A Plague of Sinners

by Paul Lawrence

He screamed so loud I feared his fury, but I aimed well. He fell against the wall, mouth open wide and hands splayed. I turned away, horrified at what I did. I clenched my fists, then put my hands to my face, unable to rid myself the feeling of the metal stick crunching into his skull. I stumbled out of the little room into the passage.

  The noise of men shouting sounded from deep within the palace. I hurried down the dark corridor into the brighter space at the top of the stairs. The voices were louder now, interspersed with the sound of metal upon metal. Dowling and the butchers resisted. I bounded down the staircase, two steps at a time, and followed the noise, back through dust-filled passage, past panelled walls and ancient portraits, into the banqueting hall.

  Dowling stood toe to toe with one of the mercenaries. They danced ponderously, shoulders heaving, gasping for air, shirts wet. The Frenchman lifted his heavy sword and swung it sideways in the direction of Dowling’s ribs. Dowling lifted his sword vertically and parried. The second Frenchman lay sprawled across the long table, unmoving.

  Luke and Isaac stood either side of Dowling, Luke with a cleaver and Isaak a boning knife. They shuffled from foot to foot, looking to Dowling for guidance. The Frenchman’s sword was long, offering no opportunity for them to engage.

  Dowling glanced at me. The Frenchman followed his eye and shifted sideways, back to the wall where he could see us all. He shouted something in French, and beckoned with his hand as if bidding us attack him all at once.

  Dowling crouched, white-faced. Spittle bubbled upon his blue lips and he stared at the Frenchman like he hated him. What stirred the butcher to such frenzy, I wondered, for he preached love for all men, including the Dutch and the French. A raging fury indeed, to enable him to combat a man half his age. He crept forwards, sword arm outstretched, left arm held out for balance. The mercenary scuttled to his right and brought his sword hard down at Dowling’s head. Dowling leant away, too slow, for the blade sliced into his left arm. He shrieked in pain, but maintained his footing. He was exhausted, and the younger man saw it.

  I hurried to the table where the dead man lay. An ugly gash cut deep into the side of his throat. His eyes gazed sightlessly at a musket on the floor. I picked it up and strode towards the battle, muzzle raised. I had little idea how to fire it, but I aimed it at the mercenary’s head anyway. He muttered and shambled to one side, but I followed him with the musket barrel. I lifted it high and pretended to take aim. He kicked aside a chair, shouted at me, then turned and ran, back into the house.

  Dowling dropped the sword to the ground and clutched his left arm. Luke rushed to his side and pulled the shirt from the wound. The cut was eight inches long but not deep. Dowling grunted, pushed him away, and turned his back on us. He shuffled away towards the far corner, where lay two chairs, smashed into pieces. I followed his gaze and saw Gyles.

  Dowling dropped to one knee, rolled Gyles over, then released a deep sigh of misery and despair. A huge splash of bubbling scarlet covered Gyles’ guts and his eyes stared dull out of his shaven head. I placed a hand on Dowling’s shoulder but he knocked it away. His eyes filled with tears and he clutched the dead man’s head with both hands, one on either cheek. Luke and Isaac fell to their knees, grief writ thick upon their young faces.

  I tiptoed away and fetched the sword that Dowling dropped. Much as I resented the notion, someone had to attend to Lady Wharton’s interests. Quite what Harry Lytle would accomplish against two monstrous troglodytes, I could not imagine. I only prayed Dowling’s God would watch over me. I trod silent through the corridor, wary of ambush, until I reached the hall and Conroy’s still corpse.

  Outside was quiet. I stood still beneath the yellow sun and listened. All I heard was the melody of birds singing from the tops of the trees. I turned towards the arch leading to the gardens and made my way cautiously about the side of the red-bricked palace, feet crunching on the stones. I scanned the gardens from beneath the archway, a wide view of overgrown bushes and tangled weed. All was still save the trees swaying in the breeze. My attention was drawn to the ornamental pond beyond the lawn. In the middle of the green pool protruded something white and flaccid, streaked with black.

  I made my way cautiously to the bank, anticipating an attack from any direction. From the edge of the pond I recognised a man’s arse, poking out the middle of the water like a strange island. I waded out into the green filth, up to my knees, and leant down in search of the man’s legs. The pond floor was slippery and dragging him out was almost beyond my strength. I slipped and slid, and with much effort, succeeded.

