Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  The corridor was quiet, save for the sound of a low buzzing behind the cellar door. I stepped out onto the street, savouring the slight summer breeze blowing across the black night air.

  ‘Lytle,’ a quiet voice sounded close to my ear.

  I swivelled upon my heel, stumbling against the wall. A tall shadow stood against the pale moon, tall and broad.

  ‘You cannot know how much it pleases me to renew your acquaintance,’ the voice declared.

  I held my breath as the figure stepped forward. I tried to speak, but managed just a gurgle. My nightmare stood afront of me, mouth grinning wide, eyes fixed upon me like a giant cat. He looked the same as he did before, save for the pockmarks upon his young face.

  ‘Forman died,’ he said, voice thick with hatred, as if it was me who killed him.

  Forman had been his partner, an older man, just as vicious, but calmer and more measured.

  ‘Wharton tied you both up,’ I croaked. ‘He killed the others, besides.’

  ‘And you killed Wharton,’ Withypoll nodded slowly. ‘I know. And you left me bound to a dead woman. You knew she was plagued.’ The cruel smile evaporated. ‘I recall now the moment you saw her infection. You fell back onto the floor, staring at her neck. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I remembered it afterwards. And when you saw it, you left us there, trapped.’

  ‘Because you tried to kill me!’ I protested. ‘You would have killed me at the Three Cranes, you would have killed me at St Vedast.’

  Withypoll nodded. ‘Would have, but failed.’ He drew a long silver blade from the inside of his coat and held the tip afront of my eyes. ‘I will not fail again.’

  I thought to run, down the street or back into the house, but he stepped to his left, blocking my passage back towards the wedding party. Then he raised a languid brow, daring me to turn and flee.

  ‘Today, though, I must take you to Lord Arlington.’ He lowered the knife. ‘You and Dowling; he wants to see you.’ He smiled again, like he recalled a favourite joke.

  My heart sank, all optimism dispersed. ‘You work for Arlington now?’

  ‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘Just me alone. Forman died.’

  Which was the second time he told me.

  He snapped and clicked his fingers. ‘Fetch Dowling. Your life is about to change.’

  Chapter Two

  It, viz. the year 1666, hath been ushered in with three preceding Comets, or Blazing Stars; and as unto us in England it’s attended with a grievous and consuming Plague or Pestilence, concomitant with a chargeable war against the Hollanders.

  Dust stung my eyes, dancing thick in the musty air. Rubble lay strewn across the floor and thick webs curtained the corners. A single narrow slit in the wall admitted a light breeze. The Develin Tower had been boarded up for years, a ruinous mess upon the west wall of the Tower of London.

  A stout man slouched in the middle of the room, hand tied to a wooden block nailed to a table. A fleshy fellow, well fed and prosperous, light-brown hair streaked with grey. Sweat beaded in small drops at his temples and his hair stuck to his forehead, plastered with blood. A purple lump bulged above his right eyelid. He watched us through his left eye, silent and bewildered.

  Lord Arlington leant upon an upturned barrel, mouth pinched, brow hanging heavy. He stood when we entered, approaching with outstretched arms, cold face split by a false, yellow smile. I thought for a moment he would envelop me in the folds of his brown, silk jacket, but he stopped short, still smiling, eyes dark and fishy. I tried not to stare at the black plaster across the bridge of his nose, memento of an old battle.

  ‘Such a long time since last we met,’ he exclaimed. ‘St Albans, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, your lordship,’ I replied, dry-mouthed.

  He tucked his arms behind his back and cocked his head. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘What happened that day?’

  I glanced sideways at Dowling, but he stood frozen. Withypoll sauntered into the room, stopping behind Arlington’s shoulder, face twisted in delighted expectation of chewing on my heart.

  ‘You helped us realise Wharton wasn’t dead,’ I began, sidling closer to Dowling. ‘You led us to St Albans to arrest him, where he attacked us.’

  ‘So he did,’ Arlington nodded slowly. ‘I do recall.’

  ‘You and he locked in combat,’ I continued, mouth dry. ‘You were on the verge of defeating him, when I slew him from behind.’

