Hearts of Darkness (16 page)

Dowling drew up to my side. ‘That man is troubled,’ he said. ‘He drinketh strong drink rather than pour out his soul before the Lord.’

‘Indeed,’ I sighed.

I lifted my heavy soul from where it had fallen upon the path and dragged my feet back in the direction of Buxton’s house. Prisoners still. While Josselin drank I would smoke. I felt for my pipe in my pocket.

Dowling said nothing on our way back to the cottage, his face wreathed in lines of misery and concern. I felt his faith, collapsed upon one knee, struggling to avoid being crushed beneath the weight of selfishness and evil. Whatever game God played, he played it strange.

Buxton’s house stank so bad we slept the night on a grassy bed in a small hollow at the fringe of the Delf, close to the river. Though it was comfortable enough and my head was tired, sleep evaded me. Three days until Culpepper’s deadline expired.

Now we found Josselin I didn’t know what to do next. Arlington told us to fetch him out, yet I didn’t see how. The villagers were on his side. He would plot his own journey, whatever that might be. In many ways he seemed an honourable fellow, yet there was indeed a hint of strangeness about him, as Jefferies warned us at Chelmsford. A demon of some description hid betwixt his ears, born of his suffering all those years ago at Colchester. He strode about Shyam as if he owned it, yet what for him now? Stay here and die, else face
Arlington’s wrath. It was no more palatable predicament than ours. Did he see us as colleagues, useful collaborators, or else spies? The four men in the cage were clergy, I saw it in their eyes, yet he saw them as infiltrators, out to get him. How safe were we? Thoughts came and went, then returned unsatisfied. At some point I must have fallen into a slumber, for Dowling shook me awake next morning.

‘So much shuffling,’ he complained. ‘And what conclusions did you come to as a consequence?’

‘We must persuade Josselin to leave,’ I slurred, heavy-headed. ‘Whatever your oath to God. Elks forced us to make those oaths. God knows that.’

‘God will guide us,’ Dowling replied, unperturbed. The usual nonsense.

I brushed the debris from my breeches and descended the riverbank to bathe my face and drink the water. ‘I am hungry again,’ I realised. ‘Now Elks is in the cage, we can go seek food openly.’

‘Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word of God.’ Dowling pointed back towards the path. ‘This morning they hold their church service. Through the trees and over the rise.’

‘We still need bread,’ I grumbled, ‘and I must smoke a pipe before I subject myself to another crowd.’ I dug into my pocket for pipe and leaves. If the whole village was going to be there, then so would the Pest.

‘What will you light it with?’ Dowling asked, tramping through the undergrowth.

Damnation. I pushed the pipe back into my pocket and placed a pinch of leaves onto my tongue. They tasted like mint. I set about chewing.

We stopped afore we reached the path. A man and a woman
trudged miserably, followed by a gaggle of children, jostling against each other like baby geese.

Dowling placed a hand on my shoulder and spoke low. ‘They wear their best clothes.’

How could he know that, I wondered, irritated. Had he inspected their wardrobe? If we kept going we would end up in Colchester, I thought, wistful.

A break in the hedgerow led out upon an undulating meadow and down into a wide basin, a natural amphitheatre. Among the first to arrive, we made our way to the far side of the hill and settled ourselves upon the moist grass. More families materialised, cautious and silent, signalling to neighbours discreetly, but talking to no one. Each family found its own isolated spot, away from others. Mary Hancock led her brood to a spot halfway down the bank, barely acknowledging us with a dart of her eyes. She scanned the assembled ranks before sitting. John Hancock clasped his hands and stared at his feet.

Mompesson arrived accompanied by the same slender woman we saw the day before, unusually pale of complexion. She held herself stiff, back to the congregation, and sat at the bottom of the bank where she might be closest to her husband. Mompesson wrung his hands, nervous, scanning carefully the assembled throng. To see who was left.

He cleared his throat and held his arms up ready to speak just as Josselin strode out of the bushes. Every head turned. Mompesson lowered his arms again and scowled. Josselin saw his anger and tossed his head, oblivious, enjoying the attention. He appeared as pale as Mompesson’s wife, but sober. He waved a hand to all assembled and settled himself at the top of the bank right in
Mompesson’s line of sight. He lifted his chin, staring forwards, and again I wondered what thoughts hid behind that mask.

