I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say.

War’s face reddened. ‘But Burke is a coward, so he didn’t do it. Whoever killed Wharton would see an innocent die for it. Another coward then.’

I wished he would speak quieter, else further from my face. ‘Who do you think killed Wharton?’

‘Arlington!’ War snarled, saliva bubbling on his lips. ‘And now we will see what else you know.’

He clicked his fingers and Pestilence stepped forward to seize Dowling’s right arm. Famine took a rope from his jacket and tied it tight about his wrist, looping the rope through one of the huge iron rings. Dowling jerked his arm, frantic, but Famine had done this before. Then they tied his other arm. I waited for them to do the same to me, but instead Pestilence smiled at Dowling and dug a hand into his pocket. He took out a small metal device and held it to Dowling’s nose. The device resembled a church window, two arches with a long screw betwixt.

‘Do you know what that is?’ War asked me.

‘Yes,’ I replied, mouth dry. ‘A thumbscrew, but you don’t need it. We will answer your questions without torture.’

‘No.’ War raised a finger, smiling again. ‘
You
will answer our questions while we torture him.’

Pestilence held Dowling’s nose and thrust a filthy cloth into his mouth. Then he climbed onto the bench and attached the thumbscrew to Dowling’s right thumb, screwing the plate down far enough so it would not fall off. He fitted a spanner-shaped key against the bolt, then twisted the screw so it pushed firm against the bone. Dowling’s body tensed and his eyes roved the room like he hoped his Lord Jesus would come rescue him.

War crouched down and stared into my eyes as if trying to read them. ‘Who killed Death?’

‘We don’t know who killed Death, nor Wharton, else we would not have come here.’ I spoke fast. ‘The circumstances
of their deaths suggest Henry Burke killed them both, yet if we believed that then why would we have come? We have met Henry Burke.’

War shook his head. ‘No.’