Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  We returned back the way we came, discouraged, for Josselin was more cunning than us. I feared we might walk straight past him and not recognise him. Yet he knew where we were, I was certain.

  The merchants, booksellers and goldsmiths queued at the two entrances to the crypt on either side of the transept. Stairs led down into the bowels of the cathedral, the parish church of St Faith’s. Yet these fellows didn’t push and shove in order to pray. Their boxes and chests were full of worldly goods. However unlikely it seemed that Josselin would expose himself to the attention of so many, I had no doubt that if the letter was down there, he would be down there too.

  We joined the line and stood self-consciously with arms bare. A fog of stinking sweat hung about our heads. These men’s faces shone red and wet, despite their fine clothes. We dared not skirt the queue, for tempers simmered, so we descended the steps slow, one at a time, hemmed in the midst of the angry crowd.

  At the base of the stairs stood a man with parchment and pen, surrounded by merchants, wearing a frayed dark coat, fingers stained black. A row of five great brutes, each with pike and sword, prevented further passage. The crypt spread the whole length of the church, like a giant warehouse. Crates of books and lines of chests and trunks stood in long, neat lines. The room was bare of furniture. The edges of the space hid in darkness.

  The man with the ledger peered up at me through rheumy eyes. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We have come to help,’ I replied. ‘We were told to come down here and move some books.’

  ‘Told by who?’ he asked, looking me up and down.

  I remembered a name. ‘Edward Taylor.’

  He stared. ‘Edward Taylor,’ he repeated. ‘Edward Taylor is here. Is it worth my while fetching him?’

  I pursed my lips and shook my head. The man with the ledger shuffled over to whisper into the ear of one of the sentries, pointing at me and making hissing noises. Time to leave. Through more crowds of anxious squirrels, all desperate to hoard their nuts.

  ‘Josselin cannot be there,’ I said, once we reached the transept, looking anxiously back over my shoulder.

  ‘Josselin has more wit than you and I put together,’ replied Dowling. ‘If he wishes not to be found we will not find him.’

  I gripped his sleeve. ‘We’ll try the Chapter House.’

  I hurried across the transept and out into a tiny square, surrounded on three sides by a two-storeyed cloister. Here we were alone, for the sky hung heavy above our heads, a dull, dirty orange flecked with grey clouds of wafting smoke speckled with ash.

  ‘Why did Josselin leave his letter here in the first place?’ I grumbled, pushing open the door of the Chapter House. It was a strange, round building, ten paces wide, wall to wall.

  ‘He was in a hurry,’ said Dowling. ‘Accused of murder and treachery. He passed by on his way out east.’

  ‘Why enter the City at all?’ I replied. ‘Faster to go round the wall.’

  ‘Aye,’ Dowling replied. ‘Perhaps there is no letter after all.’ He wandered back out into the courtyard. ‘When a man says he possesses a box and refuses to tell ye what it holds, usually it’s because he has only just made up the lie and hasn’t had time to finish it.’

  The cloisters were shallow, impossible to hide therein without being seen. We toured the square slowly, scrutinising every inch of stonework.

  ‘The roof?’ Dowling suggested.

  ‘Why should he hide on the roof?’ I spoke as if the idea was ridiculous, for I had no desire to climb such a decrepit structure. ‘The roof is covered in timber where they are repairing it. Even if he climbed all the way up where could he have hidden a letter?’

  ‘We’ve been everywhere else.’ Dowling stared upwards. ‘Who knows what hiding places there might be.’

  I followed his gaze. My head spun, the ceiling was so high. Dowling headed to the door leading to the staircase

  ‘Attention!’ shouted a voice from around the corner. ‘Attention!’ it shouted again, more urgent. ‘The fire has spread nearly to the wall,’ a soldier pronounced. ‘Soon Ludgate will be ablaze. The prisoners have already been moved elsewhere. Everyone must leave now, through the west gate, before it is too late.’ The soldier stepped into view out of the choir, repeating his message, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

  A low moan filled the air, rising to the top of the ceiling and reverberating about our ears in strange echo. A woman screamed and men began to shout. Soldiers streamed from the choir down into the nave, rousing the inert and forcing everyone to pick up what they could and hurry away to our left.

