Hearts of Darkness (6 page)

‘We are on King’s business,’ I answered, afraid what Withypoll might do. ‘We are on our way to Colchester. We have papers.’

‘As I told these men,’ Withypoll crouched, teeth bared. ‘Before they struck me down.’

The man with oily hair turned to Withypoll’s assailants, pointing his arm at them. ‘Why did you strike him?’

‘He tried to kill us with his horse,’ the wild-eyed fellow snarled. He and Withypoll eyed each other like dogs.

‘Take the papers from my jacket, Lytle,’ Withypoll commanded. I tried to avoid his eye as I fumbled in his coat. I could feel his heart beating inside his shirt, pounding hard and fast against his ribs as if it would break out. He grimaced, inspecting his shoulder. ‘To strike a King’s agent is treason, and the punishment for treason is death.’ He looked up at the man whose intervention saved his life. ‘What will you do?’

‘Ah!’ The man’s finger began to twitch and draw circles in the air. ‘I am the financier, you see. It is my job to organise things.’

‘The turnpike is broken and no one guards it,’ said Withypoll. His face was white, like a dead man risen.

‘I manage the money,’ the fellow protested. ‘I am the accountant. It is the constable’s job to manage the turnpikes.’

Withypoll scanned the small gathering that watched from a distance. ‘And where is he?’

The accountant straightened his jacket and raised his chin, watching a rivulet of blood trickle down Withypoll’s cheek and drip onto his collar. ‘He died last week and no one has replaced him. Let me take you to my house and mend that wound.’

Withypoll eyed the three men with staves as if contemplating their immediate execution, but instead allowed himself to be led away by the accountant who dared hold him by the arm.

I lingered a moment, asking the crowd who remained if any knew Josselin, but they dispersed like leaves in the breeze, and soon we stood alone as the villagers withdrew again into their shells.

God teased us.

A fire blazed inside the accountant’s house. The acrid smell of tar and rosin pervaded every inch of the immaculate room. The accountant waved an arm, eyeing our muddy shoes anxiously. ‘Sit down, gentlemen, please.’

Withypoll threw his jacket to the floor and headed for the biggest chair, next to the fire. ‘Your wife is diligent,’ he said. ‘I have never seen such a tidy house.’ He poked at three tiny figurines lined up in a perfect row on the mantle above the fireplace.

‘I have no wife,’ the accountant replied, picking up the jacket and moving the figurines to precisely where they had been before. ‘It is I who like things to be in order. Sit on the chair please and I will wash your head.’

Withypoll tried to lift his left shoulder, wincing in pain. ‘I will see
those fellows hang,’ he said, as the accountant approached with a bowl of honey and two white linen cloths.

‘I cannot excuse their behaviour,’ the accountant replied. ‘Bend your head forwards please, sir, so I might see the wound.’

With one of the cloths the accountant attempted to wipe the dirt from the gash. He dabbed and patted, exposing a two-inch cut, deep and angry, with purple edges. Withypoll said nothing as he worked, made not a sound. Once the accountant was satisfied, he took a spoonful of honey, and let it drip from one edge of the wound to the other. Then he lay the second cloth across the top of the sticky mess.

‘Is that it?’ asked Dowling, watching as the accountant tried to rub a small patch of honey from his fingers.

‘An ancient remedy,’ the accountant replied. ‘
Vis medicatrix naturae
.’ He picked up the honey bowl gingerly, with just four fingers, and took it back to the kitchen. When he returned he puffed out his chest and smiled.

‘You are the first happy man I have seen this day,’ said Withypoll.

‘Happy?’ The accountant blinked. ‘How could a man be happy? Yet I do of my best, for the Lord God watches, and I believe he hath sent me here for such an occasion.’ He stepped to a desk stood beneath the main window, upon which rested a thick ledger.

