Hearts of Darkness (27 page)

‘Every man has a choice in every deed he does,’ said Josselin, slowly, like he had just learnt a difficult lesson.

Arlington waved a finger. ‘Not really. You told Berkshire about the third letter, did you not?’

‘So I did,’ Josselin nodded. ‘Which is why you had him killed.’

‘Precisely.’ Arlington nodded back. ‘But how did I find out?’

‘You have spies,’ Josselin replied, his voice betraying new uncertainty.

‘Indeed I do,’ Arlington agreed, ‘and many of them, but none have yet learnt how to read a man’s mind.’

Josselin breathed deep and slow, eyes fixed upon the black plaster across the ridge of Arlington’s nose.

Arlington leant forward as if afraid of eavesdroppers. ‘Berkshire told me what you did and why you did it. He said you were a traitor.’

‘Not true,’ said Josselin, though his eyes watered.

‘True enough,’ said Arlington, sadly. ‘It hurt him to tell me of it, but he saw it as his duty. His duty to the King.’

Josselin shook his head.

Arlington shrugged, like he was an innocent player in this fine drama. ‘He called you traitor, Josselin, and wanted me to punish you.’

Josselin stamped his foot. ‘He would never have betrayed me to you, foul dog. You discovered it then you killed him.’

‘Of course I killed him,’ snapped Arlington, as if it was obvious. ‘The existence of that letter is a state secret. No man may know of it, and Berkshire was a weakling. I sensed he would regret his betrayal and confess all to you.’ He waved an arm. ‘Rather, Withypoll did.’

‘With my sword,’ Josselin hissed. ‘What sort of cowardly act was that?’

‘Whether an act be cowardly or not doesn’t depend on whose weapon you use,’ Arlington replied. ‘He had to die, and the opportunity to blacken your name at the same time proved irresistible.’

The fire inside Josselin’s belly seemed to fade before the heat of the inferno in which we stood. The walls exploded inwards, great cracks like cannonballs firing through the air as molten lead poured down the brick. Josselin’s shoulders drooped. Withypoll saw his chance, grabbed Arlington’s sword and propelled himself at Josselin, the tip of the blade aimed at his neck. Josselin squinted, then blinked, afore
lifting his weapon at the last minute, parrying the blow.

I stood helpless, keen to intervene, but lacking the means. Withypoll regained his balance the quicker and thrust his blade once more at Josselin’s chest. Josselin danced backwards and seemed to trip over his own feet, stumbling sideways. He landed on one arm and struggled to regain his balance, but his arm stuck, tangled in his coat. Withypoll sighed, face rapt with joyous anticipation as he lifted his sword. I held my breath and the world stood still. Josselin somehow managed to twist his body and kick out at Withypoll’s knee, sending him staggering over Josselin’s outstretched leg. As Withypoll fell to the ground I saw a flash of steel as Josselin finally succeeded in freeing his trapped arm. Withypoll’s legs gave way beneath him. He fell to his knees, head bowed, hands clutching at a small spot of blood spreading from his hip. Josselin extricated himself from beneath Withypoll’s prone body and clambered to his feet, sword hung loose from his right hand, short dagger in his left.

Withypoll didn’t move. As Josselin stood gasping in great lungs of air, I seized his dagger and knelt down at Withypoll’s side, suspecting trickery. He lay with the right side of his face upon the flagstones, eyes open, body unmoving. His sword lay where it fell, well out of reach.

I touched the dagger against his cheek. ‘Are you dead?’ I whispered into his ear.

He mumbled something I couldn’t hear. I leant down closer to his mouth, holding the dagger firmly. His eye moved, focussing upon the end of my nose. His lips moved, and a froth of red blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He tried to speak again but failed, then he stopped breathing and his eye dulled. A knot unwound itself deep within my belly and I felt a surge of immeasurable happiness. Then his hand jerked up and seized my wrist. I threw myself to one side, heart pounding.
Josselin roared loud, leapt forward to retrieve his knife and plunged it into Withypoll’s belly, twisting it until Withypoll lay finally still.

