Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘We should hide a while,’ said Dowling, looking this way and that, as if conscious of his bulk. ‘Until Withypoll gives up on us.’

  ‘Not by the water,’ I replied. ‘If they have soldiers at the gate they must have soldiers at the docks. In a tavern, perhaps.’

  Dowling cast me a sideways glance. ‘Or a church.’

  ‘What if Josselin goes to meet us,’ I exclaimed. ‘I say we go to Red Rose Lane while Withypoll sniffs round here.’

  Dowling grimaced.

  ‘We have been unlucky,’ I insisted. ‘Most spies will be searching for Josselin, not us.’ I considered my clothes again. ‘I am barely recognisable. Withypoll must have posted just a few spies around our houses to look out for us. Elsewhere we will be safer.’

  Dowling stopped and stared, like he saw me for the first time. ‘The spies are not looking out for me or you, but both of us together. A big, tall man with white hair, next to a short fellow with dark hair and stubble on his face.’

  ‘Should we split up?’ I said, feeling lonely already.

  ‘We must,’ said Dowling. ‘You, as you say, are already dishevelled. No longer a strange fop, but more discreet. No man could pick you out less he knew you intimately.’

  ‘A fop?’ I exclaimed. To a bloodied ogre like Dowling, any man who washed might be called a fop. I decided to consider it a compliment. ‘I will go find Josselin,’ I said, reluctantly. ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Same,’ Dowling replied, ‘but not with you. I will follow and try to keep you in sight. If we lose each other I’ll meet you again at St Katharine Cree, at three.’

  ‘Very well.’ I felt better.

  I set off, wondering how it was I led. Though I avoided the main thoroughfares, we kept coming across pockets of soldiers, especially close to the bridge. The crowd spilt back from the mouth of the bridge west and east, along Thames Street and up Fish Street Hill.

  ‘What’s news?’ I asked a ruddy-faced man standing on tiptoe.

  ‘They’ve closed the bridge,’ he snapped, hopping up and down, neck craned. ‘I have to get back to Bankside, my wife is ill.’ He clasped his hand upon his forehead in dismay. ‘They say there are three Dutch spies in the City.’ He breathed deep. ‘I pray they find them soon and string them up by the neck. I have to get home.’

  His words knifed me in the belly, though they came as no surprise. So now I was a Dutch spy. How quickly that happened, I reflected, bile rising in my throat, feeling the same anger and indignation I imagined Josselin experienced. I rubbed my sweaty palms upon the seat of my trousers as we passed Fish Street Hill and came to the mouth of Red Rose Lane.

  This was a narrow thoroughfare where the butchers scalded hogs and made their puddings, throwing their waste out into the street to be taken down to the dung boats. This was the last place to come in the middle of summer, for the blood and offal sat on the street all day afore it was collected, attracting all manner of vermin, cats, dogs and flies. I choked on the stink of rotting blood and trod cautiously. Josselin chose well, for spies and soldiers would avoid this street like the plague.

  Despite our agreement I waited for Dowling.

  ‘We cannot hang around,’ I said. ‘We attracted too much attention last time.’

  Dowling stopped halfway up the hill, hands on his hips. ‘If Josselin is there, he’ll be watching for us, surveying every movement with gimlet eye.’

  I scanned the surrounding windows. The light was so poor and the windows so dirty, all I saw were a couple of fleeting shadows, impossible to tell if it was Josselin or not. The rats re-emerged from the shadows to renew their scavenging; fat beasts waddling through the slime like they owned the place.

  ‘I still don’t think he’s here,’ I said at last.

  ‘We have to find him,’ Dowling growled.

  ‘Aldgate,’ I suggested. ‘His mother’s house at Duke’s Place.’

  Dowling scratched his ear. ‘You think Arlington will not have had the same idea?’

  ‘We’ll make our own ways there,’ I said. ‘As you suggested before.’

  It wasn’t often Dowling needed my encouragement. I strode up the hill towards Eastcheap with more determination than I felt. A dozen soldiers lingered about the Boar’s Head, tousled and round-shouldered, drunk already, laughing uproariously at poor jokes like they felt the eyes of strangers upon them. I hurried east across Gracechurch Street, a busy thoroughfare, then north up Rood Lane past the churchyard of St Margaret Pattens. I turned every few steps to see who followed, looking not only for spies, but also for Dowling’s big, white head bobbing up and down above the crowd like a beacon. If spies followed us, they would follow him, not me.

