Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

they left you there to trap me. But if I hadn’t saved you, you would have died.’

Dowling nodded.

‘We performed but lowly duties for Arlington,’ I explained. ‘Then he asked us to investigate the murder of nobility, Thomas Wharton, the Earl of St Albans.’

‘The torturer?’

‘So it turned out.’ I nodded. ‘Arlington conspired with him, and expected us to point the finger at the wrong man, else get ourselves killed. In the event we had to save his life when he betrayed Wharton.’

‘And he let you live?’ Josselin’s eyes narrowed, suspicious.

‘Until now,’ Dowling replied. ‘I don’t think he expected us to leave Shyam alive, or if we did, the plan was for Withypoll to kill us. It still is.’

Josselin continued to stare, as if trying to work out the rules of an elaborate game. ‘If you betray me I will kill you.’

I shrugged. Arlington, Withypoll and the plague had exhausted my capacity for fear.

Josselin jabbed his finger. ‘You will help me.’

‘As best we can,’ I replied. ‘Though our attempt to gain you an audience with Arlington failed. He wants you dead.’

‘I must get to St Paul’s,’ he said. ‘Then you must carry a message to Arlington on my behalf.’

‘And have him kill us?’ I snorted.

‘Listen to me,’ Josselin snapped. ‘When we get to St Paul’s I will show you the letter. You can see it for yourself. Arlington will not dare kill you once he knows you have seen it.’

‘You have hidden a letter at St Paul’s?’

‘I could not keep it on my person, for if I am caught with the letter upon me then I am lost.’

‘What letter?’ Dowling grunted.

Josselin puffed out his chest and gritted his teeth like he contemplated diving into the Thames. ‘Arlington told you I sabotaged the chance of peace.’

‘Aye. You made sure De Witt saw a letter not intended for him,’ I said.

Josselin nodded. ‘So I did, but not to sabotage peace. In my view it was the only thing to do if peace was ever to be achieved.’

‘By betraying Arlington’s true intent to De Witt you hoped that England and Holland would embrace each other in peace and harmony?’ I said. ‘Arlington is Secretary of State. Once De Witt knew he plotted to spark civil war, there could be no chance of peace.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Josselin waved a hand in my face. ‘If you work for Arlington then you must know he is Catholic.’

‘There are rumours,’ Dowling said, slowly.

‘You heard right when you heard I betrayed De Buat,’ said Josselin, ‘and God forgive me for it, but De Buat will be alright. De Witt cannot punish an ambassador of the House of Orange.’

‘Why did you do it?’ I pressed him.

He clenched his fists. ‘Arlington gave me three letters. The first to De Witt pledging peaceful intent, which letter was a lie. The second letter was intended for De Buat only, encouraging him to rouse the House of Orange to fight for the reinstatement of the Prince of Orange. To fight against the Dutch, in other words. He incited them to civil war.’ He held up a hand. ‘I cannot condemn Arlington for that, for De Witt should have guessed. Indeed it might be a good thing for

the States that they confront their differences and resolve them now rather than let them drag on for years. The sooner the States resolve their differences, the sooner will emerge a stronger Protestant state, an ideal ally for England.’

I shook my head. ‘I still don’t understand why you would betray Arlington. Why distract them from their internal wrangling? By exposing Arlington’s deceit-’

‘It may unite them, it may not.’ Josselin interrupted. ‘But there will be no alliance with England for the time being, which is the right thing, for there can be no alliance with England the way things stand.’

‘What is in the third letter?’ I demanded.

‘You will not believe me until you read it yourself,’ Josselin answered. ‘So you must come with me to St Paul’s and I will show it to you.’

‘What!’ I exclaimed. ‘Tell us now!’

Josselin shook his head slowly, staring into the towering wall of flame. ‘We must climb the wall.’

The flames crept stealthily south and north. The wall stood eight feet tall.

I clambered to my feet. Iron clamps squeezed at my chest, forcing me to bend over double. I cleared my lungs and spat more phlegm.

‘You go first,’ Josselin said to me. ‘We will help you up.’

They both stood six feet tall, cupping their hands for my feet. It was easy to wriggle up on to the top of the wall where I sat straddled, wondering if I might help Dowling, but he waved me out of the way. I peered down into New Queen Street, where people scurried up and down, emptying their houses of all possessions, stacking them on the street. Three families loaded their goods into wagons; the rest would have to manage without, for now the whole city was panicked.

Dowling heaved himself arthritically upon the wall next to me, his red face sweating by my knees, leaving Josselin to spring up by himself.

‘Hey!’ a voice cried from the street below.

The shadow beneath the wall was moving. A long line of soldiers stood in a row.

‘Jump!’ roared Josselin, swinging himself into the air and down onto the street. I followed without thinking and landed on my back, Dowling’s huge feet just missing my nose. I felt myself hauled up and turned back to see a line of men stood with legs bent and arms akimbo like giant crabs, faces frozen in disbelief.

‘Don’t just stand there!’ another voice commanded from in the distance. Withypoll’s voice.

‘Run!’ Josselin urged, beckoning us towards Knightrider Street.

Thank God we climbed the wall where we did, I thought, as I urged my short legs to run as fast as they could. Had we chosen a spot away from the corner we would have landed in the middle of Arlington’s army. Careless of them not to guard each end of the street, I thought, a sense of gratitude elevating my senses. Withypoll’s doing; arrogance ever his downfall. Though they trailed us by just ten yards.

Josselin surged ahead, weaving his way through the crowded street without breaking his stride. He pulled further and further ahead, leaving me to do my best to keep up with Dowling. He ran with longer stride, but my legs moved quicker. Bread Street loomed.

‘Turn right,’ I shouted.

Dowling heard and made the turn. Bread Street was where I lived. Dowling slowed, allowing me to surge past. Four soldiers followed, the others pursued Josselin. This was my parish; these were my

streets. I darted left into a narrow lane that twisted its way onto Friday Street. Two feet wide, the soldiers would have to follow in single file. Then north until we reached St Matthew’s. I led Dowling around the churchyard wall and through a tiny opening out onto Cheapside. Then diagonally towards the mouth of Gutter Lane and into the shadow. We stopped, panting hard, my breath rasping against the lining of my throat.

‘That was close,’ I wheezed.

‘Aye, close.’ Dowling leant forwards, hands on knees. ‘And getting closer. The fire will drive us all up against the wall.’

The wind continued to billow and churn, carrying a sheet of embers above our heads. Some died, others drifted deep into the maze of close-packed houses, dry as dust. I heard the Withypoll shouting in the distance.

‘What are you two doing?’ a voice cried out from behind. ‘Make yourselves useful or clear the way!’

Two fellows pushed a large barrel down the street to which someone had fixed two sets of wheels. A third fellow led the way, parading afore it with great majesty, urging all to stand aside and let it pass, which was hardly necessary given the troubles the two men at the back were having in persuading it to roll against the cobbles.