Josselin straightened and turned to Arlington, holding up his
blood-smeared
palm. ‘Well, then. The killer is dead, but not the villain. Will you take back your sword or shall I cut you down where you stand?’

Arlington spread his palms and blew out his cheeks. ‘I will take my sword, if you be so generous.’

‘We don’t have time,’ I shouted to Josselin. ‘We have to leave, else we shall all die.’

Fire covered every wall as well as the roof, eating steadily through the dry Yorkshire timber. It was only the immense size of the cathedral that meant we could still breathe, but not for much longer. Lead dripped from the ceiling in lethal red globules, splashing onto the floor and smashing the stone.

‘Come on, Josselin,’ I urged, but he ignored me, stood with legs crouched, ready to do battle with Arlington.

‘Your letter,’ I whispered into Josselin’s ear. ‘It will be lost.’

‘Go to the Bishop’s residence,’ he whispered so Arlington couldn’t hear. ‘Go to his office and look amongst his papers.’

My heart sank even further down my bowels. ‘The Bishop of London is involved?’

Arlington cocked his head, trying to listen.

‘No,’ replied Josselin. ‘The Bishop is old and blind, yet he allows no others access to his private correspondence. It was a perfect place to hide the letter. Look for the royal seal.’

Arlington stepped forward, glancing at the ceiling. Josselin scuttled like a great spider, holding his sword in front of him with both hands.

‘We haven’t long, Josselin,’ Arlington warned, placing one hand behind his back.

‘A curse to he who will not obey the Lord’s commandments,’ Josselin replied, face contorted in hatred.

‘Aye, well may God turn your curse into a blessing.’ Arlington caught my eye and pointed at Dowling. ‘Your choice, gentlemen,’ he called. ‘If you stand aside, it’s treachery.’

‘I saved you last time,’ I retorted. ‘Little good it did me.’

‘I humbly beg your forgiveness,’ said Arlington, eyes fixed upon Josselin’s swaying torso. ‘Accept my regrets, and I assure you it will not happen again.’

Josselin lifted his sword and brought it down in a chopping motion towards the older man’s neck. Arlington swivelled on his toes, avoiding the blade. He stepped aside to give himself room before lunging at Josselin’s chest, but Josselin threw himself out of the way.

I watched aghast, uncertain what to do. The fire burnt so loud I couldn’t hear their grunts, nor even the sound of their swords clashing. Dowling grabbed my hair in his fist and shouted in my ear for us to depart, but I was loath to leave Josselin to Arlington’s mercy.

Josselin lunged once more at Arlington, but tripped before he could connect. Arlington opened his mouth wide then brought his blade down heavily across Josselin’s back. Josselin tried to lift himself upon his knees, but failed, crouched afront of Arlington like an old horse, head bowed.

Arlington bared his teeth in cruel satisfaction afore adjusting his breeches and raising his sword two-handed for the final blow. Just as he prepared to swing the sword I picked up a fallen piece of masonry and threw it at his head. He let his sword fall clattering to the floor, and staggered like a drunk, squinting through the smoke as if to see what hit him. My hand burnt, for the rock had smouldered beneath a thin coating of lead. He turned to face me, blood pouring down the
right side of his head, arms dangling loose at his sides. His mouth opened and his knees buckled, and he fell face forwards onto the stone floor.

I dashed forwards to where Josselin lay prone. I rolled him onto his back and Dowling lifted his head. A thin layer of soot coated his long nose and gathered among his eyelashes. His eyes dulled, yet looked upon us with peaceful tranquillity. He appeared sane at last. A thin line of saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth. I shook him gently, but his eyes closed.

‘I thought he loved me,’ he whispered.

‘We must go,’ Dowling shouted. ‘If it is not too late already.’

