Hearts of Darkness (7 page)

Jefferies steepled his fingers in front of his chin. ‘Any man is strange that journeys to Colchester from London these days, but he was distracted. He knows Thyme well. They are friends. Yet when he learnt what had happened, he barely acknowledged it. Just raised a brow and shook his head. I’m not sure he understood.’

‘Did he tell you why he travelled east?’

‘In the name of his brother, who is dead,’ he said.

‘He has a brother?’ Withypoll asked, eyes bright.

Jefferies shook his head. ‘He has no brother.’

‘That’s all you can tell us?’ I asked.

‘All I can think of,’ Jefferies replied. ‘Now it gets dark, and you plan to sleep here the night.’

‘Somewhere clean and untouched,’ said Withypoll. ‘As far away from this stink as we are able.’

Jefferies nodded. ‘I will take you to the Feathers. It’s furthest out of the town, close to Treen Bridge.’

Out on the street the last light faded. Candles speckled the sides of the road ahead of us, marking those houses where still folks lived. Three or four braziers burnt saltpetre and oil. It had been a long, hot day and my head throbbed like I was kicked by a cow.

Withypoll seized my elbow as Jefferies marched ahead. ‘Josselin is a cowardly fellow, Lytle. He flees to Colchester for one reason, and one reason only.’

‘What reason?’ I asked, detesting how close he stood to me.

‘Because he has nowhere else to go. And because it’s plague country he assumes no one will follow. It is as clear as that. With no thought as to those he left behind.’ He released my elbow and lay a hand on my sleeve. ‘Remember that, Lytle,’ he leered. ‘For you have left your servant behind, have you not? Of whom you are very fond.’

He winked before striding after Jefferies, leaving me speechless and terrified all over again. Dowling laid a heavy arm across my shoulder and we trudged miserably through this black wasteland, my soul wriggling in frenzied anxiety of what lay in store for us in Shyam and what might lie in store for Jane back in London.

The evening air rang out with the sound of cruel laughter as Withypoll and Jefferies made friends; one devil with another. What chance of discovering an avenging angel out here in plague country?

I pulled my pipe out from my pocket and smoked more of Culpepper’s leaves. Six days until I had to be back in London.

Early next afternoon we reached the top of a rise and looked down upon Colchester, tucked into a long, winding bend of the River Colne. The castle perched atop a great mound of earth overshadowing all. It reminded me of London; tall stone walls dividing the town’s densely housed heart from sprawling surrounds. More houses huddled together in a great spiral, from city wall down to Hythe harbour.

We lingered a while, seeking to orient ourselves with the misery below, but we were too far away to discern anything but peaceful urbanity, serene upon a lush, green plain beneath blue skies. Birds sang unnaturally loud from deep within the darkness of the green forest surrounding. It was said the swallows left London months afore the plague, sensing its arrival. Yet the birds that remained thrived
oblivious. Why did the plague not affect them? Why did the birds not fall from the sky and land upon our heads?

Tension welled within me, urging me to turn my horse away from the horror I knew lurked beneath us. Dowling, though, seemed reconciled. He rode as a pilgrim, straight-backed, faithful, and free of doubt, or so he would have us believe. Withypoll sniffled and coughed, red-eyed and shivery. Perhaps an angel travelled with us, after all. He coughed through the night, and I determined to stay as far away from him as possible. He reckoned he couldn’t contract the plague twice, but I knew of men who had.

‘For who do you wait?’ growled Withypoll, wiping his sleeve across his nose. His brow glistened and sweat soaked the front of his shirt. A new, green stain soiled the new, white cloth upon his head.

‘Look by the abbey,’ said Dowling, voice low.

The abbey stood closest to us, next to St Giles’ church, both structures nestling within the same low-walled compound. The church lay in ruins. All that remained of the abbey was its great gatehouse, both buildings victims of Fairfax’s siege. My eye swept across scattered rubble and broken walls, missing initially the square black hole, stark against the long grass. Next to it movement, what looked like two carts.

‘A pit,’ I realised.

‘A pit,’ Withypoll repeated with disdain. ‘The town is riddled with plague; of course it has a pit. Now we must go.’

‘Why go through it?’ I asked. ‘Why not go round?’

‘The road to Shyam goes through the town,’ Withypoll replied. ‘There is no other way. Now gird your limp loins.’

Four drunk soldiers manned the turnpike on Malden Road, dressed in ragged red tunics and armed with guns. They slumped in a
line, backs to the gate, legs spread-eagled. Two slept, snoring loudly, mouths wide open.

‘Hoy!’ one cried, without standing. ‘Welcome to Colchester.
Ad multos et faustissimos annos
.’ He raised a bottle and poured a long measure down his throat. ‘Why would ye enter this cursed place?’

Withypoll leant down, sweat dripping from his chin. ‘We are King’s men. Open the gate.’

‘The gate is already open,’ the drunk soldier replied. ‘I don’t contest your right to pass, only your good reason.’ He squinted at Withypoll’s swollen, red nose. ‘Are you devils?’

‘Who commands you?’ Withypoll demanded, jumping to the ground.