‘Rend your heart and not your garments,’ proclaimed Mompesson, deep, tremulous voice filling the vale. ‘Turn unto the Lord your God.’ He paused, arms wide and lifted his head slow, like he wore a leaden hat. ‘For he is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and of great kindness, and repenteth him of the evil.’ He stepped sideways to the right, then back to the left, hands raised as if expecting to be engulfed in a great wave. ‘If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves. Repent ye!’ he exclaimed, voice fearful. ‘For the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.’

Josselin watched calm, like a cat watches a mouse. Yet the flush upon his cheekbones spoke of some inner turmoil.

‘Now shall we remember those who died these last three days,’ Mompesson spoke gruff. ‘They brought nothing into this world, and it is certain they will carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’ He bowed his head and pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘We remember this day; Thomas Frythe, Elizabeth Frythe and Francis Frythe.’

Quiet weeping broke the hush, soft and subdued, from different places about the hill. For lost friends, no doubt, but also in fear of their own lives.

‘Samuel Morten and Margaret Morten.’

Children started to cry, frightened to witness their parents’ grief. The list of names continued, more than twenty of them, all of whom would have been present last Sunday. Who will still be here next Sunday, I wondered? I imagined Mompesson reading out the names of Harry Lytle and David Dowling, a shiver running down my spine.

I grasped Dowling’s sleeve. ‘Look!’ I whispered. Up, away to our
left, emerged Galileo, the Earl of Clarendon’s man. I had forgotten all about him. Had we agreed to meet at Buxton’s cottage? I struggled to recall. The side of his head bulged purple and yellow, the wound I inflicted matured to full splendour.

‘He shows himself,’ Dowling murmured. ‘A bold move.’

Indeed, I considered. Though he couldn’t yet know how uncertain was Josselin’s temper. I watched out the corner of my eye as he crouched by Josselin’s elbow, speaking purposefully into his ear. Josselin’s expression didn’t change. He just kept nodding.

Mompesson began to read Psalm thirty-nine. ‘Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days: that I may be certified how long I have to live.’

Amen to that, I thought.

I turned again to Galileo, surprised to see he turned green. Josselin seemed to lunge at him, just missing, and Galileo hopped away, like a giant frog. I wiped my eyes and looked to Dowling to see if he noticed, but the butcher watched Mompesson intently.

The loudest weeping came from below. A young woman sat alone, bent over her rounded belly. She wailed soft, oblivious to all, fingers clasped tight about her own golden hair. Her husband must have died. The stark timbre of her woeful mourning struck a chord somewhere beneath my ribs. She seemed to shimmer. Her edges blurred and a fierce strong light shone from the middle of her body, dancing, yellow strands shooting from her midriff like thin flames. I blinked hard, but to no avail. Her hair blazed red, crackling like a bonfire. Then she turned her head and I saw Jane.

‘God’s teeth,’ I exclaimed, too loud, seizing Dowling about the scruff of his neck. A thrill of horror gripped my lungs and stopped me from breathing.

Dowling struggled to unpick my fingers from his neck. ‘What is it, Harry?’

A man to my left watched me with white face aghast. ‘I am fine,’ I croaked, forcing myself to breathe steady again until the man looked away.

‘I had a thought,’ I whispered to Dowling, a terrible thought. ‘What if Jane is with child?’

His big face stared back at me, blank. Then he pursed his lips. I could see him thinking back to the last time he saw Jane, just before we left London. ‘Lucy behaved strange when
she
was with child. It is a thing women go through,’ he mused. ‘All sense and reason deserts them.’

‘You have a child?’ I asked, distracted. ‘You never told me you had children.’

‘You didn’t ask and I didn’t tell.’ He scowled. ‘Nor am I about to tell you of it in the middle of morning prayer.’