  Dowling and I stayed where we were. Keen to leave, but not before we found Josselin. We allowed ourselves to be swept along by the crowd towards the choir. Soldiers lined the steps, armed and anxious, surveying the crowd that swarmed the nave, nervous and afraid.

  ‘No more time,’ shouted another soldier at the merchants that fought against the tide, arms full. ‘Take the rest of your goods with you and seal the doors. No more time.’

  I ducked my head just in time to avoid being spotted by Arlington and Withypoll.

  I tugged at Dowling’s sleeve. ‘Lower your big head,’ I hissed.

  He bent his knees and tried his best, but his white head shone like a beacon, glowing in the gloom.

  I pulled him sideways, towards a thick wooden door. Behind it a narrow staircase, twisting up into the gloom.

  ‘How did they know where to find us?’ I panted, dashing up the first few stairs in case we were followed.

  ‘One of his spies,’ said Dowling, close behind. ‘Unless it’s Josselin’s doing.’

  ‘Why should he do that?’ I snorted, though I feared he might speak the truth. ‘Save us from the flames, then unleash those two beasts upon us.’

  ‘Just climb,’ Dowling snapped. ‘You’ll need every breath you’ve got.’

  I had to stop and rest twice before we finally reached the top of the stairs, five hundred feet above the ground. The wind gusted strong, rattling loose timbers strewn all about, the sky awash with black smoke. My legs felt weak, petrified by the fear of being blown off the top, yet I couldn’t help but follow Dowling to the edge to contemplate the horror that played itself out before our eyes.

  The whole of London was ablaze. We sat as if upon the mast of a giant ship floating on a small lake, the cathedral protected on all sides by the expanse of the churchyard. It was the only empty space betwixt the City walls, and so the flames below us happily consumed every house and every building, not a single hole in the sheet of fire. All gone. The churches, the halls, Cole Harbour, the Exchange. My little house on Bread Street and Dowling’s house and shop. Nothing survived.

  Looking west was like looking down a long tunnel, fire on each side all the way to the wall. Only ahead could we still see whole buildings through thick black smoke, and a dark silhouette.

  ‘What are you doing up here?’ I shouted, wind carrying my words in his direction above the incessant roar of the blaze.

  Josselin turned, face covered in a thin layer of soot. His lips moved but I couldn’t hear the words. We moved closer.

  ‘… lit the fire, but I didn’t send the winds,’ he said, a strange brightness in his eyes. ‘I will execute judgement: I am the Lord.’

  Which seemed a tenuous conclusion to me. God sent the wind every winter; it didn’t mean he expected us to put flame to buildings.

  ‘Do you have the letter?’ I asked.

  ‘Downstairs,’ Josselin replied, transfixed upon the flames, a strange smile upon drawn lips. ‘God will not allow its destruction.’

  When a man sought assurance from God, it was usually because he faced circumstances he couldn’t contemplate managing alone.

  ‘Arlington is downstairs,’ I said, at last.

  ‘Arlington?’ He raised a slow brow. ‘I cannot meet him here, not with the letter upon me. I must take the letter somewhere safe first, then you must talk to him.’

  ‘The soldiers are forcing everyone out through
Ludgate,’ I said. ‘Arlington and Withypoll will be gone soon. We should go too.’

  ‘Look around.’ Josselin flung his arms in the air. ‘Do you not see we are safe? Ye shall reverence my sanctuary: I am the Lord.’

  Now he reckoned he was God. This was not going well. I leant over the balustrade, peering down through the black clouds that gathered about the spire. A steady procession of tiny people streamed out the west porch in a thin, straggled line towards Ludgate. Something told me Withypoll and Arlington would not be among them.

  ‘Look there!’ I yelled, pointing. Though the wind blew from east to west, the flames reached out from the City to touch the north-west corner of the building, seizing upon a stray board that covered a hole in the lead. Even as I watched, the fire seemed to skate along the wooden roof, like oil rolling over a polished floor. ‘We have to go,’ I shouted. ‘If the fire takes hold of the nave, we will be trapped.’

  Josselin’s eyes widened, a look of terror upon his long, dirty face. ‘The nave, you say?’ He spun to face the door and took off, crashing across planks of timber.