‘Captain Scotschurch,’ the man slurred.

Withypoll kicked him in the thigh. ‘Scotschurch?’

‘Aye.’ The drunk soldier frowned and waved an arm towards his gun.

Withypoll seized the weapon and threw it onto the road. ‘Where will we find this Captain Scotschurch?’

‘On the ship.’ The drunkard blinked slowly and belched. ‘At Hythe. Go ye there and talk to him if you will.’ He waved a hand and stared away into space, much offended it seemed.

Withypoll climbed back into his saddle and spurred his horse on through the gateway, allowing the beast to tread perilously close to the drunken soldier’s hand. The abbey and its grounds stood away to our right, the pit hidden behind a short wall, overgrown with ivy. I nudged my own steed towards the left side of the street.

The road led us up to the town wall, to a row of houses built just a few steps aside from it. Head Gate was barred afront of us, thick oaken door firmly closed. Two soldiers slouched against the wall, one
each side of it, both armed. A townsman watched us approach with a grim face and said something to one of the soldiers. They looked up, the townsman’s face lined with thick, angry furrows, the soldiers’ indifferent.

Every house at each corner of the crossroads bore a red painted cross. Some were brown, old and faded, others brighter. The plague resided here a while. One of the houses appeared abandoned, broken door hung crooked on its hinges. Open windows exposed a derelict interior.

Ignoring the townsman we headed east along the front of the wall, coming next to a narrow passage, dark and quiet. I peered into the gloom and made out another gate, smaller, also barred. ‘This is like London,’ I realised. ‘They lock the gates to keep out the Pest.’

‘Which be their business,’ Withypoll grunted. ‘We have no need to enter the town yet. The soldier said the Captain was at Hythe.’

Two men walked out from behind an arch. The gate closed afore we reached it.

‘Hoy!’ I cried, but they hurried away, disappearing into a clutch of houses opposite the wreckage of a priory. One enormous wall was all that remained, its edges chewed away as if by a giant rat.

I heard the wheels of a cart. At first I thought it to be a tradesman, but I turned to see a grey fellow sat huddled and hunched, clothes hanging from his slight frame like he shrunk. Two soldiers followed thirty paces behind, maintaining their distance. The carter’s brown eyes conveyed a madness that pricked my soul and made it scream. He opened his small round mouth, revealing blue gums bereft of teeth. ‘Bring out your dead,’ his weak voice shrilled.

The cart trundled past. Three bodies lay in the back of it; two long and one short, each wrapped in a rough, brown shroud. They
collected the dead during the day! I watched over my shoulder as the cart turned down a narrow alley and froze when the little fellow looked deep into the midst of my being. Like Death, sizing up my soul.

Withypoll noticed my discomfort and smiled his cruel grin afore again wiping his nose upon his shirt. ‘This is no time to fear death, Lytle, nor is it the place. He will come for you soon enough.’ Would that it
was
the plague he suffered from, I thought, immediately feeling guilty.

The road to Hythe wound down the hill, cutting a swathe through tight-massed suburbs. Bells pealed from a church somewhere ahead; signifying another death if the practice was the same as London. More red crosses marked the doors down either side. The air hung heavy with tar smoke, enveloping my eyes and making them itch, and burning the back of my throat.

From astride my horse, I could see down into front rooms, and up into bedrooms of the larger two-storeyed houses. Some were quiet and still, no sign of life. From others the familiar, pitiful sounds of pain and death; shrill screams and mournful dirge. One man perched upon a chair with his knees held close together, neither moving nor speaking as we passed, just staring straight ahead. Another man clutched an infant to his chest, too close for it to breathe, rivers of tears flowing either side of his streaming nose.

The bells rang louder as we neared the sharp spire of a church. A man with a shovel upon his shoulder strode across our path, ragged clothes caked in a thick coating of dried brown mud. He whistled a merry tune, an unnatural sound amidst such misery. Then at last we reached the harbour, a long stretch of dry bank looking out upon the river, teeming with soldiers, staggering about in circles or lay spread-eagled upon the
ground. None of them looked like a captain.

Withypoll slipped from the back of his horse and approached a sober looking fellow with a fat, red sty in one eye. ‘Where is Captain Scotschurch?’

The balding man turned his head so he could see us each in turn with his one good eye, before pointing to a caravel moored out in the middle of the river, sails lowered. ‘He’s on the
Enterprise
. Doesn’t leave it.’

‘Take us there,’ Withypoll demanded.

‘He receives no man,’ the soldier replied. ‘He fears the plague. If I took you, they would shoot us from the main deck.’

‘Someone must go,’ I said. ‘Who takes him food and water?’

‘He has supplies,’ the soldier answered, trudging away. ‘If you would go, go yourself.’

Withypoll’s hand tightened upon the hilt of his sword as he watched the soldier walk away. If he attacked the soldier, the rest of the company would surely retaliate. But he wiped his forehead upon his soaking sleeve and took a deep breath, face shining white, gleaming in the sun.

I turned my attention to three boats moored upon the bank, each with oars laid flat down the keel.

