Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘He is no friend of ours,’ I replied, pulling my hand from Dowling’s grasp.

  He pushed his face against the bars. ‘What will he do when he finds me gone and you in the cage?’

  ‘He will tell Howe to rebuild his gallows,’ I replied. ‘If it satisfies his desire to see us die in agony.’

  Josselin dug into his pocket for a key with which he opened the cage door. ‘You saved my life. You should have reminded me.’ He stood aside to let us out. ‘I trust you, remember? And I need your help.’

  I looked for Marshall Howe, but he was nowhere to be seen. Thank you, God.

  ‘We make our own ways back to London,’ Josselin spoke low, eyes wide. ‘But once there I want you to arrange for me to meet with Arlington.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘He murdered my best friend.’ Josselin’s voice trembled. ‘Charles Howard was my brother. I watched for him and he watched for me. I trusted him as I trust myself. I ran because I couldn’t think what else to do, but now I am ashamed.’

  ‘What will you do when you meet him?’ I demanded. ‘He will hurry you to the executioner’s block before you finish speaking.’

  Josselin snorted. ‘I know Arlington, which is why I fled, like the coward I am. But I have something of his. Not upon my person, but hidden where he cannot find it. Something he doesn’t know I have, something he must be looking for. You tell him I will meet with him.’

  ‘He won’t come,’ I protested. ‘He will send soldiers.’

  ‘Then tell him I have his letter,’ Josselin whispered, hoarse. ‘Not Withypoll, only Arlington. Tell him I have his letter and would meet with him to discuss its contents. Then he will meet with me.’

  ‘What letter?’ Dowling growled, wiping his eyes.

  Josselin shook his head and raised a finger. ‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘So trust me when I say you don’t want to know. If I hadn’t read that letter then I wouldn’t be here now, and Charles wouldn’t be dead. The letter is my business. You go to Arlington and tell him you have done your duty, that you found me and carry my message. If the meeting goes well, then you will have nothing to fear from Arlington. I will ensure it.’

  I held my breath to protect against the stink on his breath. He stared, yet his eyes seemed unfocussed. ‘Well, then,’ I sighed. ‘Where would you like to meet him?’

  ‘Discuss that with him,’ Josselin replied. ‘When you want to find me, go to Aldgate. To Red Rose Lane. I will find you.’

  ‘That is your plan?’ Dowling exclaimed. ‘According to you, you killed four of his agents, the clerics. You think he will forgive you that?’

  Josselin shrugged. ‘I don’t think he could care less.’

  ‘What if he refuses your invitation?’ I asked.

  Josselin rubbed his hands together. ‘Then I will go to Clarendon. Indeed I will try and seek audience with him first, if I can. He may help.’

  It seemed a poor plan to me, but at least it was our chance to escape this accursed village. If we got back to London before dusk tomorrow I could just meet Culpepper’s deadline besides, and secure my shop.

  ‘How do we avoid Withypoll?’ I asked. ‘Likely he brings soldiers with him.’

  ‘So he does,’ Josselin agreed. ‘We will leave through the Delf. I will go now; you follow in an hour.’ He looked Dowling up and down. ‘If you are wise, you two might also travel alone, at least until you clear Colchester.’

  Josselin stood silent, as if waiting.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, for I could think of little else to say. ‘See you in London.’

  ‘Good fortune.’ Josselin rubbed his hands together and turned towards the church. ‘Red Rose Lane,’ he said again, waving a hand as he blended into the darkness.

  I turned to Dowling. ‘I cannot wait an hour.’

  ‘They’ll discover the Delf afore that,’ said Dowling, tense. ‘Withypoll is no fool. Likely he will smell Josselin coming.’ He wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Mary Hancock showed me another path. I say we go east.’

  I looked again for Marshall Howe, recalling the hatred on his face, and hurried after Dowling into the woods. Dowling walked quickly, stopping only when he reached the mouth of the track that supposedly led out of the village. All was quiet, an eerie silence.

  ‘He asked us to wait an hour,’ I whispered.

  ‘It may take an hour to find our way to the road,’ Dowling replied, peering into the black tunnel. ‘We can wait at the other end.’