  I pulled him out onto the grass and rolled him over. The corpse was white all over, flecked with black mould and sheeted with vegetation. His forehead flapped open where someone had sliced across the top of his head. Bone gleamed white beneath, and a thick flap of skin fell over his eyes. The first of the mercenaries.

  Only Wharton could have killed him. I proceeded down the path, low bushes to either side, higher bushes beyond. A statue peeked out from atop a white column, a half-naked woman holding a harp in one hand and pointing yonder with the other. I followed the line of her finger.

  Ahead, the path opened into a wide circle, the ground worn and level. A vast oak tree stood at the back of the clearing, branches reaching out to cover the earth below in a cavern of gloom. Roots, thick as a man’s leg, rippled through the earth, and between those roots lay slumped the body of Lord Arlington, curled up in a little ball, his back to me, motionless.

  ‘Are you on your own?’ a familiar voice sung in my right ear.

  I twisted fast, almost losing my balance. ‘Aye,’ I replied, without thinking if it was the right response.

  Wharton stood at my shoulder, the tip of a blade visible behind his foot. He smiled ruefully. ‘You are clever, Lytle, clever and persistent.’ He sighed gently and gazed up through the dense canopy to the tiny glimpses of blue sky. ‘I should have been more careful.’ Then his eyes fixed upon mine. My heart felt cold and wet inside my ribs. ‘How did you know I was still alive?’

  I cleared my throat and tried to think how to answer the question wisely, but my thoughts were ragged. ‘A few things, mostly the haste with which your wife collected your body.’

  ‘Aye,’ he nodded, thoughtful. ‘Arlington should not have told you so soon.’ He strolled across the glade and kicked Arlington in the back, who groaned. ‘An arrogant man.’

  ‘Now what will you do?’ I asked, terrified.

  He shrugged. ‘Leave. As I agreed with Arlington afore he betrayed me.’ He leant forward, deep brown eyes speckled with tiny green flecks. ‘Now what will you do, Harry Lytle? Will you try and stop me?’

  My bowels loosened, my bladder besides, and I strained to stop myself soiling my breeches. The thought of pursuing this vile creature was unfathomable. To meet his gaze was to stare into the eyes of Satan, an immortal evil that might kill you in unimaginable pain with but a movement of its finger. I dropped the sword at his feet. ‘No,’ I answered truthfully.

  ‘I see,’ he replied, odourless breath warm against my face, nose almost touching mine. ‘I should kill you,’ he mused.

  He reached down and ran a finger through Lord Arlington’s white hair. ‘Will you mourn for him after I run my sword through his throat?’

  I held my breath.

  He kicked Arlington again, lazily. ‘I spoke truth when I told you I regret what I became. Death is easy, holds no further fascination. I yearn for a world where I might seek to become something different.’

  I wondered if he believed his own words, this foul beast who killed without remorse or feeling.

  ‘If I kill you, then I must kill the butchers too,’ he sighed. ‘But to what end? Even the good King Poodle will be able to deduce the truth of it once he finds the treacherous Arlington here. It has all gone too far, and now I must leave.’

  I breathed a little easier. Would that he didn’t change his mind.

  He drew his sword. As he stood over Arlington, back to me, so my fear eased. I saw his d
ead brother, face burnt, jaws ripped from their sockets. I saw Death, the look of agony upon his red-soaked face. Morrison, staring at the world in disbelief as rats chewed upon his guts. The pool of blood washing about Perkins’ naked feet. The dead women at the King’s Wardrobe – who were they? Where were their families?

  I saw Wharton’s back clear, every thread of the jacket that hung upon his narrow shoulders, each hair upon his head. Without thinking, I drew the cleaver from within my jacket and swung it into the back of his skull. He toppled forwards, slowly, and fell over Arlington.

  A bird started to sing somewhere deep within the branches above my head. A light breeze swept across the ground blowing about my ankles. I knelt, part of my being terrified he would blink, stand, and remove the blade from his head. Blood trickled down the back of his neck and into the dusty ground, a steady stream, allaying my fears. Yet as I stood, I felt a grief so intense it pulled me back down onto my knees and forced the breath from my body in great choking gasps. I rid the world of a savage lunatic, yet felt unutterably bereft. Even in death he violated me, took something from me I yielded innocently and without regard. Now I was a killer again, like him. I contemplated the butcher’s knife sat embedded in his head and drew a deep breath. No. Not like him.