  I ran behind him, clattering down the staircase as fast as my legs could manage. Josselin and Dowling might take these steps two at a time, but my legs were too short. My chest constricted, and I stepped aside for a moment to let Dowling pass, before resuming the chase.

  Even as we ran I heard flames take hold of the scaffolding about the tower, heard the bricks groan and creak about us. I stepped out into the transept just behind Dowling, to see him chasing Josselin down the nave. Smoke filled the huge cavity above our heads as the roof’s giant timbers began to smoulder.

  Arlington emerged from the gloom, and Josselin slowed to a halt, arms held up in the air.

  ‘At last!’ Arlington declared, clasping his hands together. ‘I almost gave up hope. I feared you might be burnt alive.’

  Withypoll marched towards me, sword fully extended. I turned and ran towards the Lady Chapel, Dowling and Josselin fast behind. The walls sang out now, the stone screeching like it was being throttled. A great lump of burning metal dropped from the ceiling and hit the pavement in front of me with a great crack. I danced about the debris and kept running, all the way to the Rose Window, arriving just as it shattered into a thousand pieces, glass shards flying through the air, embedding themselves in my hair and on my clothes. I turned to see Withypoll slavering like some great hellhound, unsure who to devour first.

  The vast, empty window sucked in fresh air, enraging the fire in the rafters so it ignited in a great ball of flame, momentarily engulfing Withypoll. He fell to one knee, beating at his clothes with his beaver hat. Josselin saw his distraction and hurled himself forwards, grasping for Withypoll’s throat. Withypoll reached for his blade, lain discarded on the flagstone, but Josselin saw in time and rolled aside to grab it first. Josselin stood first, sword held aloft.

  He jabbed the tip of it into Withypoll’s chest. ‘It was you killed Berkshire, wasn’t it?’

  Withypoll clambered to his feet, letting his burning jacket fall to the floor.

  ‘Where are you, Arlington?’ Josselin shouted.

  Arlington stood ten paces distant, sword still sheathed. He drew his weapon and approached.

  Josselin bared his teeth. ‘Which one of you was it? Or must I slay you both?’

  Arlington lowered his blade. ‘Why do you concern yourself with Berkshire? He would not have concerned himself with you.’

  ‘Don’t seek to confound me,’ Josselin replied, face contorted. ‘I am beyond confusion. Just tell me which of you killed Berkshire.’

  Arlington pointed at Withypoll. ‘He did, because I told him to. I had no choice.’

  ‘Every man has a choice in every deed he does,’ said Josselin, slowly, like he had just learnt a difficult lesson.

  Arlington waved a finger. ‘Not really. You told Berkshire about the third letter, did you not?’

  ‘So I did,’ Josselin nodded. ‘Which is why you had him killed.’

  ‘Precisely.’ Arlington nodded back. ‘But how did I find out?’

  ‘You have spies,’ Josselin replied, his voice betraying new uncertainty.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ Arlington agreed, ‘and many of them, but none have yet learnt how to read a man’s mind.’

  Josselin breathed deep and slow, eyes fixed upon the black plaster across the ridge of Arlington’s nose.

  Arlington leant forward as if afraid of eavesdroppers. ‘Berkshire told me what you did and why you did it. He said you were a traitor.’

  ‘Not true,’ said Josselin, though his eyes watered.

  ‘True enough,’ said Arlington, sadly. ‘It hurt him to tell me of it, but he saw it as his duty. His duty to the King.’

  Josselin shook his head.

  Arlington shrugged, like he was an innocent player in this fine drama. ‘He called you traitor, Josselin, and wanted me to punish you.’

  Josselin stamped his foot. ‘He would never have betrayed me to you, foul dog. You discovered it then you killed him.’

  ‘Of course I killed him,’ snapped Arlington, as if it was obvious. ‘The existence of that letter is a state secret. No man may know of it, and Berkshire was a weakling. I sensed he would regret his betrayal and confess all to you.’ He waved an arm. ‘Rather, Withypoll did.’

  ‘With my sword,’ Josselin hissed. ‘What sort of cowardly act was that?’

