Hearts of Darkness (22 page)

‘What happened?’

He spoke in a low whisper. ‘Arlington sent Josselin to Holland with two letters. The first was the official letter De Witt was supposed to receive, intended to placate his suspicions, proclaiming England’s commitment to peace with Holland. The second letter was a personal letter for De Buat only, encouraging him to rouse the House of Orange to action, for Arlington became increasingly frustrated with the Princess Dowager, and her indecision.’

‘And De Witt read both letters?’

‘De Buat
gave
him both letters,’ the tall man barked. ‘The question is why.’

I let his words settle in my mind. ‘Josselin tricked De Buat into giving De Witt both letters?’

The tall man nodded sagely. ‘That’s what Arlington believes.’

‘Why would Josselin do such a thing?’

‘I don’t know why,’ the tall man replied. ‘No one does.’ He lofted his sword so it pointed at my chest, his stale odour sticking to my face. ‘I was hoping you could tell me. You or Galileo.’

I raised my hand to my forehead. ‘The Earl of Clarendon and Lord Arlington are both confidants to the King, are they not?’

He shook his head and snorted. ‘You don’t understand politics, Harry Lytle, nor the relationship between Clarendon and Arlington. It was Arlington who first persuaded the King to go to war with the Dutch, greedy for the rich trade the Dutch enjoy in West India. The King yearns to be independent of Parliament, which he can only achieve with new sources of revenue. Otherwise he is obliged to call Parliament for no other reason than he needs their money. Had England defeated the Dutch early then the King would have been rich.’

‘Clarendon would rather see the King beholden?’ I frowned, worried I would soon lose the thread.

‘Of course not,’ he sighed, impatient. ‘But Clarendon knew it was folly. Arlington is a risk taker. He has no care for this country, nor for its citizens, people like you.’ Which was true enough. ‘So he is happy to gamble what is not his, in return for great riches. The Earl knows how flawed is that logic. The cost of war will break this country. We have little chance of beating the Dutch, for our leaders are divided and headstrong. Arlington’s policy throughout has been to declare in favour of the House of Orange, so emboldening the Orangists to declare civil war. He will not recognise that the Orangists are more circumspect, that they have seen the consequences of our own infightings. It is a foolhardy policy, but Arlington will not be deterred. Indeed he went so far as to betroth himself to an Orangist.’

‘Elisabeth van Nassau-Beverweert,’ I struggled to remember.

He nodded. ‘Berkshire, Josselin and myself, we are the King’s ambassadors to Holland. We have worked for peace since the war started, and in October last year we almost succeeded, until Arlington persuaded the King to make demands so outrageous, the Dutch had no option but to seek an alternative policy.’

‘The alliance with Denmark.’

‘Signed four months later,’ he said. ‘Now we hear the Dutch may be talking to the French, but the King will not hear of it. He will not hear of it because Arlington persuades him it is not true. Arlington has given up on the whole idea of making peace with the Dutch. He wants full-scale war, nothing else. Now he has nailed his flag to the mast, any suggestion that his policy is flawed would be a humiliation.’

‘You knew all this?’

‘No,’ said the tall man, lips tight. ‘Not until all this happened. I don’t know what Josselin and Berkshire knew. They were the ones working for Arlington.’

How curious he must be, I thought. How angry must have been the Earl of Clarendon. No wonder they sent their own man into Shyam to find out what transpired.

‘May I go?’ I asked.

‘To do what?’ he asked.

‘To find James Josselin, and make him tell me what happened.’

The dark man rubbed his middle finger across his brow, stroking it while he watched me. ‘Josselin will tell you nothing and Arlington will kill you.’

I stared back at him and said nothing.

‘I shall tell you something, Harry Lytle,’ he decided. ‘James Josselin
has
returned to London, for our spies have seen him in the City. He won’t come here, for he will not be allowed.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Withypoll returned from Colchester last night and Arlington posted sentries on every gate. If Josselin attempts to leave the City he will be arrested. Soldiers are scouring the streets now. They will seize him soon, and there is nothing to be done.’ His green eyes narrowed. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘No.’ I replied. What were we doing here if Arlington already knew where Josselin was? ‘It was a test, then,’ I realised, stomach sinking to my feet. ‘Arlington told us to wait outside to see if we would obey. He suspects we are in league with Clarendon. He wanted to know if we would do as he ordered.’

