Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘He tried to kill us with his horse,’ the wild-eyed fellow snarled. He and Withypoll eyed each other like dogs.

‘Take the papers from my jacket, Lytle,’ Withypoll commanded. I tried to avoid his eye as I fumbled in his coat. I could feel his heart beating inside his shirt, pounding hard and fast against his ribs as if it would break out. He grimaced, inspecting his shoulder. ‘To strike a King’s agent is treason, and the punishment for treason is death.’ He looked up at the man whose intervention saved his life. ‘What will you do?’

‘Ah!’ The man’s finger began to twitch and draw circles in the air. ‘I am the financier, you see. It is my job to organise things.’

‘The turnpike is broken and no one guards it,’ said Withypoll. His face was white, like a dead man risen.

‘I manage the money,’ the fellow protested. ‘I am the accountant. It is the constable’s job to manage the turnpikes.’

Withypoll scanned the small gathering that watched from a distance. ‘And where is he?’

The accountant straightened his jacket and raised his chin, watching a rivulet of blood trickle down Withypoll’s cheek and drip onto his collar. ‘He died last week and no one has replaced him. Let me take you to my house and mend that wound.’

Withypoll eyed the three men with staves as if contemplating their immediate execution, but instead allowed himself to be led away by the accountant who dared hold him by the arm.

I lingered a moment, asking the crowd who remained if any knew Josselin, but they dispersed like leaves in the breeze, and soon we stood alone as the villagers withdrew again into their shells.

God teased us.

A fire blazed inside the accountant’s house. The acrid smell of tar and rosin pervaded every inch of the immaculate room. The accountant waved an arm, eyeing our muddy shoes anxiously. ‘Sit down, gentlemen, please.’

Withypoll threw his jacket to the floor and headed for the biggest chair, next to the fire. ‘Your wife is diligent,’ he said. ‘I have never seen such a tidy house.’ He poked at three tiny figurines lined up in a perfect row on the mantle above the fireplace.

‘I have no wife,’ the accountant replied, picking up the jacket and moving the figurines to precisely where they had been before. ‘It is I who like things to be in order. Sit on the chair please and I will wash your head.’

Withypoll tried to lift his left shoulder, wincing in pain. ‘I will see

those fellows hang,’ he said, as the accountant approached with a bowl of honey and two white linen cloths.

‘I cannot excuse their behaviour,’ the accountant replied. ‘Bend your head forwards please, sir, so I might see the wound.’

With one of the cloths the accountant attempted to wipe the dirt from the gash. He dabbed and patted, exposing a two-inch cut, deep and angry, with purple edges. Withypoll said nothing as he worked, made not a sound. Once the accountant was satisfied, he took a spoonful of honey, and let it drip from one edge of the wound to the other. Then he lay the second cloth across the top of the sticky mess.

‘Is that it?’ asked Dowling, watching as the accountant tried to rub a small patch of honey from his fingers.

‘An ancient remedy,’ the accountant replied. ‘

Vis medicatrix naturae

.’ He picked up the honey bowl gingerly, with just four fingers, and took it back to the kitchen. When he returned he puffed out his chest and smiled.

‘You are the first happy man I have seen this day,’ said Withypoll.

‘Happy?’ The accountant blinked. ‘How could a man be happy? Yet I do of my best, for the Lord God watches, and I believe he hath sent me here for such an occasion.’ He stepped to a desk stood beneath the main window, upon which rested a thick ledger.

He tapped the cover of the book with a forefinger. ‘I keep a record of every man and woman in this town, every child. Through good planning and expert organisation we have raised sufficient sums to provide everyone with adequate provision, including those we hold at Cutler’s barn. Everyone pays his share of tax, and we have raised contributions from the towns about that are not so afflicted. We will survive this pestilence, even should it destroy every living soul within our boundaries.’

Withypoll laughed out loud.

‘What of the dead and the dying?’ asked Dowling.

The accountant frowned. ‘The groans of the sick are a distraction, but I persevere.’

Withypoll grinned broadly and Dowling shook his big head.

‘We are searching for James Josselin,’ I changed the subject. ‘We have a message for him from the King. Has he passed this way?’

The accountant’s bright face registered strange joy, like he experienced a holy vision. ‘Indeed he has, though he didn’t stop.’

‘What do you know of him?’ I asked.

‘He is a great man,’ the accountant replied. ‘You know what he did at Colchester?’

‘We heard something of it,’ I answered doubtfully. ‘It was a long time ago.’

The accountant rubbed his hands and filled his lungs. ‘Long ago, aye, but to understand the man, you must understand the child. Josselin’s childhood defines him.’

Withypoll rubbed his palm upon the arm of the chair. ‘I have little appetite for detail. Make this a short history.’

The accountant froze, enthusiasm pricked, but I made encouraging noises and his hands began to move again. ‘Then I will assume you are familiar with the history of the Siege of Colchester. What you may not have heard, for the story was suppressed, are the lengths to which General Fairfax went to try to persuade the Royalists to surrender. Every man knows they persevered for three months before they starved. But the full story of the barbarity has never properly been told.’

Withypoll fidgeted. ‘Tell it quick.’

The accountant turned to me, in search of a more appreciative

audience. ‘Before the siege was over Fairfax killed and tortured prisoners. He cut off their hands and fingers to obtain confessions, and distributed their rings to his men.’ He paused for effect. ‘He broke into the house of Sir John Lucas, whose house lay outside the city wall, and plundered the family vault, smashing coffins and scattering bones. His soldiers tore hair from the corpses of women and wore it in their hats as trophies, including the hair of Sir John’s poor dead wife.’

He paused again, but I offered him no encouragement, for I had heard this tale before and loathed it.

The accountant shook his head, as if in sadness. ‘The citizens of Colchester were not even Royalist, most of them. Yet when the Royalists invited the women to leave, Fairfax stripped them of their clothes and chased them back to the closed gates, where his men brutalised them.’ He shook his head again, though I saw no tears. ‘Then he starved us. First we ate the horses’ fodder, then the thatch from the houses. When that ran out we ate the horses. When we ate all the horses we ate the cats and the dogs.’

‘You were there?’ I asked.

‘Not in body,’ he replied. ‘Though yes, in spirit, for I am a loyal subject of this nation, and several of the villagers were there. What Fairfax did to the people of Colchester, Cromwell inflicted upon us all.’

God save us. ‘All of this is well known.’ I swallowed my irritation. ‘What of Josselin?’

The accountant frowned. ‘You cannot hope to understand Josselin’s bravery without appreciating Fairfax’s barbarity. Norwich needed reinforcement quickly if he was to survive Fairfax’s siege. So he determined to send a message to Marmaduke Langdale. But Fairfax guarded every exit, and lit up the walls at night so none could