Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  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?’

  I breathed deep. ‘I don’t try and have you believe anything except that Shrewsbury is here. Come and we will show you.’<
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  ‘Very well.’ Withypoll clambered to his feet, breathing ale fumes into my face. ‘Show me.’

  The house was but three minutes away, yet from fifty yards I felt my hopes dashed against stone walls, for all the lights were dark.

  Withypoll nodded at the house. ‘Shrewsbury is there you say? Hiding in the dark.’

  ‘He sat there with a dozen others not ten minutes ago,’ I said. ‘We followed from St Martin’s.’

  Withypoll wiped at his face in displeasure. ‘Clearly they had little to discuss.’

  ‘Else they saw us,’ I said.

  Withypoll turned upon me. ‘Well they will not see you again for a while, Lytle.’ Not a muscle of his hard face moved. ‘You and the butcher will go into Shyam tomorrow and look for Josselin. You won’t come back without him.’

  ‘What if he isn’t there?’

  Withypoll forced himself to smile. ‘Then bring evidence of it, else I shall assume you are lying.’

  I stood my ground. ‘We are not going to Shyam when it is obvious Josselin is in Colchester.’

  Withypoll regarded me strangely then turned to Dowling. ‘You saw Shrewsbury alone, butcher, or you saw Josselin with him?’

  Dowling’s eyes opened wide, like he had been slapped across the face.

  ‘Speak up,’ Withypoll snapped.

  ‘He didn’t see either of them.’ I saved Dowling the lie. ‘I saw Shrewsbury by myself.’

  Withypoll sighed deep and a ball of anger rose within my throat, but before I could open my mouth, the noise of braying donkeys shrilled through the quiet night air. Men hurried east, towards the broken gate. The donkeys cantered towards us in one great grey huddle, eyes wide, foam flying from their lips. Six donkeys, no loads, no men.

  ‘This one is bleeding,’ a man cried, grabbing one about the neck. ‘Teethmarks, look!’

  ‘Let me see.’ Dowling stepped forward, gripping the beast firm about its head. He probed the wound with thick finger. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Dog’s teeth.’

  The donkey kicked out hard and tugged at its head, trying to bite Dowling. The rest of the herd evaded capture, kicking frantically at any that neared. They kept on running, west down the high street. Dowling let go, and the last donkey galloped with all its might until it rejoined the group.

  Dowling’s companion stared after the beasts. ‘They were terrified. We won’t catch them ’til morning.’

  Withypoll said, appearing at my shoulder, ‘You won’t be here in the morning. I have arranged for you to leave just before dawn. I will see you by the door at five o’clock.’ He turned on his heel and wandered unsteadily back towards the Red Lion, the crowd opening up before him, fear upon their faces.

  ‘How is your faith now?’ I asked the butcher.

  But Dowling walked slow, lost in thought, grey-faced and sombre, eyes wet with old man’s tears. I suddenly recalled Withypoll breathing on my face, the rotten smell of his breath, and I resolved to smoke another pipe before going to bed. Another day gone. Five days now to get back to London, else lose my shop.

  If the donkeys didn’t bray all night beneath my window, then I must have dreamt it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As the tail of the first Comet did verge North-west, viz. towards England, so hath the Plague or Pestilence, or both, most sorrowfully wasted some thousands.

  Two crows perched upon the brickwork, jerking their heads up and down, regarding us sideways like we were new carrion. A sleepy-looking guard unlocked one of the great wooden doors and pushed it open, inviting us to step outside this safe haven onto the lane that led to Shyam. Withypoll stood watching, wrapped up warm in his big coat, checking we suffered no sudden loss of nerve.

  The track was narrow and covered with leaves, though we were still in summer. Grass grew high as my knees in places, and we allowed the horses to take their time. The forest confronted us from all sides, deep and impenetrable. Birds sang loud, the effect sinister, unnatural and isolating.

  Shyam was but three miles away, such a short distance. Each steady step seemed to carry us there with dizzying pace. I was relieved when Dowling pulled his horse up sharp a mile or so in, pointing to the edge of the forest. A hut stood at the edge of the treeline, built from sticks and branches. A pole protruded out the top, with a dirty white flag hanging limp at its tip.

  Dowling clambered to the ground. ‘Every strange thing, I would know what it means.’

  A neatly stacked woodpile stood in front of the hut, and upon the woodpile lay a flat piece of board, with words written in chalk.