  As the path led upwards the ground became stonier, the trees sparse and the terrain more open. I prayed the track led where we hoped, and not in a great circle around Shyam. I glanced over my shoulder every few paces to check we weren’t followed, feeling naked beneath the stars. At the top of the rise we descended. The ground softened and branches formed a new canopy above our heads. Soon it was impossible to see anything, darkness enveloping us.

  I stepped into boggy marsh, a low ditch full of rotting leaves. Water seeped over the top of my boots. I pulled myself up by the root of a tree and realised we reached the road.

  ‘How long do you think that took us?’ I wondered. It felt like half the night.

  Dowling cocked his head then grabbed my sleeve and pulled me deeper into the undergrowth. The sound of horses’ hooves beat a drum from the direction of Shyam.

  Five horses cantered from our left, four brown, and a great white steed with Withypoll upon it, narrow-eyed, scanning either side of the road. He looked fit and healthy, no sign of the fever he suffered before. I ducked my head into the ground and held my breath. Once they passed, I brushed twigs and old leaf from my shirt. ‘Now what do we do? They’ll post soldiers at the gate into Colchester.’

  ‘We get closer,’ Dowling replied.

  We walked through the scrub another hundred yards before we heard the horses again. We dived into the bushes. Three horses this time, Withypoll at the lead, trotting slow.

  ‘They know we’re on the road,’ I whispered.

  ‘Josselin too,’ said Dowling. ‘Else Withypoll wouldn’t be out here. He’d be peeling off Josselin’s fingernails.’

  I shivered. This time I stayed behind my tree. Withypoll was cunning. He would pull off the path and wait. I prayed they didn’t fetch out dogs.

  An hour later they returned, spread further apart, riding fast. Withypoll leant forward between the ears of his horse, staring unblinking into the forest, with more energy than last time we saw him. The soldiers behind yelled loud obscenities, and waved their hands in the air. The last horse dragged a body behind it, bouncing on the earth like a sack of coal. I watched, paralysed, praying it was not Josselin. It was a lean man without much hair. Though his face was covered with blood, still I recognised Galileo.

  ‘They are all as evil as Withypoll,’ I whispered, hating them for their revelry.

  I wondered if this display was for our benefit; for Josselin as well, to terrorise us into submission. Instead we burrowed deeper into the undergrowth, far enough from the road we couldn’t be seen, close enough we could see the horses whene’er they passed. I strained my ears for every sound, terrified Withypoll might come crashing through the trees at any moment, or that we’d hear the baying of hounds. We made our way so slow even the sun travelled faster than us, climbing to the top of the sky and sinking down again before we reached Colchester. Galileo’s face stuck in my mind’s eye, the lump on his head where I hit him with a log. I had liked him.

  At last the grey, stone wall came into view through the trees, fifty yards away. Between us and the wall was marshland, the treeline finishing short. The great gate stood open. Two soldiers talked together, stood apart from four sentries. They watched the soldiers warily.

  We heard horses again, loud galloping from the direction of Shyam. Withypoll and two of his associates rode into view, then drew their horses up sharp in front of the gate. Withypoll leapt from his charge and drew his sword, sticking the tip of it against the throat of one of the sentries, leaning forwards, shoulder tensed, jaw clenc
hed. Then he remounted, reined his horse around and kicked it forwards into Colchester, followed by all the soldiers except one, who lingered a few minutes longer, waving his arms at the sentries and making various loud noises.

  Dowling peered into the gathering gloom. ‘Josselin is inside the town walls.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They’ve been out all day,’ Dowling whispered. ‘So why the hurry? Something has happened.’

  ‘Josselin is caught?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Dowling growled. ‘Else Withypoll wouldn’t have stopped. Question is, how did Josselin get in?’

  The four sentries gathered in a circle, gesticulating, the man attacked by Withypoll standing at the centre.

  ‘They let him in,’ I realised. ‘That’s what Withypoll suspects. Their allegiance lies with Josselin, not with Withypoll. If Josselin asked them for passage, they would ne’er refuse him. He must have approached while the soldiers were on the road.’

  ‘Then we must follow,’ Dowling said. ‘Before Withypoll thinks to send soldiers back to the gate. I don’t think he realises all the soldiers followed him.’

