Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘But then he looks at the seal and the signature,’ I continued. ‘Reminds himself what a vile creature Arlington is, and realises the King has been plotting behind his back.’

‘So he shouts and screams, and throws things about Clarendon House,’ said Dowling, ‘and realises he must do something.’

‘Clarendon would never countenance a union with a Catholic state,’ I guessed. ‘He would hot-foot it to the palace and remonstrate in private with the King, persuading him the idea is wicked folly.’ I raised a brow. ‘Whereupon the King would be forced to agree, since he could not risk allowing anyone outside his immediate counsel to even suspect him of entertaining the thought.’

‘And what of us?’

What of us indeed? ‘We would be utterly dependent on Clarendon’s whim. If the King were to demand we be put to death, what motive would Clarendon have to argue?’ I pondered. ‘His own safety, perhaps? They say Charles cannot abide Clarendon, that he preys upon the royal nerves. Were Clarendon to tell him that two of his own men knew the secret and possessed the letter, then the King could not touch him.’

‘Which supposes Arlington did not tell the King about us afore he died,’ Dowling said.

‘If he has told the King, we have no defence at all,’ I pointed out. ‘Once he discovers Arlington is dead, he will send out his whole army to find us. But I doubt he told the King anything, for to do so he

would have to confess to the King what he did with the letter.’

‘We should seek Clarendon’s help,’ Dowling concluded. ‘Either way, it is our only chance.’

‘And quickly,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Afore we are arrested.’

The roads about Fleet Street and Shoe Lane teemed thick, crowds hurrying somewhere or another with great intent. Soldiers pressed the fit and healthy into passing buckets from Fleet Ditch, forming a chain all the way to Ludgate. At the end of the chain an optimistic fellow threw the contents of every pail in the direction of the roaring fire, without discernible effect.

Some slipped surreptitiously between the shadows, preparing to flee, seeking wagons and horses to carry their possessions away, for fear the fire would escape the City walls. Those already dispossessed got in everyone else’s way, wandering aimlessly, silent and confused, else loudly bewailing their plight to all and sundry.

We hurried along The Strand towards Haymarket. By Charing Cross the crowds dissipated and I noticed we were not the only ones walking fast. Three men, wearing brown leather jerkins over their shirts, hurried behind.

‘Stop!’ one shouted. ‘Where are you going?’

We obliged, for they were too close to escape, and all were armed.

‘To St Giles’ Fields,’ I called. ‘I would know if my cousin is safe.’

‘You take a long route to St Giles’ Fields,’ one of them panted, pulling up alongside. ‘A shorter road to Clarendon House.’

‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘Do I look like the Earl of Clarendon?’

‘No,’ he smiled. ‘You do not. You look like the two fellows Lord Arlington wishes to talk to.’

‘Arlington?’ I felt my mouth go dry. ‘Lord Arlington is dead.’

The three men regarded each other with knowing expressions.

‘Not dead, friend,’ the leader replied. ‘Pan-fried and crispy, perhaps, but not dead.’

A boat and three more soldiers waited for us at the river. A crowd of angry citizens shouted and threw stones, desperate to cross to the south bank, for now the bridge was inaccessible.

The soldiers bundled us through the crowd, clearing a path without decorum, shoving and waving their swords. A tall man with wild eyes and red cheeks thrust his face towards us, and the soldier stabbed him just beneath the ribs. He stumbled forwards, grasping for my arm, just as I fell into the bottom of the skiff.

I lay there prone while the boat lurched out to the middle of the river. When I looked up, heavy-headed, I saw the whole terrible glory of it all. The entire City blazed, from west wall almost to the Tower, flames pushed left by the swirling gale. Plumes of poisonous smoke blanketed the sky, high as a man could see. Boats covered the

water, small and large, many sinking dangerously deep into the river, overburdened with the possessions of those that fled.

I sat frozen, entranced by the sight of it, bewildered by the notion that Arlington could possibly still be alive. How else could he have escaped other than down Ludgate Hill? Yet flames engulfed the hill just minutes after we ran through the gate.

‘Have you seen Arlington yourself?’ I asked one of the soldiers.

He threw back his head and brayed like a donkey. ‘Aye, I saw him. Stood there smoking, shirt and his breeches still smouldering. An angrier man I have not seen in my life.’ He laughed again. ‘Angry with you, I’ll be bound.’

‘Are you sure it was him?’

‘You will see him yourself, soon enough,’ the man replied, smile fading as we neared the Tower.

We rode the current fast through the starlings, past the bridge and out onto stiller waters the other side, before the boat lurched left for the Tower. More soldiers waited at Tower Wharf. As we neared the quay I thought of the Spanish donkey. Today would be the day I rode her, I wagered, unless God affected some unlikely intervention. I pictured Arlington piling up the weights in anticipation of our arrival. My bowels loosened, and I sought Dowling’s attention. He frowned so hard I could barely see his eyes.

They dragged us through the Tower Gate and out along the high-walled passage leading to the ruins of the Develin Tower. As we climbed the stone stairs I listened acutely for any sound from above, but all was quiet. What was God thinking, I thought, to save Arlington of all people?

The soldiers in front of us pushed open the door. One burly fellow stepped forward, grim-faced and sombre, but the others hung back.

‘At last,’ hissed a familiar voice from the far end of the room.

Something flew past my nose, crashing against the stone wall behind my head. Arlington’s short stocky frame emerged from the shadow, bristled face foremost, skull covered in a thin layer of tiny, frazzled hairs. The scar upon his nose stood out in an angry, purple welt, black plaster gone. His skin was dull black, as if permanently singed. Patches of angry, red flesh stood out like beacons, weeping upon his cheek. Without eyebrows or eyelashes, yellow teeth bared in fury, he resembled some strange monster climbed from the depths of the Thames.

‘Did you find the letter?’ he demanded, rounding the frayed head of the Spanish donkey, stood menacingly in the middle of the room.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Show me it.’

I shook my head. ‘No.’

‘Prove you have it.’

I recited what I could remember from the letter. ‘

As a consequence, we hath allowed others to establish an unnatural presence that serves neither of us well .’

‘Give it to me.’

‘We don’t have it with us,’ I replied. ‘If we had it, you would kill us.’

‘Take off your clothes,’ Arlington demanded. ‘We will see if you speak truth.’

I glanced over my shoulder at the big man, stood stony-faced at the door, arms folded. I took off my jacket, loosened my breeches, peeled off my shirt and lowered my drawers. Dowling followed suit, eyeing me sideways, brow furrowed. We stood naked with our hands covering our yards while the big man rummaged through our clothes.

Arlington kicked our clothes with the tip of his boot, body trembling with rage. ‘Tell me where the letter is or I will hang you from the donkey.’