‘First we must fetch our horses,’ Dowling reminded us all. ‘You walk, Benjamin. We will meet you at Botolph’s.’
Back at the harbour our horses stepped nervous from foot to foot, surrounded by a gaggle of bleary admirers. Withypoll cut them short thrift. I looked back at the ship anchored out in the river, lonely and forlorn. Scotschurch didn’t drink to ward off the plague, else he would assume his responsibilities on shore. He drank to ward off the fear, and allowed his men to do the same so they would not revolt. Pestilence had many ways to beat a man. The drunken wretches that pawed and slobbered at our legs were no less defeated, their muskets a stark reminder of their sad demise.
My horse fidgeted, skittish and tense, and I had to pull hard on his reins to stop him dashing south along the river bank. We pushed through the swaying masses, out into clean space away from the harbour. The bells of St Leonard’s pealed as we passed the church, as if signalling us to retreat. Another cart trundled westward, tarpaulin covering a heavy load.
Benjamin stood waiting at Botolph’s Gate afront of two sombre-looking fellows with hands on hips. ‘They want to see the captain’s orders,’ he said.
‘Captain’s orders and King’s orders.’ Withypoll swung himself to the ground. ‘Open the gate or I’ll open your guts.’ He pushed one of them back against the thick stone wall. ‘In the name of Charles the Second.’
‘Mayor Flanner said none may enter,’ the older man said, dancing on his toes with one arm held up against Withypoll’s blade.
‘Make your choice,’ Withypoll leered, his nose still red. ‘My blade or Flanner’s.’
For a moment it seemed like the sentry might take him on, encouraged by Withypoll’s wan complexion and stooped gait, but then Benjamin placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. The old man caught the warning in his eyes and dipped into his pocket to retrieve a heavy key, with which he opened the grand doors.
We hurried over the threshold as Death turned its head slowly towards the light, momentarily distracted from the scenes of torment. The two guards hurried after, eager to close the door behind us. What sort of townspeople were these who left their brethren to fall upon the ground?
We emerged on foot opposite a low, green field, overgrown and deserted. The site of Botolph’s Fair, if my bearings proved right, now covered with empty tenter frames. Colchester was famous for its wool, but no one would be buying Colchester bays again for a while. Yet these two fellows looked fat enough.
I couldn’t resist asking. ‘How do you survive behind the walls?’
‘Taxes,’ one replied. ‘There is a tax levied on every village within five miles.’
Benjamin scanned the surroundings, lips drawn tight, face white. Then we followed our guides to a small crossroads; ancient, square-towered churches on three corners, like some sort of celestial vestibule.
‘Mayor Flanner will not be happy,’ the younger man whispered to Benjamin, watching Withypoll stagger down the empty marketplace. Assuredly he would not. Withypoll walked like an obstinate corpse.
Low, flat, marble steps led into the bowels of the crooked Moot Hall. An enormous, wooden coat of arms hung from the uneven roof above grand, oak doors. A row of chimney stacks stood leaning at strange angles.
One guide pointed afore the two hurried away back the way they’d come. ‘You’ll find Mayor Flanner in there.’
The entrance led to a wood-panelled hall. From our left came a faint, scratching noise, sound of quill on paper. It stopped suddenly. Footsteps sounded sharp upon floorboards.
A middle-sized man of ordinary build stared at us with cold blue eyes. ‘Benjamin!’
Benjamin bowed his head afore Flanner’s trenchant stare. ‘You don’t have the authority to keep them out, Flanner.’
Flanner smiled, crookedly. ‘You have come to find James Josselin, but you will fail.’
‘It is the King’s mission.’ Withypoll smiled back unpleasantly. ‘To prevent us would be treason.’
‘Treason.’ Flanner repeated, standing well back from Withypoll. ‘Then I will show you about the town before you leave.’ He stepped past us and back out onto the street.
‘The Dutch Quarter first,’ Withypoll called.
Flanner turned to confront him. ‘Why?’
Withypoll stepped towards Flanner and laid a hand upon his shoulder. ‘All you good country folk adopt a simple outlook on life,’ he said, as Flanner shrank from his touch. ‘Josselin is a full-grown man, yet you poor bumpkins cannot see beyond the boy. Why would I waste my time explaining to you that Josselin stabbed a lord through the chest? That Josselin is a traitor who spoils our parley with the Dutch? Yet I have pledged an oath to the King in the service of my country, so must pursue the truth anyway, whatever inconvenience it may present to the Mayor of Little Bumpkintown.’