He tapped the cover of the book with a forefinger. ‘I keep a record of every man and woman in this town, every child. Through good planning and expert organisation we have raised sufficient sums to provide everyone with adequate provision, including those we hold at Cutler’s barn. Everyone pays his share of tax, and we have raised contributions from the towns about that are not so afflicted. We will survive this pestilence, even should it destroy every living soul within our boundaries.’

Withypoll laughed out loud.

‘What of the dead and the dying?’ asked Dowling.

The accountant frowned. ‘The groans of the sick are a distraction, but I persevere.’

Withypoll grinned broadly and Dowling shook his big head.

‘We are searching for James Josselin,’ I changed the subject. ‘We have a message for him from the King. Has he passed this way?’

The accountant’s bright face registered strange joy, like he experienced a holy vision. ‘Indeed he has, though he didn’t stop.’

‘What do you know of him?’ I asked.

‘He is a great man,’ the accountant replied. ‘You know what he did at Colchester?’

‘We heard something of it,’ I answered doubtfully. ‘It was a long time ago.’

The accountant rubbed his hands and filled his lungs. ‘Long ago, aye, but to understand the man, you must understand the child. Josselin’s childhood defines him.’

Withypoll rubbed his palm upon the arm of the chair. ‘I have little appetite for detail. Make this a short history.’

The accountant froze, enthusiasm pricked, but I made encouraging noises and his hands began to move again. ‘Then I will assume you are familiar with the history of the Siege of Colchester. What you may not have heard, for the story was suppressed, are the lengths to which General Fairfax went to try to persuade the Royalists to surrender. Every man knows they persevered for three months before they starved. But the full story of the barbarity has never properly been told.’

Withypoll fidgeted. ‘Tell it quick.’

The accountant turned to me, in search of a more appreciative
audience. ‘Before the siege was over Fairfax killed and tortured prisoners. He cut off their hands and fingers to obtain confessions, and distributed their rings to his men.’ He paused for effect. ‘He broke into the house of Sir John Lucas, whose house lay outside the city wall, and plundered the family vault, smashing coffins and scattering bones. His soldiers tore hair from the corpses of women and wore it in their hats as trophies, including the hair of Sir John’s poor dead wife.’

He paused again, but I offered him no encouragement, for I had heard this tale before and loathed it.

The accountant shook his head, as if in sadness. ‘The citizens of Colchester were not even Royalist, most of them. Yet when the Royalists invited the women to leave, Fairfax stripped them of their clothes and chased them back to the closed gates, where his men brutalised them.’ He shook his head again, though I saw no tears. ‘Then he starved us. First we ate the horses’ fodder, then the thatch from the houses. When that ran out we ate the horses. When we ate all the horses we ate the cats and the dogs.’

‘You were there?’ I asked.

‘Not in body,’ he replied. ‘Though yes, in spirit, for I am a loyal subject of this nation, and several of the villagers
were
there. What Fairfax did to the people of Colchester, Cromwell inflicted upon us all.’

God save us. ‘All of this is well known.’ I swallowed my irritation. ‘What of Josselin?’

The accountant frowned. ‘You cannot hope to understand Josselin’s bravery without appreciating Fairfax’s barbarity. Norwich needed reinforcement quickly if he was to survive Fairfax’s siege. So he determined to send a message to Marmaduke Langdale. But Fairfax guarded every exit, and lit up the walls at night so none could
escape. James Josselin went to the Moot Hall, evaded the guard, and ran up to Norwich to offer his services.’

Withypoll snorted. ‘To a nine-year-old boy it would have seemed a great adventure.’

‘A boy, true,’ said the accountant. ‘But everyone within the walls knew what Fairfax did. The sight of his men parading the bones of the dead would terrify a nine-year-old more than a full-grown man. Of course, Norwich sent him back to his family.’

Withypoll sighed. ‘Then he leapt the wall of his own accord and set off to find Langdale I suppose?’

‘Yes,’ the accountant answered. ‘He did.’

Withypoll curled his lip. ‘So he tried to escape, they caught him, and Fairfax’s men treated him rough.’

