Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘Amen to that.’ Josselin wiped his palm upon the seat of his trousers and headed out towards the chancel.

Mompesson knelt before his wife and laid his large head in her small lap, a moment of intimacy upon which we were trespassing again. Dowling shuffled backwards into the chancel, and I followed, keen to be away. We reached the door without being heard, and stepped out into the night, straight into the arms of Marshall Howe.

Josselin leant against the wall of the church, arms folded. ‘Spying again.’ He clicked his tongue and shook his head sadly. ‘You didn’t tell me you worked with Withypoll.’

The hairs on the back of my neck stood erect. ‘What do you know of Withypoll?’

‘He stands at the barricades asking for you,’ Josselin replied. ‘Says you will betray me.’ He turned to Howe. ‘Lock them in the cage.’

We sat huddled in the far corner of the cage. The opposite side of our prison smelt worse. A thin layer of slime covered the space where the two bodies had lain, like the trail of a giant slug. We leant against the bars beneath a cloudless sky.

‘Withypoll is alive, then,’ I reflected, staring up at a swarm of shining stars.

‘He knew we came here under false names,’ said Dowling. ‘He wants us to die here.’

The moon grew fatter tonight, casting a ghostly sheen upon the pond and the linden trees. Josselin told Mompesson he was leaving next day. If we didn’t get out of this cage before he went, I doubted we would ever leave Shyam alive.

‘If Josselin leaves, then Mompesson will enforce the quarantine,’ I said. ‘Else Withypoll will invade with his soldiers.’

Dowling made a strange noise. I turned about and saw that he was crying. Ne’er had I been more surprised in all my life. I gripped his shoulder and squeezed hard as I could.

‘Where is God?’ he whispered.

‘Everywhere,’ I assured him, wishing he would stop, but he just buried his face in his hands.

‘Dowling!’ I attempted to rouse him. ‘If God doesn’t exist then he never has existed, and you have become who you are with no one’s help.’

He seized my hand and turned his wet eyes to mine. ‘I am alone.’

‘You have me,’ I said. He started to cry again, this time louder.

I prayed fervently to God to send him some message just as a figure emerged from out the shadows of the church, striding towards us. Josselin by himself, a satchel hanging from his shoulder.

‘Tell me about Withypoll,’ he demanded, as he marched to the cage. Thick fumes of ale escaped his mouth and nose.

‘He is no friend of ours,’ I replied, pulling my hand from Dowling’s grasp.

He pushed his face against the bars. ‘What will he do when he finds me gone and you in the cage?’

‘He will tell Howe to rebuild his gallows,’ I replied. ‘If it satisfies his desire to see us die in agony.’

Josselin dug into his pocket for a key with which he opened the cage door. ‘You saved my life. You should have reminded me.’ He stood aside to let us out. ‘I trust you, remember? And I need your help.’

I looked for Marshall Howe, but he was nowhere to be seen. Thank you, God.

‘We make our own ways back to London,’ Josselin spoke low, eyes wide. ‘But once there I want you to arrange for me to meet with Arlington.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘He murdered my best friend.’ Josselin’s voice trembled. ‘Charles Howard was my brother. I watched for him and he watched for me. I trusted him as I trust myself. I ran because I couldn’t think what else to do, but now I am ashamed.’

‘What will you do when you meet him?’ I demanded. ‘He will hurry you to the executioner’s block before you finish speaking.’

Josselin snorted. ‘I know Arlington, which is why I fled, like the coward I am. But I have something of his. Not upon my person, but hidden where he cannot find it. Something he doesn’t know I have, something he must be looking for. You tell him I will meet with him.’

‘He won’t come,’ I protested. ‘He will send soldiers.’

‘Then tell him I have his letter,’ Josselin whispered, hoarse. ‘Not Withypoll, only Arlington. Tell him I have his letter and would meet with him to discuss its contents. Then he will meet with me.’

‘What letter?’ Dowling growled, wiping his eyes.

Josselin shook his head and raised a finger. ‘I trust you,’ he said. ‘So trust me when I say you don’t want to know. If I hadn’t read that letter then I wouldn’t be here now, and Charles wouldn’t be dead. The letter is my business. You go to Arlington and tell him you have done your duty, that you found me and carry my message. If the meeting goes well, then you will have nothing to fear from Arlington. I will ensure it.’

I held my breath to protect against the stink on his breath. He

stared, yet his eyes seemed unfocussed. ‘Well, then,’ I sighed. ‘Where would you like to meet him?’

‘Discuss that with him,’ Josselin replied. ‘When you want to find me, go to Aldgate. To Red Rose Lane. I will find you.’

‘That is your plan?’ Dowling exclaimed. ‘According to you, you killed four of his agents, the clerics. You think he will forgive you that?’

Josselin shrugged. ‘I don’t think he could care less.’

‘What if he refuses your invitation?’ I asked.

Josselin rubbed his hands together. ‘Then I will go to Clarendon. Indeed I will try and seek audience with him first, if I can. He may help.’

It seemed a poor plan to me, but at least it was our chance to escape this accursed village. If we got back to London before dusk tomorrow I could just meet Culpepper’s deadline besides, and secure my shop.

‘How do we avoid Withypoll?’ I asked. ‘Likely he brings soldiers with him.’

‘So he does,’ Josselin agreed. ‘We will leave through the Delf. I will go now; you follow in an hour.’ He looked Dowling up and down. ‘If you are wise, you two might also travel alone, at least until you clear Colchester.’

Josselin stood silent, as if waiting.

‘Very well,’ I said, for I could think of little else to say. ‘See you in London.’

‘Good fortune.’ Josselin rubbed his hands together and turned towards the church. ‘Red Rose Lane,’ he said again, waving a hand as he blended into the darkness.

I turned to Dowling. ‘I cannot wait an hour.’

‘They’ll discover the Delf afore that,’ said Dowling, tense. ‘Withypoll is no fool. Likely he will smell Josselin coming.’ He wiped a hand across his mouth. ‘Mary Hancock showed me another path. I say we go east.’

I looked again for Marshall Howe, recalling the hatred on his face, and hurried after Dowling into the woods. Dowling walked quickly, stopping only when he reached the mouth of the track that supposedly led out of the village. All was quiet, an eerie silence.

‘He asked us to wait an hour,’ I whispered.

‘It may take an hour to find our way to the road,’ Dowling replied, peering into the black tunnel. ‘We can wait at the other end.’

As the path led upwards the ground became stonier, the trees sparse and the terrain more open. I prayed the track led where we hoped, and not in a great circle around Shyam. I glanced over my shoulder every few paces to check we weren’t followed, feeling naked beneath the stars. At the top of the rise we descended. The ground softened and branches formed a new canopy above our heads. Soon it was impossible to see anything, darkness enveloping us.

I stepped into boggy marsh, a low ditch full of rotting leaves. Water seeped over the top of my boots. I pulled myself up by the root of a tree and realised we reached the road.