Hearts of Darkness (9 page)

Six donkeys stood in a circle, each burdened with heavy load, heads raised to the skies crying harshly to the heavens, white teeth shining in the sun. About them gathered four men in dark trousers and loose, light shirts, all wearing tan shoes. They checked each donkey’s pack and pulled at various straps and fastenings.

‘The East Gate is the way to Shyam,’ said Benjamin, staring at Flanner.

‘They are on a mission of mercy,’ Flanner explained, perspiration forming upon his brow in heavy drops. ‘They are God’s men, all of them brave.’

‘Brave or foolish?’ I asked him. ‘Did you not say they will die?’

‘God will watch over them,’ Flanner replied, though his body spoke with less confidence than his mouth. ‘They have heard the terrible tales that come from Shyam, stories of hopelessness and evil. They have pledged to purge the village of sin in the name of the Lord.’

None of which made sense. If Josselin fled London and found sanctuary between the clean walls of Colchester, then why should he make the perilous trip to Shyam? Josselin hid in Colchester, I was sure of it.

The four men finished making their last adjustments and the donkeys ceased their protests. Each man appeared grimly resolute, yet terrified besides. A dangerous addiction, the Bible. Every man sought the best of himself amongst its pages and determined to live up to that lofty ambition. Yet we were none of us so strong, nor so bold. Now these fellows realised they were just poor mortals like the rest of us, yet had created for themselves a braver man’s destiny. The donkeys seemed keenest, tempted by the long, open track and the sight of fresh, green grass. At last the men could linger no more, and
the small band picked its way through the rubble of the gate and set off for Shyam.

‘If they can go, then Lytle and Dowling can go,’ Withypoll told Flanner, smiling at me.

He surely saw the fear in my eyes. What if Josselin was in Shyam after all? Like Withypoll, perhaps he imagined some false immunity. Perhaps for him Shyam
was
a real sanctuary, a place no man might reach him, a place he might command the poor afflicted inhabitants.

‘What else would you see?’ Flanner asked.

‘Your best inn,’ Withypoll demanded. ‘If we must stay the night in this cursed place, then we will stay within the walls.’

‘I will take you to the Red Lion.’ Flanner beckoned. ‘I assume
you
will return from whence you came,’ he said, spitting the words at Benjamin.

Benjamin reddened, turned on his heel, and strode back towards Botolph’s Gate without a word.

If Josselin was in Colchester, we had little time to find him, for nothing would deprive Withypoll of the pleasure of seeing us step out the gate upon that sinister road to Shyam.

Curious faces stared out from the windows as we passed, and as I met the stares of men, women and children, I realised that Benjamin had been the only one of us that knew for sure what Josselin looked like.

As the bells rang out for evening prayer, Dowling and I prepared to venture forth. At these times, with plague knocking upon the town gates, every man would go to church. If we wanted clear view of the remaining townsfolk, now presented the best opportunity.

Withypoll slouched in a large chair, in front of the empty fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, though the air was warm. His hair lay in wet tangles, plastered to his head, the ugly wound now open to the air. A small table stood at his elbow, upon it a jug of ale. ‘Tomorrow Shyam,’ he said, raising a mug, his words echoing about the large, empty room, worn timber walls, bare floor.

I thought to argue with him, but his eyes gleamed, feverish. With any luck he might be dead tomorrow. The landlady watched, curious, from
the doorway. Her head darted like a great chicken with a faint, black moustache.

She waited for us to walk past her afore she spoke. ‘Why do you plan to go to Shyam?’ she demanded, tugging at my sleeve.

‘To find James Josselin,’ I replied.

‘Josselin is not at Shyam,’ she snorted. ‘Who told you that?’

‘Where is he, then?’ I asked, ears pricked.

‘I don’t know where he is, but he would ne’er venture into Shyam.’ She spat on the floor and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘First, it is worse plagued than even outside our own walls. Second, he would ne’er go to Shyam, for that is where Thomas Elks lives.’

