Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘A handsome man,’ she said.

  ‘Was he ill?’

  She shook her head. ‘He rode a black horse, tall and proud, like the gentleman he is. He gave us his food and shared kind words.’

  ‘And he headed for Colchester?’

  She nodded again. ‘As I said.’

  ‘What else do you know of him?’

  She looked to the man with the stick, bewildered. ‘He is James Josselin,’ she said. ‘A great man.’ She bowed her head as if afraid of being struck.

  ‘In what state is Colchester?’ asked Dowling, changing the subject, much to my frustration.

  ‘Half the town is dead, the other half waits,’ she replied in dull monotone.

  Though I imagined nothing less, still my heart stiffened inside my chest.

  ‘We must go,’ said the man with the stick, gruff.

  Withypoll snorted. ‘Locking them in a barn will not deter anyone,’ he said. ‘You should shoot them through the head and string them from gibbets.’

  The six in chains appeared not to hear his cruel words, but I yearned to punish him. Instead we watched the procession renew its miserable passage.

  Over the bridge more people stopped to watch, dull-faced and laggardly, like their heads slept atop their walking bodies. All was silent, as if the villagers swore an oath never to speak. Withypoll rode oblivious, staring with undisguised contempt. I felt uneasy and kicked my horse, but it refused to respond, maintaining the same pace as Withypoll’s mount.

  A wild-eyed fellow stepped in front of us, waving a musket. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘You cannot pass through here. Go back the way you came.’

  Two more men emerged from the gathering, both carrying thick staves.

  ‘We have credentials,’ Withypoll replied, staring down his nose. ‘Get out of our way, else suffer the consequences.’

  The wild-eyed fellow stayed his ground, staring expressionlessly. Only his lips moved, twitching in spasm. Withypoll snorted, then spurred his horse straight at him, the great, ugly steed sending the wild fellow sprawling to the dirt. I wondered if he died, but he rolled over, groaning. Withypoll sneered just afore one of the other men hit him on the back of the head with a long stick. He fell sideways off his horse, crashing onto the road and landing on one shoulder. Blood trickled into the dirt from a gash on the back of his head and he didn’t move. God spake, I thought, the hairs on my neck prickling with excitement. Withypoll’s assailants stood around him in a circle, sticks raised above their heads, madness in their eyes. I held my breath. If he wasn’t dead, then surely they would finish him.

  ‘What is going on?’ a voice called.

  A smart fellow marched towards us, clean-shaven chin perched high upon a stiff, white collar, hair smeared with some kind of oil to keep his hair straight. He spoke with rounded vowels and carried one arm held out in front of him parallel to the ground, hand hanging limp. ‘You men. Step aside.’

  His head jerked like a rooster, twitching at every movement, like he feared being assaulted. The men with sticks lowered them to the ground, shoulders softening, and the moment was gone.

  ‘Who are you?’ the strange man asked, standing over Withypoll, but looking to me and Dowling. ‘What have you done?’

  Withypoll groaned. I stepped sideways just as his black eyes settled upon mine. He stared with burning hatred as if it was me that struck him and breathed hard as he struggled to his feet, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand.

  ‘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.

  Chapter Eight

  It prenotes much juggling and under-hand dealing in all manner of Negotiations.

  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 af
flicted. 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.

  Chapter Nine

  We conceive this present year will be fickly, and that the Pestilence, or some such like raging Infirmity will afflict the more remote parts from London.

  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 ma
n 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.’