Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

I stumbled and nearly fell, pushing forwards with my right leg just in time. I covered my face with my arms and braced myself to be burnt alive. Instead I rolled through the sheet of fire and out into the

warm night air. Dowling staggered behind, waving his hands afore him with eyes closed, dancing on his tiptoes.

A huge explosion erupted from the top of the spire, sending giant chunks of masonry flying through the air. Bricks popped from the walls, as lead continued to drip down the side of the cathedral, shooting across the churchyard like grenades. The west gate stood open afore us, bent and crooked, twisting slowly in the heat of the burning houses. As we ran through the small gap I felt the hair wither on my head. We ran down Ludgate Hill, heading for the small black arch beneath the flaming building. I feared I heard thin wailing as we felt our way through a mist of black smoke, emerging out behind the City wall.

Thirty yards ahead down Fleet Street, behind Fleet Ditch, thick crowds blocked the road, a wall of faces glowing orange. In front of them two horses.

‘God’s mercy,’ called out the foremost rider, sitting confident upon a magnificent white charger. The King. He cantered over to where we stood, charred and smouldering, afore leaning down and regarding us with deep, brown eyes. ‘You left it late, good fellows.’ He sat up straight, threw a handful of silver upon the ground and waved a majestic hand in the air as if celebrating his own cleverness at somehow having elicited our escape. The crowd cheered while I picked up all the coins. We might need them.

While the King surveyed the scene before him, we slipped away.

I sat in a corner of St Bride’s chewing on pie crust while Dowling went in search of a candle. I could barely keep my eyes open, I was so exhausted.

The church filled fast. I recognised many of the faces from St Paul’s. We couldn’t stay here all night, but I planned to take what opportunity I might. My eyes closed and I fell asleep.

Someone kicked the back of my calf. I awoke instantly, pushing myself up to see who assailed me. A small boy looked over his shoulder, scowling, struggling to keep his balance as his mother marched purposefully towards the choir.

‘Be calm,’ Dowling growled softly from behind.

He leant against the cool, stone wall, eyes half open. A candle sat

upon the floor to his left, wick burnt halfway down.

I breathed deep in an attempt to cool the bile that simmered in my blood and sat up wide awake. I reached for the letter inside my jacket, terrified for a moment it might be gone.

Dowling reached for the candle. ‘No one has been near you, though I’ve been tempted.’

I pulled the parchment from my pocket. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’

Dowling shuffled about so he could read over my shoulder. ‘You needed the sleep. Now unfold it.’

The royal seal appeared unnaturally large and bloody in the low light of the flame. I unfolded the letter carefully and noticed immediately the name at the bottom: ‘Charles R’.

‘God save us,’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s written by the King.’

‘To the King of France,’ Dowling whispered, hoarse, almost poking a hole in the parchment with his thick forefinger. ‘We should not be reading this.’

‘If we don’t read it we won’t know what to do,’ I said, my curiosity impossible to appease. Ne’ertheless, my heart pounded a heavy beat beneath my ribs.

‘Read it aloud,’ Dowling hissed into my ear. ‘I cannot make out the words in this poor light.’

I held the letter up close to my eyes. ‘Know ye that we would welcome entering into a personal friendship, and uniting our interests so for the future there may never be any jealousies between our great nations,’ I began.

‘A pact with France?’ Dowling exclaimed, too loud. ‘Impossible.’

I bid him hush before continuing. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea. History would

imply that neither one of us might rule the seas alone, for both our nations are too proud and too strong to bow one to the other. As a consequence, we hath allowed others to establish an unnatural presence that serves neither of us well. May God will it that we settle our differences and come to an accord, so it becometh us to honour that obligation. Else God shall surely show his displeasure. Should you consider this testimony give you just cause, then might we enter into discussions of the most secret and confidential kind, for should others learn of the obligations that we shall discuss, it would surely prejudice the potential of our future union.’

‘Is that it?’ Dowling squinted at the text. ‘What of religion in this?’ he demanded. ‘The only matter that hath impeded our relations is the matter of the sea? Parliament would say otherwise. They would never sanction a Catholic union.’

Nor would they, as Charles knew well, for had his father not been executed for the very same crime? If Parliament was to find out he sought a union with Catholic France then he would surely be arrested. I scanned our surrounds to make sure none watched or listened, then read it through again slowly. There could be no doubting its content.

‘What was Arlington doing with this?’ I wondered.

Dowling huddled up too close. ‘Arlington has long been suspected to be a reluctant Protestant, the King besides.’

‘It’s a draft,’ I realised. ‘He gave it to Arlington so that Arlington might advise him on how best to proceed. They conspired.’

‘And Arlington gave it to Josselin by mistake,’ said Dowling wide-eyed. ‘The King will execute Arlington on the spot if he discovers his carelessness.’

I sat motionless, staring into the distance. This might be the King’s

death warrant in my hands. What must Josselin have thought when he read this letter?

‘Now I understand,’ I whispered. ‘Arlington accused Josselin of sabotaging peace. In truth Josselin saw the only possibility for peace was to force Arlington’s treachery out into the open.’

‘What do you mean?’ Dowling growled.

‘Josselin was staunch Protestant,’ I replied, ‘but also a loyal subject. If he revealed the contents of the third letter, he knew he condemned the King to imprisonment. If he did not, then he condemned the Dutch to English and French betrayal. Holland could not survive the combined might of England and France. No wonder he fled to Shyam.’

Dowling clasped his hands together, his Scotch accent unusually thick. I had never seen him so panicked. ‘And what of us? Where shall we flee to?’

‘Think,’ I replied. ‘What did Josselin plan to do?’

‘He ran away to Shyam,’ said Dowling.

I tapped my finger upon my thigh. ‘So he did,’ I said. ‘But then he sought to meet with Arlington, and spoke also of talking to Clarendon. He wouldn’t meet Arlington without knowing the letter was safe. So he sought safety for himself on the basis of owning the letter.’

‘Which didn’t work,’ Dowling pointed out. ‘For Arlington was determined to kill him.’

‘Arlington must have been sure Josselin would not have shared the letter with anyone else,’ I concluded. ‘Why, though, did Josselin want to see Clarendon?’

‘Clarendon is not a reluctant Protestant,’ said Dowling with approving tone.

‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But he is loyal to the King, and is the greatest advocate for peace with the Dutch.’

I let the idea settle upon my weary brain.

‘We take the letter to Clarendon,’ said Dowling. ‘Clarendon is horrified and at first refuses to believe it can be true.’