Hearts of Darkness (5 page)

‘What are you knitting?’ I asked.

‘A pall,’ she smiled, placid.

A pall? Did she mean a robe, a cloak, or a coffin shroud? I thought
to enquire further, but couldn’t find the words. A long cold finger crept slowly up my spine. I exclaimed aloud, which sudden noise caused the old woman to jump in the air. I apologised and followed her back to the street.

Dowling emerged from the shadows, shoulders hunched. ‘What did you discover?’

‘Arlington just killed one of the King’s most loyal subjects,’ I replied, glum, ‘and James Josselin is betrothed to a child.’

It was all madness.

I thought of Eliza and Jane. ‘I will tell
my
betrothed everything before we leave,’ I determined.

Dowling frowned, puzzled. ‘Your betrothed?’

‘My housemaid,’ I corrected myself. ‘Come on. I have things to do before we must leave.’

I leant my shoulder against the shop door and forced it open. A cloud of dust billowed out onto the street, dry and choking. The windows hadn’t been cleaned for many years, a thick layer of grease and dirt holding the light at bay. The air smelt green, like a long-buried coffin. An angular figure lurked in the far corner, head ducked, face invisible in the gloom.

‘Culpepper?’ I called, stepping into the shop. Shelves covered the left wall, tall chests with tiny drawers the other wall. A large mortar and pestle sat upon the desk behind which Culpepper quietly dozed, next to a pile of dirty pots and pans.

I watched him sleeping, a frayed old wig slipped forward upon his brow so I couldn’t see his eyes. I took the opportunity to wander the shop, imagining for a few sweet moments it was mine already, relishing the chance to inspect the place unmolested. Every other time I visited,
Culpepper hovered at my elbow, fussing like an old goose, forbidding me to touch any of the jars and implements. Now I knew why, for several of the jars were cracked and broken, their contents mouldy and shrivelled.

His body rumbled as he snored. Culpepper was past seventy, and newly prone to inopportune remarks since the deaths of his aged wife and ill-tempered son. I wondered if he was capable of passing on his knowledge to me.

His lower lip hung loose from the rest of his mouth, revealing dark, shrivelled gums. Just two teeth protruded from his lower jaw, yellowed and worn. He sat with legs akimbo, tight belly sunk low into his groin. A pungent odour escaped from his clothes. He hadn’t washed in a long time.

Sad how the spirit of a man disappeared beneath a layer of rotting flesh. Culpepper established this shop more than forty years ago, preparing lozenges and pastes from local-grown herbs and treating the poor for free. He condemned his fellow physicians for their greed, incurring the wrath of the Society of Apothecaries because he insisted on selling cheap herbal remedies instead of their more expensive concoctions. Yet he would not be cowed, and so was frequently imprisoned, confined in conditions that slowly ate at his health and good mind. Once famous, now forgotten, a relic in his own museum.

I opened one of the tiny drawers in the great chest. Behind me Culpepper snorted like an old horse and embarked on a long coughing fit. In the drawer lay a dead cockroach on its back.

‘Lytle,’ Culpepper growled. ‘What are you doing here? Today is Friday.’

I closed the drawer and turned to face him. He peered at me
through rheumy eyes, breathing hoarse. His wig perched crooked upon his old head.

‘I have to postpone our arrangement,’ I said. ‘I must go away for a few days.’

‘Go away?’ Culpepper jerked his wig straight. ‘Are you reneging on your promise?’

‘No.’ I assured him. ‘Lord Arlington has sent me east, on a mission.’

Culpepper clicked his tongue. ‘I thought you turned your back on that business. Perhaps I should find another who would learn my trade.’

‘I
have
turned my back,’ I protested. ‘But Arlington is a difficult man to turn your back upon. He has set us one more task and I am not free to refuse.’

‘Hah!’ Culpepper scowled. ‘How many times will he set you one more task you cannot refuse? Either you wish to become an apothecary or you do not.’

‘I am determined,’ I said. ‘Have we not signed a contract? I will honour that contract.’

‘If you live.’ Culpepper’s eyes narrowed. ‘They still have plague in Essex, do they not?’

‘Aye.’ I nodded. ‘Which is why Arlington sends us. We have to fetch a man from Colchester.’

Culpepper stayed sat upon his big chair, one brow raised, the other lowered, regarding me with big bleary eyes, lower lip protruding like he prepared to break wind. ‘Half of Colchester is dead, and the Pest shows no sign of abating.’ He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘Lord Arlington doesn’t like you.’

‘No,’ I agreed.

Culpepper dug a finger in his ear. ‘I give you a week, else our
agreement is void. I have two more offers for this business and will not be cheated. I don’t expect to live much longer.’ He struggled to his feet. ‘Though longer than you, perhaps.’

