A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

  ‘I do have a thought,’ I replied. ‘But I will not share it with you until you tell me what you know.’

  War held the tip of his sword to my thigh, but I pushed it aside. He stared at me, teeth bared and eyes narrowed, but did nothing. He seemed smaller tonight. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘We have as long as we need, after all.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Chelwood was Wharton’s master. He directed foreign affairs in the King’s name and pledged to manage those that fought against the King at home. Charles had need to appear magnanimous when restored and only those that signed his father’s execution warrant were officially put to death.’

  I felt disgusted. ‘You and Wharton were the King’s secret executioners?’

  ‘Not the King.’ War lowered his voice. ‘The King makes sure he knows only what he needs to. He trusted Chelwood to ensure his transition was peaceful and that the guilty were punished.’

  ‘You murdered men at Chelwood’s behest. You killed Roger Cline’s son.’

  ‘We seized the guilty and did what was needed to discover the truth.’

  ‘The King was restored five years ago,’ I said. ‘What have you been doing all this time?’

  ‘Ask your master that. He plotted against the Earl of St Albans e’er since he discovered what services he provided, just because he would see Chelwood disgraced.’

  I didn’t understand. ‘You think Lord Arlington killed the Earl to disgrace Lord Chelwood?’

  ‘No, I think he killed Wharton because he could, once he persuaded the King to send Chelwood to Ireland, leaving us exposed.’

  It made no sense. ‘Why should Arlington hang Wharton by the neck at the Vintners’ Hall? Why should he drown one of your friends in a barrel of wine and weight another to the bottom of the Thames?’

  ‘To implicate Henry Burke,’ War answered, though with less certainty than before. ‘Burke complained to him about the way we cheated him and so presented himself as an easy scapegoat.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ I shook my head, doubtful.

  ‘I don’t say he did it himself,’ said War. ‘He can order whosoever he chooses to do the deed.’

  ‘Who do you say he chose then?’

  ‘We thought it might be you.’ He laughed, unkindly. ‘Then we looked for another, but …’ He tapped the sword upon the floor.

  ‘You are not sure,’ I realised. ‘You asked us what we discovered of Perkins, the ranting cleric. You suspect he may be the killer.’

  ‘It is possible,’ War conceded. ‘The Bishop of London has the King’s ear these days. Some of the families of those we killed made discreet protest to the church. Perkins played the role of advocate. He sent Wharton letters, threatening retribution.’

  ‘What did Wharton think of that?’

  War’s head jerked like he saw something, eyes staring out into the dark. ‘He laughed at him,’ he whispered. ‘So long as he had Chelwood’s support, he feared no one.’

  He knew less than we did, I realised with heavy heart. ‘I cannot see Perkins setting men’s heads on fire and stuffing them into barrels.’

  ‘Wine is wicked, the King is wicked, women are wicked, all the children of men are wicked, and such are all their wicked works; and there is no truth in them; in their unrighteousness also they shall perish,’ War recited. ‘If you researched Perkins well you would know it is one of his favourite proclamations.’

  ‘The clergy are well practised at the art of inquisition,’ I said. ‘Methods they may stand behind and justify. What cleric would go to the extraordinary lengths that we have seen, actions that would see him condemned if discovered?’ It was nonsense. ‘And there is little that is godly in implicating an innocent man.’

  ‘Then tell me what else you know,’ War’s voice grated. ‘Afore I slice open your chest.’

  ‘The killer sought to implicate poor Henry Burke.’ I edged away, ready to run if he lost his temper. ‘It was Forman and Withypoll who locked him up at Ludgate with plague victims.’

  ‘Forman and Withypoll work for Lord Chelwood,’ War answered confidently. ‘They would see Burke die only because you interfered with their plan to hide him away.’

  My throat constricted as I imagined what Burke was doing at that moment. ‘How do you know Chelwood didn’t kill Wharton?’ I asked. ‘The King sent Chelwood away. So he could no longer control events. Seems to me he is as likely a candidate as Arlington.’

  ‘That is the thought you spoke of?’ War jeered.

  A light breeze blew across the graveyard, rustling the leaves of the oak above our heads.

  ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘I told you we found Wharton’s brother at Bedlam.’

