Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

‘You don’t want it?’

‘You tell me you are sent to Essex.’ Her hand shot out towards my neck and I caught it just in time. ‘That you will likely die.’ Her voice tremored and tears gathered in long pools above her lower lashes. I hadn’t seen her weep before.

‘I didn’t say I would likely die,’ I protested. ‘You did.’

She screamed loudly into my face, sweet lips wide apart, head

thrust forward like an angry rooster. Once all the breath was blown from her body she fell back onto her heels and gazed, wide-eyed and bewildered.

Dowling lumbered to his feet and attempted to wrap an arm about her shoulder. ‘I will look after him.’

‘What!’ She pushed away his arm and peered into his great blank face. ‘You will defend him from the plague will you, butcher? Methinks not. And why do you sit there all moonfaced, anyway?’ Her eyes widened and she turned to me. My heart sunk to somewhere close to my toes and I wished I had not admitted him into the house.

‘You told him,’ she whispered. ‘You told him!’

I opened my mouth and prayed for words of wisdom. Nothing happened.

‘We were at a wedding,’ Dowling ventured bravely. ‘He asked me what it was like being married.’

She stared at me, green eyes flashing.

‘He said I was like Shechem, son of Hamor the Hivite,’ I added, unable to think of anything sensible to say.

Her top lip peeled back slowly from her teeth. I wondered where to put my hands. I edged about the wall of my kitchen heading for the door, but afore I could escape she flung herself at me and wrapped her arms about my back in iron embrace. I grimaced in anticipation of being bitten on the neck, but instead I felt hot, wet breath somewhere close to my ear. I shivered and held her afront of me. She ducked her head to hide her eyes, then flung herself at me again, lifting her head and gazing up. Her lips parted and I felt something stir deep within. And something else, not so deep within.

‘I’ll keep my estate, Jane, and be back in a week,’ I assured her, feeling helpless.

At which she chewed her lip, scowled like Dowling, and stomped down the corridor and up the stairs. Leaving me stood in the kitchen in a state of complete confusion. Women speak two languages, quoth the Bard, one of which is verbal. The other I did not understand.

I followed her upstairs and knocked gently upon the door of her room, leaving Dowling to let himself out.

Next morning we met Withypoll at Whitehall.

All that remained of Berkshire’s body was a wide black stain upon the rich yellow fabric of an intricately carved, upholstered chair. All about was deathly quiet. I scanned the small room: polished walls, squat French console with legs bowed like a bulldog, a tall walnut chest of drawers. All positioned about the edge of a fine, oriental rug laid precisely upon the wooden floor. I stole a glance out the window towards the river, saw the boats meandering well away from the well-guarded jetty. Behind us lay the Privy Garden, the King’s private place of reflection and repose.

‘Arlington said they found him pinned by James Josselin’s blade,’ I recalled. ‘How did he know it was Josselin’s blade?’

Withypoll sauntered across the marquetry floor of the panelled

room like a prudish heron. Circling the chair, he opened the door of a tall, narrow cupboard. He reached inside, turned quick and tossed a sword at me. I leapt backwards as the weapon clattered to the floor. Its steel blade stretched two feet long, shiny at the tip, scarlet stain along its shaft. Two intertwined letter ‘J’s formed the bar cage, intricate and beautiful.

‘The scabbard is missing,’ said Withypoll. ‘But the weapon is Josselin’s. Every man at court would swear it.’

‘So Josselin marched into the heart of the palace, killed a man with his own blade, then left it for all to see,’ I said.

‘Marching into the palace was simple,’ said Withypoll. ‘He came here often. He was obviously interrupted and ran away. It matters not whether he left his blade or not. He was caught in the act.’

‘Who interrupted him?’ Dowling growled.

‘The guards, a servant, whoever was around,’ Withypoll replied, dismissively. ‘It is of no import. Arlington told me to show you the scene of his death, not to answer foolish questions.’

‘Seen and chased then.’ I moved slowly back to the door and looked out. ‘Across the courtyard and out into the gallery.’

Withypoll glided into a position behind my right shoulder. ‘So I presume.’

‘You presume a lot.’

‘Talk to me again like that, Lytle,’ Withypoll hissed into my ear, ‘and I shall prick your tiny heart.’

His warm breath lingered upon my neck and I felt my face flush. I determined to keep my mouth closed.

Dowling dropped to his knees in front of the chair and sniffed at the dried blood like a dog. He poked his finger into the torn cloth, wriggled it, then stood up and twisted the heavy chair about with one hand,

revealing a long, ragged tear. ‘No blood at the back.’ He dropped the chair, pulled the edges of the material apart, and invited us to peer within.

‘The blood poured out of his chest, butcher,’ Withypoll retorted. ‘Not his back.’

‘Aye,’ Dowling nodded. ‘But when a blade cuts through a piece of meat it carries the blood with it. Unless the blade is swung fast and with great force.’

‘I have never heard of a man stabbing another man to death slowly ,’ said Withypoll.

‘Indeed,’ Dowling conceded. ‘But by the time a sword reaches a man’s spine it runs slow, unless the man that plunged it is uncommonly strong.’

‘Then James Josselin is uncommonly strong,’ said Withypoll.

Dowling grunted. ‘Who was here at the time?’

Withypoll smiled. ‘The Duke of York? Prince Rupert? The Duchess of Portsmouth?’

‘All of them?’

‘I don’t know.’ Withypoll drifted out towards the gallery, suddenly bored. ‘Nor will I enquire. We’re here because Arlington told me to bring you here. He wanted you to see the scene of the killing so you might set about your task with fire in your bellies. He didn’t give you permission to interview the King’s court. Berkshire is dead and Josselin is the murderer.’

We stood at the heart of the King’s domain, not fifty paces from the King’s own quarters, his bedchamber, bathroom and laboratory. We loitered like flies that tiptoed across the sticky strands of some intricate web without being snared. Were we wise, we should count our fortune fast, afore spreading our tiny wings and seeking safe passage before the spider arrived.

‘I would like to see his corpse,’ said Dowling.

Withypoll laughed. ‘Berkshire’s body lies in state. You think his family will tolerate your intrusions? A butcher and a …’ He stared at me with black eyes.

I ran my fingers across the woven coat of arms at the head of the chair, bloodied, ruined. Pomp, majesty and circumstance, all signifying nothing. Few cared who killed Berkshire, I realised, only that someone be executed for the deed.

Withypoll removed his beaver hat and rubbed his fingers through damp yellow hair. He bent over and picked up Josselin’s sword. ‘You have seen the blood; you have seen the weapon. Even you dull fools must see what happened here.’ He replaced the sword in the cupboard. ‘Now we leave. I will not waste any more time on you two.’

He clicked his fingers and waved his arm, bidding us to trot out the door like King Spaniels.

We followed him back along the Stone Gallery out towards Pebble Court, past a long file of stiff, silent statues contorted in classical pose upon the matted floor. Behind the doors upon our left resided the King’s most favourite courtiers, each enjoying a view out onto the Privy Garden. Strange the King allowed himself to be so constantly the subject of others’ attentions. He held regular court in his bedroom, supposedly.