‘Thank you, Nicholas.’ I bowed my head. ‘Rest assured. I am determined to make a success of this business.’

‘Good luck,’ he muttered. ‘The road to Colchester is well guarded.’ He cleared his throat and steadied himself. ‘Wait a moment.’

He supported himself on his desk with one hand and eyed the chest against the wall, breathing deep, preparing himself for the short walk from one side of the room to the other before shuffling off with great intent.

He grasped the tall cabinet as soon as it was in reach, pulling out a little drawer a couple of rows higher than the one that contained the dead insect. He extracted a packet the size of his fist and held it out for me to take.

I poked a finger into the mass of dried leaves, close-packed within. I pinched a few leaves between finger and thumb and stuck them up my nostril. ‘What are they?’

He staggered back to his seat. ‘They will protect you.’

Protect me from plague, I assumed, along with a hundred other concoctions peddled about the City, all of them useless.

‘They say it’s like sage,’ he wheezed. ‘It doesn’t grow in Europe. I paid a lot of money.’

‘How much do you want for it?’ I asked, grudgingly.

He shook his head. ‘A gift.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, surprised. ‘What do I do with it?’

‘Smoke it.’ He raised a wizened finger. ‘In the morning and at night. Do that and maybe I will see you again.’

‘Thank you.’ For the thought, at least. I suppose he sought to protect his investment.

‘Be mindful, Harry. The man who commits a sin worthy of death shall be put to death and hanged from a tree.’ He regarded me with such utter seriousness I felt obliged to bow my head, as if the words made sense.

I edged backwards. ‘Until next week.’

I turned and left my shop behind. Just for a week.

Culpepper’s leaves weighed heavy against my thigh. I had smoked a pipe already that morning, a giddy experience that left my head floating a few inches above my body. If I closed my eyes I could feel Jane walking beside me in a white, shimmering dress. I opened them again after I tripped over Dowling’s foot and landed face first on the cobbles. With my eyes open I felt extraordinary lonely. Shyam was Hell, and I was afraid. Jane’s voice sounded in my ear, tickling like a fly.

I rubbed the dirt from my cheek. ‘Jane was right. If Josselin fled all the way to Shyam, what can we say to persuade him to return? That all is forgiven and we promise safe passage?’

‘He ran because he was afraid,’ Dowling replied, marching across the cobbles. ‘He will not prove his innocence hiding in Shyam. By the
time we find him his temperament may have righted.’

‘What do we know of his temperament?’ I grumbled. ‘His mother told us nothing, his betrothed told us less. I pray
someone
might tell us of the man.’

‘God will watch over us,’ said Dowling with customary
simple-mindedness
.

‘Then may he strike down Withypoll with a thunderbolt,’ I exclaimed.

‘The Lord our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth.’

Righteous and vindictive it seemed to me, but I said nothing. If we were to negotiate this journey without losing our lives, we would need to be mindful as well as hopeful. I resolved to manage my fear as well I could, to ensure I didn’t become distracted. Culpepper’s leaves seemed to help.

Withypoll waited at Bishopsgate perched atop of a great, black mare, grinning like it was the best day of his life. Relieved, no doubt, we hadn’t scuttled from the City in the middle of the night. The first glinting of sun shone red behind the back of his head, bathing us all in orange glow.

Two more horses stood soft shouldered, noses to the cobbles, one dark brown, the smaller one white. I prayed mine was sweet-tempered.

I recalled the day, two years ago, when soldiers fetched me to Tyburn in the back of a cart. How the terror spread from my belly to my fingers and toes as we neared Tyburn Hill. The cruel smirks upon the faces of the spectators who lined the streets, waiting for us to try and escape, ready to throw us back. Today Withypoll was the crowd and that twitchy-looking beast was the cart. I inhaled a deep breath and walked calm.

‘Good morning, rogues,’ Withypoll hailed us hearty. ‘Why so
glum? Today we renew acquaintance with an old friend.’ He laughed at his own joke while his horse snorted and rolled its eyes like it would trample us to death.

I slung my pack upon my steed’s saddle, filled with all the bread and meat Jane had in the pantry and two gourds of fresh water. The horse looked up, only faintly interested, as I hauled myself upon its back and concentrated on sitting straight.

There were few folks around to watch us leave, just a thin procession of tradesmen braving the end of the night, scuttling through the shadows as if afraid of being seen. Out of London we saw no one at all, just the long road east stretching ahead, deserted and overgrown.

Birds sang from the forest and the undergrowth shifted occasionally in response to the sound of the horses’ heavy hooves. I felt like
I
was Death, riding towards a place of hopelessness and misery, avoided by all that breathed.

Once the air warmed, I slung my jacket across the horse’s broad shoulders, clinging with my thighs to its back, trying not to look down. Dowling rode alongside breathing heavier than his steed, resenting the presence of Withypoll behind.