The smoke descended and lay thick all around so I could see barely twelve inches in front of my nose. ‘The Bishop’s residence is on our way out,’ I yelled, edging forwards into the black inferno.

Dowling grabbed my sleeve, coughing. ‘We don’t have time.’

I shouted above the din. ‘If that letter burns, they will execute us both and Lucy besides.’

‘We shall all be executed, anyway,’ Dowling grumbled, pulling me forwards.

I crouched down in an attempt to avoid the thickening swirl of choking, black smoke and wished I knew this building better. I knew the door to the Bishop’s residence nestled somewhere in the wall back up the nave, beyond the Little North Door. We ran as fast as we could, avoiding the slow-moving river of red metal trickling across the floor. The cathedral writhed in agony, the sound of its bones cracking echoing all around.

Dowling found the door to the Bishop’s residence. Great clouds of smothering smoke billowed from within when he opened the door. I staggered backwards and stopped where I stood. Dowling looked
over his shoulder to find me, his face as black as Josselin’s. I willed my legs to move, but something within me cried out in fear.

‘It’s just the hall,’ Dowling cried out. ‘Beyond is clear.’

He grabbed my sleeve before I could protest and hauled me forwards, coughing and spluttering as loud as I. We emerged into an office, bookshelves lining the walls. Through streaming eyes, I saw an ancient chair and large desk, the back of the desk riddled with small drawers, each with its own handle. Papers protruded from the cracks. We pulled all the drawers open and spread the papers upon the desk, looking for the royal seal.

Dowling stood triumphant, letter held up high. ‘Here!’

I grabbed it from his hand and plunged it deep into my jacket pocket. Already the broken seal felt sticky, the room hot as an oven; the smell of burning leather filled my nostrils.

Back out in the nave I saw nothing but fire and smoke away to our left, back where we left Arlington and Josselin. The river of lead grew thicker now. A mighty piece of timber fell from above, flaming as it fell, followed by a great splash of molten metal. The stone pavement cracked and the floor beneath our feet shook and trembled. An almighty roar bellowed from the depths as the floor to our left fell in, revealing the crypt below. New flames soared high above our heads. The fire raged below, consuming the piles of books and cloth stored beneath. A wall of flame barred our passage out, towards the portico. Another beam of timber collapsed with a deafening shriek, and hurtled from high above, showering us with a deluge of sparks.

Dowling roared and pushed me into the fire. ‘Go, Harry.’

I stumbled and nearly fell, pushing forwards with my right leg just in time. I covered my face with my arms and braced myself to be burnt alive. Instead I rolled through the sheet of fire and out into the
warm night air. Dowling staggered behind, waving his hands afore him with eyes closed, dancing on his tiptoes.

A huge explosion erupted from the top of the spire, sending giant chunks of masonry flying through the air. Bricks popped from the walls, as lead continued to drip down the side of the cathedral, shooting across the churchyard like grenades. The west gate stood open afore us, bent and crooked, twisting slowly in the heat of the burning houses. As we ran through the small gap I felt the hair wither on my head. We ran down Ludgate Hill, heading for the small black arch beneath the flaming building. I feared I heard thin wailing as we felt our way through a mist of black smoke, emerging out behind the City wall.

Thirty yards ahead down Fleet Street, behind Fleet Ditch, thick crowds blocked the road, a wall of faces glowing orange. In front of them two horses.

‘God’s mercy,’ called out the foremost rider, sitting confident upon a magnificent white charger. The King. He cantered over to where we stood, charred and smouldering, afore leaning down and regarding us with deep, brown eyes. ‘You left it late, good fellows.’ He sat up straight, threw a handful of silver upon the ground and waved a majestic hand in the air as if celebrating his own cleverness at somehow having elicited our escape. The crowd cheered while I picked up all the coins. We might need them.

While the King surveyed the scene before him, we slipped away.

I sat in a corner of St Bride’s chewing on pie crust while Dowling went in search of a candle. I could barely keep my eyes open, I was so exhausted.