‘If we fly a white flag we should at least gain the opportunity to show our credentials,’ I said.

‘Get in the boat,’ Withypoll ordered. ‘And take off your shirt.’

The ship anchored no more than fifty yards offshore. Sliding one of the boats into the river presented no problem, and it proved easy to row. I took off my white shirt and felt the hot sun burn pleasantly upon my shoulders.

Three men watched from the ship, muskets trained upon us.

‘We are King’s men,’ I shouted, nervous they might aim first at the man with the flag. ‘Sent by the King to find James Josselin.’

‘King’s men or Arlington’s men?’ one shouted back.

I prodded Withypoll in the midriff that he might show his letter. ‘Both.’

‘Aye, then,’ cried the soldier. ‘Then ye should retrieve him, but you cannot come on board.’

‘We must talk to Captain Scotschurch,’ I protested.

‘We may not leave the boat, and none may board,’ the soldier replied.

‘Tell them we insist,’ Withypoll whispered to me. ‘Else we shall return to London and inform the King himself of this treachery.’

‘Refuse us boarding, you refuse the King,’ I shouted. ‘For we represent him in this matter.’

The soldier tapped his finger to his brow. ‘I will confer.’

We waited on the boat, gently rocking on the Colne. Withypoll looked worse, eyelids heavy and jaw sagging like he found it difficult to breathe. Dowling watched him stony-eyed, grievously offended by something.

‘Hoy!’ the soldier called, once he returned. ‘One of you may board.’

‘What treachery is this?’ Withypoll spluttered, saliva flying in all directions. ‘Did you not hear what he said?’

‘Aye, so I did,’ the soldier grinned, blinking. He appeared drunk. ‘The Captain said there is but one King, and so he would admit but one of you in his place.’

Withypoll breathed deep and stood up. ‘Very well.’ He stepped towards the rigging causing the boat to lurch violently.

‘Not you.’ The soldier raised his gun. ‘I told him you look sick.’ He turned to me and pointed. ‘The little fellow. He may board.’

Withypoll eyed the rigging with teeth bared, as if contemplating besieging the ship alone. Then he fell back onto his seat and focussed his red-eyed gaze upon me. ‘Find out what is going on, Lytle, and make sure you gain assurance you will be admitted to Shyam.’ He wiped the palm of his hand against his hair.

‘Why do you not come with us to Shyam?’ I asked. ‘You say you are unafraid of the plague.’

‘I don’t fear the plague,’ Withypoll snarled, ‘but those are Arlington’s instructions.’ His face relaxed once more. ‘Besides, there is more than the plague in Shyam, Lytle, as you will discover.’ He rubbed his puffy eyes. ‘Make sure you succeed, Lytle, for if I have to storm this ridiculous ship myself, I will slice off a piece of you first.’

What else could be in Shyam, worse than plague? My spirits sunk lower than ever before. I contemplated asking this captain to sail me to Holland, else borrowing one of those muskets and shooting Withypoll from the safety of the ship. Tell Arlington it was a drunken sailor did it. But I was not a murderer. Dowling stood, legs astride, and helped steady me as I grasped for the rigging.

The three soldiers were indeed drunk. Bored, I supposed, but what captain would allow such debauchery right under his nose? A drunk captain, I discovered, upon being shown into his cabin.

He slouched upon a carved wooden chair, painted gold like a throne, wide enough to seat two men. Lions’ paws were carved into the bottom of each leg and lions’ heads upon the handles. This fellow resembled no captain I had ever seen. Short hair, black and straggly, grew wild about his scalp. Three weeks of bristle sprouted upon his big, round face. Small, dark eyes wandered about his head like he couldn’t see straight. Painted below his nose was a wide, foolish smile, revealing short, peg-like teeth, most of them rotten. He slumped in
the chair like his back was broken, and clutched its arms as if he feared falling from it.

‘Who are you?’ he slurred, grin intact. ‘You don’t look like one of Arlington’s agents to me.’

‘I am Harry Lytle,’ I replied. ‘And I am dressed so not to attract attention.’

Captain Scotschurch belched. ‘I wasn’t talking about your clothes. What do you want?’

‘We have come to fetch James Josselin from Shyam,’ I answered. ‘Two of us will go in and find him, while Withypoll waits for us in Colchester.’

Scotschurch shook his head. ‘Madness, but I wish you well. Rid us of Josselin and we can all go home.’ He rearranged his mouth and let his eyes hang heavy such that I feared he might fall asleep.

I cleared my throat. ‘The town gates are all locked.’

‘Aye, Mayor Flanner insists, and I don’t blame him,’ Scotschurch exclaimed, eyes open wide for a moment. ‘They seek to keep the Pest at bay. He has walls and I have a river.’ He leant over the right arm of his chair and groped for a bottle. ‘He controls the road to Shyam besides. They know you are coming and plan to deny you passage.’

‘How will they prevent us?’ I asked, hopeful.

Scotschurch snorted, spitting wine onto his shirt. ‘With fine words and sound argument. They have been practising.’

‘Practising? We received our orders just three days ago.’