We reached the Ilford turnpike mid morning. A dilapidated gate hung unsteady on a rotting timber framework, supported by a pile of rocks and stones. Three stools lined up in a row, all empty. Withypoll kicked the gate and it toppled over, leaving us open passage. So much for local diligence. All turnpikes were supposed to be manned with armed men. I had been counting on one of those armed men to take umbrage at Withypoll’s arrogance and shoot him dead.

A hundred yards past the turnpike we came across a coach lain
upon its side in a ditch. It looked like it rested here several days, the fabric across the canopy peeling and rotten.

Faint scrabbling noises sounded from within. We stopped our horses upon the other side of the road, Withypoll as curious as us. Dowling swung himself to the ground and approached.

A pale face emerged into the sunshine from out the coach window, blinking, followed by a long, thin body, unravelling itself awkwardly. Two smaller heads popped up and down, children watching their father’s every move. His trousers were soiled and stained, shirt torn, jacket shrunk so small it barely reached his elbows. My heart groaned a mournful wail when I saw the familiar growth pushing through the skin of his neck. A bubo. This one was white, the most deadly kind, meaning he would certainly die. He stared, long face haggard, brow dripping. Not an old man, I realised with a jolt, just withered.

He stretched out a hand, trembling on spindly legs. Dowling stepped away as the man staggered towards him. The two little heads protruded farther now, necks stretched. Their father lowered his hand and made a sad noise, words I supposed, though I couldn’t discern them. What he sought of us I couldn’t tell, but Dowling dug into his pocket and pulled out some coins. Much good money would do him.

Before Dowling or I could move, Withypoll kicked his big horse forwards and brought his blade slashing down upon the infected man’s neck. Blood arched in a great spray upon the road. The man shuffled in a tight circle, clutching at his throat, eyes wide, afore falling to his knees and then his side. The heads disappeared.

‘Did you not see the children?’ Dowling roared, grabbing at Withypoll’s bridle. A long line of blood marked Dowling’s shirt and trousers, from chest down to his knee.

‘He would have died before sunset anyway,’ Withypoll sneered. ‘It eases your conscience to leave children in the company of a corpse-to-be, rather than a corpse? You won’t be able to look away so easily where we’re going.’ He wiped the blade of his sword against his saddle. ‘Get back on your horse.’

Dowling turned his back and strode deliberately to the coach. He climbed up onto its side and peered down into the box below before jerking up straight with his hands to his mouth, almost losing his balance. He crouched frozen a moment, before slithering back to the ground, breathing deeply, face flushed.

‘What will you do now, butcher?’ Withypoll laughed. ‘Cure them with a touch of your finger?’

Dowling ignored him. He rummaged in his saddle and withdrew a round pie and full gourd. He returned to the coach, climbed up again on its side and held out the food. Children’s hands reached up, took the provisions and disappeared. Dowling took one last look at what he saw below, grey-faced and stiff-shouldered, then returned to his mount.

‘It’s a hot day, butcher.’ Withypoll gesticulated at the sky. ‘May you drink from the trough like the horses, for you’ll have no water of mine.’

The dead man lay still upon the floor, flies crawling over the bleeding gash.

‘We cannot leave him here,’ I said.

‘Touch that body and I will slice off your hand,’ Withypoll barked, a cruel smile evaporated from his long, brutal face. ‘We have wasted enough time.’

Dowling’s heavy-lidded expression betrayed an inner torment. He glanced at the body but left it alone. He remounted and kicked his
horse forwards. I waited for Withypoll to pull away ahead of us, far enough in front that I could talk to Dowling unheard. I drew up alongside and cast him what was intended to be an inquisitive gaze.

‘The mother’s been dead a few days,’ he muttered. ‘One of the children is dead, the other two infected.’

Which few words created in my mind a vision so terrible I reined back, fearing he might share more. Withypoll’s back bobbed up and down, body moving easily with his steed, oblivious to the smell of death that followed us in long plume. How confident he was, mindless of the possibility we might knife him from behind. Well he knew us.

Ahead squatted a low stone bridge, beyond it the sound of chains clinking. A black silhouette appeared on the bridge, advancing slowly in our direction, shuffling in rhythm with the rattle of chains. As it approached I saw it was a man, and behind him two more men, two women, and a boy. A tall fellow wearing a brown leather coat followed, poking them periodically with a long stick. A long sword at his belt dragged in the dirt.

The man at the front stared to the ground, round-shouldered and hopeless, an empty hollowness that spoke of despair. His shirt hung in tatters about his chest, barely covering his bony ribs. Though it was sunny, a fresh breeze kept the air cool, yet they all dripped sweat like they walked for hours.

‘What is going on?’ Dowling called.

The man in the leather coat peered up. ‘What business is it of yours? You shouldn’t be here.’

