Hearts of Darkness

by Paul Lawrence

  Withypoll kicked his horse forward. ‘Praying is a waste of time.’

  We reached the Moulsham turnpike two hours later. Like the Ilford turnpike it stood unmanned, gate unlatched. Someone had painted the gatepost bright red and tried to daub a large, red cross upon the road. It lay there undisturbed, untouched by horse’s hoof.

  I spoke my fears aloud. ‘Does it mean the entire village is infected?’

  ‘Someone paints a gatepost and you assume the worst,’ said Withypoll. ‘What dangers can there be to three men on horseback? We are not stopping.’ Yet he steered his horse from the highway and waited for me to go first.

  Half-timbered two-storey buildings lined either side of the high street, jetties protruding over the street, blocking the sun. Many doors bore the red cross, others were nailed closed. To keep the inhabitants within, or to deter thieves. I wondered which. An eerie silence engulfed us, broken only by the sound of hoof on dirt.

  A figure emerged from a shadow twenty yards ahead. It stopped stock-still when it saw us, then ran across the street and disappeared. Like a rat afraid of being trapped.

  Ahead loomed another turnpike, a well-fortified barricade built from planks and posts. Ten men barred passage, armed with swords, sticks and a musket. The gate was narrow, through which might barely pass a small cart. Beyond it a stone bridge, a precarious structure with broken walls arching over the River Can and into Chelmsford.

  ‘We come in the name of the King,’ called Withypoll, as we approached. ‘Let us through.’

  ‘We will not!’ cried a stout fellow, shorter even than me. ‘Why do you seek entry to our poor town? We are grievously afflicted. Go back from where you came.’

  Withypoll clenched his fists. ‘We are following a man who has travelled this way already. Since you granted him access, you will grant us access.’

  ‘What man?’

  ‘James Josselin.’ Withypoll spat the words out like orange pips.

  The man turned to his colleagues. They made appreciative noises and nodded their heads keenly. The stout fellow turned back to us. ‘James Josselin is from these parts, but you are strangers. What is your business with James Josselin?’

  Withypoll swept back his jacket to reveal his shining sword. ‘Read our credentials and allow us passage, else I shall knock over your poor barricade and chase you into the river.’

  The short man produced a musket and levelled it at Withypoll. ‘You are a rude fellow,’ he remarked, calmly. ‘Show me your credentials.’

  I prayed Withypoll would try and knock down the barricade, but instead he leant down, shoulder stiff, and handed over the King’s seal.

  The short fellow handed his gun to a colleague and took the letter in both hands afore rubbing a fingertip across the wax. ‘This may be the King’s seal,’ he acknowledged, ‘but it says nothing of travelling through Chelmsford, nor of James Josselin. It is not adequate authorisation.’

  ‘What authorisation did Josselin produce?’ demanded Withypoll.

  ‘He requires no authorisation,’ the short man replied. ‘He lives in Colchester, and is on his way back to see family. He is a great man.’

  Withypoll’s cheeks reddened. ‘His family lives in London. He is no more from Colchester than I.’

  ‘And who are you, sir?’ the man asked. ‘Where do you come from?’

  ‘I am a King’s agent from Whitehall Palace,’ Withypoll replied through clenched teeth. ‘Now open the gate afore I run my sword through your belly.’

  ‘I will summon the churchwarden,’ the short man replied, sourcing a greater courage than I had access to. He slid sideways out of our view, replaced by a taller man with red hair about his head and face. The new fellow stared silently, lips permanently pursed like he sucked a lemon as a baby and ne’er forgot the taste.

  Withypoll dismounted and approached the gate, ignoring the musket pointed at his chest. I held my breath as the sentry’s finger twitched.

  ‘Sirs,’ called a new voice, belonging to a wizened old man with bent back. ‘My name is Lewis Duttman, an overseer. I am told you seek sanction to pass through to Colchester.’

  ‘We’ll pass, whether you sanction it or not,’ Withypoll replied. ‘We are pursuing James Josselin in the name of the King.’

  Duttman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why do you pursue him?’

  ‘We carry a message,’ I called, tiring of Withypoll’s foul mood. ‘If it were not important, we would not have ventured this far. We must deliver the message, collect his reply, and return to London soonest.’