The bells continued ringing. Churches would be starting to fill.

‘Who is Thomas Elks?’

‘Thomas Elks is Hugh Elks’ brother, and Hugh Elks is dead.’ She spat again upon the floor, a small, brown puddle of something sticky. ‘Thomas Elks blamed James Josselin, and swore to kill him for it.’

‘When was this?’ I asked.

‘Ten years ago.’ She tapped me on the chest and stared, her rough, weathered face smelling strangely damp. ‘Tell me why James Josselin would go back to Shyam when Thomas Elks is waiting there to kill him? Thomas Elks is as black-hearted as ever his brother was, and his brother was an evil sinner.’

‘Tell us the story quickly, woman,’ I urged her. ‘We must get to church.’

‘I must get to church besides,’ she replied indignant. ‘I need not tell you the story at all.’

‘Tell us, please,’ Dowling said, soft.

‘Well, then.’ She wrinkled her nose in my direction afore turning to Dowling. ‘Hugh Elks was an idle fellow, like all his kin. Another man, name of William Braine, sold all his stock at market and planned to leave Shyam to go to Ipswich, I think.’ She spat a third time, this time close to my boot. ‘One day, at the time of morning prayer, a man entered William Braine’s house with a visor upon his face. Braine’s daughter was there alone, for she was sick, making cheese.’

‘God save us,’ Dowling muttered.

‘Aye, God save us,’ the old woman agreed. ‘When the thief saw the daughter, he must have panicked. Perhaps she recognised him.’ Her shiny, black eyes narrowed. ‘Hugh Elks arrived at church very late, exceedingly sweaty, said he had been working in the field. When William Braine arrived home, he found his daughter lain on the floor with her throat cut, and a dog eating the cheese.’

‘Elks’ dog?’

‘Aye, Elks’ dog. He said his dog escaped its leash, and that the presence of his dog didn’t signify that he killed Braine’s daughter, and none could prove otherwise.’

‘Though all suspected it?’

‘Not all.’ The old woman sighed deep. ‘For not everyone liked William Braine, and not everyone was agin’ Hugh Elks, for Elks had a large family. Half the village is related to an Elks in some way.’

‘Josselin proved Elks killed the girl, and Thomas Elks hates him for it,’ I deduced.

The old woman ignored me. ‘When Elks arrived at church, sweat poured from his head like he had stuck it in a bucket. His face was red, his skin hot, yet Josselin noticed his shirt was clean.’
The old lady gazed up into Dowling’s serious face. ‘There were three or four spots where the sweat soaked through in circles, growing fast. It was a new shirt, else it would have been wet all over, like his body.’

‘For someone who wasn’t there, you tell a good story,’ I said.

She grimaced and turned again to Dowling. ‘Josselin walked the path between Braine’s house and the church. Elks’ house lay between the two. Past Elks’ house stood a thicket. Josselin took the dog into the thicket and found a shirt, covered in blood, in thin streams where it sprayed when he cut the girl’s throat.’

‘God’s teeth,’ I muttered.

‘Elks said it wasn’t his shirt, but the dog picked it up and ran to him with it. Then others from the village swore they had seen him wearing it earlier that day. I don’t know if they spoke truth or told lies to condemn him, but it was enough to see him hanged at Ipswich.’ The old lady turned to face me. ‘Some thanked Josselin for it; others blamed him for Hugh Elks’ death, accusing him of bearing false witness. When Josselin found his own horse dead one day, here at Colchester, throat cut with a wire, he knew Thomas Elks did it.’

‘Thomas Elks may be dead,’ I pointed out. ‘Half Shyam is dead, so they say.’

‘More than half,’ the old lady replied, ‘and none of them is Thomas Elks. We see the list every Friday, and his name has not yet been on it. So you tell me why James Josselin would venture into Shyam, and tell me then why you venture into Shyam. Though having met you I am inclined to send you on your way.’ She stuck out her chin.