The church filled fast. I recognised many of the faces from St Paul’s. We couldn’t stay here all night, but I planned to take what opportunity I might. My eyes closed and I fell asleep.

Someone kicked the back of my calf. I awoke instantly, pushing myself up to see who assailed me. A small boy looked over his shoulder, scowling, struggling to keep his balance as his mother marched purposefully towards the choir.

‘Be calm,’ Dowling growled softly from behind.

He leant against the cool, stone wall, eyes half open. A candle sat
upon the floor to his left, wick burnt halfway down.

I breathed deep in an attempt to cool the bile that simmered in my blood and sat up wide awake. I reached for the letter inside my jacket, terrified for a moment it might be gone.

Dowling reached for the candle. ‘No one has been near you, though I’ve been tempted.’

I pulled the parchment from my pocket. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

Dowling shuffled about so he could read over my shoulder. ‘You needed the sleep. Now unfold it.’

The royal seal appeared unnaturally large and bloody in the low light of the flame. I unfolded the letter carefully and noticed immediately the name at the bottom: ‘Charles R’.

‘God save us,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s written by the King.’

‘To the King of France,’ Dowling whispered, hoarse, almost poking a hole in the parchment with his thick forefinger. ‘We should not be reading this.’

‘If we don’t read it we won’t know what to do,’ I said, my curiosity impossible to appease. Ne’ertheless, my heart pounded a heavy beat beneath my ribs.

‘Read it aloud,’ Dowling hissed into my ear. ‘I cannot make out the words in this poor light.’

I held the letter up close to my eyes. ‘Know ye that we would welcome entering into a personal friendship, and uniting our interests so for the future there may never be any jealousies between our great nations,’ I began.

‘A pact with France?’ Dowling exclaimed, too loud. ‘Impossible.’

I bid him hush before continuing. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea. History would
imply that neither one of us might rule the seas alone, for both our nations are too proud and too strong to bow one to the other. As a consequence, we hath allowed others to establish an unnatural presence that serves neither of us well. May God will it that we settle our differences and come to an accord, so it becometh us to honour that obligation. Else God shall surely show his displeasure. Should you consider this testimony give you just cause, then might we enter into discussions of the most secret and confidential kind, for should others learn of the obligations that we shall discuss, it would surely prejudice the potential of our future union.’

‘Is that it?’ Dowling squinted at the text. ‘What of religion in this?’ he demanded. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea? Parliament would say otherwise. They would never sanction a
Catholic
union.’

Nor would they, as Charles knew well, for had his father not been executed for the very same crime? If Parliament was to find out he sought a union with Catholic France then he would surely be arrested. I scanned our surrounds to make sure none watched or listened, then read it through again slowly. There could be no doubting its content.

‘What was Arlington doing with this?’ I wondered.

Dowling huddled up too close. ‘Arlington has long been suspected to be a reluctant Protestant, the King besides.’

‘It’s a draft,’ I realised. ‘He gave it to Arlington so that Arlington might advise him on how best to proceed. They conspired.’

‘And Arlington gave it to Josselin by mistake,’ said Dowling
wide-eyed
. ‘The King will execute Arlington on the spot if he discovers his carelessness.’

I sat motionless, staring into the distance. This might be the King’s
death warrant in my hands. What must Josselin have thought when he read this letter?

‘Now I understand,’ I whispered. ‘Arlington accused Josselin of sabotaging peace. In truth Josselin saw the only
possibility
for peace was to force Arlington’s treachery out into the open.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dowling growled.

‘Josselin was staunch Protestant,’ I replied, ‘but also a loyal subject. If he revealed the contents of the third letter, he knew he condemned the King to imprisonment. If he did not, then he condemned the Dutch to English and French betrayal. Holland could not survive the combined might of England and France. No wonder he fled to Shyam.’

Dowling clasped his hands together, his Scotch accent unusually thick. I had never seen him so panicked. ‘And what of us? Where shall we flee to?’