  ‘You must be joking,’ I replied.

  ‘What else would you do, Harry?’ Dowling shrilled. ‘That is the only way in, and soon it will be guarded by Withypoll’s men.’

  He was right. Withypoll and his band just humiliated the local sentries. If there was ever a time to persuade them, now was it, whilst they still felt most contrary.

  Dowling raised his stiff body and stepped out onto the road. At first no one noticed. We hurried across the bare terrain, my heart beating so loud I thought my ears would burst. Then one man noticed. He held his hand against another man’s chest and reached for a wooden club.

  ‘Hold!’ Dowling cried, managing a terse smile. ‘We are friends of Josselin.’

  ‘You cannot pass,’ the leader replied, holding forth his stick. Dark hair grew long down each cheek and he wore a shapeless green felt hat. ‘You are the murderers out of Shyam the soldiers are looking for.’

  Dowling held up his hands. ‘Withypoll told you that, but it isn’t true. We work for the King and we are friends of Josselin. Those soldiers are under Withypoll’s command, and he is a treacherous dog.’

  The man grunted and looked to his colleagues.

  Dowling dug into his pocket for the royal seal. ‘Withypoll will do all he can to stop us, which is why he tells lies. You must admit us in the name of the King. It is our job to save Josselin from Withypoll.’

  The leader stretched out a hand to receive the seal, over which he rubbed a dirty forefinger.

  ‘The King will reward you if you assist,’ Dowling assured them.

  ‘If not, he will stick your heads up on poles above Nonsuch House,’ I added.

  ‘Take off your shirts,’ the man ordered, nervous. ‘I must make sure you got no buboes nor tokens.’

  I whipped off my shirt quick, then examined my skin as carefully as he.

  ‘Did ye come into contact with those that are infected?’ he asked, squinting from afar.

  ‘We went to Shyam to rescue James Josselin,’ I replied, ‘not to tend the sick.’ I felt guilty uttering the words. We couldn’t be certain we were not infected. The sooner we passed through the city walls and out the other side, the better for my conscience.

  The man sighed. ‘Then pass, but in God’s name tell no one we allowed you through.’

  God did watch over us. I could scarcely believe our good fortune. ‘Thank you,’ I said calm, suppressing an urge to run. We hurried through the gate and up East Hill. Dusk drove men from the streets. Those remaining went about their business with grim intent, coats flapping in the warm breeze.

  ‘We must find somewhere to hide until it is dark,’ said Dowling.

  I gazed up at the castle. ‘We don’t know Josselin will go straight to London, or even if he will go to London at all. He said he would meet with Arlington, but what if he has business here first? We still haven’t worked out what Shrewsbury was doing here talking to Dutchmen. We should at least establish Josselin is not gone to the Dutch Quarter.’

  ‘How?’ Dowling said, raising his voice. ‘Shall we knock upon every door and ask if anyone has seen him?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘We must be more discreet.’

  Dowling protested, eyeing the relative safety of the shadowy wasteland to the east of the castle. ‘To get to the Dutch Quarter we must walk through the middle of Colchester.’

  ‘We can’t set off to London without horses anyway, Davy,’ I replied, ‘and we won’t find horses at Grey Friars.’

  ‘We will find them outside the town walls,’ said Dowling. ‘No one cares who we are out there. It’s in here they watch for strangers.’

  I led us into the grounds of All Saints and leant against a wall. ‘And in here that soldiers roam, when before they were locked outside. What spells Withypoll must have cast to persuade Mayor Flanner.’

  I heard shouting and peered over the wall and across the high street into the castle grounds. A disorderly mob of a dozen soldiers or more staggered down the hill from the castle itself. They walked unsteadily, still happily complying with Captain Scotschurch’s mandate to stay drunk.

  As the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, so candlelight appeared in the windows of the houses.

  ‘Follow the lights,’ Dowling pointed. Torches shone from the direction of St Runwald’s and the marketplace.