The dark man gazed upon me sorrowfully. If he wouldn’t help Josselin, he certainly wouldn’t help us. Now I understood why he was so puzzled at our arrival.

‘Smuggle us into the City,’ I demanded. ‘That is all I ask.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

Because I had to get to Jane before Arlington. Because the City was my home, the place I felt safest, and because Arlington’s men would be waiting for us outside. I prayed they did not already have Dowling. ‘I will find Josselin and I will find out who killed Berkshire,’ I replied. ‘Just get us into the City.’

He shrugged. ‘Very well. Little good it will do you. Once you are in, you will never get out.’

We clung to the tarpaulin to stop it from blowing away; the wind gusted so strong. I lay still, afraid Clarendon might betray us and send us straight to Arlington.

‘What did you discover?’ Dowling breathed into my ear.

‘It was complicated,’ I replied. ‘The essence of it being that Josselin deliberately handed a letter to the Dutch government intended for the House of Orange. By handing over the letter he betrayed Arlington’s treachery and revealed the identity of Arlington’s spy to the Dutch.’

‘Did you find out why?’ Dowling asked.

‘Clarendon doesn’t know why,’ I replied. ‘I think that’s why he won’t help. They’re afraid Josselin may have betrayed England of his own accord.’

‘They think he killed Berkshire?’

‘They’re certain he didn’t,’ I said. ‘Though they have no intention
of pursuing the issue. Josselin is on his own.’

The canvas stank of potatoes and rotten vegetables. Something cold and sticky attached itself to my cheek. I gritted my teeth and tensed my face.

We dawdled at Ludgate for what seemed an age, the noise of chattering so loud it felt like we were stuck in the middle of a great sprawling crowd. I held my breath, waiting for the cover to be torn asunder, leaving us naked and exposed.

‘Clear the way!’ the driver demanded, three or four times, voice gruff and impatient. He was a big man without much hair, surly and strong. I couldn’t hear any reply; there was too much noise to distinguish voice from voice. Someone tugged at the tarpaulin, but then a loud crack made me jump, as of a whip, and then a scream, and the tugging ceased.

‘Touch my load again and I’ll slice open your belly,’ the driver shouted, his voice closer. ‘I’m carrying goods to the Exchange on behalf of the Earl of Clarendon. Woe to any man that gets in my way.’

The din subsided a moment, and the cart jerked forwards. Another man shouted, angry, though I couldn’t make out the words. A fight broke out close to my ear. Someone screeched and something heavy landed against the side of the cart, but we kept moving, trundling forwards, leaving the worst of the bedlam behind.

‘Out now,’ the driver demanded, yanking the tarpaulin away.

I sat up and looked around, wary he delivered us into a trap. But no. He pulled up outside the main gate to St Paul’s churchyard, the wind howling about our ears, no one paying us any attention.

The driver showed us a mouth full of yellow stumps. ‘Jump out before I break your legs.’

We did as we were told and then looked back to Ludgate. Soldiers stood against apprentices, squaring their shoulders and trying to look calm, poking at the apprentices with swords, or waving muskets, unconvincing. The apprentices danced upon their toes, taunting the older men, daring them to attack, some swinging their blue aprons about their heads, trying to flick the soldiers upon the nose or ear.

‘What’s new?’ I asked the driver, jumping to the ground.

‘Apprentices don’t like being told what to do,’ he replied. ‘Soldiers won’t let them through.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because if James Josselin escapes the City, the man who lets him pass will be strung from a gibbet by the balls,’ the driver replied. ‘They’re not letting anyone out.’ He clambered back onto the cart, jerked the reins and headed north up Ave Maria Lane.

‘Where did this wind come from?’ I complained, clutching my jacket about my chest. It wasn’t supposed to blow a gale when the sky was blue.

‘The wind hath bound him up in her wings,’ Dowling replied, thoughtful, still staring at the growing crowd. ‘If Josselin wanted to get to Whitehall, this is the way he would come.’

‘Or else he would take a boat,’ I said. Did soldiers guard the docks too?

The square broken tower of St Paul’s soared high above us, the west-side portico just to our right, tall columns standing like prison bars. A steady stream of folk flowed in and out its mouth, oblivious. Two men leant against the Bishop’s Palace, watching us intent, long brown coats hiding what they wore beneath. Lazy men with nothing better to do? If Arlington was after Josselin, there would be more than soldiers at the gates; the City would be swarming with spies.

