Hearts of Darkness (25 page)

He led us past the Steelyard and up Dowgate Hill, our passage lit by an eerie, red glow from which the inhabitants of this busy street retreated, to hide behind closed doors. The crowd was thinner here. Halfway up the street I spotted Josselin, creeping beneath the eaves of the houses ahead. He walked with strange, elongated stride, each step measured and deliberate. I poked Dowling and gestured to him to slow, so Josselin wouldn’t see us. We allowed the soldiers to pull fifty paces ahead while we focussed on trailing Josselin instead.

Josselin moved with stealth. We lost him for a minute or more, until his pale breeches reflected the candlelight from a window we
passed. I struggled to slow my breath, anxiety impeding my capacity to concentrate on fleeting images of Josselin dancing through the shadows. That anxiety increased when he suddenly stepped out into the street and appeared to stare straight at us. Then he darted across to our side of the hill and disappeared up Cloak Lane, a narrow street shrouded in darkness beneath the imposing presence of St John Baptist.

‘Do we follow?’ I whispered, for it was a strange route. Assuming Josselin still followed Arlington, why did Arlington travel north-west? Why did he not proceed north up Sopar Lane, broader and better lit?

‘Follow not that which is evil, but that which is good,’ Dowling answered, staring into the black hole. ‘Every fibre of my soul tells me to let them go. Some drama is about to unfold. Yet if we are not witness to it, I don’t know how we save ourselves.’

‘Now I feel much better,’ I grumbled, striding to the mouth of the alley. ‘Nothing to see,’ I whispered, listening hard. The wind blew like a typhoon down the narrow passageway.

Dowling squeezed my shoulder. ‘May God grant you courage.’

I resisted the temptation to slap him about the chops and stepped into the darkness. The gale whistled and screeched. No need to tread softly, so I scuttled forwards, keen to catch a glimpse of Josselin’s breeches, feeling with my hands. A curtain flapped furiously out of an open window wrapping itself about my face. I saw something move at the mouth of a tiny alley next to the churchyard of St Thomas Apostle, a crumbling church, bereft of bells. A tiny light shone in the distance. My heart pounded blood through the back of my throat.

I shook my head. ‘Why should Arlington come here?’

Dowling said nothing but stepped into the entrance of the alley and out of the wind. I squeezed after him and we edged forwards, eyes fixed
upon the light ahead. It was impossible to tell how big it was, or how far the distance.

Behind the wall to our left lay a churchyard. A pale glow marked a break in the brickwork. An iron gate hung crooked upon its hinges, almost closed, swinging gently backwards and forwards. Gravestones glimmered beneath the thinnest sliver of a moon. The light seemed close now, square, like a window.

We resumed our slow shuffle, the window looming afore us. A narrow house emerged from the darkness at the top of the alley, a mean structure with two low storeys and a sagging roof. The alley walls ran into the front of the house, offering no means of escape.

‘This is a trap,’ I whispered, a growing conviction slowing my feet.

‘Aye, so it is,’ a bright voice sounded loud from behind us. ‘Though it was not you we hoped to snare.’

I swivelled sharp to see Withypoll, rattling a cane against the graveyard wall. ‘Keep walking,’ he commanded.

There were more shadows behind him, and now a low shuffling and the sound of several men breathing at once.

The door to the house stood ajar. Lord Arlington leant back in a chair, smoking a pipe, legs crossed. His eyes glinted above the black plaster on his nose.

‘Well, well,’ he said, not troubling to smile. ‘My loyal subjects come to pay their respects.’ He jerked the pipe at two boxes on the floor. ‘Hang them.’

Withypoll grabbed me by the throat. Someone tied my hands, another my ankles, and a rope fell around my neck. Withypoll picked me up by the scruff of the neck and hauled me onto one of the boxes. I heard the rope swish through the air, and the noose jerked tight.

Arlington adjusted his chair so he sat opposite us both. I could see
Dowling out the corner of my eye. If I stood on tiptoe I could just about swallow without choking. Arlington sucked his pipe and blew smoke up at the low wooden ceiling. ‘I was hoping for Josselin,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he will join us later. Meantime you might tell me who you spoke to at Clarendon’s house, and what you spoke about.’

‘I wanted to know if Josselin was in there,’ I croaked, dry-mouthed, watching Withypoll prick the blade of his long knife against his thumb. ‘They told us he was spotted in the City.’

Withypoll leered, eyes hungry. Arlington stared through my eyes and into the back of my head, sombre and steel-jawed.