‘Think,’ I replied. ‘What did Josselin plan to do?’

‘He ran away to Shyam,’ said Dowling.

I tapped my finger upon my thigh. ‘So he did,’ I said. ‘But then he sought to meet with Arlington, and spoke also of talking to Clarendon. He wouldn’t meet Arlington without knowing the letter was safe. So he sought safety for himself on the basis of owning the letter.’

‘Which didn’t work,’ Dowling pointed out. ‘For Arlington was determined to kill him.’

‘Arlington must have been sure Josselin would not have shared the letter with anyone else,’ I concluded. ‘Why, though, did Josselin want to see Clarendon?’

‘Clarendon is not a reluctant Protestant,’ said Dowling with approving tone.

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But he is loyal to the King, and is the greatest advocate for peace with the Dutch.’

I let the idea settle upon my weary brain.

‘We take the letter to Clarendon,’ said Dowling. ‘Clarendon is horrified and at first refuses to believe it can be true.’

‘But then he looks at the seal and the signature,’ I continued. ‘Reminds himself what a vile creature Arlington is, and realises the King has been plotting behind his back.’

‘So he shouts and screams, and throws things about Clarendon House,’ said Dowling, ‘and realises he must do something.’

‘Clarendon would never countenance a union with a Catholic state,’ I guessed. ‘He would hot-foot it to the palace and remonstrate in private with the King, persuading him the idea is wicked folly.’ I raised a brow. ‘Whereupon the King would be forced to agree, since he could not risk allowing anyone outside his immediate counsel to even suspect him of entertaining the thought.’

‘And what of us?’

What of us indeed? ‘We would be utterly dependent on Clarendon’s whim. If the King were to demand we be put to death, what motive would Clarendon have to argue?’ I pondered. ‘His own safety, perhaps? They say Charles cannot abide Clarendon, that he preys upon the royal nerves. Were Clarendon to tell him that two of his own men knew the secret and possessed the letter, then the King could not touch him.’

‘Which supposes Arlington did not tell the King about us afore he died,’ Dowling said.

‘If he has told the King, we have no defence at all,’ I pointed out. ‘Once he discovers Arlington is dead, he will send out his whole army to find us. But I doubt he told the King anything, for to do so he
would have to confess to the King what he did with the letter.’

‘We should seek Clarendon’s help,’ Dowling concluded. ‘Either way, it is our only chance.’

‘And quickly,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Afore we are arrested.’

The roads about Fleet Street and Shoe Lane teemed thick, crowds hurrying somewhere or another with great intent. Soldiers pressed the fit and healthy into passing buckets from Fleet Ditch, forming a chain all the way to Ludgate. At the end of the chain an optimistic fellow threw the contents of every pail in the direction of the roaring fire, without discernible effect.

Some slipped surreptitiously between the shadows, preparing to flee, seeking wagons and horses to carry their possessions away, for fear the fire would escape the City walls. Those already dispossessed got in everyone else’s way, wandering aimlessly, silent and confused, else loudly bewailing their plight to all and sundry.

We hurried along The Strand towards Haymarket. By Charing Cross the crowds dissipated and I noticed we were not the only ones walking fast. Three men, wearing brown leather jerkins over their shirts, hurried behind.

‘Stop!’ one shouted. ‘Where are you going?’

We obliged, for they were too close to escape, and all were armed.

‘To St Giles’ Fields,’ I called. ‘I would know if my cousin is safe.’

‘You take a long route to St Giles’ Fields,’ one of them panted, pulling up alongside. ‘A shorter road to Clarendon House.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘Do I look like the Earl of Clarendon?’

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘You do not. You look like the two fellows Lord Arlington wishes to talk to.’

‘Arlington?’ I felt my mouth go dry. ‘Lord Arlington is dead.’

The three men regarded each other with knowing expressions.

‘Not dead, friend,’ the leader replied. ‘Pan-fried and crispy, perhaps, but not dead.’