I slapped Dowling on the back. ‘I will see you at my house.’

‘With horse and wagon,’ Dowling nodded, heading north.

I headed east, girding my loins for a mighty battle.

I stood in the middle of the road again.

‘Cocksmouth!’ Jane exclaimed, arms across her belly, face reddening. ‘We have only just come
back
from Cocksmouth. What makes you think I would consider returning to that stinking sty?’

‘It’s safe,’ I whispered. ‘No one knows I have relatives at Cocksmouth.’ Save those neighbours now listening at their windows.

‘Safe from what?’ Jane clenched her fists in front of her cheeks like she planned to punch me. ‘Safe from you, that’s true, and you from me.’ The yellow flecks in her eyes sparked like gold.

‘Lord Arlington has set his men upon us,’ I replied, glum. ‘I’m not sure what we’re going to do about it, but we must make sure you and the baby are safe, else Arlington will come after you as well as I.’

‘Why should Lord Arlington come after me?’ Jane blinked. ‘I’m a servant. What have you told him?’

‘Nothing,’ I protested. ‘He doesn’t need me to tell him anything. He has an army of spies that do that for him. Believe me, he …’ I found myself frozen, mouth half open, leaning forwards, arms extended. How could I help her understand the enormity of the threat without frightening her out of her wits?

Jane narrowed her eyes and breathed deeply. ‘What have you done?’ she asked, suddenly quiet.

‘I told you he sent us to Shyam to find James Josselin,’ I reminded her, bracing myself. ‘Well, we found him, but didn’t capture him, for there is a good chance he is innocent. Arlington told us to watch for
Josselin outside Holland House but I went inside to see if the Earl of Clarendon might help.’

Jane folded her arms.

‘It was a trap. Arlington’s men were watching us all the time.’

‘Then he will dismiss you,’ Jane nodded calmly, ‘and not pay you the money he has never paid you anyway.’

I shook my head. ‘No. He will cut us in half upon an instrument of torture he calls a Spanish donkey.’

Jane’s pale face turned whiter.

I held up my hands. ‘Before you ask, I don’t know how I got myself involved, but now I am and so are you.’

‘What will you do?’ she asked, eyes brimming.

‘Find James Josselin,’ I replied, meeting her gaze. ‘We know where he is. We’ll talk to him and all will become clear.’

My assurances provoked more tears, but the pool soon emptied and she wiped her nose upon her sleeve.

‘Cocksmouth,’ she said again, glowering. ‘You have no relatives other than your mother?’

‘Thank the Lord my mother doesn’t live in Shyam,’ I replied, sensing her rage simmering once more.

She shook her head. ‘You expect me to go to Cocksmouth, by myself, with child.’

‘If I come with you it will solve nothing,’ I protested. ‘We have to find a way of placating Arlington.’ Or killing him, I thought, surprising myself. ‘Besides, you will not be going by yourself.’

Her fingers tightened about her dress. ‘Who?’

‘Lucy Dowling,’ I tried to smile. ‘She is a nice woman.’ Attractive too, for her age. Much more attractive than her husband. ‘They will be here soon to pick you up. You are leaving in an hour.’

‘An hour!’ she snorted. ‘I cannot leave without saying goodbye to my family.’

‘You can,’ I said, firmly. ‘Your family mustn’t know. If they know then they will talk.’ For all her family chatted like sparrows. ‘I will tell them you will be back soon.’

She shook her head again, angry. ‘You are such a liar.’

‘Aye.’ I wrinkled my nose. ‘You are right. But we will be back afore ye know it. Perchance you won’t even reach Cocksmouth before we catch you up and bring you back home.’

Her eyes brimmed again. ‘I don’t want to have my baby in Cocksmouth.’

‘Nor do I,’ I agreed, heartily. ‘We’ll be back in London long before that.’

She clenched her fist and pointed it at me. ‘You promise me, Harry Lytle.’

‘I promise,’ I said. ‘Now I must go. Next time I see you I will have sorted everything out.’ I waved a hand with more confidence than I felt and strode purposefully back towards Newgate.

That went well, I congratulated myself, though my soul felt wooden.

Now all we had to do was find James Josselin.