  I rolled the body away and off Arlington, whose eyes were closed. Blood seeped from a thin wound upon his forehead, yet his chest moved up and down.

  It occurred to me I knew too many of Arlington’s secrets, that his life might necessitate my death. I held his head in my right hand and contemplated his cold pale skin. I thought to peel the black plaster off his nose, wondered if it might ease his laboured breathing. Perhaps if we were to leave him here he might die without our assistance. Just the thought of it froze my heart. Right or wrong? What meaning did that hold for me now?

  ‘What have you done?’ a voice shrieked from behind.

  I turned to see Lady Wharton, gazing appalled at the back of her husband’s head. The alabaster on her face slipped down in flat layers. The foundation upon which it was plastered melted into a liquid paste and dribbled down her neck in thin streams. Her eyes darted wild. She saw the discarded sword and leapt to pick it up before I could stop her. She raised it afore her with two hands and hissed at me like a deranged cat.

  I stepped backwards and she followed, kicking away her shoes. ‘If you run, King’s man, then I will cut off Arlington’s head,’ she growled. ‘You will stay here and fight me.’

  I circled about the clearing, away from her husband’s body. The only other weapons here were the swords in their belts and the cleaver in Wharton’s head. I continued to circle her, praying she would move away from the bodies, but she was too aware. She crept towards me, keeping her body between me and her husband. Then she sprang, catching me off guard.

  I stepped back and tripped over one of the gnarled roots, banging the back of my head against the hard earth. She grinned like a demon and lifted the sword high above her head. I held up my hands in front of my face and closed my eyes. Then a musket shot rang out and she toppled towards me, sword aimed at my chest. I rolled aside just in time. She landed next to me, bullet in her head.

  ‘Get up, Harry,’ Dowling called, holding out his hand.

  I allowed him to lift me.

  ‘A strong spirit,’ Dowling mused, contemplating her dead body.

  Strong, perhaps, but not compassionate.

  Arlington stirred, then raised himself on one elbow. Purple welts streaked his forehead, raised and bleeding. The black plaster hung from his nose, sticking to his top lip. His shirt gaped open revealing a hard white belly. He rubbed his eyes and blinked as if he couldn’t focus. Dowling regarded him with cool disdain and headed back to the palace.

  ‘I am sorry for Gyles,’ I said quietly, walking alongside.

  He did not reply.

  Black windows peppered the wall of the palace, testament to the emptiness within, bleak and lifeless. I stopped, troubled by a thought unformed, niggling at the fringes of my awareness.

  ‘The child,’ I realised. ‘Dowling. The child, where is it?’ I struggled to recall Wharton’s words. ‘He said it would die, but not at his hands. She said it was resting. It must be in the house somewhere.’

  ‘He must be in the house somewhere.’ Dowling’s voice trembled, indignant.

  We strode towards the broken glass doors and into the house. If the boy had been hiding with Wharton then he hid where we had been unable to find him before.

  ‘We don’t even know his name,’ I said. ‘We cannot call for him.’

  ‘Then we must search the house again,’ Dowling roared. ‘Luke, Isaac, where are you?’

  The brothers came running from direction of the banqueting hall, open-faced and expectant.

  ‘We will stay the night,’ Dowling bellowed. ‘Indeed we will stay the week if we must. There is a child in this house somewhere and we cannot leave until he is found.’

  ‘I will fetch the axe,’ I said, sombre.

  ‘We will fetch it together,’ Dowling replied. ‘Luke, Isaac, search downstairs. Harry and I will search upstairs.’

  I listened outside Wharton’s door a moment before unlocking it. I held my breath and pushed it open. The mercenary lay where last I saw him, the stick still stuck in his head.

  Dowling paused a moment before picking up the axe. ‘God help us, Harry.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘How did you reach so high?’

  ‘Very funny,’ I replied. ‘Let’s be starting.’