  ‘So you did,’ he grunted. ‘Pestilence went yesterday. He will tell me if it be true.’

  ‘No he won’t,’ I retorted. ‘We found him dead this morning. You didn’t follow us to Bedlam, evidently.’

  War grabbed my neck with one huge hand. ‘Dead?’

  I said nothing, determined to stay quiet until he released me. He stared into my eyes like he searched for something, afore pushing me away.

  ‘Someone cut his throat,’ I said, rubbing mine. ‘We found him in Franklin’s cell.’

  ‘Who is Franklin?’

  ‘The brother,’ I said. ‘As I told you before.’

  War stared into the darkness.

  ‘Except I don’t think it was his brother.’

  War’s head jerked towards me. ‘What do you say?’

  ‘I wonder if Wharton is truly dead.’ I spoke the thought aloud for the first time. ‘Or has he been hiding at Bedlam in the place of his brother?’

  ‘Madness!’ War stuttered, white-faced.

  The gate swung open again, thirty paces back the way we came, too purposeful to be wind.

  War pushed his sword deep between my ribs, breaking the skin. ‘Friends of yours?’

  Shadows emerged into the faint moonlight, two of them. ‘Not mine,’ I whispered. ‘Yours neither, I’ll wager. Methinks Forman and Withypoll.’

  War inspected the wall behind us, twelve feet high, too smooth to scale. ‘Good fortune, Lytle.’ He patted me upon the arm and ran off deeper into the churchyard. I thought to call after him, but feared attracting attention. There was no other gate out, nor wall to climb.

  He ran without care, feet crunching across gravel and through undergrowth like a loose horse. I heard voices to my right, sharp and urgent, then another set of feet running, but only one. That meant one remained, guarding the only passage out. I sat still and listened hard. More voices, a low voice and a higher voice, then the sound of a man groaning.

  I stood up and trod carefully towards the trunk of the giant oak. The gnarled bark offered a multitude of handholds amongst its pits and ridges, easy climbing as I remembered from childhood. I pulled myself up to the lowest branch without problem. The next branch above me stretched out from tree to the wall, then out and over Foster Lane. Twelve feet was a high drop to the street below, but if I managed it twenty years ago I could manage it now. I hoisted myself up to the thicker bough and straddled it, then shuffled along, holding tight with my thighs. Halfway across, the branch jerked and cracked. I had put on weight this last twenty years. My trousers caught and tore.

  ‘Harry Lytle,’ a low voice called out from below. ‘Climbing a tree.’

  I almost toppled off. Withypoll stared up from below. He jumped and tapped his sword against the sole of my foot.

  ‘Will you come down or shall I come up?’

  Something snapped and again I nearly toppled, but the end of the branch fell to rest against the top of the wall. I scraped along, yanking my leg forward and tearing the cloth further. The gap between me and the wall stretched no thicker than a man’s upper arm. I leant forward quickly, reaching for the brick, just clinging to it. I pushed onto my lower arms in an attempt to take my weight off the branch and pulled myself forwards. A short sharp piece of wood cut through the trouser into my thigh.

  Withypoll disappeared. I heard him run back towards
the gate. The wall was six inches thick, enough to balance on while I swung my legs down the other side. I turned and lowered myself, face to stone, sliding down, shirt riding up about the top of my naked stomach, grinding against the rough brick. I swung back and dropped the last three feet, twisting my knee on hitting the ground. I hobbled towards Cheapside, knee throbbing, stomach and leg bleeding, and flung myself behind the cross at St Nicholas Le Quern.

  Withypoll burst forth, looking left and right in frantic search. I pushed deep into the shadows, blood pounding in my temples. He did a little jig, feet uncertain which way they wished to carry him, then kicked the cobbles in furious temper. Forman emerged beside him, laid a hand upon his shoulder and stared out with him into the night. For a terrifying second I thought he saw me, but neither moved. Forman said something, and they disappeared back into the churchyard.

  I breathed a sigh of relief and contemplated running for home, but I wanted to know what happened to War. Soon Forman came out again, this time on his own. He stood as if waiting.