I had experienced many types of different wind, from the light and fluffy, to the heavy and strong, but never such a wind as this. It blew the heat of the day into men’s faces, drying the eyes and throat, carrying a fine mist of dust through the air.

Dowling walked sullen. He hadn’t mentioned God for almost an hour, which was some relief, but I worried he saw nothing beyond the end of his nose, so sunk in misery he seemed. We headed west, away from Red Rose Lane. We spent the best part of two hours searching for Josselin, without success.

I attempted to rouse the shaggy beast. ‘He’ll show up later,’ I said. ‘No doubt he has errands to run.’

‘Who knows what he is plotting?’ Dowling replied. ‘We both know Josselin is a little mad.’

A small procession turned out of Swithin Lane ahead of us, four soldiers struggling to keep up with a tall, blond man wearing a silly hat.

‘Withypoll,’ I gasped, flinging myself backwards against the wall of the nearest house, my feet sinking into the teeming gutter. They didn’t even glance in our direction, marching with such purpose I wondered if they had trapped Josselin.

‘We ought to follow,’ I said, though the prospect chilled me.

More lines appeared on Dowling’s forehead.

I shook his arm, and extracted a foot from the stinking mess seeping into my shoes. ‘Come on.’

They proceeded back down the same streets we had walked earlier this morning. When Withypoll turned onto Friday Street, I hurried my pace, alarmed they ventured so close to my neighbourhood.

Two men loitered upon the corner, neither gentlemen nor vagabonds, just standing there with no obvious intent. The soldiers drew their swords as they turned the corner, chasing behind him. One ran awkwardly, boots too large for his feet. They jogged down the middle of Friday Street, turned left on Watling Street, and into Bread Street, my street.

When a neighbour called my name, I held a finger to my lips, afore I stopped still, not twenty paces from my own house. Withypoll pounded my front door with gloved fist. Jane would be gone already, surely?

‘What have you done, Harry?’ asked a stout fellow with black bristle covering his face and ears, brow lowered in expression of intense curiosity. ‘What
have
you done?’ He glanced up at me, half afraid, half amused. ‘You robbed the crown jewels?’

‘Did you see Jane leave?’ I whispered, hoarse.

He stared down at the cobbles and scratched his head.

Withypoll kicked the door, without success. Then he gestured to one of the soldiers and they kicked together, cracking my door down the middle at third attempt. All five of them stormed into my house. I heard crashing, loud noises, the sound of breaking furniture.

Dowling laid a hand upon my shoulder. ‘We must go.’

I punched his arm. ‘What if Jane is in there?’

‘Lucy came hours ago,’ Dowling replied, staring ahead.

Withypoll emerged, eyes blazing, cursing loud enough for all of London to hear. He stamped his foot on the ground and kicked the wall of my house. The soldiers appeared behind him, like frightened sheep, heads bowed.

I turned to Clinton, my neighbour. ‘William, ask them why they’ve come,’ I whispered. ‘Seem willing. If they ask you where I am, tell them you heard I was gone to Colchester. Look simple and they’ll believe you.’

‘Right enough,’ he nodded seriously and set off. I prayed he wouldn’t look back for encouragement.

He approached the smallest of the soldiers, and tapped him on the shoulder. He exchanged a few words, then returned towards us, Withypoll’s eyes fixed upon his back. I sunk into the doorway, Dowling following my lead.

Clinton winked as he passed, shuffling at his normal pace. Withypoll watched him disappear over the hill before sighing, hands on hips. He spoke sharply to the soldier closest to him and followed after Clinton, towards us. I slipped my hand behind my back and turned the handle of the door behind. Mercifully it opened, and we slipped quickly into the house, closing the door behind us.

‘Hello, Harry,’ a familiar voice sang out. Clinton’s wife, same shape
and size as he, but with more hair upon her rounded head. ‘You look a mess.’

I surveyed my clothes, stained, torn and misshapen. ‘I haven’t been home for a while.’

‘Why not?’ she exclaimed, too loud for my liking. ‘Jane will mend those breeches and wash those clothes.’ She squinted. ‘I don’t think she’d be pleased to see you out in such a state.’

I edged to the window and peered onto the street. Withypoll and the soldiers marched by, the soldiers with shoulders slumped, Withypoll strident and furious.