‘They held his hand and burnt his fingers with matches.’ The accountant’s voice rose an octave. ‘When he refused to talk they sliced off his nails. If you look at his hands you may still see the scars. He screamed and he cried, but he told them nothing of Norwich’s plans.’

‘Unlikely,’ Withypoll muttered.

‘I will not argue with
you
.’ The accountant lifted his chin and wrinkled his nose. ‘For I know James Josselin, and when you look in his eyes, you see it to be true. For not only may you see courage in those eyes, but also strangeness. He grew up a strange man, and I credit that to Fairfax.’

In my mind I saw a small boy, surrounded by brute soldiers. I saw one of them grasp his small hand and hold a flame to it, a cruel smile upon his lips. I felt my own hair prickle at the thought of it, and could scarce imagine how it must have appeared to a child. Like the worst vision of Hell, I supposed, a terrifying shattering of young assumptions.

Dowling bowed his head.

‘He is headed for Colchester,’ said the accountant. ‘He didn’t say so, but when he heard of the misery that envelops that place, I know he would be compelled to return.’

Withypoll sighed. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I know the man.’ The accountant shrugged. ‘He is drawn there by old ties. Why you follow him I cannot divine. You must have as much courage as he.’

His words chilled the air and I shivered. Josselin ventured deep into the abyss, and we pursued on his coat-tails.

‘You said he is strange,’ I said. ‘In what way strange?’

The accountant put a finger to his lips. ‘Ah! Distant, I would say. You look into his eyes and he stares at something a long way away, behind your back. He seems unaffected by the things that he sees.’

‘What else do you know of him?’

The accountant pursed his lips and lowered his brow, in concentration. ‘He has a good friend who lives in Chelmsford, a fellow called Thyme. If you wish to know the man, find Thyme.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Thyme is a friend of mine besides. He manages Chelmsford’s accounts. He grew up with Josselin, in Colchester.’

Withypoll grunted. ‘We must go.’ He pulled himself up to his feet and again tested his shoulder.

‘You should rest,’ the accountant exclaimed, but his eyes gleamed bright.

‘We will reach Chelmsford before nightfall,’ Withypoll replied. ‘You may tell those three men I will be bringing soldiers with me upon my return. If I have to build the gallows myself, then you shall be one of those that swings from it.’

The accountant looked to his ledger as if alarmed it was not budgeted for, but otherwise seemed unperturbed. I imagined he nurtured as little hope as us at the prospect of our safe return.

We retrieved our horses and resumed our journey, deeper into plague country. I tried to picture Josselin the man, to imagine what he looked like now, this strangeness in his eyes. A great man, everyone said. Hardly the murderer and traitor that Arlington described. I watched Withypoll stare ahead, and realised, reluctant, that Dowling and I were all that stood between Josselin and death. Why me? I was just an apothecary.

Withypoll rode well ahead, unconcerned it seemed whether we followed or not. He held the reins in his right hand and leant towards his left. The cloth upon his head stuck like a strange cap, the edges of it flapping about a green stain of honey, blood and pus. Yet he steered his horse in a straight line with no sign of flagging.

As the afternoon began to wane we reached a crossroads, a bleak piece of moorland betwixt the forests. Each road stretched straight over the horizon, barren and deserted. A man stood up as we neared, an old soldier with tatty unbuttoned jacket, hair grown wild about a naked crown. Three bottles nestled in the yellow grass, one upside down, another unstoppered.

He threw his arms up to the sides. ‘Which way will ye go?’

‘Chelmsford,’ replied Withypoll, eyes half lidded.

The old soldier pointed left and right. ‘Waltham and Billericay. I should advise you to take one or other of those roads, but not the road to Chelmsford.’ He stuck out a trembling hand. ‘Whiche’er way you choose, you must pay me, for I am responsible for maintenance.’

Grass grew long as far as the eye could see. I feared Withypoll’s wrath, but he slumped silent.