  ‘Withypoll must be at the Moot Hall,’ I guessed. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’

  I led us north towards the Dutch Quarter, Dowling following reluctant. I had no plan, other than to retrace our steps of four nights ago. Two men watched as we struggled to remember the route. One tapped the other on the elbow and they touched foreheads. They weren’t soldiers, but watched just as careful, before disappearing into the darkness.

  ‘We have to hurry,’ I said, dry-mouthed.

  Dowling beckoned. ‘This way.’

  We hurried beneath the eaves, then headed left. The big house, in which I saw Shrewsbury, stood at the end of the street. Dark, lifeless windows stared back.

  ‘Shrewsbury cannot be far away,’ was all I could think to say.

  Dowling laid a hand upon my shoulder. ‘We have to leave, Harry.’

  Voices sounded from the end of the same alley we just passed through. Then more voices from the street behind, laced with the excitement of the hunter. The alley brightened with the light of torches as the noise grew louder.

  Too late to retreat. I ran up to the house and tried the door. It was unlocked.

  ‘Come,’ I hissed at Dowling, who still stood motionless.

  He bounded after me with long loping strides, and I closed the door just before the first pursuer emerged from the alley. The house smelt dusty, hollow and deserted. We crouched before the long bay window and peered out into the night. A small crowd gathered. Soon the cobbled street was full, a dozen soldiers or more, all carrying torches. They chattered amongst themselves, pointing in all directions, until Withypoll appeared and the noise subsided.

  He stared at the ground and walked slowly towards us. Then, to my blessed relief, he turned aside, waving a hand left, directing half the soldiers away towards the north and the other half back towards the castle. He lifted his torch, illuminating his long, cruel face, afore following the soldiers north.

  I turned from the window and slumped backwards against the wall.

  Dowling still crouched, facing outwards. ‘We’re safe for now. A dozen drunkard soldiers can search only slowly at night. We have until dawn to find a way out.’

  ‘Withypoll will not make the same mistake twice,’ I worried. ‘Every gate will be guarded from the inside.’

  ‘What would Josselin do?’ said Dowling.

  ‘Climb the wall?’ I wondered. ‘Dig beneath it? Find a breach?’

  ‘I reckon he’ll have prepared already his escape,’ Dowling replied. ‘There’ll be a house somewhere, close to the wall, whos
e occupants will help him.’

  ‘Fairfax bombarded the west wall with cannon,’ I said. ‘St Mary’s was destroyed. There must be an easy route out somewhere about Head Gate or the Balkerne Gate.’

  Dowling nodded. ‘Since half Withypoll’s men have gone north, we should go south, but we’ll have to cross the centre of town.’

  ‘Not if we go direct west through St Peter’s,’ I said. ‘Then make our way south across the corn market.’ I turned to peer out of the window again, feeling more cheerful.

  Something moved at the far end of the street, a flash of white.

  I elbowed Dowling in the ribs. ‘Did you see that?’

  ‘See what?’ Dowling muttered.

  I watched so hard, my eyes hurt. Someone darted from one side of the road to the other and now stood in a doorway, deep in shadow. I could still make out a sliver of white against the black shadow. Whoever it was stood still, waiting for something, or someone.

  ‘We cannot stay here,’ said Dowling.

  ‘Someone hides in the shadow,’ I insisted. ‘What if it is Josselin?’

  I stood up and headed for the door. I put my ear to the wood, but all was silent. Then I opened it slow, felt the night brush gently against my cheek. Then I looked down and saw our footprints, clear, edged with flakes of dried mud.

  ‘This is what Withypoll was looking at,’ I whispered to Dowling, eyes fixed upon the doorway where I saw the white shape.

  ‘Aye, and Withypoll is not a fool,’ said a gruff voice.

  I spun to my left, hands raised, too late. The club hit me square above the forehead. My knees buckled. Two soldiers jumped on Dowling, dragging him to the floor. I heard the crack of his skull beneath someone’s thick boot. I lay on my side, a warm river of blood trickling down my nose.

  The white shape floated out onto the street, a tall majestic figure, yellow skin drawn like parchment. The Earl of Shrewsbury?

  ‘You were told to fetch Josselin,’ Withypoll said from somewhere above my head. ‘I don’t see him.’

  I tried to look up, but my head wouldn’t move.