Flanner’s sharp blue eyes settled upon Benjamin. ‘There were always those among us who envied James his situation,’ he said. ‘For some a bright star is something to be coveted. If the boy is courageous then so will be the man; that is evident.’ He pulled away from Withypoll’s grasp. ‘You gentlemen, I assume, have never met James Josselin.’
Withypoll waved an airy arm. ‘Nor do we need to. We found Berkshire’s body with Josselin’s sword protruding from his chest. Others saw him running with blood upon his hands. Seems he didn’t stop until he reached here.’
Flanner shook his head and pointed. ‘The Dutch Quarter.’
The houses seemed the same as any other, same half-timbered structures with impenetrable, dark windows.
‘I don’t know what you expect to see.’ Flanner stopped. ‘Most of these people were born here, as were their fathers before them. The first arrived more than a century ago, chased from Flanders by the Spanish.’
Withypoll grunted and stalked up East Stockwell Street beneath the great shadow of the castle. ‘What do they do now they cannot make cloth?’ he asked.
‘The town is half empty,’ Flanner replied. ‘Many left before the Pest established itself. Those that remain keep this town going. The neighbouring villages provide us with monies by which we ensure everyone is fed, but still we must arrange to buy provisions. The town must be kept clean, the sick cared for, law maintained.’ He looked to the castle. ‘We have had to lock up six families so far, who tried to visit their relatives outside the walls. Such selfish behaviour puts us all at risk.’
Withypoll turned, blocking Flanner’s path. ‘What of the Dutchmen who arrived last week?’
Flanner halted in his tracks, face frozen. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Withypoll tilted his head. ‘And your mother was my father.’ He drew his sword. ‘You speak to me as if I am your enemy, when I come from the King. Lie and I will cut you from belly to chin.’
‘There are no Dutchmen here,’ Flanner insisted, yet his blue eyes darted from me to Dowling, seeking salvation. ‘Kill me if you will, it will not change the fact.’
Withypoll lifted the shining steel into the sunlight. ‘Benjamin saw them.’
‘I did not say Dutchmen,’ Benjamin protested. ‘I said they dressed strange.’
Flanner breathed deep and slow. ‘Those were churchwardens from the villages. They came with the taxes they raised.’ He glared at Benjamin. ‘Brave men to venture into Colchester, wouldn’t you say?’
‘They didn’t look like churchwardens,’ Benjamin said, blushing.
Flanner said nothing, just waited for Withypoll to lower his sword, staring with a burning hatred. Yet if they were churchwardens, why did he become so strange? Flanner lied to us about something.
‘We must go to Shyam,’ I said, watching his response.
‘No man may go to Shyam,’ he replied, still unbalanced. ‘They will admit no man. It is forbidden.’
‘Yet we will go,’ I replied. ‘We cannot leave Essex without finding Josselin. We must ask him some questions. If he is at Shyam, then we must go to Shyam.’
‘If you go to Shyam, you will die,’ Flanner replied, voice choked. ‘You
don’t know what has become of that village.’
‘Yet you allowed Josselin to go?’ I said. ‘The beloved son of this fair town.’
‘Josselin is a great man,’ Flanner replied carefully, ‘and his situation is grave, very grave.’
‘Indeed it is,’ Withypoll agreed. ‘Yours besides, for if Lytle and Dowling here go to Shyam and die, and it turns out that Josselin was hiding here all the while, then both he and you, and anyone else found to be harbouring him, will be found guilty of murder and treason.’
‘Josselin is not in Colchester,’ Flanner muttered.
The sound of donkeys braying broke the silence. Flanner cursed and ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture that did not escape Withypoll’s attentions. The noise came from the east, round the base of the great mound upon which the castle stood majestic. We strode quickly through the streets, the sound of braying deafening to our ears, until we came to the ruins of the East Gate.