‘We’ll not pay you for something you’ve not done,’ I replied.

The soldier reached for his sword, scrabbling at his waist afore he realised he had left the weapon on the ground, next to his drink.

‘When did James Josselin pass through?’ I asked. ‘Tell us that and we might give you something.’

The drunken soldier rubbed his eyes and pushed the matted hair off his forehead. ‘Two weeks ago.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ Dowling demanded, sceptical.

The soldier stuck out his chest. ‘He gave me three pennies and I asked him what day it was. He told me it was the 11th August and I told him that was the day my son was born. Then he gave me a fourth penny.’

‘Josselin left London on the 18th of August,’ I said, recalling Arlington’s account.

‘I don’t know when he left London,’ the old soldier licked his lips. ‘I only know when he came through here.’

‘What else did he say to you?’ I asked.

The soldier screwed up his nose. ‘He asked me if I fought, and I said I didn’t fight because all the battles were at sea. Said I’d
like
to fight. He told me to save meself for the French because to fight the Dutch was like to fight your own brother.’

‘Which proves his treachery,’ Withypoll growled. ‘Now get out of our way.’

I threw the soldier a penny before he got himself killed.

He bowed. ‘You need not demand it, sir. Pass with my blessing if it be your intent. I only pray you is well informed, and that you are all aware of the dangers you will find on this road.’

Withypoll kicked his horse forward. ‘Praying is a waste of time.’

We reached the Moulsham turnpike two hours later. Like the Ilford turnpike it stood unmanned, gate unlatched. Someone had painted the gatepost bright red and tried to daub a large, red cross upon the road. It lay there undisturbed, untouched by horse’s hoof.

I spoke my fears aloud. ‘Does it mean the entire village is infected?’

‘Someone paints a gatepost and you assume the worst,’ said Withypoll. ‘What dangers can there be to three men on horseback? We are not stopping.’ Yet he steered his horse from the highway and waited for me to go first.

Half-timbered two-storey buildings lined either side of the high street, jetties protruding over the street, blocking the sun. Many doors bore the red cross, others were nailed closed. To keep the inhabitants within, or to deter thieves. I wondered which. An eerie silence engulfed us, broken only by the sound of hoof on dirt.

A figure emerged from a shadow twenty yards ahead. It stopped stock-still when it saw us, then ran across the street and disappeared. Like a rat afraid of being trapped.

Ahead loomed another turnpike, a well-fortified barricade built from planks and posts. Ten men barred passage, armed with swords, sticks and a musket. The gate was narrow, through which might barely pass a small cart. Beyond it a stone bridge, a precarious structure with broken walls arching over the River Can and into Chelmsford.

‘We come in the name of the King,’ called Withypoll, as we approached. ‘Let us through.’

‘We will not!’ cried a stout fellow, shorter even than me. ‘Why do you seek entry to our poor town? We are grievously afflicted. Go back from where you came.’

Withypoll clenched his fists. ‘We are following a man who has travelled this way already. Since you granted
him
access, you will grant
us
access.’

‘What man?’

‘James Josselin.’ Withypoll spat the words out like orange pips.

The man turned to his colleagues. They made appreciative noises and nodded their heads keenly. The stout fellow turned back to us. ‘James Josselin is from these parts, but you are strangers. What is your business with James Josselin?’

Withypoll swept back his jacket to reveal his shining sword. ‘Read our credentials and allow us passage, else I shall knock over your poor barricade and chase you into the river.’

The short man produced a musket and levelled it at Withypoll. ‘You are a rude fellow,’ he remarked, calmly. ‘Show me your credentials.’

I prayed Withypoll would try and knock down the barricade, but instead he leant down, shoulder stiff, and handed over the King’s seal.

The short fellow handed his gun to a colleague and took the letter in both hands afore rubbing a fingertip across the wax. ‘This may be the King’s seal,’ he acknowledged, ‘but it says nothing of travelling through Chelmsford, nor of James Josselin. It is not adequate authorisation.’