  A cart rattled into view at the far end of Foster Lane, from direction of Cripplegate. Forman whistled between his fingers and beckoned with one hand. The cart trundled up the street, a plague cart it looked like. Forman signalled towards the gate and Withypoll emerged, pulling War by the armpits. Then the two of them picked him up and threw him onto the cart.

  Forman spoke to the driver and money exchanged hands. Then the cart continued on towards me. A pair of legs dangled from the back of the wagon, short and thin, swinging freely as the cart bumped over the cobbles, a child’s legs. As the cart turned east onto Cheapside I saw the pile of bodies, War lain spreadeagled on top. Then the cart turned left up Greatwood Street, on its way back to Cripplegate and the pit beyond.

  It could have been me, I realised. I took off my shoes and walked as quiet as I could west towards Newgate.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  OF THE CRISIS, OR DAYS CRITICAL

  For discovering whether the crisis will be good or ill, you must note what planet she is in aspect withal at those times, whether with a friendly planet or an infortune.

  I needed to rest somewhere Forman and Withypoll would never find me. I walked fast, unnerved by the emptiness and silence. Pitch and tar slowly sizzled in the burning braziers that lined the streets, and scented smoke drifted about the jetties of the houses. I thought I might be followed, yet each time I stopped to peer into the gloom all I saw were flickering shifting shapes, dancing in the light of the candles that lit the windows. I could think of only one place I would be safe that night.

  There was a second house afflicted on my street now. Henry Hilton was a young fellow who took over his father’s business a year before. He had a wife and two young children, six and four years old, I guessed. He left home early and arrived late, wild black hair always set in some untamed shape. Soon as he saw you he would smile, eyes telling you how happy he felt. Now he had a red cross upon his door.

  I didn’t recognise the man that watched my house and had never thought to ask Fuller who they appointed as nightwatch. I wondered where Hearsey slept, whether he still returned to his home outside the wall. This new fellow seemed less diligent, for he sat slumped, chin resting on his chest, legs splayed forward to stop him toppling over. I approached quietly and placed the key in the lock. Still he didn’t move, just snored, arms held tight about his chest. With but a quick glance up and down the street, I turned the handle and slipped inside.

  A slight figure leapt to her feet, thin shawl clasped about her shoulders. She walked towards me, candle held high. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Harry Lytle.’ I held up my hands. ‘I live here.’

  ‘You can’t come in!’ she whispered, shrill. ‘There is plague in the house.’

  ‘I know there is plague in the house,’ I assured her. ‘It’s my house.’

  She bustled closer, shooing me back towards the door. ‘You must go. Lest they make you stay here.’ She held her pale face forward, peering at me like I was a ghost, black locks hanging beside her cheeks.

  ‘They told me you have fever.’ I stepped towards her, looking for signs.

  She jumped back, trembling now with indignant agitation. ‘You would have a fever too if you stayed here hour after hour.’

  It was hot as an oven. A fire burnt so bright in the kitchen it lit up the staircase.

  ‘You are not afflicted?’ I saw no swelling about her face. ‘Why do you hold that shawl to your shoulders?’

  ‘I have come from upstairs,’ she replied, ‘where it is much warmer. Your maidservant is still very sick.’

  I looked to the stairs. ‘I must see her.’

  The nurse pulled at my sleeve as I climbed the staircase. ‘You mustn’t go to her, else you too might become infected!’

  ‘The plague doesn’t enjoy my taste.’ I shrugged her gently aside. ‘It has had every opportunity.’

  Jane lay upon her bed, still and grey, naked beneath a thin sheet, lips dry and brow dripping. The fire raged so bright I had to stand back for a moment, my face burning. I held an arm up to protect myself. ‘Surely this is too hot.’

  ‘Hearsey says you came before posturing as a medic,’ she scolded. ‘It was you that came last afternoon dressed in the costume. I would like to know where you acquired that costume and how many people may not have received physic because of it.’

  ‘There are few medics left about the City,’ I replied, scrutinising the buboes about Jane’s chest. They had all been lanced and poultices applied. ‘I doubt there is a shortage. Are there any new swellings since the medic attended her?’

  ‘No,’ the nurse snapped. ‘Which doesn’t mean there isn’t poison deeper within. The medic said to make sure she sweated, to be rid of the poison through her skin.’

  ‘Does she speak lucidly?’