‘King’s men,’ Withypoll replied, leaning forwards on the horn of his saddle. ‘Answer the question.’

‘They come from Chelmsford,’ the man answered, jabbing one of the women viciously in the back of the thigh. She stumbled a moment,
but recovered. ‘They tried to cross the turnpike. When we refused them passage they said they would walk through the fields at night, so we arrested them, for at least one has plague, and if one has plague, likely they all do.’

‘Where are you taking them?’ Dowling demanded.

‘To Cutler’s barn,’ the warden replied. ‘We’ll lock them up for forty days, and if they still live when we open the door, they may proceed on their way.’

‘You’ll feed them?’ growled Dowling.

‘They’ll get food and water,’ the man replied. ‘For as long as they need it.’

‘Stop a moment.’ I jumped from the back of my horse. ‘I want to talk to them.’

The man with the stick eyed me suspiciously, but struck the boy on his ankles, forcing him to stop.

I tried to catch the eye of any one of them, but they all gazed at their feet. ‘When did you leave Chelmsford?’ I asked, keeping my distance.

None responded.

‘Did you come across a fellow travelling in the opposite direction?’ I asked. ‘A tall fellow, James Josselin.’

One of the women raised her head. Her eyes shined, yet failed to focus. The bones in her face stuck out sharp and her cheeks were gaunt. If she didn’t die of plague, likely she would die of hunger.

I approached her closer. ‘You saw Josselin?’

She nodded quickly. ‘Before Witham,’ she whispered. ‘He spoke to us. We were so happy when he told us who he was.’

‘You know him?’ I asked.

‘Of course,’ she replied, voice trembling. ‘Every man knows James
Josselin. That he returns to Colchester is a great sign, a miracle.’

‘How was he?’

‘A handsome man,’ she said.

‘Was he ill?’

She shook her head. ‘He rode a black horse, tall and proud, like the gentleman he is. He gave us his food and shared kind words.’

‘And he headed for Colchester?’

She nodded again. ‘As I said.’

‘What else do you know of him?’

She looked to the man with the stick, bewildered. ‘He is James Josselin,’ she said. ‘A great man.’ She bowed her head as if afraid of being struck.

‘In what state is Colchester?’ asked Dowling, changing the subject, much to my frustration.

‘Half the town is dead, the other half waits,’ she replied in dull monotone.

Though I imagined nothing less, still my heart stiffened inside my chest.

‘We must go,’ said the man with the stick, gruff.

Withypoll snorted. ‘Locking them in a barn will not deter anyone,’ he said. ‘You should shoot them through the head and string them from gibbets.’

The six in chains appeared not to hear his cruel words, but I yearned to punish him. Instead we watched the procession renew its miserable passage.

Over the bridge more people stopped to watch, dull-faced and laggardly, like their heads slept atop their walking bodies. All was silent, as if the villagers swore an oath never to speak. Withypoll rode oblivious, staring with undisguised contempt. I felt uneasy and kicked
my horse, but it refused to respond, maintaining the same pace as Withypoll’s mount.

A wild-eyed fellow stepped in front of us, waving a musket. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘You cannot pass through here. Go back the way you came.’

Two more men emerged from the gathering, both carrying thick staves.

‘We have credentials,’ Withypoll replied, staring down his nose. ‘Get out of our way, else suffer the consequences.’

The wild-eyed fellow stayed his ground, staring expressionlessly. Only his lips moved, twitching in spasm. Withypoll snorted, then spurred his horse straight at him, the great, ugly steed sending the wild fellow sprawling to the dirt. I wondered if he died, but he rolled over, groaning. Withypoll sneered just afore one of the other men hit him on the back of the head with a long stick. He fell sideways off his horse, crashing onto the road and landing on one shoulder. Blood trickled into the dirt from a gash on the back of his head and he didn’t move. God spake, I thought, the hairs on my neck prickling with excitement. Withypoll’s assailants stood around him in a circle, sticks raised above their heads, madness in their eyes. I held my breath. If he wasn’t dead, then surely they would finish him.

‘What is going on?’ a voice called.

A smart fellow marched towards us, clean-shaven chin perched high upon a stiff, white collar, hair smeared with some kind of oil to keep his hair straight. He spoke with rounded vowels and carried one arm held out in front of him parallel to the ground, hand hanging limp. ‘You men. Step aside.’

His head jerked like a rooster, twitching at every movement, like
he feared being assaulted. The men with sticks lowered them to the ground, shoulders softening, and the moment was gone.

‘Who are you?’ the strange man asked, standing over Withypoll, but looking to me and Dowling. ‘What have you done?’

Withypoll groaned. I stepped sideways just as his black eyes settled upon mine. He stared with burning hatred as if it was me that struck him and breathed hard as he struggled to his feet, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand.