Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

I heard the shouting before I reached the court, the singing too, loud and tuneless. Soldiers crowded into the middle of the square, heads thrown back, swilling beer from glass bottles.

All fell silent, then a loud roar, ‘Arlington!’ Every man lifted a bottle to the blue sky. The first time in Arlington’s life he had been toasted so readily.

I thought to inspect one of the bottles, but the soldiers stood in a circle, like a pack of dogs guarding a pile of bones. Unlike Arlington to be so generous.

Josselin’s house stood empty; all the soldiers stood outside supping happily. There was enough beer for every man to drink at least two bottles. No sign of Mrs Josselin or Eliza at the window. Their

opportunity to feed themselves while the soldiers were distracted.

I walked the perimeter, across the shadow of a great oak growing in one corner, across the front of the other two large houses that bounded the small square. The side of Josselin’s house stood in shadow, but something moved, a flash of light catching the sun. I approached closer, wary of a drunken soldier. Before I could explore further, a bottle smashed. I turned towards the revelry to see two men fall to their knees, clutching at their throats. The rest watched, anxious, so quiet I could hear the sound of both men breathing, wracking gasps, like their lungs burnt. A third man held his hands in front of his eyes like claws. Six more pawed at their necks, wide-eyed and terrified. I stepped back into the shadow, pressed against the wall.

Those who didn’t succumb stepped nervously through the fallen, inspecting the bottles from which they drank, else throwing them as far away as they could muster. One man thrust his fingers down his throat and forced himself to gag. Others followed his lead, but too late. They too struggled to breathe, collapsing upon the dust, gasping for air. I placed my hands at my own throat, momentarily afraid the plague unveiled itself again.

A hand landed on my shoulder. I startled, and looked round into Josselin’s battered face, his naked, shaven head. He wore rough, plain clothes, wide, linen trousers, and flapping, cloth shirt, in the style of a butcher. A good disguise. With bruised face devoid of hair, he looked like any other common fellow. He smiled, calmly.

‘You are the apothecary,’ he whispered. ‘A fiftieth of a grain is deadly. I put half a grain in every bottle.’

I stared, disbelieving.

He gripped harder. ‘I wouldn’t see them suffer. They will die quick.’ He cast me an inquisitive gaze then nodded at a man close to us whose face contorted in agonized grimace. ‘First they burn from throat to belly. Then hands and feet, and all their skin. They feel like they are being flayed.’ The groans and screams confirmed it, as thirty men lay dying.

Three soldiers stood watching, aghast, and unaffected. The few who chose not to drink. They gathered in a huddle, seeking solace in each other, unable to tear their eyes from the dreadful scene.

‘Soon they will lose the power of sight, and will lie there deaf, ’til death comes,’ Josselin breathed. ‘With a fiftieth of a grain it would take half the day. With half a grain most will be dead before they realise what has happened.’

‘Wolfsbane,’ I guessed. ‘Monkshood.’ A plant with medicinal properties, rarely used because it was so poisonous. A white powder that dissolved only in strong drink.

Josselin patted my shoulder. ‘Well done, apothecary.’

‘Why?’ I asked, watching as one man clutched his belly, bending his neck back with eyes closed, a shallow, whining noise escaping his blue lips. An innocent man.

‘This is my house,’ Josselin said, grimly. ‘I didn’t invite them, nor did my mother. They invited themselves.’

‘Arlington ordered them.’ I seized his collar. ‘Some of these men had wives and children,’ I said. ‘Do you not care?’

He placed a hand on my arm and gazed at me, brow furrowed and eyes moist. ‘More soldiers will arrive soon.’

I pushed him away. ‘Do you not understand what Arlington will do to your mother and betrothed? Have you no idea?’

‘He’ll do nothing to them,’ Josselin answered. He slipped back

into the shadows and headed in the direction of Leadenhall. ‘I will find him tonight and smite him down.’

‘Wait!’ I called after him.

‘Talk as we walk,’ Josselin replied, tossing me the bottle he held in his hand. ‘That is the only bottle I did not poison. Drink.’

He laughed loud as I held it at arm’s length between two fingers. ‘Tell me who killed Berkshire, and tell me about this letter. Give me something I can use.’

‘Tut-tut!’ he exclaimed.

I tugged at his coat, trying to slow him down as he hurried south, down Lime Street. ‘We went to Clarendon on your behalf. We rescued you from Thomas Elks.’

I heard footsteps and turned to see Dowling running behind, stumbling from foot to foot in strange gait, blowing hard.

‘You did that for yourselves,’ Josselin replied, following my gaze. ‘I am not responsible for your poor souls.’

Dowling caught up with us, red-faced, sweat soaking his chest. As we crossed Fenchurch Street, the wind caught me in a sudden gust, nearly knocking me off my feet.

‘What news?’ he panted, watching Josselin.

‘He just poisoned half a garrison.’

Dowling stared at Josselin’s back, like he would tear him apart. ‘Then we should seize him now. Hand him over to Arlington.’

It would be easy enough to attract the attention of spies and soldiers, I reflected.

Josselin laughed. ‘Arlington will thank you with the promise of an earldom then kill you for what you know.’ He stopped at the top of Red Rose Lane. ‘You are welcome to join me, gentlemen, for I think we are in the same predicament.’

Dowling hesitated.

‘There are no spies here,’ said Josselin. ‘They walk along Eastcheap or Thames Street, peer in, then keep walking. I have my own little place to stay.’

‘They will come after you,’ I said.

‘They will search, but not down here.’ He looked about quickly then slipped into the gloom. He led us halfway down the dark narrow street and stopped outside a crooked door. ‘Welcome to the house of Farynor.’

He pushed open the door and hurried us over the threshold. A low, squat oven sat to the left of the main fireplace. A bigger oven with smaller mouth sat to the right of it, burning low.

‘Where is Farynor?’ growled Dowling.

‘Upstairs.’ Josselin jerked his thumb towards the ceiling. ‘Farynor, his son and daughter. I will release them when I leave.’ He sat down, threw his legs forward and stretched out his arms. ‘Go see them if you wish.’

I stepped cautiously towards the narrow, winding staircase, wary in case he changed his mind, but he just watched, hands rested upon his belly, eyes half lidded. Dowling shuffled forwards, positioning his great bulk between Josselin and the stairs.

The staircase was narrow, wood-warped and twisted. Every board squeaked as I climbed, but upstairs was silent. An open door led to a square room overlooking the alley below. Three sets of eyes watched. A boy and girl huddled either side of a lean fellow with sculpted arms. All three chewed on gags. Their arms were tied behind their back, legs bound with rope, the skin about their ankles red and raw. I thought to pull the gags from their mouths, but to what end? Our need for refuge was equal to Josselin’s. I waved a hand and nodded my head in an assuring manner before returning downstairs.

Josselin still slumped in his chair. I stared at his long face, angular and chiselled. His lips were red and seemed to smile. Black hair fell across his forehead and cheeks.

‘What’s up there?’ Dowling demanded.