‘What authorisation did Josselin produce?’ demanded Withypoll.

‘He requires no authorisation,’ the short man replied. ‘He lives in Colchester, and is on his way back to see family. He is a great man.’

Withypoll’s cheeks reddened. ‘His family lives in London. He is no more from Colchester than I.’

‘And who
are
you, sir?’ the man asked. ‘Where do you come from?’

‘I am a King’s agent from Whitehall Palace,’ Withypoll replied through clenched teeth. ‘Now open the gate afore I run my sword through your belly.’

‘I will summon the churchwarden,’ the short man replied, sourcing a greater courage than I had access to. He slid sideways out of our view, replaced by a taller man with red hair about his head and face. The new fellow stared silently, lips permanently pursed like he sucked a lemon as a baby and ne’er forgot the taste.

Withypoll dismounted and approached the gate, ignoring the musket pointed at his chest. I held my breath as the sentry’s finger twitched.

‘Sirs,’ called a new voice, belonging to a wizened old man with bent back. ‘My name is Lewis Duttman, an overseer. I am told you seek sanction to pass through to Colchester.’

‘We’ll pass, whether you sanction it or not,’ Withypoll replied. ‘We are pursuing James Josselin in the name of the King.’

Duttman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you pursue him?’

‘We carry a message,’ I called, tiring of Withypoll’s foul mood. ‘If it were not important, we would not have ventured this far. We must deliver the message, collect his reply, and return to London soonest.’

Duttman nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the soiled cloth that still clung to Withypoll’s head. ‘I will take you to George Jefferies. He is chief warden and knows Josselin better than any man.’

‘Better than Thyme?’

Duttman said nothing.

‘Your accountant, Thyme. Where may we find him?’

‘I pray you don’t seek to meddle in our affairs,’ Duttman answered. ‘I’ll thank you to dismount, gentlemen, and we will walk through town.’

I did as I was told, puzzled, and waited for the red-haired man to open the padlock and unwind the chain. A narrow bridge led over the river. We trod carefully, for the wall fell into the water. The horses manoeuvred crumbling potholes, pulling at the reins and rolling their eyes.

Duttman led us past two cavernous inns; the Red Lion on the left side and the Cock on the right. Both vast establishments, three storeys high, long half-timbered buildings with stables to the rear. Rows of chimneys spewed forth black smoke all through the winter, as travellers betwixt London and Colchester sought accommodation for the evening. Tonight, though, the huge buildings loomed dark and empty. The sun sank low, back west towards London, and a chill bit at the air.

‘Where shall we sleep?’ Withypoll asked Duttman.

‘You plan to stop here?’ Duttman asked startled. ‘Then I don’t know. Mr Jefferies ordered all the inns closed.’

Withypoll grunted.

At the toll house, buildings crowded in from all sides, two narrow alleys leading onwards. Duttman chose the west passage, called Back Street, down the middle of which flowed an open stream, thick and filthy. The heat of the day warmed the foul brew, yielding a stink that rivalled Fleet Ditch. We passed the Unicorn, the Rose, the Three Arrows, the Bull, the Talbot and the Angel, middling-size inns all as empty as the Red Lion and the Cock. The Bull and the Talbot bore red crosses.

‘No watchers?’ I asked Duttman.

‘This isn’t London,’ Duttman replied. ‘We know who is sick and who isn’t.’ He nodded his head towards a small stone dome ahead of us. ‘Any infected who try to leave their house, we lock them in the cage.’

I heard a low howl escape that same dome, thin and rasping.

‘There is someone in there now?’ I asked.

‘Aye,’ Duttman replied, avoiding my eye. ‘He won’t stay in his house no matter how many times we find him outside. He says he is clean of infection, yet every night he runs naked down to the river and jumps in.’

‘He is in pain,’ I protested.

‘He is in anguish,’ said Duttman. ‘His wife and child died two weeks ago.’