  ‘Wood for thee. Hurry up. Approach with caution,’ I read aloud. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘He shall kill the bullock before the Lord,’ Dowling recited. ‘He shall flay the burnt offering, and cut it into pieces. And the sons of Aaron the priest shall put fire upon the altar, and lay the wood in order upon the fire. Then the priests shall lay the parts, the head, and the fat, in order upon the wood that is on the fire which is upon the altar.’

  Which left me none the wiser.

  I joined Dowling on the forest floor and approached the hut, cautious. A scrap of red twill hung from the doorframe. Inside, some animal had been scavenging. A rudimentary table lay upon its side, and bits of chair lay scattered about the floor. The spine of a book protruded from a pile of rotting leaves, the leather red and water-stained. Too thin to be a Bible. ‘Astrological Judgments for the Year 1666,’ I read.

  Though the book felt damp, I could turn the pages and read without difficulty. Some passages were marked with ink. ‘It is most certain,’ I read, ‘that when the dregs of the first comet are ended, the Hollander shall pay the piper, and sing lacrima; in a manner even to their final and utter destruction. They shall be able to send forth no more than a small company of little pimping ships, neither well-manned nor equipped.’

  I flicked the pages. ‘As for the second comet, it may inform us, that after many casualties, losses, damages, and enormities received from the several navies and ships of his Majesty of Great Britain, the Hollanders may again upon humble addresses make first unto his Majesty, with their submission besides for peace.’

  I turned to the next marked passage. ‘The figure of the Sun giveth warning unto the monarch of Great Britain, both of external and internal plots and designs against his peace and government, yet with no success to the undertakers.’

  ‘Astrology.’ Dowling shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Does the book have a name in it?’

  I turned to the front of the book, which was wettest. A name and a date were penned in smudged ink. Ne’ertheless, the name was clear enough. James Josselin.

  ‘Whether he went to Shyam or not, he came this far,’ said Dowling. ‘Leaving signs that all who pass further should take wood with them.’

  ‘To build their own altar, you say.’

  Dowling shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I think we should do as the sign suggests and take the wood.’

  What did wood have to do with anything? Did they not have wood in Shyam? The forest stretched as far as the eye could see. I felt a sense of deep disquiet. Though it was a summer day, the air grew colder. The birds stopped singing. About our heads and shoulders sunk a white fog, so thick it resembled something solid.

  ‘Dowling,’ I called out, for I couldn’t see him.

  ‘Fetch your horse,’ his voice sounded close by.

  I did as he suggested and stood upon the track unable to see in any direction. The horse snorted and shook its head, like it sought to clear the mists from inside its skull.

  ‘What do we do?’ I shouted.

  ‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Dowling said, emerging from the whiteness. ‘We cannot walk in any direction. This part of the world is stopped until the fog is lifted.’

  So we sat upon the dry ground, holding the reins of our horses, afraid of losing ourselves. Peculiar how sharp a man’s hearing becomes when his eyes are blinded. I felt my senses reach out into the thick blanket about us, searching for the faintest sound. The fog created st
range shapes, mysterious figures drifting in the mists.

  I fought to keep the tremor from my voice. ‘What will we find, Davy?’

  ‘The dead and the dying,’ he replied. ‘As we did in London, as we did in Chelmsford, as we did in Colchester. Nothing we haven’t seen before.’

  ‘A sign from God,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t want us to go.’

  ‘O full of all subtlety and mischief, thou child of the Devil, wilt thou not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord?’ Dowling mused. ‘And now the hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt be blind. And immediately there fell on him a mist and a darkness.’

  I found myself whispering, it was so quiet. I waited for hands to spring from the surrounds and seize me. ‘I have no desire to pervert the right ways of the Lord.’

  ‘You haven’t perverted the ways of the Lord any more than usual,’ Dowling replied. ‘This fog may not be for your benefit, Harry. God has others in his sights besides.’

  We sat there another hour or so, the odd sensation of nothing happening. Then the fog felt warmer and assumed a yellow tinge. At last it began to clear, not much, just enough to see the ground ahead of our feet.

  The fog gave way to a swirling mist, blinding us one moment, blowing aside the next, giving us unbroken perspective twenty or more yards ahead. The dirt track gave way to stones and pebble, twisting downward between giant boulders and ancient trees. Cliffs climbed high above us, in and out of view. A thin stream wound its way about the valley floor, creating small pools about which grew bright flowers, white and violet. At the bottom of the valley the water formed a pool, green and still.

  In the distance a great, flat rock lay upon a ledge, like a table balanced upon a giant boulder. Three baskets sat upon it, all empty.

  I stared up at the cliffs, searching for faces, then into the trees. ‘This must be the boundary.’

  ‘Someone from Colchester rides up here every day to leave provisions,’ said Dowling.