Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

seat of my trousers as we passed Fish Street Hill and came to the mouth of Red Rose Lane.

This was a narrow thoroughfare where the butchers scalded hogs and made their puddings, throwing their waste out into the street to be taken down to the dung boats. This was the last place to come in the middle of summer, for the blood and offal sat on the street all day afore it was collected, attracting all manner of vermin, cats, dogs and flies. I choked on the stink of rotting blood and trod cautiously. Josselin chose well, for spies and soldiers would avoid this street like the plague.

Despite our agreement I waited for Dowling.

‘We cannot hang around,’ I said. ‘We attracted too much attention last time.’

Dowling stopped halfway up the hill, hands on his hips. ‘If Josselin is there, he’ll be watching for us, surveying every movement with gimlet eye.’

I scanned the surrounding windows. The light was so poor and the windows so dirty, all I saw were a couple of fleeting shadows, impossible to tell if it was Josselin or not. The rats re-emerged from the shadows to renew their scavenging; fat beasts waddling through the slime like they owned the place.

‘I still don’t think he’s here,’ I said at last.

‘We have to find him,’ Dowling growled.

‘Aldgate,’ I suggested. ‘His mother’s house at Duke’s Place.’

Dowling scratched his ear. ‘You think Arlington will not have had the same idea?’

‘We’ll make our own ways there,’ I said. ‘As you suggested before.’

It wasn’t often Dowling needed my encouragement. I strode up the hill towards Eastcheap with more determination than I felt. A dozen

soldiers lingered about the Boar’s Head, tousled and round-shouldered, drunk already, laughing uproariously at poor jokes like they felt the eyes of strangers upon them. I hurried east across Gracechurch Street, a busy thoroughfare, then north up Rood Lane past the churchyard of St Margaret Pattens. I turned every few steps to see who followed, looking not only for spies, but also for Dowling’s big, white head bobbing up and down above the crowd like a beacon. If spies followed us, they would follow him, not me.

Turning onto Fenchurch Street I walked headlong into a row of soldiers barring the road on either side of St Gabriel, a small church built in the middle of the road. Too late to turn away, for I had already attracted the attention of one older man, tight-lipped and sullen. Over his shoulder I saw a long line of soldiers, leading all the way up the street to Aldgate. Dowling had been right. This was not the place to come. It swarmed with military.

‘Come here,’ the old soldier growled.

I stood my ground and prayed Dowling was not close behind.

‘What’s your name?’ he demanded.

‘John Fisher,’ I replied, thinking of the nearby market. ‘I live at Sugar Loaf Alley. Why do you stop me passing?’

‘I haven’t stopped you passing,’ he replied, reaching out to touch my coat, rubbing the stained silk thoughtfully between his fingers. ‘You on your own?’

I frowned like I didn’t understand the significance of the question. ‘Let me pass.’

‘Fisher,’ he repeated, and eyed me up and down. ‘Proceed, John Fisher.’

I snatched my coat from his grubby hands and stalked off like I was offended. By now there were so many soldiers, and so few citizens,

I felt like a soldier myself, else a ghost drifting unseen amongst the living.

The entrance to Duke’s Place teemed with excitement, a stinking cloud hovering above the throng below, the smell of too many unwashed men gathered close together. I held my breath and slipped silently between the bodies, reminding myself that Withypoll was far away, scouring the streets west. Arlington would remain above it all, back at Whitehall. None here would recognise me I told myself, again and again.

Every orifice of Josselin’s house gaped open, the leaning windows like yawning mouths, belching foulness upon the street below. Soldiers sat upon its doorstep, others passing in and out like it was a barrack. Gone was the quiet grace and dignity of the week before, now besmeared with the loud exuberance of raucous bantering.

I wondered what mess the soldiers made of the delicate interior and where were Mrs Josselin, Eliza and the silent servants. I narrowed my eyes and scoured the house front, searching, until I spied two pale faces, staring out a turret window at the top of the mansion. Too far away to be sure, but they looked like Josselin’s mother and betrothed, peering out, frightened and bewildered.

Anger welled up deep inside my belly at the ignorant dolts who sat with their backs to the wall, playing cards, those who stomped across the floor of a house that wasn’t theirs. Something of the scene reminded me of Colchester, how it must have been when Fairfax’s soldiers surrounded the City, depriving the innocent of food and provisions. I looked for Josselin. If I could find a way, then so could he. If I felt anger, what would he feel? Where was he?

I wandered discreetly about the yard, seeing if he stood as witness in some nook or cranny. I looked to the sky, to surrounding houses,

to see if he hid, but nothing. I looked up again at the two women and tried to work out in which direction they stared. What would he do, I wondered? He wouldn’t sit idly by, that was certain, yet neither would he charge out into the open with his sword, to be cut down by the small army about him. I tried to think like Josselin, but found it hard.

The sun passed the height of its day’s journey. Nearly three o’clock. I wondered what became of Dowling. I imagined he saw me waylaid on Fenchurch Street. He probably proceeded north, to approach by way of Leadenhall. St Katharine Cree was just around the corner.

With one last look at the window high above, I made my way through the crowd back onto the main street, and walked the short distance to the church. The churchyard was tucked down an alley, behind the church itself. Dowling sat upon a bench, hands on knees, white head standing out against the blue sky. He leapt to his feet as soon as I opened the gate and enveloped me in a crushing embrace.

I pushed myself away as soon as his grip slackened, wiping his perspiration from my face.

‘You were more circumspect than I, then,’ I said. ‘No one followed you?’

He shook his head. ‘I don’t think they’ll expect us here, not with so many soldiers. What did that fellow say to you?’

‘Asked me my name,’ I replied. ‘I told him John Fisher.’ I thought again of the scene at Duke’s Place. ‘Soldiers have taken over Josselin’s house. Mrs Josselin and Josselin’s betrothed stand staring from a top-floor window.’

Dowling grunted.

‘Josselin will not stand idly back,’ I exclaimed, agitated. ‘I cannot think what he’ll do, but he will do something. Arlington hasn’t read

him well. He shouldn’t have called him traitor, nor ransacked his house.’ I closed my eyes against the wind. ‘Josselin is close by,’ I said. ‘I sense it.’

‘Very well, Harry,’ sighed Dowling. ‘You propose we walk the streets?’

‘I am going back to Duke’s Place for a while,’ I decided. ‘We will meet back here at dusk.’

Dowling slouched, brow furrowed, mouth downturned.

‘Ask God, Davy.’ I patted him on the shoulder. ‘He shall guide thee continually and make fat thy bones. Thou shalt be like a watered garden.’ Something like that.

I patted him again and headed back to the Josselin house. Something was afoot.