‘I told you to watch for Josselin and you sought audience with Clarendon.’ He tapped the bowl of the pipe against his knee. ‘Then you smuggled yourselves into the City without telling me what you spoke about.’ He waved a hand. ‘What am I to suppose?’

‘That we are endeavouring to find Josselin for you, by whatever means,’ I replied.

‘No.’ Arlington pointed the stem of his pipe at my forehead. ‘I am to suppose I cannot trust you.’ He grimaced and pulled his coat about his shoulders, like he was cold. ‘Something about you both
rankles
with me. I don’t know what it is, but I cannot endure it any longer.’ He blew more blue smoke. ‘It is time for you to die.’

Withypoll grinned so hard I thought his face would break. The rope tightened about my throat, and my face swelled up.

Arlington smiled briefly, showing yellow teeth. ‘I promised you the Spanish donkey, Lytle, and I thought to hang the butcher from a meathook by his chin, but this is simpler.’ He brushed at his trousers with one hand and stared expectantly, as if awaiting famous last words.

Tears pricked the corners of my eyes. ‘We have been loyal to you,
done everything you asked of us and tried to do more. It is true Josselin escaped us, but we returned to London as fast as we could, to bring him to justice.’ I forced the air into my lungs, my eyes stinging. ‘And we have not finished yet. I don’t understand why you plan to kill us when still you don’t have Josselin, nor what he withholds from you.’

Arlington blinked. ‘You found Josselin in the City, then?’ He licked his lips. ‘What more did he tell you?’

‘We found Josselin at Red Rose Lane.’

Arlington frowned. ‘Pudding Lane, you mean?’

‘Aye, Pudding Lane,’ I tried to nod. ‘It was he who poisoned your soldiers when he saw how they despoiled his house and frightened his family. We saw him there and followed.’

Arlington leant forwards. ‘Did he tell you what of mine he possesses?’

‘No,’ I said quickly, fearful of the look in his eye. ‘He told us only it was a letter of some sort, that he possessed it and wanted to meet with you to discuss it. You won’t catch him, for he is cleverer than us.’

Arlington leant back, eyes hooded.

‘You don’t believe me,’ I exclaimed. ‘I told you before he wanted to talk to you. How else will you get your letter back? Who else will obtain it for you?’ I looked to Withypoll. ‘He won’t catch him.’

Withypoll glowered, like he plotted to dispense the most pain it was possible to inflict on another human being. His eyes turned a darker shade of black and he stepped close enough to kick away the box beneath my feet.

‘We found him at Shyam, we found him at Duke’s Place, and we followed him here,’ I continued.

Arlington looked to the door. ‘Josselin is here?’

‘He trailed you from Thames Street. His sole objective is to find
you. We saw him enter Cloak Lane, then lost him in our own attempt to remain undetected.’

‘Why so?’ demanded Arlington. ‘Why did you not call ahead? We could have trapped him.’

‘Because we know that Withypoll wants to see us dead, your lordship,’ I exclaimed. ‘Every step we take, he tells us he will see us dead. He seeks revenge and will not forgive us.’

‘Nor would I, Lytle,’ Arlington said, softly. ‘How could any man trust you?’

‘We do not leave everyone we find,’ I reminded him.

Withypoll pulled a thin-bladed knife from his jacket. ‘Enough,’ he slurred, crimson-cheeked.

‘Hold,’ Arlington commanded, holding up one hand. ‘You speak well, Lytle. Why then do I not trust you?’

I raised my brow at Withypoll. ‘Because this fellow speaks in your ear? And because I saved your life and you don’t trust us not to tell anyone.’

Dowling breathed inwards, sharply. Withypoll straightened his back and smiled again, pity vying with evil intent upon his haggard face.

Arlington drew on his pipe and regarded Withypoll with quizzical eye. ‘You’re right, he does talk in my ear. And he
has
discovered nothing.’

Withypoll’s brows shot so far up his head it looked like he swallowed a fly.

Arlington ignored him. ‘You say Josselin followed us here. Where is he now?’

‘I reckon he hides in the churchyard of Thomas Apostle,’ I replied, aware he was testing me.

Withypoll turned, eyes blazing. He and the soldiers had been waiting in the churchyard.

‘Or somewhere else we will not find him.’

‘Hmm.’ Arlington frowned. ‘Then how do we catch him?’

‘He wants to meet you. I reckon he will meet you only in a public place where he believes he is in control of the surroundings.’ Where he
would
be in control, because he was more intelligent than Arlington and Withypoll combined. ‘A place with open space and lots of light.’