  Duttman nodded thoughtfully, eyeing the soiled cloth that still clung to Withypoll’s head. ‘I will take you to George Jefferies. He is chief warden and knows Josselin better than any man.’

  ‘Better than Thyme?’

  Duttman said nothing.

  ‘Your accountant, Thyme. Where may we find him?’

  ‘I pray you don’t seek to meddle in our affairs,’ Duttman answered. ‘I’ll thank you to dismount, gentlemen, and we will walk through town.’

  I did as I was told, puzzled, and waited for the red-haired man to open the padlock and unwind the chain. A narrow bridge led over the river. We trod carefully, for the wall fell into the water. The horses manoeuvred crumbling potholes, pulling at the reins and rolling their eyes.

  Duttman led us past two cavernous inns; the Red Lion on the left side and the Cock on the right. Both vast establishments, three storeys high, long half-timbered buildings with stables to the rear. Rows of chimneys spewed forth black smoke all through the winter, as travellers betwixt London and Colchester sought accommodation for the evening. Tonight, though, the huge buildings loomed dark and empty. The sun sank low, back west towards London, and a chill bit at the air.

  ‘Where shall we sleep?’ Withypoll asked Duttman.

  ‘You plan to stop here?’ Duttman asked startled. ‘Then I don’t know. Mr Jefferies ordered all the inns closed.’

  Withypoll grunted.

  At the toll house, buildings crowded in from all sides, two narrow alleys leading onwards. Duttman chose the west passage, called Back Street, down the middle of which flowed an open stream, thick and filthy. The heat of the day warmed the foul brew, yielding a stink that rivalled Fleet Ditch. We passed the Unicorn, the Rose, the Three Arrows, the Bull, the Talbot and the Angel, middling-size inns all as empty as the Red Lion and the Cock. The Bull and the Talbot bore red crosses.

  ‘No watchers?’ I asked Duttman.

  ‘This isn’t London,’ Duttman replied. ‘We know who is sick and who isn’t.’ He nodded his head towards a small stone dome ahead of us. ‘Any infected who try to leave their house, we lock them in the cage.’

  I heard a low howl escape that same dome, thin and rasping.

  ‘There is someone in there now?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye,’ Duttman replied, avoiding my eye. ‘He won’t stay in his house no matter how many times we find him outside. He says he is clean of infection, yet every night he runs naked down to the river and jumps in.’

  ‘He is in pain,’ I protested.

  ‘He is in anguish,’ said Duttman. ‘His wife and child died two weeks ago.’

  We turned the corner into the town square. Ahead of us crouched a peculiar structure, a house with no walls, constructed around eight oak pillars. The pillars supported a tiled roof, the inside bathed in a deep, red light, strange shadows, a familiar, sick, sweet smell. My eyes accustomed to the dusky light and I recognised corpses lain upon the floor, more than a dozen of them.

  Dowling regarded Duttman severely. ‘That smell would drive any man to anguish. Were his wife and child laid here after they died?’

  ‘We lay everyone here after they die, until nightfall,’ Duttman replied.

  The man in the cage groaned again, a mournful dirge, deep and sorrowful. ‘His house is nearby,’ I guessed.

  ‘Just there.’ Duttman pointed to a row of shops to the left of the south gate. ‘How did you know?’

  I recalled the smell of my house when Jane la
y there sick, her aunt’s dead body in the other bedroom. ‘It is why he runs to the river. He smells their death, breathes it into his lungs. He runs to the river to cleanse himself.’

  ‘You talk like a woman, Lytle,’ said Withypoll, wrinkling his nose. He turned to Duttman. ‘Where is Jefferies?’

  Duttman pointed again, at a large house just past the cage. ‘Just here. Likely he is at home.’

  I caught a glimpse of the churchyard, through the south gate, of men digging a great hole. ‘How many have died?’ I asked.

  ‘Sixty-two,’ Duttman replied. ‘More than thirty this last month alone. There must always be holes.’

  Tears pricked my eyes. Jane and I left London before the plague fully penetrated the City wall. I didn’t see the worst of it.