‘All good questions,’ I assured her. ‘We would talk more to you later, but now we must go.’

‘
I
must go,’ she corrected me, ‘and I don’t know that I have the inclination to talk to you more.’ She spat one last time upon the floorboards before shuffling off.

‘How sweet are thy words unto my taste! Yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth!’ Dowling grasped my shoulder. ‘We should inspect the latest list afore we leave.’

I didn’t honour him with a reply, for we dawdled too long if we wanted to arrive before the churches filled.

Dowling reckoned there were nine churches in Colchester. We couldn’t cover them all. If Josselin had indeed come here to meet the Dutch then St Martin’s was the most likely, an old Norman church inside the Dutch Quarter, deformed and stunted, its tower destroyed by Fairfax’s cannons.

We arrived at the door in sufficient time, for the streets were still filling. The sun still shone, which made it difficult to stand inconspicuous. By now word would have spread that three strangers roamed the town in search of Josselin and his four Dutch spies. Josselin may have been warned of our presence. Damn Withypoll for declaring our intentions so bold. I fetched in my pocket for my pipe and Culpepper’s leaves.

I offered the packet to Dowling. ‘Will you share my remedy?’

He shook his head, scowling.

‘Why so quiet, Davy?’ I asked him, packing the bowl. ‘You’ve barely said a word all day.’

He snorted and shook his head. ‘Does it not pain ye, Harry,’ he said. ‘That outside the walls men lie dying? Yet in here they feed themselves, watch over themselves, then rush to church to pray for their own lives.’ He shook his head again. ‘The end of all flesh is come before me; for the earth is filled with violence through them; and,
behold, I will destroy them with the earth.’

‘God is angry you reckon?’

‘Angry with us all,’ Dowling replied, voice thick with fear and disgust. ‘God looked upon the earth, and behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth. Who says the plague has left London, Harry? Who says it will not return?’

‘Where is your belief, Davy?’ I asked, shaken to my soul, for I never suspected Dowling’s faith was pregnable.

‘None of us know God’s intent,’ he answered. ‘For without controversy great is the mystery of godliness.’

‘Amen to that,’ I said, thinking of Shyam and watching the last of the congregation file in through the doors. ‘Though I reckon God would have us persuade Scotschurch to search this town from door to door, despite what Withypoll says.’

‘Withypoll cares little about Josselin,’ said Dowling. ‘All this talk of treason and treachery is but part of the act behind which Withypoll masquerades to achieve his true intention. And his true intention is to see you die, Harry, and me too, I suppose.’

I thought of London, the noise, the throngs, the sound of life. ‘Is now the time to flee then?’ I stepped across the road to light my pipe from a brazier full of coals. I sucked hard, feeling the smoke deep in my lungs. The colours about me intensified, coals burning like little suns.

‘If Withypoll reports we failed upon our obligation, Lucy may be killed, and Jane besides,’ Dowling reminded me, terse.

‘I know.’ I stumbled on my words. ‘I thought we could ride faster than Withypoll, seize Lucy and Jane, and carry them away.’

Dowling sniffed the air and regarded me, suspiciously. ‘Arlington has spies all over the country, people like us who live in fear of failure.’

The church filled now, a low, buzzing noise sounding from behind the two, sturdy doors.

‘No sign of Josselin,’ I noted. ‘Unless he arrived early.’

‘I will go and see,’ Dowling declared, striding towards the open doorway. ‘You wait here.’

Brave of him, I thought, watching his great, broad shoulders disappear into the blurriness of the dark church. Every man would stare at him when he entered, stranger that he was. I waited in the fading sun for the service to end, watching the white clouds racing across the scarlet sky, dark and shimmering. I leant against the wall to steady myself.

At last the townspeople emerged, in twos and threes, sombre and cheerless, no doubt reminded again of the plague and the sinful excesses that were supposed to have incited it. That would have cheered Dowling up.

