Antonia Hodgson - The Devil in the Marshalsea

It was dusk, the tenter fields a dim grey mass in the distance. There was just enough light to see out to the edges of the field; the old oak tree a black silhouette, its gallow branch thin and sharp against the darkening sky. A dozen crows had clustered together in a fractious squabble up ahead, cawing at one another as they prepared to roost for the night. Jakes kicked out at them with his boot and a couple flapped reluctantly into the air, landing a few feet away on the nearest burial mound.

I gazed about me in the fading light. There was no one here. Just me, Jakes and the crows. And in that moment, I understood at last – no one else was coming.

This was my place of execution. There was no cart, no cheering crowds, but I would die here. Time slowed as the truth settled about me; the crows silent and watchful, the wind still.

Jakes watched, calmly, as I raised my dagger. And then he smiled; a tinge of regret in his eyes.

I remembered the first day we’d met, riding the river to Southwark. He’d confessed then, if I’d only listened. I’ve seen better corpses on a battlefield. He’d seen the captain’s body. He had been there, that night.

‘You killed him,’ I said, backing away. ‘Your best friend. The man who saved your life.’

Jakes gazed at me evenly. ‘He saved my life, yes. And I saved his soul. I’d call that even, wouldn’t you?’

I could run – but he would never let me go. He was a sword’s reach away – but I was weak; feverish. He would run me through with his own blade in a flash. I would have to distract him somehow. I swallowed hard.

‘How could you do it? My God, Jakes – you’re a – a good, honourable man.’ Even as I spoke the words, I could not believe what he had done.

‘Because I loved him,’ Jakes said quietly, almost to himself. ‘He was my captain and my brother. I never knew a braver man on the field. But when it came to the battle for his soul … he was a coward. He always gave in to his cravings – for drink and women and gambling.’

‘You have just described half the men in England, Mr Jakes. It doesn’t give you the right to murder them.’ I stepped back, trying to put some space between me and his blade. The longer we talked, the more chance someone would pass by and call the alarm.

No one will come, Tom. You must fight this alone. Fleet’s voice, clear and urgent in my head.

‘He would have sold his wife for ten guineas,’ Jakes said, circling me warily. ‘I couldn’t let that happen. The stain on his soul… he would never have washed it clean. We never meant for him to die. We just wanted to show him where he was heading. John was a man of action, not words. You couldn’t describe hell to him. But you could show it to him.’ Jakes winced. ‘I chained him to a wall and I beat him, God help me. I showed him the corpses and the rats. And Woodburn told him how much worse it would be for him – an eternity in hell.’

I had slipped a few feet further from him as he spoke. If I could run towards the tenter grounds I might be able to lose him. It was almost dark. ‘It was an act of mercy, then?’

‘Aye!’ he snarled angrily. ‘Mock all you wish but it was merciful. I stopped him from damning himself. I risked my own soul for his – with a glad heart. John repented at the end, I know he did.’

‘Before you murdered him.’

‘It was an accident!’ Jakes cried – and I could see the torment in his eyes. ‘He’d promised to give back the money but Woodburn said to beat him again, just once more, so he would never forget. I don’t know… I don’t know what happened. I hit him and he fell back. And then…’ Tears streamed down his face. ‘He just lay there. I didn’t mean to kill him, I swear.’

‘And now he lies in an unconsecrated grave – for all your talk of saving him! Why the devil did you hang him? Why make it look like suicide except to hide your own guilt?’

Jakes rubbed the tears from his face. ‘I’d meant to leave him on the ground but the rats… They eat the eyes first, did you know that? I couldn’t…’ He swallowed. ‘I hanged him out of reach. He deserved that much.’

I said nothing, marvelling at a man who could kill his best friend, but was too squeamish to leave his corpse for the rats to feast on. Took another step back. ‘And what of Fleet? Did he deserve to be murdered in his bed?’

‘Samuel Fleet?’ Jakes spat. ‘I shall not lose a moment’s sleep for that black-hearted demon. Mitchell, I confess… that was a hard choice. But he would have died soon enough in that hell hole.’ He sighed, then gave a soft shrug. ‘He’s at peace now.’

‘And of course he can’t accuse you of murder from the grave.’

‘No. I suppose not.’ Jakes took a step forward.

I stumbled back, holding my blade high. ‘But why kill again? Why risk your soul for me? Let me run to the Mint and you will never hear of me again.’

‘You’re dying, Mr Hawkins. Gaol fever.’ He pointed with the tip of his blade to my chest, where my shirt had come loose.

I glanced down, then pulled at my shirt. My heart lurched. A dull red rash was spreading up from my stomach like an invading army. I knew what it meant. Fever. Delirium. Death. No need for Acton to send me to the gallows. I closed my shirt with trembling hands. ‘Then…’ I swallowed hard. ‘Then why kill a dying man?’

‘Because you have nothing to lose. You will tell them everything. And they will believe you.’

With that he lunged without warning. I parried, just in time, our blades clanging as they met. He swung a second time, the blow tearing the dagger almost from my grasp. I staggered back and he struck again, raining blow after blow as I parried weakly with my shorter blade. I did my best, fighting hard to defend myself – but I was no match for him. He swung again, harder this time, a shattering blow that almost threw me off my feet. The dagger flew from my hand. He punched me hard in the stomach and I fell to my knees.

He loomed above me, sword raised. I had no strength left; the sweat was pouring down my back and the world was spinning around me like a merry-go-round. The sky blazed red, caught in the last moments of sunset.

‘Have mercy,’ I said.

He brought the hilt down hard and I crumpled to the ground, barely conscious. He pulled me to my feet and slung me over his shoulder, carrying me as he must have carried Roberts, as if I weighed nothing at all. Ten, twenty, thirty paces, never breaking his stride. I was too stunned, too sick to comprehend what was happening. He flung me down then started dragging me across the ground towards the oak tree as if I were already a corpse. I felt the earth slide away beneath my feet and then I was falling, tumbling into a hole. I landed hard on my back, wind knocked from my lungs. Loose earth spattered over my face, in my mouth.

I was in a grave. He had dug a grave ready for me.

I spat the soil from my mouth. The earth was cold and dank beneath my fingers. The grave was deep – four feet at least. He must have spent hours on it. All this afternoon, when I’d thought he was out in the Borough. No need for him to ask people about the money; he already knew where it had been spent. All this time he’d stayed close, pretending to help, when really he was just making sure I never uncovered the truth.

‘I’ll say you ran off,’ Jakes said, softly, as I struggled and scrabbled to pull myself up. ‘They won’t come looking for you here. No blood on the grass. Not a sign of a struggle. I’m sorry, Mr Hawkins, truly. I’ll come and pray for you, when I can.’

‘Wait!’ I begged. I could have stood the blade at my throat but not this. Not to lie in an unmarked grave, never found, never mourned. I pulled my mother’s cross from my pocket, felt its familiar shape against my fingers. ‘Pray with me first, for pity’s sake.’