  Turning onto Fenchurch Street I walked headlong into a row of soldiers barring the road on either side of St Gabriel, a small church built in the middle of the road. Too late to turn away, for I had already attracted the attention of one older man, tight-lipped and sullen. Over his shoulder I saw a long line of soldiers, leading all the way up the street to Aldgate. Dowling had been right. This was not the place to come. It swarmed with military.

  ‘Come here,’ the old soldier growled.

  I stood my ground and prayed Dowling was not close behind.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

  ‘John Fisher,’ I replied, thinking of the nearby market. ‘I live at Sugar Loaf Alley. Why do you stop me passing?’

  ‘I haven’t stopped you passing,’ he replied, reaching out to touch my coat, rubbing the stained silk thoughtfully between his fingers. ‘You on your own?’

  I frowned like I didn’t understand the significance of the question. ‘Let me pass.’

  ‘Fisher,’ he repeated, and eyed me up and down. ‘Proceed, John Fisher.’

  I snatched my coat from his grubby hands and stalked off like I was offended. By now there were so many soldiers, and so few citizens, I felt like a soldier myself, else a ghost drifting unseen amongst the living.

  The entrance to Duke’s Place teemed with excitement, a stinking cloud hovering above the throng below, the smell of too many unwashed men gathered close together. I held my breath and slipped silently between the bodies, reminding myself that Withypoll was far away, scouring the streets west. Arlington would remain above it all, back at Whitehall. None here would recognise me I told myself, again and again.

  Every orifice of Josselin’s house gaped open, the leaning windows like yawning mouths, belching foulness upon the street below. Soldiers sat upon its doorstep, others passing in and out like it was a barrack. Gone was the quiet grace and dignity of the week before, now besmeared with the loud exuberance of raucous bantering.

  I wondered what mess the soldiers made of the delicate interior and where were Mrs Josselin, Eliza and the silent servants. I narrowed my eyes and scoured the house front, searching, until I spied two pale faces, staring out a turret window at the top of the mansion. Too far away to be sure, but they looked like Josselin’s mother and betrothed, peering out, frightened and bewildered.

  Anger welled up deep inside my belly at the ignorant dolts who sat with their backs to the wall, playing cards, those who stomped across the floor of a house that wasn’t theirs. Something of the scene reminded me of Colchester, how it must have been when Fairfax’s soldiers surrounded the City, depriving the innocent of food and provisions. I looked for Josselin. If I could find a way, then so could he. If I felt anger, what would he feel? Where was he?

  I wandered discreetly about the yard, seeing if he stood as witness in some nook or cranny. I looked to the sky, to surrounding houses, to see if he hid, but nothing. I looked up again at the two women and tried to work out in which direction they stared. What would he do, I wondered? He wouldn’t sit idly by, that was certain, yet neither would he charge out into the open with his sword, to be cut down by the small army about him. I tried to think like Josselin, but found it hard.

  The sun passed the height of its day’s journey. Nearly three o’clock. I wondered what became of Dowling. I imagined h
e saw me waylaid on Fenchurch Street. He probably proceeded north, to approach by way of Leadenhall. St Katharine Cree was just around the corner.

  With one last look at the window high above, I made my way through the crowd back onto the main street, and walked the short distance to the church. The churchyard was tucked down an alley, behind the church itself. Dowling sat upon a bench, hands on knees, white head standing out against the blue sky. He leapt to his feet as soon as I opened the gate and enveloped me in a crushing embrace.

  I pushed myself away as soon as his grip slackened, wiping his perspiration from my face.

  ‘You were more circumspect than I, then,’ I said. ‘No one followed you?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think they’ll expect us here, not with so many soldiers. What did that fellow say to you?’

  ‘Asked me my name,’ I replied. ‘I told him John Fisher.’ I thought again of the scene at Duke’s Place. ‘Soldiers have taken over Josselin’s house. Mrs Josselin and Josselin’s betrothed stand staring from a top-floor window.’

  Dowling grunted.