Three men lingered upon exiting, stood in a tight circle, backs to each other, watching out onto the street. Well for me, I stood in the alley from where I could observe unnoticed. Three more men came out soon after, plain brown jackets woven from fine cloth in foreign style. They must be the men Benjamin saw. They didn’t look like churchwardens, nor behave like churchwardens either, skulking about the streets like criminals. I wondered where Dowling had got to.

I shook my head in an attempt to return the world to normal, but still the colours burnt. The little group headed east, as yellow became burnt orange, and so I followed, braving the open streets. At the end of the road they turned north, towards a large wide house,
timber-framed
with candles in all the windows already. They disappeared inside and closed the door behind.

‘Six men and more,’ I said to myself. ‘And three of them are neither of these parts, nor are they churchwardens.’ I stepped across the street towards the brightest window and peered in.

Twelve men or more sat around a long table. All the six I followed and a half-dozen more. Their demeanour was serious and businesslike. They took their instruction from the head of the table, to my left, but I couldn’t see the speaker’s face. I ducked my head and shuffled along to another window from where I could see every man. All twelve and the man at the head besides. A familiar face. My heart pounded hard enough to break my ribs.

I looked around for Dowling, but couldn’t see him anywhere. I tried running back the way I came but it seemed I left my legs behind.

‘Calm,’ I urged myself, leaning against a wall. ‘No one is following.’ I took small steps.

Dowling appeared from somewhere, face white and hair black. I had never seen him with black hair before. ‘Harry!’ he exclaimed.

I leant back against a pillar staring at a face, a chipped stone face I recognised from St Martin’s. ‘You know who I saw?’ I whispered hoarse.

‘I told you to wait,’ Dowling growled. ‘Where did you go?’

‘I saw
him
,’ I said. Familiar stern face, scathing and terrible, the skin upon his neck now hung in a long fold that quivered as he spoke. Yellowing eyes, like a great rat. His silver-tipped cane leant against his chair. ‘The Earl of Shrewsbury.’

Dowling cupped my chin in his hands. ‘Shrewsbury?’

‘Aye, Shrewsbury. The murderous devil that would have seen me hanged at Tyburn.’ I struggled to stand up straight and dug my heels into the paving stones. ‘I’m going back.’

Dowling laid an arm across my shoulders, heavy as a log. ‘No.’

I felt my knees buckle. ‘He killed my father.’

Dowling gazed down upon me like he was my father instead. ‘Shrewsbury sits there with twelve men. What is your grand plan?’

‘To stick his cane down his throat.’ Gratifying but not grand.

‘By yourself?’ Dowling frowned. ‘We need help, Harry, and Withypoll is the only one I can think can provide it.’

We hurried back to the Red Lion.

‘What church did you go to?’ the old lady demanded as soon as we stepped over the threshold. ‘I did not see you there.’

I ignored her and headed straight for the table upon which Withypoll leant forwards, wet head rested on his arms.

I slapped my hands down upon the thick wood. ‘Things have changed.’

Withypoll pushed himself up, scowling. ‘Aye, the moon has risen and you are frightened.’ He shivered. ‘A change for the better.’

‘No.’ I said. ‘We found the Dutchmen.’

Withypoll raised his brows and endeavoured to look impressed. ‘Well, sit thee down and let’s partake of an ale, to celebrate your fine achievement.’

I banged the table again. ‘The Earl of Shrewsbury was among them.’

Withypoll pursed his lips. ‘A trick, Lytle? For if it is your intention to weave some fine tale that will excuse you your voyage into Shyam, then you are wasting your breath.’

‘No trick,’ I snapped. ‘We will take you to the house now, where you may see it with your own eyes. If any man is a traitor, it’s Shrewsbury. What business does he have in Colchester with a table full of Dutchmen? He is involved in this, somehow or other.
There is no point in going to Shyam. Josselin is obviously here in the town.’

‘You saw Josselin with Shrewsbury?’ Withypoll wiped his brow. ‘That is what you would have me believe?’