  Duttman entered Jefferies’ house without knocking and led us across the threshold into another stifling hot room. A round table filled the space, five chairs tucked neatly beneath it. A tall, lithe fellow sat in the corner, nestled snug within the depths of a deep, cushioned chair, feet up before a fire, over which burnt a chaffing dish of tar, frankincense and resin. The flames lit his face up orange, illuminating an expression I found difficult to read. His eyes were icy blue, and something happened to his lips. It was as if he smiled, but not quite. He wore his shirt open about his chest and lay with his shoes on, varnished boots of the finest leather in which the flames danced clearly. He didn’t move from his seat, unperturbed by Withypoll’s stern gaze of admonishment.

  ‘I hear you are King’s men,’ said Jefferies. He gestured to the round table. ‘Sit down.’

  Dowling ran his hand over the new polished wood. ‘An unusual table.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Jefferies, joining us. ‘I had it built especially. When the plague first struck, all the wardens argued, bickering as to who should have the grandest title, the most money to spend. I am the chief constable, the others are all constables, and we sit in a circle.’

  ‘You meet here, in your house?’ said Dowling.

  Jefferies lips changed form, though I couldn’t tell what emotion played out on his face. ‘I paid for the table.’

  Withypoll sneered.

  Jefferies watched Withypoll, without fear or concern. ‘Chelmsford is such a town, gentlemen. Before the plague, all curried favour with Lord Mildmay. After he fled they sought to establish a new hierarchy. Meantime men are dying.’

  ‘Duttman told us you know James Josselin,’ I said, keen to find out all I could. ‘You and a fellow called Thyme.’

  Did Jefferies smile? ‘If you are looking for Thyme, then you have found him already.’

  ‘You?’ I asked, confused.

  He shook his head. ‘The man whose voice you hear singing sweet songs from within the cage.’

  I listened intent. ‘Can I talk to him?’

  Jefferies’ lips changed again. ‘You may talk to him, but he won’t talk to you. He hasn’t spoken a sensible word since his wife died.’

  I cursed inwardly. ‘Then what can you tell us of Josselin?’

  He leant back and folded his arms. ‘I know him quite well, and have always found him to be a sensible fellow. A bit quiet, perhaps. But he was strange last time he was here.’

  ‘When was he here?’ I asked.

  ‘Ten days or so,’ Jefferies replied. ‘Ask Duttman. He has a better memory than I.’

  ‘Why do you say he was strange?’

  Jefferies steepled his fingers in front of his chin. ‘Any man is strange that journeys to Colchester from London these days, but he was distracted. He knows Thyme well. They are friends. Yet when he learnt what had happened, he barely acknowledged it. Just raised a brow and shook his head. I’m not sure he understood.’

  ‘Did he tell you why he travelled east?’

  ‘In the name of his brother, who is dead,’ he said.

  ‘He has a brother?’ Withypoll asked, eyes bright.

  Jefferies shook his head. ‘He has no brother.’

  ‘That’s all you can tell us?’ I asked.

  ‘All I can think of,’ Jefferies replied. ‘Now it gets dark, and you plan to sleep here the night.’

  ‘Somewhere clean and untouched,’ said Withypoll. ‘As far away from this stink as we are able.’

  Jefferies nodded. ‘I will take you to the Feathers. It’s furthest out of the town, close to Treen Bridge.’

  Out on the street the last light faded. Candles speckled the sides of the road ahead of us, marking those houses where still folks lived. Three or four braziers burnt saltpetre and oil. It had been a long, hot day and my head throbbed like I was kicked by a cow.

  Withypoll seized my elbow as Jefferies marched ahead. ‘Josselin is a cowardly fellow, Lytle. He flees to Colchester for one reason, and one reason only.’

  ‘What reason?’ I asked, detesting how close he stood to me.

  ‘Because he has nowhere else to go. And because it’s plague country he assumes no one will follow. It is as clear as that. With no thought as to those he left behind.’ He released my elbow and lay a hand on my sleeve. ‘Remember that, Lytle,’ he leered. ‘For you have left your servant behind, have you not? Of whom you are very fond.’

  He winked before striding after Jefferies, leaving me speechless and terrified all over again. Dowling laid a heavy arm across my shoulder and we trudged miserably through this black wasteland, my soul wriggling in frenzied anxiety of what lay in store for us in Shyam and what might lie in store for Jane back in London.

  The evening air rang out with the sound of cruel laughter as Withypoll and Jefferies made friends; one devil with another. What chance of discovering an avenging angel out here in plague country?

  I pulled my pipe out from my pocket and smoked more of Culpepper’s leaves. Six days until I had to be back in London.