  Arlington wrinkled his nose, unimpressed. He wiped dust from his shoulder and coughed. Truth was he betrayed us. He left us to travel to St Albans by ourselves, then arrived with a band of French soldiers to kill everyone, including us. Wharton outwitted him and I saved his rotten life.

  ‘Have I not remembered well?’ I asked.

  ‘I had him at my mercy, Lytle,’ said Arlington, pointing. ‘I would have fetched him back to London to stand trial, but you struck him from behind with a butcher’s knife.’

  A grave misrepresentation. Had I not thrown the cleaver at Wharton’s head then Arlington would have died.

  Arlington turned to Dowling. ‘Was it not so, Dowling?’

  Dowling hadn’t even been there. He had arrived later. Now he stared forward, unwilling to tell the lie.

  ‘It was,’ I lied on his behalf. ‘Yet we served you as best we could. If our efforts were not good enough, we humbly accept our dismissal.’

  Arlington frowned. ‘Dismissal?’

  Withypoll shook his head slow, an expression of regret.

  Arlington glowered. ‘Some demanded you be put to death for the unlawful killing of nobility, but I insisted on lenience. I protected you.’

  I doubted it. ‘So we are in your debt?’

  ‘You owe me your lives.’

  I nodded at Withypoll. ‘How long has he been working for you?’

  ‘Since he escaped from where you left him bound,’ said Arlington, disapprovingly. ‘I find it difficult to credit how cruel must have been your humour, Lytle. To leave a man bound to an infected corpse.’

  I closed my eyes. There was little to be gained in attempting to explain the events of a year ago. Arlington had already decided our fate, and no words of mine would change that. When I said nothing, he grunted, then waved at the stout man bound in the middle of the room. ‘I should like to introduce you to Edward Josselin.’

  The stout man blinked at the mention of his name and jerked his hand against the bindings.

  ‘His son is another ungrateful wretch,’ Arlington sneered. ‘A traitor and a coward, fled into hiding.’

  The older man’s jaw dropped, as if to say something, but he stopped himself in time. He bowed his head like he feared being struck, and cast a frightened glance at Withypoll.

  Arlington clicked a finger at Withypoll. ‘Give me the knife.’

  Withypoll dug into his jacket and withdrew a square-bladed cleaver. He handed it to Arlington, who handed it to me.

  ‘Chop off his finger,’ Arlington commanded.

  My arm fell to my side, weak as a child’s. I prayed he intended only to intimidate me, yet he and Withypoll watched expectantly, unsmiling and intense. Edward Josselin blinked and tugged sharply again at his trapped hand. I looked down at the knife, a broad-bladed carving knife with weathered, wooden handle. I opened my fingers and dropped it clattering onto the stone floor.

  A small smile appeared upon Arlington’s lips. ‘Do you not recognise it? It’s the knife you used to kill Thomas Wharton.’

  Dowling bent down and picked it up. ‘Neither of us will cut off this man’s finger,’ he growled, clenching the handle of the knife tight in his fist.

  Arlington drew the rapier from his belt and levelled it at Dowling’s throat. ‘Cut off his finger, Lytle, else I will stick that blade in the back of your skull, same as you did to Wharton.’

  Josselin wriggled and squirmed, whimpering. I wanted to reassure him, release him from the restraints that bound him, but Withypoll stood at my elbow. Josselin’s hand was pegged out flat, leaving bare his first knuckle
s. Only his little finger wriggled free, untied. Torture was illegal in England, and those found guilty of committing such atrocities risked being hanged by the neck, and sliced from sternum to groin. If I chopped off Josselin’s finger, I would be a party to torture.

  ‘Might I know why?’ I asked, scalp prickling.

  ‘Edward Josselin is a traitor,’ said Arlington, pricking Dowling’s throat with his blade. ‘A traitor to King and country.’

  ‘I am not a traitor,’ Josselin whispered, eyes wide. ‘I have been loyal to the King all my life. My son too.’

  Arlington snorted. ‘Your son is a spy and betrayed us all. You chose to veil his treachery. Your country or your kin, and you chose your perfidious kin.’

  Josselin sunk in his chair; heavy, old head slumped upon his chest. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Which made two of us.

  ‘Your son killed the Earl of Berkshire and fled to Essex,’ Arlington spat.

  ‘Whoever murdered the Earl of Berkshire, it was not my son,’ Josselin insisted, emphatic, momentarily unafraid.

  ‘Cut off his finger, Lytle,’ Arlington growled. ‘I won’t tell you again.’

  I took a deep breath and exhaled through my nose. My head swam and I placed my legs apart so I wouldn’t fall over. His little finger trembled like a trapped mouse, the only finger I could possibly sever without risk of chopping two or even three. I ran my own fingers across my forehead, through a thick sheen of sweat. My first thought was to raise the blade and take a swing, but what if I missed? I might cut off his whole hand. It would be safer to place the tip of the blade in the wood of the table and lever it down slowly.

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What purpose will it serve?’

  ‘Cut off his finger or I will cut off your head,’ Withypoll’s voice sounded, wet in my ear.

  I thought for a moment to slice the knife across Withypoll’s throat instead. Yet that would still leave Arlington alive, and he could conjure up a thousand other Withypolls. Josselin stared, pleading, desperate to read my intent. Withypoll stretched out a hand towards the cleaver. If I let him prise it from my grasp, then he would use it on me. My life or Josselin’s finger. I stepped to the table and positioned the knife.

  ‘May God forgive me,’ I whispered, feeling my veins rush with strange energy. I stared into Josselin’s bewildered eyes. ‘Don’t move.’ Then I brought the blade down swiftly afore he could think.

  He screamed and yanked at his hand. For a moment I saw flesh and bone, a perfect section, afore thick red blood welled forth like hot jam inside a pudding. He didn’t scream again, just watched agape, the blood draining from his face faster than it bled from his finger. Bile surged into my throat, my skin burnt, and the room seemed to ripple.

  Withypoll leant forward and prodded at the small piece of digit lain lonely upon the wood, barely big enough to pick up. ‘His Lordship told you to cut off his finger.’

  I threw the blade on the table. ‘Aye, and so I did, and I’m not cutting off any more.’ My body trembled and I felt sickness in my stomach. I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking.

  Arlington shook his head and lowered his sword, afore nodding gently at Withypoll. Withypoll picked up the cleaver and cut off the rest of Josselin’s small finger like he was slicing sausage. This time Josselin screamed with all his lungs.

  I grabbed an old mouchoir from the bottom of my pocket and tried to quell the river of blood streaming across the surface of the table. ‘What would you have him tell you?’ I shouted. Blood soaked through four layers of cloth in a second. The severed finger lay by itself, a most unnatural apparition. Dowling seized the old man’s hand and pushed the mouchoir firmly against the wound.

  Arlington watched our efforts, amused. ‘What will you do, Lytle, when we hew off his hand? Will you take off your shirt?’

  ‘Why should you hew off his hand?’ I demanded, heart pounding.

  ‘My son is not a spy,’ wailed Josselin, torso folded over upon the table, drool dripping from the corners of his mouth.

  Arlington pushed me backwards, towards the wall. Dust billowed about our heads, prickling at my nose and throat. ‘You asked to work for me, did you not?’

  My face must have appeared blank.

  ‘You asked Dowling to promote your cause.’ Arlington jerked his chin upwards. ‘Is that not so?’

  I watched Dowling’s back as he held Josselin’s hand tight. Indeed it was true, back in the days when I thought it would be a noble occupation. Why had Dowling not warned me off?

  ‘Well here we are,’ Arlington hissed. ‘And this is what we do. It is my job to protect the citizens of this country and the King himself. If you doubt my sincerity, then consider what happened to our King’s own father, executed by his people.’ He breathed hard through his nose, black plaster rising and falling. ‘I carry an enormous responsibility, as does every man that works for me, and every man that works for me should be strong enough to carry that burden. Do you understand?’

  I understood. Withypoll well enough to know murder was no hardship, and Arlington well enough to know he cared nothing for the citizenry. I nodded, for I could not bring myself to speak. He wanted me dead, I was sure of it. So why did he not just instruct Withypoll to be done with it?

  Josselin groaned loudly.

  ‘This man’s son is a spy and a murderer, Lytle, and his treachery has put at risk any chance of peace with the Dutch.’ Arlington wrapped his fingers about my neck. ‘So save your pity and your tears. There can be no mercy.’

