Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

I led us into the grounds of All Saints and leant against a wall. ‘And in here that soldiers roam, when before they were locked outside. What spells Withypoll must have cast to persuade Mayor Flanner.’

I heard shouting and peered over the wall and across the high street into the castle grounds. A disorderly mob of a dozen soldiers or more staggered down the hill from the castle itself. They walked unsteadily, still happily complying with Captain Scotschurch’s mandate to stay drunk.

As the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, so candlelight appeared in the windows of the houses.

‘Follow the lights,’ Dowling pointed. Torches shone from the direction of St Runwald’s and the marketplace.

‘Withypoll must be at the Moot Hall,’ I guessed. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’

I led us north towards the Dutch Quarter, Dowling following

reluctant. I had no plan, other than to retrace our steps of four nights ago. Two men watched as we struggled to remember the route. One tapped the other on the elbow and they touched foreheads. They weren’t soldiers, but watched just as careful, before disappearing into the darkness.

‘We have to hurry,’ I said, dry-mouthed.

Dowling beckoned. ‘This way.’

We hurried beneath the eaves, then headed left. The big house, in which I saw Shrewsbury, stood at the end of the street. Dark, lifeless windows stared back.

‘Shrewsbury cannot be far away,’ was all I could think to say.

Dowling laid a hand upon my shoulder. ‘We have to leave, Harry.’

Voices sounded from the end of the same alley we just passed through. Then more voices from the street behind, laced with the excitement of the hunter. The alley brightened with the light of torches as the noise grew louder.

Too late to retreat. I ran up to the house and tried the door. It was unlocked.

‘Come,’ I hissed at Dowling, who still stood motionless.

He bounded after me with long loping strides, and I closed the door just before the first pursuer emerged from the alley. The house smelt dusty, hollow and deserted. We crouched before the long bay window and peered out into the night. A small crowd gathered. Soon the cobbled street was full, a dozen soldiers or more, all carrying torches. They chattered amongst themselves, pointing in all directions, until Withypoll appeared and the noise subsided.

He stared at the ground and walked slowly towards us. Then, to my blessed relief, he turned aside, waving a hand left, directing half the soldiers away towards the north and the other half back towards

the castle. He lifted his torch, illuminating his long, cruel face, afore following the soldiers north.

I turned from the window and slumped backwards against the wall.

Dowling still crouched, facing outwards. ‘We’re safe for now. A dozen drunkard soldiers can search only slowly at night. We have until dawn to find a way out.’

‘Withypoll will not make the same mistake twice,’ I worried. ‘Every gate will be guarded from the inside.’

‘What would Josselin do?’ said Dowling.

‘Climb the wall?’ I wondered. ‘Dig beneath it? Find a breach?’

‘I reckon he’ll have prepared already his escape,’ Dowling replied. ‘There’ll be a house somewhere, close to the wall, whose occupants will help him.’

‘Fairfax bombarded the west wall with cannon,’ I said. ‘St Mary’s was destroyed. There must be an easy route out somewhere about Head Gate or the Balkerne Gate.’

Dowling nodded. ‘Since half Withypoll’s men have gone north, we should go south, but we’ll have to cross the centre of town.’

‘Not if we go direct west through St Peter’s,’ I said. ‘Then make our way south across the corn market.’ I turned to peer out of the window again, feeling more cheerful.

Something moved at the far end of the street, a flash of white.

I elbowed Dowling in the ribs. ‘Did you see that?’

‘See what?’ Dowling muttered.

I watched so hard, my eyes hurt. Someone darted from one side of the road to the other and now stood in a doorway, deep in shadow. I could still make out a sliver of white against the black shadow. Whoever it was stood still, waiting for something, or someone.

‘We cannot stay here,’ said Dowling.

‘Someone hides in the shadow,’ I insisted. ‘What if it is Josselin?’

I stood up and headed for the door. I put my ear to the wood, but all was silent. Then I opened it slow, felt the night brush gently against my cheek. Then I looked down and saw our footprints, clear, edged with flakes of dried mud.

‘This is what Withypoll was looking at,’ I whispered to Dowling, eyes fixed upon the doorway where I saw the white shape.

‘Aye, and Withypoll is not a fool,’ said a gruff voice.

I spun to my left, hands raised, too late. The club hit me square above the forehead. My knees buckled. Two soldiers jumped on Dowling, dragging him to the floor. I heard the crack of his skull beneath someone’s thick boot. I lay on my side, a warm river of blood trickling down my nose.

The white shape floated out onto the street, a tall majestic figure, yellow skin drawn like parchment. The Earl of Shrewsbury?

‘You were told to fetch Josselin,’ Withypoll said from somewhere above my head. ‘I don’t see him.’

I tried to look up, but my head wouldn’t move.

Someone pulled at my hair, and something cold rubbed against my throat. ‘I would like to kill you, Lytle,’ Withypoll whispered in my ear. ‘First tell me where is Josselin?’

So he didn’t have him.

‘He is a hero here,’ I slurred. ‘They do as he commands.’

‘I will find him,’ hissed Withypoll. ‘Make no mistake. Then will I cut his lips from his face.’ The blade pressed against my windpipe. ‘As I will do to you one day, but Arlington insists upon seeing you first.’

My stomach cramped, and my guts churned, forcing me to vomit.

I panted, sucking in cool air, retching nothing, for we hadn’t eaten properly in three days.

‘Take them,’ Withypoll commanded. ‘Tell Lord Arlington to save them for me.’

I searched again for the ghostly shape of Shrewsbury before someone punched me flush on one cheek with what felt like a hammer. I remember nothing else until we were well past Brentwood.

Dowling’s forehead bore a clearly discernible boot print stamped into his skin. He lay with arms bound behind his back, staring at the same instrument as I did. In the same dingy room in the Develin Tower where this all started. Back in London.

Arlington stroked the black hair of a dead donkey’s head, impaled upon a wooden spike. ‘A friend of mine told me about this. He saw one in Spain. I had this one built especially.’ He ran a finger along the line of its cranium then pulled one of its ears out straight, smiling in grim satisfaction. ‘I have not had the pleasure of using it yet.’ He turned to me, the edges of the black plaster upon his nose gently peeling.

‘Untie him,’ he demanded.

Two soldiers stepped forward, hesitant, like they feared for their

own lives. They picked at the knots hastily, muttering under their breath as they worked. Then my wrists were free.

‘Place him on the donkey,’ Arlington ordered.

The head and spike attached to a long piece of wood, running across the top of a four-legged frame. The saddle of the beast was planed sharp as a razor, stuck straight up into the air. As they lowered me onto its back, the edge of it cut into my arse. I leant forwards in an attempt to relieve the pressure.

Arlington lifted a finger. ‘Bind him again.’ The soldier jerked my hands behind my back and the wood bit deeper into my flesh.