Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

We continued shoving our way through the masses, the grim and the terrified pushing against each other. It would not be long before fighting broke out. Still no sign of Josselin, though I experienced a strong sensation he hid somewhere, watching. After an hour or more of constant jostling we sat apart and watched Fish Street Hill burn.

Then the wind turned, blowing out onto the river, towards us. I feared the heat might burn the brows off my face. The flames reached high into the sky, a magnificent, blazing orange against the black night. The crowd continued to grow, but still no one appeared to exert any effort to quell the fire. More and more people came to gaze

in fascination, filling the streets. Every now and again there sounded a great crash, a noise echoed by the great crowd, who seemed to breathe in harmony with the ebbing and flowing of the fire and the gusting of the winds.

Suddenly the fire surged at us, grasping then falling away again, like a wave upon a beach. It was time to retreat.

‘This way,’ I cried, above the raging din of the panicking masses. I pulled Dowling west, for though east was safer, if Arlington arrived he would land this side of the bridge. Dowling groaned as the flames leapt upon Magnus Martyr, the large square church next to the bridge. I held my hand up against the heat wondering where Bludworth was now, whether he slept soundly in his bed.

‘The King!’ someone screamed.

Down upon the river his long barge flew through the water, eight oarsmen rowing in perfect synchrony, bow raised, standard flying frantically in the gale. It drew alongside the stairs outside the Fishmongers’ Hall, and Charles himself stepped out onto the wharf, throwing his jacket back into the boat. He was followed by two more regal-looking fellows in long wigs: the Duke of York, it looked like, and the Devil himself, Arlington. All three stared up into the flames as if they couldn’t believe their eyes. Arlington and the Duke of York followed the King’s lead, tossing their coats into the boat, before rolling up their sleeves and heading up to Thames Street, followed by the soldiers that rowed them, fixing swords to their belts as they walked.

‘Follow fast,’ I urged Dowling, who stood fanning himself with the back of his hand. The King would soon be swamped, impossible to approach, which meant Arlington too would vanish from sight. Arlington was the bait, Josselin the fish.

I hurried forwards, following the King’s black hair. He stood lean and energetic, head and shoulders above the throng, walking with an easy grace. Arlington followed at his heels, portly and stiff. The Duke of York, the King’s brother, followed them both, more watchful, inspecting his surrounds with sharp eye.

On Thames Street the King stopped, hands on hips, shaking his head. I couldn’t hear what he said above the noise, but he beckoned two men towards him, two soldiers I recalled seeing upon Red Rose Lane. He asked questions, waving a hand in the air regally, while the soldiers appeared to mumble, lips moving while they stared at the ground. The King jerked his right hand up and down, clearly demanding why they didn’t pull down houses to stop the fire spreading. I wondered if Bludworth would be executed. Then the King pointed west, directing Arlington’s attention away from the blaze, waving his hands from side to side above his head. Arlington nodded, before ordering two soldiers to clear a passage towards All Hallows. We waited half a minute before following. It was easy to trail him, for both soldiers carried pikes, which waved in the air above everyone’s heads.

He led us past the Steelyard and up Dowgate Hill, our passage lit by an eerie, red glow from which the inhabitants of this busy street retreated, to hide behind closed doors. The crowd was thinner here. Halfway up the street I spotted Josselin, creeping beneath the eaves of the houses ahead. He walked with strange, elongated stride, each step measured and deliberate. I poked Dowling and gestured to him to slow, so Josselin wouldn’t see us. We allowed the soldiers to pull fifty paces ahead while we focussed on trailing Josselin instead.

Josselin moved with stealth. We lost him for a minute or more, until his pale breeches reflected the candlelight from a window we

passed. I struggled to slow my breath, anxiety impeding my capacity to concentrate on fleeting images of Josselin dancing through the shadows. That anxiety increased when he suddenly stepped out into the street and appeared to stare straight at us. Then he darted across to our side of the hill and disappeared up Cloak Lane, a narrow street shrouded in darkness beneath the imposing presence of St John Baptist.

‘Do we follow?’ I whispered, for it was a strange route. Assuming Josselin still followed Arlington, why did Arlington travel north-west? Why did he not proceed north up Sopar Lane, broader and better lit?

‘Follow not that which is evil, but that which is good,’ Dowling answered, staring into the black hole. ‘Every fibre of my soul tells me to let them go. Some drama is about to unfold. Yet if we are not witness to it, I don’t know how we save ourselves.’

‘Now I feel much better,’ I grumbled, striding to the mouth of the alley. ‘Nothing to see,’ I whispered, listening hard. The wind blew like a typhoon down the narrow passageway.

Dowling squeezed my shoulder. ‘May God grant you courage.’

I resisted the temptation to slap him about the chops and stepped into the darkness. The gale whistled and screeched. No need to tread softly, so I scuttled forwards, keen to catch a glimpse of Josselin’s breeches, feeling with my hands. A curtain flapped furiously out of an open window wrapping itself about my face. I saw something move at the mouth of a tiny alley next to the churchyard of St Thomas Apostle, a crumbling church, bereft of bells. A tiny light shone in the distance. My heart pounded blood through the back of my throat.

I shook my head. ‘Why should Arlington come here?’

Dowling said nothing but stepped into the entrance of the alley and out of the wind. I squeezed after him and we edged forwards, eyes fixed

upon the light ahead. It was impossible to tell how big it was, or how far the distance.

Behind the wall to our left lay a churchyard. A pale glow marked a break in the brickwork. An iron gate hung crooked upon its hinges, almost closed, swinging gently backwards and forwards. Gravestones glimmered beneath the thinnest sliver of a moon. The light seemed close now, square, like a window.

We resumed our slow shuffle, the window looming afore us. A narrow house emerged from the darkness at the top of the alley, a mean structure with two low storeys and a sagging roof. The alley walls ran into the front of the house, offering no means of escape.

‘This is a trap,’ I whispered, a growing conviction slowing my feet.

‘Aye, so it is,’ a bright voice sounded loud from behind us. ‘Though it was not you we hoped to snare.’

I swivelled sharp to see Withypoll, rattling a cane against the graveyard wall. ‘Keep walking,’ he commanded.

There were more shadows behind him, and now a low shuffling and the sound of several men breathing at once.

The door to the house stood ajar. Lord Arlington leant back in a chair, smoking a pipe, legs crossed. His eyes glinted above the black plaster on his nose.

‘Well, well,’ he said, not troubling to smile. ‘My loyal subjects come to pay their respects.’ He jerked the pipe at two boxes on the floor. ‘Hang them.’

Withypoll grabbed me by the throat. Someone tied my hands, another my ankles, and a rope fell around my neck. Withypoll picked me up by the scruff of the neck and hauled me onto one of the boxes. I heard the rope swish through the air, and the noose jerked tight.