We turned the corner into the town square. Ahead of us crouched a peculiar structure, a house with no walls, constructed around eight oak pillars. The pillars supported a tiled roof, the inside bathed in a deep, red light, strange shadows, a familiar, sick, sweet smell. My eyes accustomed to the dusky light and I recognised corpses lain upon the floor, more than a dozen of them.

Dowling regarded Duttman severely. ‘That smell would drive any man to anguish. Were his wife and child laid here after they died?’

‘We lay everyone here after they die, until nightfall,’ Duttman replied.

The man in the cage groaned again, a mournful dirge, deep and sorrowful. ‘His house is nearby,’ I guessed.

‘Just there.’ Duttman pointed to a row of shops to the left of the south gate. ‘How did you know?’

I recalled the smell of my house when Jane lay there sick, her aunt’s dead body in the other bedroom. ‘It is why he runs to the river. He
smells their death, breathes it into his lungs. He runs to the river to cleanse himself.’

‘You talk like a woman, Lytle,’ said Withypoll, wrinkling his nose. He turned to Duttman. ‘Where is Jefferies?’

Duttman pointed again, at a large house just past the cage. ‘Just here. Likely he is at home.’

I caught a glimpse of the churchyard, through the south gate, of men digging a great hole. ‘How many have died?’ I asked.

‘Sixty-two,’ Duttman replied. ‘More than thirty this last month alone. There must always be holes.’

Tears pricked my eyes. Jane and I left London before the plague fully penetrated the City wall. I didn’t see the worst of it.

Duttman entered Jefferies’ house without knocking and led us across the threshold into another stifling hot room. A round table filled the space, five chairs tucked neatly beneath it. A tall, lithe fellow sat in the corner, nestled snug within the depths of a deep, cushioned chair, feet up before a fire, over which burnt a chaffing dish of tar, frankincense and resin. The flames lit his face up orange, illuminating an expression I found difficult to read. His eyes were icy blue, and something happened to his lips. It was as if he smiled, but not quite. He wore his shirt open about his chest and lay with his shoes on, varnished boots of the finest leather in which the flames danced clearly. He didn’t move from his seat, unperturbed by Withypoll’s stern gaze of admonishment.

‘I hear you are King’s men,’ said Jefferies. He gestured to the round table. ‘Sit down.’

Dowling ran his hand over the new polished wood. ‘An unusual table.’

‘Aye,’ said Jefferies, joining us. ‘I had it built especially. When
the plague first struck, all the wardens argued, bickering as to who should have the grandest title, the most money to spend. I am the chief constable, the others are all constables, and we sit in a circle.’

‘You meet here, in your house?’ said Dowling.

Jefferies lips changed form, though I couldn’t tell what emotion played out on his face. ‘I paid for the table.’

Withypoll sneered.

Jefferies watched Withypoll, without fear or concern. ‘Chelmsford is such a town, gentlemen. Before the plague, all curried favour with Lord Mildmay. After he fled they sought to establish a new hierarchy. Meantime men are dying.’

‘Duttman told us you know James Josselin,’ I said, keen to find out all I could. ‘You and a fellow called Thyme.’

Did Jefferies smile? ‘If you are looking for Thyme, then you have found him already.’

‘You?’ I asked, confused.

He shook his head. ‘The man whose voice you hear singing sweet songs from within the cage.’

I listened intent. ‘Can I talk to him?’

Jefferies’ lips changed again. ‘You may talk to him, but he won’t talk to you. He hasn’t spoken a sensible word since his wife died.’

I cursed inwardly. ‘Then what can
you
tell us of Josselin?’

He leant back and folded his arms. ‘I know him quite well, and have always found him to be a sensible fellow. A bit quiet, perhaps. But he was strange last time he was here.’

‘When was he here?’ I asked.

‘Ten days or so,’ Jefferies replied. ‘Ask Duttman. He has a better memory than I.’

‘Why do you say he was strange?’