  ‘Whether an act be cowardly or not doesn’t depend on whose weapon you use,’ Arlington replied. ‘He had to die, and the opportunity to blacken your name at the same time proved irresistible.’

  The fire inside Josselin’s belly seemed to fade before the heat of the inferno in which we stood. The walls exploded inwards, great cracks like cannonballs firing through the air as molten lead poured down the brick. Josselin’s shoulders drooped. Withypoll saw his chance, grabbed Arlington’s sword and propelled himself at Josselin, the tip of the blade aimed at his neck. Josselin squinted, then blinked, afore lifting his weapon at the last minute, parrying the blow.

  I stood helpless, keen to intervene, but lacking the means. Withypoll regained his balance the quicker and thrust his blade once more at Josselin’s chest. Josselin danced backwards and seemed to trip over his own feet, stumbling sideways. He landed on one arm and struggled to regain his balance, but his arm stuck, tangled in his coat. Withypoll sighed, face rapt with joyous anticipation as he lifted his sword. I held my breath and the world stood still. Josselin somehow managed to twist his body and kick out at Withypoll’s knee, sending him staggering over Josselin’s outstretched leg. As Withypoll fell to the ground I saw a flash of steel as Josselin finally succeeded in freeing his trapped arm. Withypoll’s legs gave way beneath him. He fell to his knees, head bowed, hands clutching at a small spot of blood spreading from his hip. Josselin extricated himself from beneath Withypoll’s prone body and clambered to his feet, sword hung loose from his right hand, short dagger in his left.

  Withypoll didn’t move. As Josselin stood gasping in great lungs of air, I seized his dagger and knelt down at Withypoll’s side, suspecting trickery. He lay with the right side of his face upon the flagstones, eyes open, body unmoving. His sword lay where it fell, well out of reach.

  I touched the dagger against his cheek. ‘Are you dead?’ I whispered into his ear.

  He mumbled something I couldn’t hear. I leant down closer to his mouth, holding the dagger firmly. His eye moved, focussing upon the end of my nose. His lips moved, and a froth of red blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He tried to speak again but failed, then he stopped breathing and his eye dulled. A knot unwound itself deep within my belly and I felt a surge of immeasurable happiness. Then his hand jerked up and seized my wrist. I threw myself to one side, heart pounding. Josselin roared loud, leapt forward to retrieve his knife and plunged it into Withypoll’s belly, twisting it until Withypoll lay finally still.

  Josselin straightened and turned to Arlington, holding up his blood-smeared palm. ‘Well, then. The killer is dead, but no
t the villain. Will you take back your sword or shall I cut you down where you stand?’

  Arlington spread his palms and blew out his cheeks. ‘I will take my sword, if you be so generous.’

  ‘We don’t have time,’ I shouted to Josselin. ‘We have to leave, else we shall all die.’

  Fire covered every wall as well as the roof, eating steadily through the dry Yorkshire timber. It was only the immense size of the cathedral that meant we could still breathe, but not for much longer. Lead dripped from the ceiling in lethal red globules, splashing onto the floor and smashing the stone.

  ‘Come on, Josselin,’ I urged, but he ignored me, stood with legs crouched, ready to do battle with Arlington.

  ‘Your letter,’ I whispered into Josselin’s ear. ‘It will be lost.’

  ‘Go to the Bishop’s residence,’ he whispered so Arlington couldn’t hear. ‘Go to his office and look amongst his papers.’

  My heart sank even further down my bowels. ‘The Bishop of London is involved?’

  Arlington cocked his head, trying to listen.

  ‘No,’ replied Josselin. ‘The Bishop is old and blind, yet he allows no others access to his private correspondence. It was a perfect place to hide the letter. Look for the royal seal.’

  Arlington stepped forward, glancing at the ceiling. Josselin scuttled like a great spider, holding his sword in front of him with both hands.

  ‘We haven’t long, Josselin,’ Arlington warned, placing one hand behind his back.

  ‘A curse to he who will not obey the Lord’s commandments,’ Josselin replied, face contorted in hatred.

  ‘Aye, well may God turn your curse into a blessing.’ Arlington caught my eye and pointed at Dowling. ‘Your choice, gentlemen,’ he called. ‘If you stand aside, it’s treachery.’