Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

He slipped back into the gloom, footsteps echoing down the passage.

I touched the wet stone with my fingertips. The staircase outside was straight and narrow. At the top of the stairs grew green bushes and trees. Creeping vines fell down the walls. We were at the base of a damp pit, a strange cell without obvious purpose. I shook the iron grille. It was locked tight. This was Clarendon’s house, the place he lived. Why should he build a prison in his own private residence?

More footsteps, again from the corridor behind, heavier this time. A man appeared at the bars, tall and stern, a handsome fellow with shiny, black hair. Green eyes stared like a hungry cat.

‘Open the door,’ he snapped to someone behind.

The key turned in the lock and he stepped inside, padding softly like a big lion. He descended upon me without fear or caution, stood more than six feet tall, broad and solid. Not old man Clarendon. He went to seize one of my ears, but I slapped him away. He smiled, teeth glinting in the wet sunlight. ‘Tell me your name,’ he said, utterly at ease.

‘Harry Lytle,’ I replied quickly, not for a moment contemplating a lie.

‘Perhaps I have heard of you,’ he frowned slightly. ‘Though I cannot recall in what context.’ He seized one of my hands in his own before I could move, inspecting my fingers. ‘You have soft hands,’ he remarked, piercing eyes probing mine with fascinated curiosity. He rubbed the lapel of my jacket between finger and forefinger. ‘Why have you come here, Harry Lytle?’

‘To talk to Clarendon,’ I replied, unable to keep the tremor from my voice. He stood too close. Though his clothes were of the finest quality and every hair upon his head lay in immaculate order, ne’ertheless he gave off a rank odour, like a beast that eats raw meat and makes no effort to cleanse itself.

‘Persuade me you deserve his attentions,’ he demanded. ‘Else I will bury you in his garden.’

I couldn’t think. I tried to remember why I came, my objective. ‘Has James Josselin come here?’

He cocked his head and frowned, folding his arms behind his back. ‘Why do you ask?’

I wished I’d kept my mouth closed.

‘Speak,’ the man commanded. ‘What do you know of James Josselin?’

‘I know he is accused of treachery and killing the Earl of Berkshire,’

I answered, nervous. ‘He denies both.’

‘How do you know?’ he asked, eyes dull and angry.

‘He told me,’ I replied.

The big man regarded me like I was a mysterious puzzle. ‘Josselin has fled to Shyam, beyond Colchester. Shyam is plagued.’

‘He is no longer in Shyam,’ I said. ‘He’s come back to London. He said he would come here to seek protection. He says only Clarendon shares his desire for peace.’

He reached out a hand to touch my hair. ‘We worked on the same deputation, though I work for Clarendon and they worked for Arlington.’

I smacked at his hand. ‘Do you think Josselin killed Berkshire?’

‘No,’ he replied, eyes darkening. ‘They were the best of friends. They knew each other since childhood.’

‘Who killed Berkshire?’ I asked.

‘Why didn’t you ask Josselin?’

‘I did.’ I clenched my fists. ‘He said it was Arlington.’

He flicked at a fine wisp of hair that had fallen upon his cheek and carefully placed it back behind his ear. ‘Arlington’s spy walks into Clarendon’s house and asks questions. What makes you think anyone will reply?’

‘Lord Arlington told us to watch from outside the gate and let him know when Josselin arrived.’ Anger welled inside my breast. ‘I am not supposed to be here at all.’

‘Really?’ he exclaimed, doubt clouding his eyes. He watched me like I was a strange animal, something to be feared, or squashed. ‘I am supposed to believe that?’

I blew out through my cheeks and dug my fingers into my scalp. ‘Whether Josselin killed Berkshire or not, Arlington will see him die for it, and for his treachery besides.’

‘I know what Arlington says,’ the man said. ‘I don’t know why you come here to tell me it.’

‘Where is James Josselin?’ I insisted.

He shrugged. ‘I assure you he is not here, nor has he been. You said you spoke to him. If you spoke to him, then you know where he is.’

‘I spoke to him in Shyam,’ I replied. ‘I said I would meet him again here.’

The man stepped away, wiping his palms upon the seat of his breeches. ‘You entered Shyam? Then you may be plagued.’ He reached for his sword.

‘I am not infected,’ I replied with a confidence I didn’t feel. ‘I took precautions.’

‘Why are you here?’ he barked. ‘You barge in here headstrong, like a fool. Is this some crude scheme of Arlington’s?’

‘Make of me what you will,’ I said, raising my voice, ‘but don’t suspect me of the same malignant treachery with which you seem so familiar. Josselin ran from London when he was accused of murder, yet you know he is innocent. Why did Clarendon not protect him?’

He watched me carefully, eyes devouring mine. ‘He fled immediately, before anyone could help.’ I realised what question he was about to ask just before he asked it. ‘Where is Galileo?’

I felt my cheeks burn and I avoided his gaze. ‘Withypoll killed him,’ I replied. ‘On the road out of Colchester. Dragged him behind a horse.’

The man stared like he would punish me for it. ‘You left with Josselin?’

‘We left by ourselves, after Josselin,’ I replied. ‘He said he would come here first.’

He cracked his knuckles. ‘What else did he tell you?’

‘He said we should ask ourselves why the Dutch must fall.’

‘They must fall because we are at war,’ the tall man answered. ‘Peace or war. Now it seems the war will continue.’

‘Why so?’ I demanded.

He pursed his lips. ‘It is no secret, after all,’ he considered. ‘I am surprised Arlington has not told you himself.’

‘He said only that Josselin had sabotaged peace. That he betrayed his country, killed Berkshire and fled.’

Small lines of disdain appeared about the edges of his mouth. ‘You have heard of De Buat?’

‘No,’ I replied, feeling foolish.

‘Of course not.’ The man smiled without sincerity and glanced at the gate that led back into the house. ‘De Buat is a French nobleman who grew up in Holland. He held a post in the Orange court. The Princess Dowager appointed him to represent the House of Orange as envoy to De Witt.’

I was lost and the tall man saw it.

‘De Witt is the leader of the Dutch,’ he said, as if talking to a small child.

‘I know that,’ I growled, ears burning. ‘I am not a fool.’

‘De Witt is determined the provinces shall never again be subject to sovereign rule,’ which I also knew. ‘The House of Orange is determined that the Prince of Orange shall assume his rightful position. There has always been the possibility of civil war between De Witt and the House of Orange, a possibility that has obsessed Arlington these last few years.’

‘And so this Frenchman De Buat runs between Holland and the House of Orange, like you and Josselin ran between England and Holland.’

The tall man bowed as if in deference to my great wit. ‘Quite so. We came across De Buat often, for he is the Orangists’ ambassador to Holland.’

My head started to spin again.

‘Clarendon sought peace with the Dutch; Arlington sought civil war. Arlington sought to provoke the House of Orange into declaring war upon the Dutch so that England might make a treaty with the new government, on terms most favourable.’ The tall man spoke seriously now. ‘De Buat was in Arlington’s confidence. His spy within.’

‘What happened?’

He spoke in a low whisper. ‘Arlington sent Josselin to Holland with two letters. The first was the official letter De Witt was supposed to receive, intended to placate his suspicions, proclaiming England’s commitment to peace with Holland. The second letter was a personal letter for De Buat only, encouraging him to rouse the House of Orange to action, for Arlington became increasingly frustrated with the Princess Dowager, and her indecision.’