Six donkeys stood in a circle, each burdened with heavy load, heads raised to the skies crying harshly to the heavens, white teeth shining in the sun. About them gathered four men in dark trousers and loose, light shirts, all wearing tan shoes. They checked each donkey’s pack and pulled at various straps and fastenings.
‘The East Gate is the way to Shyam,’ said Benjamin, staring at Flanner.
‘They are on a mission of mercy,’ Flanner explained, perspiration forming upon his brow in heavy drops. ‘They are God’s men, all of them brave.’
‘Brave or foolish?’ I asked him. ‘Did you not say they will die?’
‘God will watch over them,’ Flanner replied, though his body spoke with less confidence than his mouth. ‘They have heard the terrible tales that come from Shyam, stories of hopelessness and evil. They have pledged to purge the village of sin in the name of the Lord.’
None of which made sense. If Josselin fled London and found sanctuary between the clean walls of Colchester, then why should he make the perilous trip to Shyam? Josselin hid in Colchester, I was sure of it.
The four men finished making their last adjustments and the donkeys ceased their protests. Each man appeared grimly resolute, yet terrified besides. A dangerous addiction, the Bible. Every man sought the best of himself amongst its pages and determined to live up to that lofty ambition. Yet we were none of us so strong, nor so bold. Now these fellows realised they were just poor mortals like the rest of us, yet had created for themselves a braver man’s destiny. The donkeys seemed keenest, tempted by the long, open track and the sight of fresh, green grass. At last the men could linger no more, and the small band picked its way through the rubble of the gate and set off for Shyam.
‘If they can go, then Lytle and Dowling can go,’ Withypoll told Flanner, smiling at me.
He surely saw the fear in my eyes. What if Josselin was in Shyam after all? Like Withypoll, perhaps he imagined some false immunity. Perhaps for him Shyam was a real sanctuary, a place no man might reach him, a place he might command the poor afflicted inhabitants.
‘What else would you see?’ Flanner asked.
‘Your best inn,’ Withypoll demanded. ‘If we must stay the night in this cursed place, then we will stay within the walls.’
‘I will take you to the Red Lion.’ Flanner beckoned. ‘I assume you will return from whence you came,’ he said, spitting the words at Benjamin.
Benjamin reddened, turned on his heel, and strode back towards Botolph’s Gate without a word.
If Josselin was in Colchester, we had little time to find him, for nothing would deprive Withypoll of the pleasure of seeing us step out the gate upon that sinister road to Shyam.
Curious faces stared out from the windows as we passed, and as I met the stares of men, women and children, I realised that Benjamin had been the only one of us that knew for sure what Josselin looked like.
Chapter Twelve
The position of Mars in the 7th and in Virgo signifieth effusion of bloods.
As the bells rang out for evening prayer, Dowling and I prepared to venture forth. At these times, with plague knocking upon the town gates, every man would go to church. If we wanted clear view of the remaining townsfolk, now presented the best opportunity.
Withypoll slouched in a large chair, in front of the empty fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, though the air was warm. His hair lay in wet tangles, plastered to his head, the ugly wound now open to the air. A small table stood at his elbow, upon it a jug of ale. ‘Tomorrow Shyam,’ he said, raising a mug, his words echoing about the large, empty room, worn timber walls, bare floor.
I thought to argue with him, but his eyes gleamed, feverish. With any luck he might be dead tomorrow. The landlady watched, curious, from the doorway. Her head darted like a great chicken with a faint, black moustache.
She waited for us to walk past her afore she spoke. ‘Why do you plan to go to Shyam?’ she demanded, tugging at my sleeve.
‘To find James Josselin,’ I replied.
‘Josselin is not at Shyam,’ she snorted. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Where is he, then?’ I asked, ears pricked.
‘I don’t know where he is, but he would ne’er venture into Shyam.’ She spat on the floor and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘First, it is worse plagued than even outside our own walls. Second, he would ne’er go to Shyam, for that is where Thomas Elks lives.’
The bells continued ringing. Churches would be starting to fill.
‘Who is Thomas Elks?’
‘Thomas Elks is Hugh Elks’ brother, and Hugh Elks is dead.’ She spat again upon the floor, a small, brown puddle of something sticky. ‘Thomas Elks blamed James Josselin, and swore to kill him for it.’
‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘Ten years ago.’ She tapped me on the chest and stared, her rough, weathered face smelling strangely damp. ‘Tell me why James Josselin would go back to Shyam when Thomas Elks is waiting there to kill him? Thomas Elks is as black-hearted as ever his brother was, and his brother was an evil sinner.’
‘Tell us the story quickly, woman,’ I urged her. ‘We must get to church.’
‘I must get to church besides,’ she replied indignant. ‘I need not tell you the story at all.’
‘Tell us, please,’ Dowling said, soft.
‘Well, then.’ She wrinkled her nose in my direction afore turning to Dowling. ‘Hugh Elks was an idle fellow, like all his kin. Another man, name of William Braine, sold all his stock at market and planned to leave Shyam to go to Ipswich, I think.’ She spat a third time, this time close to my boot. ‘One day, at the time of morning prayer, a man entered William Braine’s house with a visor upon his face. Braine’s daughter was there alone, for she was sick, making cheese.’
‘God save us,’ Dowling muttered.
‘Aye, God save us,’ the old woman agreed. ‘When the thief saw the daughter, he must have panicked. Perhaps she recognised him.’ Her shiny, black eyes narrowed. ‘Hugh Elks arrived at church very late, exceedingly sweaty, said he had been working in the field. When William Braine arrived home, he found his daughter lain on the floor with her throat cut, and a dog eating the cheese.’
‘Elks’ dog?’
‘Aye, Elks’ dog. He said his dog escaped its leash, and that the presence of his dog didn’t signify that he killed Braine’s daughter, and none could prove otherwise.’
‘Though all suspected it?’
‘Not all.’ The old woman sighed deep. ‘For not everyone liked William Braine, and not everyone was agin’ Hugh Elks, for Elks had a large family. Half the village is related to an Elks in some way.’
‘Josselin proved Elks killed the girl, and Thomas Elks hates him for it,’ I deduced.
The old woman ignored me. ‘When Elks arrived at church, sweat poured from his head like he had stuck it in a bucket. His face was red, his skin hot, yet Josselin noticed his shirt was clean.’ The old lady gazed up into Dowling’s serious face. ‘There were three or four spots where the sweat soaked through in circles, growing fast. It w
as a new shirt, else it would have been wet all over, like his body.’
‘For someone who wasn’t there, you tell a good story,’ I said.
She grimaced and turned again to Dowling. ‘Josselin walked the path between Braine’s house and the church. Elks’ house lay between the two. Past Elks’ house stood a thicket. Josselin took the dog into the thicket and found a shirt, covered in blood, in thin streams where it sprayed when he cut the girl’s throat.’
‘God’s teeth,’ I muttered.
‘Elks said it wasn’t his shirt, but the dog picked it up and ran to him with it. Then others from the village swore they had seen him wearing it earlier that day. I don’t know if they spoke truth or told lies to condemn him, but it was enough to see him hanged at Ipswich.’ The old lady turned to face me. ‘Some thanked Josselin for it; others blamed him for Hugh Elks’ death, accusing him of bearing false witness. When Josselin found his own horse dead one day, here at Colchester, throat cut with a wire, he knew Thomas Elks did it.’
‘Thomas Elks may be dead,’ I pointed out. ‘Half Shyam is dead, so they say.’
‘More than half,’ the old lady replied, ‘and none of them is Thomas Elks. We see the list every Friday, and his name has not yet been on it. So you tell me why James Josselin would venture into Shyam, and tell me then why you venture into Shyam. Though having met you I am inclined to send you on your way.’ She stuck out her chin.
‘All good questions,’ I assured her. ‘We would talk more to you later, but now we must go.’
‘I must go,’ she corrected me, ‘and I don’t know that I have the inclination to talk to you more.’ She spat one last time upon the floorboards before shuffling off.
‘How sweet are thy words unto my taste! Yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth!’ Dowling grasped my shoulder. ‘We should inspect the latest list afore we leave.’
I didn’t honour him with a reply, for we dawdled too long if we wanted to arrive before the churches filled.
Dowling reckoned there were nine churches in Colchester. We couldn’t cover them all. If Josselin had indeed come here to meet the Dutch then St Martin’s was the most likely, an old Norman church inside the Dutch Quarter, deformed and stunted, its tower destroyed by Fairfax’s cannons.
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