‘You’re right,’ I replied. ‘I’ll go home now.’ I watched Withypoll’s party reach Watling Street where they turned right. We would have to follow. ‘Thank you, Mrs Clinton,’ I said, opening the door to the street.

Half the neighbourhood was out, watching the soldiers, exchanging glorious suppositions. No sooner did my feet touch the cobbles than I was surrounded by inquisitive do-gooders, offering kind words with macabre expression, all wanting to know why King’s soldiers broke down my door. I behaved as if innocent, moving slow, holding my face in my hands, watching for Clinton. He returned fast, trotting down the road, eager. I grabbed his collar and pulled him close.

‘What did they say?’ I whispered.

‘They said they were looking for you,’ he replied, excited. ‘Why would they be looking for you?’

I gripped his jacket harder. ‘What did you tell them?’

He opened his mouth wide, revealing blackened gums and
green-furred
tongue. ‘I told them you eloped with Jane!’ He laughed loud until he’d had enough, then tried to catch his breath, choking.

I watched, stony-faced.

‘I told them you were gone to Colchester,’ he gasped, catching my eye. ‘Like you said.’

I attempted a smile. ‘Thanks, Bill.’

Dowling elbowed me in the chest. ‘We must go.’ The two men that watched us on Cheapside watched us again, standing beneath the shadow of St Mildred’s. They caught our eye and slipped away, in the same direction as Withypoll.

‘God’s hooks!’ I exclaimed. ‘What do we do now?’

‘Not much point in following,’ Dowling replied, ‘since he will soon be following us. We would go round in circles. We must make haste. He doesn’t know where Josselin is, else he would not be looking for us, and we must be careful not to lead him in that direction.’

So we headed south, down to Thames Street, where the candlemakers clustered together in their cramped yards melting tallow, the great stink carried high into the sky and towards the Fleet by the wind blowing off the river.

‘We should hide a while,’ said Dowling, looking this way and that, as if conscious of his bulk. ‘Until Withypoll gives up on us.’

‘Not by the water,’ I replied. ‘If they have soldiers at the gate they must have soldiers at the docks. In a tavern, perhaps.’

Dowling cast me a sideways glance. ‘Or a church.’

‘What if Josselin goes to meet us,’ I exclaimed. ‘I say we go to Red Rose Lane while Withypoll sniffs round here.’

Dowling grimaced.

‘We have been unlucky,’ I insisted. ‘Most spies will be searching for Josselin, not us.’ I considered my clothes again. ‘I am barely recognisable. Withypoll must have posted just a few spies around our houses to look out for us. Elsewhere we will be safer.’

Dowling stopped and stared, like he saw me for the first time. ‘The
spies are not looking out for me or you, but both of us together. A big, tall man with white hair, next to a short fellow with dark hair and stubble on his face.’

‘Should we split up?’ I said, feeling lonely already.

‘We must,’ said Dowling. ‘You, as you say, are already dishevelled. No longer a strange fop, but more discreet. No man could pick you out less he knew you intimately.’

‘A fop?’ I exclaimed. To a bloodied ogre like Dowling, any man who washed might be called a fop. I decided to consider it a compliment. ‘I will go find Josselin,’ I said, reluctantly. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Same,’ Dowling replied, ‘but not with you. I will follow and try to keep you in sight. If we lose each other I’ll meet you again at St Katharine Cree, at three.’

‘Very well.’ I felt better.

I set off, wondering how it was I led. Though I avoided the main thoroughfares, we kept coming across pockets of soldiers, especially close to the bridge. The crowd spilt back from the mouth of the bridge west and east, along Thames Street and up Fish Street Hill.

‘What’s news?’ I asked a ruddy-faced man standing on tiptoe.

‘They’ve closed the bridge,’ he snapped, hopping up and down, neck craned. ‘I have to get back to Bankside, my wife is ill.’ He clasped his hand upon his forehead in dismay. ‘They say there are three Dutch spies in the City.’ He breathed deep. ‘I pray they find them soon and string them up by the neck. I have to get home.’

His words knifed me in the belly, though they came as no surprise. So now I was a Dutch spy. How quickly that happened, I reflected, bile rising in my throat, feeling the same anger and indignation I imagined Josselin experienced. I rubbed my sweaty palms upon the
seat of my trousers as we passed Fish Street Hill and came to the mouth of Red Rose Lane.