  ‘How do you know James Josselin killed Berkshire?’ Dowling demanded, pale-faced, regarding Arlington as he would a beast.

  Arlington waved a hand in front of his nose as if bothered by the smell of blood. ‘They found Josselin’s blade sticking out of Berkshire’s chest, pinning him to the chair in which he sat, and Josselin ran away.’

  ‘Perhaps he took fright,’ I ventured. ‘Else was abducted by the murderers.’

  Arlington released his grip and scowled. ‘I have not summoned you here to debate the man’s guilt. Mine own intelligence network confirms his treachery. I have spies in all places, here and in Holland. We will win the war because of it.’ He puffed out his chest and stared down his nose. Dowling’s baggy eyes narrowed.

  ‘My son is not a traitor, nor a murderer,’ cried Josselin.

  Arlington slammed a fist down upon the table. ‘Shake your head, you villainous rogue,’ he roared. ‘No man here is touched by your wickedness!’

  Josselin said nothing, just lay his head upon his arm, staring at his mutilated hand like it was his son, an intimate gaze of infinite sadness. A tear rolled down his cheek.

  ‘Enough of this, Withypoll,’ Arlington exclaimed, as if we ruined his day. ‘End it.’

  Arlington pulled from his coat a thin, short blade, a bright, shiny spike mounted upon a leather-clad handle, and handed it to his covetous accomplice. Withypoll took the strange weapon in his palm and regarded it as if it was a great jewel. Then he seized Josselin by the hair, lifted him up and wrenched his body backwards, plunging the blade so deep into his heart the handle stuck in his ribs. Josselin’s eyelids fluttered a brief moment, then he lay motionless, sprawled back upon his chair, hand still bound to the block. A small circle of blood formed upon his chest.

  From Dowling’s mouth emanated a sigh of utter sadness and misery. Withypoll rubbed his hands together, smug satisfaction etched upon his vile features. Arlington scowled. Dowling and I stared, stunned and appalled. The blood seeped quickly outwards.

  ‘I am disappointed in you both.’ Arlington spoke to Dowling this time. ‘You killed Wharton’s wife, did you not? And a Frenchman. Yet you baulk at the killing of a traitor.’

  Withypoll picked at the knife handle with his fingertips, oblivious to the oozing blood, but it stuck fast. He would need another knife to dig that one loose.

  ‘The Earl of Berkshire was a man of peace,’ Arlington declared. ‘An envoy to the Dutch when we sought reconciliation. His effo
rts were scorned. Now he is dead.’ He stared at me like I was a Dutchman. ‘The Four Day Battle was no victory.’

  He said it as if it was a great secret. Though instructions were issued to light bonfires and celebrate, every man in London knew we were annihilated. Rupert took half the fleet to Plymouth to watch for the French, rumoured to be heading for Ireland, leaving Albemarle to fight the Dutch by himself. It transpired the French had no intention of invading Ireland, an error attributed by some to Arlington and his flawed intelligence, the same network that said this man’s son was a traitor. The same network that condemned Edward Josselin to death.

  Dowling stroked the dead man’s hair, a strange look upon his face, angry and sad at the same time.

  ‘James Josselin worked for me,’ said Arlington. ‘He was privy to the most secret of intelligence and I trusted him. He swore his allegiance too, Lytle.’

  ‘Why do you question my allegiance?’ I snapped, anger provoked. Little good ever came of giving it voice, but my mouth was busy. ‘I pursued Wharton to St Albans. I killed him when I thought he endangered your life.’

  Arlington smiled. ‘I am happy to hear you confirm your loyalty.’ He placed his hands behind his back and leant forward. ‘You will go to Essex,’ he said, daring me to protest. ‘Withypoll will go with you as far as Colchester.’

  So that was it. The thin, puckered face of the man who sat next to me at dinner formed before me, the grating sound of his shrill voice echoing in my ear. He said 1666 would be a sickly year, a year when the plague would slither out of London to wreak its evil upon other towns and cities. London was free at last, like a great old bear, beaten to its knees, bloody but unbowed. The worst was over, the Pestilence gone, in search of new feeding grounds, bounteous and plentiful, and Essex was where it went, Colchester the worst afflicted. Arlington sent us back to Hell.