  ‘Josselin will not stand idly back,’ I exclaimed, agitated. ‘I cannot think what he’ll do, but he will do something. Arlington hasn’t read him well. He shouldn’t have called him traitor, nor ransacked his house.’ I closed my eyes against the wind. ‘Josselin is close by,’ I said. ‘I sense it.’

  ‘Very well, Harry,’ sighed Dowling. ‘You propose we walk the streets?’

  ‘I am going back to Duke’s Place for a while,’ I decided. ‘We will meet back here at dusk.’

  Dowling slouched, brow furrowed, mouth downturned.

  ‘Ask God, Davy.’ I patted him on the shoulder. ‘He shall guide thee continually and make fat thy bones. Thou shalt be like a watered garden.’ Something like that.

  I patted him again and headed back to the Josselin house. Something was afoot.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  For in those places shall be Wars, Seditions, and Uproars, strange Winds, Barrenness, and acute diseases, viz. either very strange Feavers, or the Sickness.

  I heard the shouting before I reached the court, the singing too, loud and tuneless. Soldiers crowded into the middle of the square, heads thrown back, swilling beer from glass bottles.

  All fell silent, then a loud roar, ‘Arlington!’ Every man lifted a bottle to the blue sky. The first time in Arlington’s life he had been toasted so readily.

  I thought to inspect one of the bottles, but the soldiers stood in a circle, like a pack of dogs guarding a pile of bones. Unlike Arlington to be so generous.

  Josselin’s house stood empty; all the soldiers stood outside supping happily. There was enough beer for every man to drink at least two bottles. No sign of Mrs Josselin or Eliza at the window. Their opportunity to feed themselves while the soldiers were distracted.

  I walked the perimeter, across the shadow of a great oak growing in one corner, across the front of the other two large houses that bounded the small square. The side of Josselin’s house stood in shadow, but something moved, a flash of light catching the sun. I approached closer, wary of a drunken soldier. Before I could explore further, a bottle smashed. I turned towards the revelry to see two men fall to their knees, clutching at their throats. The rest watched, anxious, so quiet I could hear the sound of both men breathing, wracking gasps, like their lungs burnt. A third man held his hands in front of his eyes like claws. Six more pawed at their necks, wide-eyed and terrified. I stepped back into the shadow, pressed against the wall.

  Those who didn’t succumb stepped nervously through the fallen, inspecting the bottles from which they drank, else throwing them as far away as they could muster. One man thrust his fingers down his throat and forced himself to gag. Others followed his lead, but too late. They too struggled to breathe, collapsing upon the dust, gasping for air. I placed my hands at my own throat, momentarily afraid the plague unveiled itself again.

  A hand landed on my shoulder. I startled, and looked round into Josselin’s battered face, his naked, shaven head. He wore rough, plain clothes, wide, linen trousers, and flapping, cloth shirt, in the style of a butcher. A good disguise. With bruised face devoid of hair, he looked like any other common fellow. He smiled, calmly.

  ‘You are the apothecary,’ he whispered. ‘A fiftieth of a grain is deadly. I put half a grain in every bottle.’

  I stared, disbelieving.

  He gripped harder. ‘I wouldn’t see them suffer. They will die quick.’ He cast me an inquisitive gaze then nodded at a man close to us whose face contorted in agonized grimace. ‘First they burn from throat to belly. Then hands and feet, and all their skin. They feel like they are being flayed.’ The groans and screams confirmed it, as thirty men lay dying.

  Three soldiers stood watching, aghast, and unaffected. The few who chose not to drink. They gathered in a huddle, seeking solace in each other, unable to tear their eyes from the dreadful scene.

  ‘Soon they will lose the power of sight, and will lie there deaf, ’til death comes,’ Josselin breathed. ‘With a fiftieth of a grain it would take half the day. With half a grain most will be dead before they realise what has happened.’

  ‘Wolfsbane,’ I guessed. ‘Monkshood.’ A plant with medicinal properties, rarely used because it was so poisonous. A white powder that dissolved only in strong drink.

  Josselin patted my shoulder. ‘Well done, apothecary.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, watching as one man clutched his belly, bending his neck back with eyes closed, a shallow, whining noise escaping his blue lips. An innocent man.