This was a narrow thoroughfare where the butchers scalded hogs and made their puddings, throwing their waste out into the street to be taken down to the dung boats. This was the last place to come in the middle of summer, for the blood and offal sat on the street all day afore it was collected, attracting all manner of vermin, cats, dogs and flies. I choked on the stink of rotting blood and trod cautiously. Josselin chose well, for spies and soldiers would avoid this street like the plague.

Despite our agreement I waited for Dowling.

‘We cannot hang around,’ I said. ‘We attracted too much attention last time.’

Dowling stopped halfway up the hill, hands on his hips. ‘If Josselin is there, he’ll be watching for us, surveying every movement with gimlet eye.’

I scanned the surrounding windows. The light was so poor and the windows so dirty, all I saw were a couple of fleeting shadows, impossible to tell if it was Josselin or not. The rats re-emerged from the shadows to renew their scavenging; fat beasts waddling through the slime like they owned the place.

‘I still don’t think he’s here,’ I said at last.

‘We have to find him,’ Dowling growled.

‘Aldgate,’ I suggested. ‘His mother’s house at Duke’s Place.’

Dowling scratched his ear. ‘You think Arlington will not have had the same idea?’

‘We’ll make our own ways there,’ I said. ‘As you suggested before.’

It wasn’t often Dowling needed my encouragement. I strode up the hill towards Eastcheap with more determination than I felt. A dozen
soldiers lingered about the Boar’s Head, tousled and round-shouldered, drunk already, laughing uproariously at poor jokes like they felt the eyes of strangers upon them. I hurried east across Gracechurch Street, a busy thoroughfare, then north up Rood Lane past the churchyard of St Margaret Pattens. I turned every few steps to see who followed, looking not only for spies, but also for Dowling’s big, white head bobbing up and down above the crowd like a beacon. If spies followed us, they would follow him, not me.

Turning onto Fenchurch Street I walked headlong into a row of soldiers barring the road on either side of St Gabriel, a small church built in the middle of the road. Too late to turn away, for I had already attracted the attention of one older man, tight-lipped and sullen. Over his shoulder I saw a long line of soldiers, leading all the way up the street to Aldgate. Dowling had been right. This was not the place to come. It swarmed with military.

‘Come here,’ the old soldier growled.

I stood my ground and prayed Dowling was not close behind.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

‘John Fisher,’ I replied, thinking of the nearby market. ‘I live at Sugar Loaf Alley. Why do you stop me passing?’

‘I haven’t stopped you passing,’ he replied, reaching out to touch my coat, rubbing the stained silk thoughtfully between his fingers. ‘You on your own?’

I frowned like I didn’t understand the significance of the question. ‘Let me pass.’

‘Fisher,’ he repeated, and eyed me up and down. ‘Proceed, John Fisher.’

I snatched my coat from his grubby hands and stalked off like I was offended. By now there were so many soldiers, and so few citizens,
I felt like a soldier myself, else a ghost drifting unseen amongst the living.

The entrance to Duke’s Place teemed with excitement, a stinking cloud hovering above the throng below, the smell of too many unwashed men gathered close together. I held my breath and slipped silently between the bodies, reminding myself that Withypoll was far away, scouring the streets west. Arlington would remain above it all, back at Whitehall. None here would recognise me I told myself, again and again.

Every orifice of Josselin’s house gaped open, the leaning windows like yawning mouths, belching foulness upon the street below. Soldiers sat upon its doorstep, others passing in and out like it was a barrack. Gone was the quiet grace and dignity of the week before, now besmeared with the loud exuberance of raucous bantering.

I wondered what mess the soldiers made of the delicate interior and where were Mrs Josselin, Eliza and the silent servants. I narrowed my eyes and scoured the house front, searching, until I spied two pale faces, staring out a turret window at the top of the mansion. Too far away to be sure, but they looked like Josselin’s mother and betrothed, peering out, frightened and bewildered.

Anger welled up deep inside my belly at the ignorant dolts who sat with their backs to the wall, playing cards, those who stomped across the floor of a house that wasn’t theirs. Something of the scene reminded me of Colchester, how it must have been when Fairfax’s soldiers surrounded the City, depriving the innocent of food and provisions. I looked for Josselin. If I could find a way, then so could he. If I felt anger, what would he feel? Where was he?