  We followed the same trail we did before, knocking on panels, calling out for the boy, though not by name. As we ploughed our fruitless trail I realised we had ne’er heard him speak even, had no idea of his sensibility. Would he come to our calls or shrink from them? All I recalled from afore was indifference.

  The light soon faded and so we lit candles and carried on regardless, but the task seemed hopeless. We took the axe to one panelled wall and chopped through it with ease, but all we found was crumbled plaster. We decided to sleep through what night remained and start again at dawn.

  I slept upon a soft couch in one of the long rooms downstairs. I dragged it next to the tall window and lay staring at the blue-black sky, the thick blanket of twinkling stars, fiery and magnificent. Such sights inspired man to create a god, I reckoned. Yet the one he created seemed small and mean in such a context. I sighed and rolled upon my side.

  I supposed we had performed a worthy service. Put an end to further misery, death and corruption. Yet I felt no joy, no achievement in it. Just dark despair.

  I tried putting names to all that died, an onerous task, for the list was long. Of those I knew, none I liked. Some would mourn for Perkins, I guessed, though more for fear of God than love for the man, I reckoned. Gyles was a good man, but I barely knew him. Worthy men died of plague every day. And the child. Would God stand by and let him perish alone?

  And me, Harry Lytle, investigator to the King, reporting to a lord no less. A king I never spoke to once, and a lord that condemned me to die. I did my best to prove my worth, demonstrate what a fine clever fellow I was, secure for myself a position of status. Yet in whose eyes? The eyes of a lord who would slice my throat and a king with better things to do.

  I sighed and wallowed in misery and self-pity, unable to sleep. I wondered where Arlington went, though with little concern. He revealed himself to be a cowardly fellow. He wouldn’t dare venture in the house. No doubt he slept in a ditch somewhere, and would commandeer transport to London next day.

  Another hour and I could lie no more. I wandered out into the hallway and fetched a candle. I decided to walk the house once more and listen for shuffling, any noise of crying. I left my shoes by the couch and walked quietly.

  A large house is never silent, and wood creaked in all places as it cooled, a haunting sound. Something scratched at the wall ahead of me, low and rapid, a mouse or rat. I proceeded to the banqueting hall, where the last remains of a dying moon shed weak illumination, then out to the broken windows once
more, to listen to the night.

  Back in the hallway I hesitated to climb the stairs, still mindful of the dead Frenchman in Wharton’s office. What if the boy hid in some hole in that room, the room Lady Wharton had been keen to avoid? I climbed the steps, boards creaking beneath my feet.

  Then I heard it, a slow patter of footsteps coming towards me. I ran down the stairs and round into a black shadow, praying the groaning stairs wouldn’t scare whoever it was. I pinched out the flame of my candle. The footsteps were light and quick, not those of an adult. I held my breath and waited. Then saw something flit across the polished tiles, diagonal, and disappear. I pursued him fast, desperate not to lose him.

  ‘Harry,’ a voice called hoarse. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Shhh!’ I hissed. ‘Follow and be quiet, Dowling.’

  A candle lit the passage ahead, from a turning to the right. The kitchen.

  There we found him, sat upon a stool, chewing on an old chicken leg.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  IF GOOD TO REMOVE FROM ONE HOUSE OR PLACE TO ANOTHER?

  If I found an infortune in the ascendant, peregrine or retrograde, or if a peregrine or unfortunate planet was in the fourth, or if the Lord of the second was weak or ill placed, I advised the querent to remove his habitation.

  By the time we reached the City I made up my mind, the silence of our mournful passage providing ample time for reflection. Seven bodies in the back of our wagon, two killed by me and two by Dowling, a sickly affair.

  I left Dowling at the Guildhall after seeking from him a favour that caused his sad face to erupt forth into a state of appalled horror.

  ‘If you do not grant me it, Davy, then likely I will attempt it anyway,’ I said.

  He didn’t reply, just readied himself to remonstrate, for which I had neither time nor appetite.

  I held up a hand. ‘I will come and find you.’

  With that I headed east back towards Seething Lane.

  Oliver Willis was out. Liz sat in their library, a thin volume rested upon her lap. Anima Astrologiae. I saw Wharton’s private room again in my mind. The view out onto the forest. The mercenary lain against the wall with the astrologer’s stick protruding from his eye.