  ‘This is my house,’ Josselin said, grimly. ‘I didn’t invite them, nor did my mother. They invited themselves.’

  ‘Arlington ordered them.’ I seized his collar. ‘Some of these men had wives and children,’ I said. ‘Do you not care?’

  He placed a hand on my arm and gazed at me, brow furrowed and eyes moist. ‘More soldiers will arrive soon.’

  I pushed him away. ‘Do you not understand what Arlington will do to your mother and betrothed? Have you no idea?’

  ‘He’ll do nothing to them,’ Josselin answered. He slipped back into the shadows and headed in the direction of Leadenhall. ‘I will find him tonight and smite him down.’

  ‘Wait!’ I called after him.

  ‘Talk as we walk,’ Josselin replied, tossing me the bottle he held in his hand. ‘That is the only bottle I did not poison. Drink.’

  He laughed loud as I held it at arm’s length between two fingers. ‘Tell me who killed Berkshire, and tell me about this letter. Give me something I can use.’

  ‘Tut-tut!’ he exclaimed.

  I tugged at his coat, trying to slow him down as he hurried south, down Lime Street. ‘We went to Clarendon on your behalf. We rescued you from Thomas Elks.’

  I heard footsteps and turned to see Dowling running behind, stumbling from foot to foot in strange gait, blowing hard.

  ‘You did that for yourselves,’ Josselin replied, following my gaze. ‘I am not responsible for your poor souls.’

  Dowling caught up with us, red-faced, sweat soaking his chest. As we crossed Fenchurch Street, the wind caught me in a sudden gust, nearly knocking me off my feet.

  ‘What news?’ he panted, watching Josselin.

  ‘He just poisoned half a garrison.’

  Dowling stared at Josselin’s back, like he would tear him apart. ‘Then we should seize him now. Hand him over to Arlington.’

  It would be easy enough to attract the attention of spies and soldiers, I reflected.

  Josselin laughed. ‘Arlington will thank you with the promise of an earldom then kill you for what you know.’ He stopped at the top of Red Rose Lane. ‘You are welcome to join me, gentlemen, for I think we are in the same predicament.’

  Dowling hesitated.

  ‘There are no spies here,’ said Josselin. ‘They walk along Eastcheap or Thames Street, peer in, then keep walking. I have my own little place to stay.’

  ‘They will come aft
er you,’ I said.

  ‘They will search, but not down here.’ He looked about quickly then slipped into the gloom. He led us halfway down the dark narrow street and stopped outside a crooked door. ‘Welcome to the house of Farynor.’

  He pushed open the door and hurried us over the threshold. A low, squat oven sat to the left of the main fireplace. A bigger oven with smaller mouth sat to the right of it, burning low.

  ‘Where is Farynor?’ growled Dowling.

  ‘Upstairs.’ Josselin jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. ‘Farynor, his son and daughter. I will release them when I leave.’ He sat down, threw his legs forward and stretched out his arms. ‘Go see them if you wish.’

  I stepped cautiously towards the narrow, winding staircase, wary in case he changed his mind, but he just watched, hands rested upon his belly, eyes half lidded. Dowling shuffled forwards, positioning his great bulk between Josselin and the stairs.

  The staircase was narrow, wood-warped and twisted. Every board squeaked as I climbed, but upstairs was silent. An open door led to a square room overlooking the alley below. Three sets of eyes watched. A boy and girl huddled either side of a lean fellow with sculpted arms. All three chewed on gags. Their arms were tied behind their back, legs bound with rope, the skin about their ankles red and raw. I thought to pull the gags from their mouths, but to what end? Our need for refuge was equal to Josselin’s. I waved a hand and nodded my head in an assuring manner before returning downstairs.

  Josselin still slumped in his chair. I stared at his long face, angular and chiselled. His lips were red and seemed to smile. Black hair fell across his forehead and cheeks.

  ‘What’s up there?’ Dowling demanded.

  ‘The Farynors,’ I replied. ‘Bound with rope.’

  Dowling glowered at Josselin.

  ‘I haven’t hurt them,’ Josselin protested, pulling himself up straight. ‘I don’t hurt people.’ Which was a great lie. ‘But I need somewhere to hide from Arlington. I cannot hide with friends, nor seek lodgings with strangers. Is that not apparent?’