  The nurse pushed me backwards. ‘She hasn’t spoken at all since I have been here. She is sick and needs rest.’

  At least Jane seemed peaceful. Though pale and thinner than e’er before, her face rested in calm repose. ‘Does the medic say she shall live?’

  ‘The medic says she will probably die, for there is so much poison within her. Yet I do all I can to make her comfortable and pray for her every hour.’

  For a moment Jane seemed not to breathe, then gasped sudden, a long, deep breath. I turned and left her alone, much to the relief of the nurse.

  ‘What is your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Ruth,’ she replied. ‘And rest assured I know what I am doing. Now leave this house afore I wake up the great dog upon the street. Should he smell you he will take you in his jaws and not let go. He is not an intelligent man.’

  ‘How is the aunt?’ I asked.

  ‘She is dead,’ Ruth replied. ‘As should come as no surprise to you.’ She spoke matter-of-fact, yet she bowed her head and her mouth twisted like she wanted to cry.

  I pushed the door open. A sheet covered her from tip to toe. ‘I didn’t know her.’

  ‘Just as well.’

  ‘How long has she lain here?’

  ‘She died late this afternoon,’ Ruth answered. ‘The medic came after she died and confirmed it. The bearer will take her tonight.’

  ‘Take her where?’ I asked. The churchyards had been full afore the plague. Now there was little assistance for those without monies. The poor were buried in shrouds in the plague pits.

  ‘Back to her parish, I suppose.’ Ruth shook her head. ‘I understand she lived on the bridge.’

  ‘Aye, she lived on the bridge, but she had little money and no husband.’

  Ruth shrugged.

  I scratched my face and tried not to think of money. ‘Tell the bearer to take her to All Hallows. I will see her buried there.’

  ‘Very well,’ Ruth nodded. ‘Now you must leave.’

  ‘I will stay until morning, I have no choice.’ I looked to the night sky through the window. ‘What time does Hearsey arrive?’

  ‘Six of the morning,’ Ruth replied. ‘But
you must leave now.’

  ‘I cannot leave now, Ruth.’ I walked slowly downstairs. ‘Else I will likely end up in the pit myself afore dawn.’ I thought of War, pictured his body being tipped upon the vast pile of corpses at the Cripplegate pit.

  She noticed for the first time my limp, my torn clothes. ‘You are hurt?’

  ‘Cuts and blemishes.’ I waved a hand. ‘I can clean myself up. You should get some rest. I will sleep in my chair in the front room.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she replied, then set about fussing worse than Jane until my scratches were washed and my body besides.

  My clothes were torn beyond repair. I fetched new ones from my room, watching Jane’s aunt out the corner of my eye in case she moved. I settled myself to sleep a few hours in the front room downstairs, behind the open door, where none might see me from the street. I fell asleep afore my eyes finished closing.

  I was awoken by a loud banging. I crept to the window and took a swift peek to see who sought entrance to a plagued house in the middle of the night, head full of ill-formed escape plans should it be Forman and Withypoll standing there. But it was a short man with thick arms and a cart. The bearer, of course.

  I watched from the crack in the door as Ruth bid him enter. ‘Good evening and God bless you,’ I heard him say. He entered with a board beneath his arm. ‘If you’d be so kind as to show me where she lies. Are there any menfolk here?’

  Ruth shook her head emphatically. ‘No.’

  ‘Aye, then.’ The bearer turned back to the street. ‘You, fellow. You will have to help me carry the body to the wagon.’

  ‘It’s not my job,’ a faint voice protested. ‘I am paid to wait outside and prevent others from going inside.’

  ‘Aye,’ the bearer grunted. ‘And prevent those from inside going outside. In this case the lady must come outside to be carried away and buried earthside, and I cannot carry her on my own.’

  ‘It’s not my job,’ the voice complained again.

  The bearer cursed quiet, then cleared his throat. ‘Plague Orders state that said watchmen are to do such further offices as the sick house shall need and require, and in this instance the sick house requires that you take one end of this board and help me carry the dead lady.’ I saw him step angry towards the open door and jab a finger. ‘And if you choose not to fulfil that duty then I shall go away and leave the lady here and hold that conversation with Alderman Fuller in the morning.’