‘You listen to him?’ Withypoll snorted. ‘Josselin is trapped inside the City walls. He will take whatever opportunity we offer him.’

Arlington stood. ‘I have to get back to the fire. The King will be wondering where I am.’ He clicked his fingers in Withypoll’s face. ‘We will give these two another opportunity.’

Withypoll scowled.

‘You have until tomorrow to find Josselin.’ Arlington turned to face us once more. ‘Do not disappoint.’

He opened the door and stepped out into the alley. The sky burnt orange, framing Arlington’s squat silhouette. We were left alone with Withypoll.

‘Very clever,’ he hissed, sitting on Arlington’s chair, elbows on knee, staring at the blade of his knife. ‘You think you saved yourselves, don’t you?’

He eyed the soldiers, growled and shook his head, still furious. Then he went to the door and stuck his head out into the alley. ‘The fire is spreading fast,’ he called. ‘I can hear the flames at the end of Old Fish Street.’

I couldn’t hear flames, but I heard the sound of men shouting, women screaming. London was in chaos. Those whose houses burnt would be scrambling to empty their houses. The streets would soon
be full of overladen carts filled with people’s possessions, most with no obvious place to go. The City gates would be overrun with citizens seeking to fetch their goods away, find somewhere else to stay. The soldiers at the gates would find themselves overwhelmed, not knowing what to do. Men outside the gate would be pushing to get in, to help with the effort to fight the fire. Men and women would be fighting to get out, as far away from the fire as they could get. Josselin had created the perfect world in which to travel unseen.

Withypoll tipped his beaver hat, face empty of all expression. ‘Arlington told me to leave you, so we will leave you.’ He gestured at the two soldiers to exit the door. ‘Good luck,’ he said, quietly. ‘I think this makes us even.’

With which he closed the door behind and left us to our fate. The key turned in the lock and his footsteps faded away down the alley.

‘A prayer, Davy,’ I whispered, rope digging into the flesh about my ears. Light shone in from a little window at the top of the far wall. Impossible to say if it was fire or dawn. ‘We need a good prayer.’

I realised I forgot to visit Culpepper. The deadline passed.

A tiny muscle in my neck locked in spasm, shooting stabbed pains down the left side of my head. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the agony. My calf muscles cramped and my toes ached, yet I couldn’t relieve the pressure even a fraction, for every time I relaxed, just an inch, the rope tightened a little more.

‘How are you, Dowling?’ I managed a strangulated whine.

Dowling growled. ‘There came a great wind and smote the four corners of the house, and it fell upon the young men, and they are dead.’

‘The wind may die down,’ I replied, not sure I understood. ‘It’s been blowing for two days.’

He didn’t answer.

‘What about God?’ I asked. ‘Will He not save us?’

‘Upon your head the name of blasphemy,’ he swallowed.

My eyeballs were popping out of my head. ‘If the fire does arrive, then perhaps it will burn the rope first,’ I suggested.

‘For that we should pray very hard indeed,’ Dowling replied, solemn. ‘Yet I fear you lack the faith.’

‘Well you pray, then,’ I retorted. ‘For you have the faith of a thousand, do you not?’ I felt suddenly hopeless.

‘You
are
an atheist, then,’ Dowling exclaimed, in shrill triumph.

‘Just because I don’t live my life as if someone were watching from the sky does not make me an atheist.’

Dowling muttered something while I contemplated the silence and tried to quell the panic and fear. I needed to piss.

Thin wisps of smoke slithered under the door, swallowed up before they reached the ceiling, leaving behind only the acrid smell of burning wood. Then the faintest sound of crackling flames, creeping up to the door with despicable malintent. The air grew cloudy, the door blurry and my eyes began to water. I jerked my wrists despite the tightening cord about my neck, fighting the terror that throttled my heart. A wave of black fog billowed into the room, choking and harsh, drifting to the roof and hanging there. I held my breath and tried not to move, my head dizzy. I closed my eyes. Dowling coughed and coughed again, wheezing until he retched.

I tried to shout, but no words came out. My breath rasped at the back of my throat. Tears streamed and the flesh about my eyes burnt. I tried again to hold my breath, but my mouth burnt and filled with phlegm. I was forced to breathe deep, but nothing happened. Then I coughed so hard it felt like my body conspired to turn itself inside out and my lungs threatened to explode. Strange lights danced in front of my eyes.

Shrewsbury’s face floated before my gaze, the bags about his eyes so loose and floppy his eyeballs appeared shrunken. He wore a dark grey cloak about a cadaverous body, thin and bony. The syphilis ate him. He hovered just below the ceiling, forcing his face into mine, grinning like a demon. His face was long like Josselin’s. It had ne’er struck me before how alike they appeared. A heavy thud sounded in my ears, like an axe against a block. Had Shrewsbury chopped off Dowling’s head? I tried to turn and see, but someone grabbed my ankles and lifted them into the air. I glided across the floor towards a fiery glow. Shrewsbury was dragging me to Hell! I tried to jerk my feet loose, kicking out at the bindings that would not be free. I heard my voice rattle as sputum filled my throat. Smoke snaked into my mouth and nose, my head spun. Then something hit me in the face. A strong wind.

‘Stir yourself, Lytle,’ someone shouted into my ear.

I opened my eyes to see Dowling’s red, sweaty face pressed close against mine. I could hardly see, my eyes were so crusted. I tried to bring a hand round to wipe them, but couldn’t move. I turned to see Josselin holding my other arm, the two of them forcing me up the narrow alley. My back burnt so hot I feared my shirt was on fire.

‘I’m glad you came,’ I tried to say, but succeeded only in spraying Josselin’s face with a lungful of green mucus.

He spat on the floor without moving his head, struggling to hold me straight. I stretched my legs and attempted to swing them in rhythm with our slow procession back towards College Hill.

‘I can walk myself,’ I croaked, afore choking again. I dug my heels in the ground and pulled my arms free, falling backward upon the alley floor. Dowling knelt at my side and peered into my eyes.

‘I can walk,’ I said again, tugging on his shirt as I staggered to my feet.

‘Then walk fast,’ Josselin grumbled. ‘The fire is closing in on all sides.’

I turned to see our prison ablaze, flames filling the space within, consuming all with voracious appetite. Then the roof collapsed, sending sparks flying up into the sky, where the wind seized them and carried them west, towards the rest of the City.

‘God’s teeth!’ Josselin exclaimed from behind.

I followed his gaze and saw only fire. College Hill disappeared. Josselin watched frozen, eyes wide.

‘You did this,’ I reminded him, head still giddy. My guts churned and I vomited onto the floor beneath my feet.

‘Into the graveyard,’ Dowling shouted.

He grabbed me by the collar while I still sat crouched, waiting for another spasm. He dragged me towards the middle of the churchyard, away from the worst of the heat and smoke.

I sat on a gravestone watching the flames surge twenty or thirty feet above our heads, roaring with insane ferocity. Though I sat thirty paces away, still the heat engulfed my face, threatening to burn it from my skull. City bells rang loud from all direction, deafening even amidst the blaze of the fire.

Dowling sat close while Josselin strode off in search of something.

I shouted to be heard above the din. ‘Josselin saved us?’

Dowling nodded, twisting the rope about his wrists into giant knots. ‘He chopped the walls with an axe.’

I plunged my head between my legs, fighting the nausea. ‘That was good of him.’

Josselin prowled the inner wall of the churchyard, everything
glowing a fiery orange. The wall encircling us rose eight feet tall, with only one other gate, leading directly inside Thomas Apostle, already lit. The leaves of a large oak tree, stood majestically to our left, flickered and glowed like little candles against the black sky as sparks fell onto its branches and nestled against its dry body.

I struggled to remember. ‘Is it day or night?’

Dowling nodded at the horizon to the west. ‘Night still.’

‘We must climb the wall,’ Josselin called, striding through the grass.

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘The fire cannot reach us here, nor can Arlington. The fire will burn itself out by tomorrow.’

Josselin stood with hands on hips, staring at the flames like they were a great inconvenience. ‘I have to get to St Paul’s.’

‘We can go when the fire has diminished,’ I replied.

He looked at me as if I were a great fool and stuck his hand up in the air. ‘Feel the wind, Lytle. How long do you think it will take this wind to carry the fire down Watling Street?’

God save us, he was right. The idea that Paul’s might bow to this fire seemed ludicrous. It had stood for six centuries, had seen off fire, lightning, radical Protestants and Cromwell’s Model Army. That it might now fall to the hands of the man that stood before me seemed unthinkable. Yet the fire was already halfway there, in less than a day. ‘What is at St Paul’s you desire so badly?’

‘No.’ Josselin stabbed his finger at my forehead. ‘Let me ask you a question first. What is your relationship with Arlington? I assumed you played some complex game, that you sought to gain my trust on Arlington’s behalf.’ He looked at my pocket. ‘I have seen you smoke your strange leaves, and watched you emerge from Shyam unscathed. I saw Arlington and Withypoll come out of the house and thought
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.