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 c
aptain 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.’
‘Aye, so you found out three days ago.’ The captain lifted the bottle to his lips and took a mighty draught. ‘Doesn’t mean it wasn’t decided beforehand.’
‘But Josselin fled London only a week ago.’
‘Josselin’s been in there two weeks,’ Scotschurch replied, releasing a great sigh of strong fumes. He noticed me flinch. ‘Strong drink protects against the plague,’ he mumbled. ‘Which be why I encourage all my men to consume as much as they are able. Four have died since we came here, and none of them drank sufficient.’
If the townsmen tried to deny us passage, then Withypoll might attack them. ‘Do they have arms?’
‘Aye, so they do,’ Scotschurch nodded. ‘And mad men commit mad deeds, but Arlington insists you must go to Shyam and so we will enforce it. My men will escort you to the barricade.’
I scowled. ‘You saw Josselin yourself?’
Scotschurch shook his bleary head. ‘Before we arrived,’ he answered.
‘You have men in the town?’
He shook his head again. ‘The townspeople are terrified that any man who enters will transport the Pest with him, and that includes my men. If I needed to gain entry I could, but I don’t wish to stir them up. Flanner is an unpleasant fellow.’ He belched again. ‘So I leave them alone.’
‘How do you know Josselin isn’t in there with them?’
The captain shrugged. ‘Because he is at Shyam. He cannot be in two places at once.’
‘The Mayor would deny us passage,’ I considered. ‘Suppose he denies us access for fear we would discover that Josselin is not in Shyam at all. Perhaps Josselin hides in Colchester. They talk of him as a hero in these parts. Of course they would shelter him.’
The captain plunged his thumb up his nose and stretched out his nostril. ‘Aye,’ he conceded. ‘Could be. I don’t know where he is, nor do I much care, so long as you fetch him out.’
‘Then we must search the town and make sure he’s not hiding,’ I insisted.
‘Flanner won’t like it.’ The captain pursed his lips. ‘But that’s for you and he to debate. Tell Benjamin you wish to enter the town and that he is to take you there.’ He held up the bottle, half full of what looked like claret. ‘I will write it down as an order to give to him.’
‘Who is Benjamin?’
Scotschurch scratched his groin and reached for quill, paper and seal. ‘You will find him on the shore.’ He took his time scratching out his command in loose, spidery hand. Then he waved a hand and settled back in his chair with his eyes closed. He lifted his leg and broke wind, emitting the foulest of smells. ‘Good fortune and farewell.’
Good fortune indeed if Josselin was hiding in Colchester.
Chapter Eleven
Men shall be apt to put confidence in feigned friendships which shall profit them nothing.
I clambered back into the boat flushed with a sense of wild optimism. Josselin’s sole objective was to hide from Arlington. What better strategy than to persuade the townsfolk of Colchester to spread false rumour as to his whereabouts?
My excitement lacked contagion. Withypoll interrogated me with derision, snorting like a sneezy goat when I told him of my idea. He settled back, contenting himself with a long stare, huddled up beneath his jacket, shivering. Dowling sat silent, as he had been most of the day.
Back on shore I walked next to Dowling, seeking an opportunity to poke him in the ribs and discover what ailed him, but Withypoll stayed too close.
The first couple of soldiers we spoke to were too fuddled to think. The third tottered about in an unsteady circle squinting into the distance against the sun, gaze fixed on someone in the distance. Following his stare I spotted the soldier we encountered before, the fellow with a sty so large he couldn’t see out of his left eye. He caught me staring and ducked out of sight.
‘Hoy!’ Withypoll saw him too and took off. We followed through the crowd, spotting the tail of his coat disappear up Magdalen Street. Strands of long, black hair bounced upon his head and flapped about his ears. He was the only sober soldier in the harbour, the only man capable of running without falling over.
‘Stop, Benjamin,’ Withypoll shouted. ‘Stop where you stand, else I shall slice off your ears.’
Benjamin ran on awkwardly, short legs struggling to carry his substantial bulk. Halfway up the hill he gave up and turned to face us, still grasping the barrel of his musket. His face glowed so bright I feared he might collapse at our feet. ‘What do you want?’ he panted.
Withypoll handed him the directive with moist palm. ‘You will escort us into the town,’ he said, prodding his sword into Benjamin’s belly. ‘Take us past the gates.’
Benjamin frowned, attempted to ignore the weapon, and took the letter.
‘Why did you run?’ I asked, wiping sweat from my own dripping brow.
‘I’ve had enough,’ he snapped, angry, still reading. Two more soldiers wandered down the hill, blank expressions on dull faces. Benjamin looked up and scowled. ‘Everyone is drunk and Scotschurch is the drunkest. None of us are allowed into the town. No one is posted to watch who enters or who leaves.’
‘Read the orders,’ Withypoll commanded, his body waving gently from side to side. I wondered if he was about to drop dead on the spot.
‘Your company is here to make sure James Josselin doesn’t leave,’ I explained. ‘Now we’ve come to collect him. You will be sent home soon.’
Benjamin shrugged, a thoughtful expression clouding his eyes. ‘Not I. I live here. When the army leaves I stay behind.’ He glanced at Withypoll. ‘Why do you want to enter the gates? To go to Shyam?’
‘Lytle here persuaded your captain Josselin might be inside the town,’ Withypoll replied. ‘What do you think of that?’
Benjamin stared at me like I was a strange prophet.
‘Scotschurch said you arrived after Josselin entered Shyam,’ I said. ‘Maybe he didn’t go to Shyam at all.’
‘I didn’t arrive after Josselin,’ said Benjamin. ‘I was here already, but I didn’t see Josselin arrive. I heard about it next day. Josselin persuaded Flanner to allow him passage to Shyam is what they said.’
‘Would the townspeople protect him?’ I asked, excited.
‘Aye,’ Benjamin nodded, pensive. ‘He always was a liar. All this nonsense about wriggling throu
gh walls and withstanding torture. He was nine years old; he carried no special message. They tortured him, but he didn’t know what to tell them, else he would have told them in the twitch of a mouse’s whisker. The rest is nonsense and allowed him to take advantage of every gullible fool who heard the story.’
‘You were one of those fools, I suppose,’ Withypoll mocked him.
‘Not I,’ Benjamin replied, clenching his fists. ‘But I watched him at work. His family lived here for ten years while his father sought to regain his estates. It wasn’t until the Restoration that the family’s fortunes improved. James Josselin is the most idle man I ever met. He thrived upon the generosity of those who believed the tale he cultivated.’
I wondered if Benjamin was religious. The overly religious accused every man of idleness, as I knew from personal experience. ‘He is accused of murder,’ I said.
‘I know,’ Benjamin replied. ‘And if you ask me do I think he is capable, then yes he is. He has no moral compass. If he killed a man, this is where he would come, knowing these people would protect him without question.’
I felt even more determined to penetrate the town walls, certain Josselin skulked in there somewhere.
Benjamin spoke louder, good eye open wide. ‘When the other strangers were admitted I asked Captain Scotschurch if we might enter too, but he refused me.’
‘What other strangers?’ Withypoll demanded.
‘Four men entered last week, none of them from hereabouts. They dressed strange, like dignitaries, but not English. Scotschurch wasn’t interested.’
‘Dutchmen,’ Withypoll exclaimed, a glint in his eye.
‘Perhaps,’ Benjamin replied. He blinked furiously and rubbed at the sty with dirty finger afore leading the way back up the hill. ‘That’s for you to find out.’
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