  Chapter Ten

  It’s true, his Majesties Royal City of London hath in 1665 been sore afflicted with the Plague and Pestilence, and it may also much spread into several other parts of his Dominions.

  Early next afternoon we reached the top of a rise and looked down upon Colchester, tucked into a long, winding bend of the River Colne. The castle perched atop a great mound of earth overshadowing all. It reminded me of London; tall stone walls dividing the town’s densely housed heart from sprawling surrounds. More houses huddled together in a great spiral, from city wall down to Hythe harbour.

  We lingered a while, seeking to orient ourselves with the misery below, but we were too far away to discern anything but peaceful urbanity, serene upon a lush, green plain beneath blue skies. Birds sang unnaturally loud from deep within the darkness of the green forest surrounding. It was said the swallows left London months afore the plague, sensing its arrival. Yet the birds that remained thrived oblivious. Why did the plague not affect them? Why did the birds not fall from the sky and land upon our heads?

  Tension welled within me, urging me to turn my horse away from the horror I knew lurked beneath us. Dowling, though, seemed reconciled. He rode as a pilgrim, straight-backed, faithful, and free of doubt, or so he would have us believe. Withypoll sniffled and coughed, red-eyed and shivery. Perhaps an angel travelled with us, after all. He coughed through the night, and I determined to stay as far away from him as possible. He reckoned he couldn’t contract the plague twice, but I knew of men who had.

  ‘For who do you wait?’ growled Withypoll, wiping his sleeve across his nose. His brow glistened and sweat soaked the front of his shirt. A new, green stain soiled the new, white cloth upon his head.

  ‘Look by the abbey,’ said Dowling, voice low.

  The abbey stood closest to us, next to St Giles’ church, both structures nestling within the same low-walled compound. The church lay in ruins. All that remained of the abbey was its great gatehouse, both buildings victims of Fairfax’s siege. My eye swept across scattered rubble and broken walls, missing initially the square black hole, stark against the long grass. Next to it movement, what looked like two carts.

  ‘A pit,’ I realised.


  ‘A pit,’ Withypoll repeated with disdain. ‘The town is riddled with plague; of course it has a pit. Now we must go.’

  ‘Why go through it?’ I asked. ‘Why not go round?’

  ‘The road to Shyam goes through the town,’ Withypoll replied. ‘There is no other way. Now gird your limp loins.’

  Four drunk soldiers manned the turnpike on Malden Road, dressed in ragged red tunics and armed with guns. They slumped in a line, backs to the gate, legs spread-eagled. Two slept, snoring loudly, mouths wide open.

  ‘Hoy!’ one cried, without standing. ‘Welcome to Colchester. Ad multos et faustissimos annos.’ He raised a bottle and poured a long measure down his throat. ‘Why would ye enter this cursed place?’

  Withypoll leant down, sweat dripping from his chin. ‘We are King’s men. Open the gate.’

  ‘The gate is already open,’ the drunk soldier replied. ‘I don’t contest your right to pass, only your good reason.’ He squinted at Withypoll’s swollen, red nose. ‘Are you devils?’

  ‘Who commands you?’ Withypoll demanded, jumping to the ground.

  ‘Captain Scotschurch,’ the man slurred.

  Withypoll kicked him in the thigh. ‘Scotschurch?’

  ‘Aye.’ The drunk soldier frowned and waved an arm towards his gun.

  Withypoll seized the weapon and threw it onto the road. ‘Where will we find this Captain Scotschurch?’

  ‘On the ship.’ The drunkard blinked slowly and belched. ‘At Hythe. Go ye there and talk to him if you will.’ He waved a hand and stared away into space, much offended it seemed.

  Withypoll climbed back into his saddle and spurred his horse on through the gateway, allowing the beast to tread perilously close to the drunken soldier’s hand. The abbey and its grounds stood away to our right, the pit hidden behind a short wall, overgrown with ivy. I nudged my own steed towards the left side of the street.

  The road led us up to the town wall, to a row of houses built just a few steps aside from it. Head Gate was barred afront of us, thick oaken door firmly closed. Two soldiers slouched against the wall, one each side of it, both armed. A townsman watched us approach with a grim face and said something to one of the soldiers. They looked up, the townsman’s face lined with thick, angry furrows, the soldiers’ indifferent.