Which was not the soft ear I sought. I tried to remember what Jane’s belly looked like before we left, whether it was unusually large. She had not seemed misshapen. I attempted to quell the crashing waves that surged within my own belly. I didn’t know for certain she was with child, I reminded myself. Many things might drive a woman to strange behaviour besides pregnancy, especially Jane. Surely she would have told me if she fell pregnant? Blamed me for it, hit me about the head with a saucepan; she would not have kept it quiet – she kept nothing quiet. I determined to focus my attentions back onto Mompesson, give my mind time to reflect upon the terrifying idea.

‘And we have done those things we ought not to have done,’ Mompesson read, ‘but thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us miserable offenders.’

The miserable offenders were miserable indeed, heads bowed, hope sickly. I scanned the hill quickly, leaning forwards. Galileo was gone.

A woman gasped. Another screamed. Mompesson stopped talking, stood frozen. His wife lay prone upon the grass at the base of the bank. Even from a distance I saw the dark circle about her neck against the paleness of her skin. Mompesson dropped to his knees, cradled her head in his arm and cupped her face, calling her name, again and again. Several of the congregation fled, running for the safety of the forest. The rest edged backwards and away. None stepped forwards to help.

‘Come on, Harry,’ Dowling muttered, ever conscientious. I followed him, reluctant, down the hill.

Mompesson huddled over her chest, holding one of her hands in both of his, a strangulated wail leaking from his mouth. Dowling laid a hand upon his arm, leaning over his shoulder to inspect the woman. No need, for she was dead. Her mouth lolled open, face contorted into a twisted mask. A black bubo protruded upon her neck, tight and round.

‘It is a judgement,’ Mompesson whispered. Tears glistened upon his cheeks and along the ridge of his great nose.

I thought of Josselin’s words the day before and wondered for a moment if he might be right.

‘A judgement upon us all, Reverend.’ Dowling squeezed his shoulder. ‘The seers shall be ashamed, and the diviners confounded, for there is no answer of God.’

Which is not how the villagers would see it.

Catherine Mompesson stared into the blue sky, eyes still bright. The Reverend leant over her, searching for any sign of movement,
brushing his hands against her shoulders in a strange, repetitive motion.

‘Go home,’ Josselin cried from high up on the hill to the few that remained. ‘Everyone. Back to your houses.’

A collective sigh settled upon the grassy dell and in just a few minutes we found ourselves alone with Mompesson and his dead wife. Josselin remained aloof at the top of the bank, arms folded across his chest. Then he turned his back on us and walked away. Did we offend him?

Dowling pushed on Mompesson’s shoulder to attract his attention. ‘We will help you take her home.’

‘We need something to carry her upon,’ I said, alarmed. The rectory was a walk away, back up the hill and over the bridge.

Dowling stared at me, stern. ‘We have carried bodies before, Harry,’ he growled.

Aye, but not so many infected with plague. I looked to the heavens and resigned myself to fate. God had better be watching and taking proper notice. I took the woman’s ankles, grasped them firm and held them to my hips. Dowling lifted her by the armpits, where usually lurked more buboes. Faith was a dangerous thing and Dowling seemed determined to tempt it.

Her legs were still warm. I let Dowling lead the way and followed him into the copse. Mompesson walked alongside, hand lain upon his dead wife’s cheek. She weighed less than a child and we made easy progress.

Outside the rectory Mompesson stood staring as if seeing the house for the first time. ‘If you would be so kind …’ he said, leading us on.

The front room was simply furnished. Three heavy chairs, a cold, empty grate, and the stone floor swept clean. Mompesson hurried us
into the kitchen, gesturing at a sturdy wooden table. ‘If you would lay her down here.’

‘Where will you bury her?’ Dowling grunted, lowering her with care. Not a gentle question.

Mompesson began to weep, unrestrained, stretching out a hand to her still staring eyes. He paused for one final moment of intimacy afore closing her eyelids.

I tugged at Dowling’s sleeve. He lingered, reluctant, but Mompesson was oblivious. The bubo was bigger now, black as coal. Though her body was dead, the infection still grew. Mompesson wiped his hands upon her face and pushed his cheek next to hers, trying to climb inside her, so it looked.

I regarded his face, tears covering his cheeks, nose red and swollen. Difficult to imagine this was the man that rallied the courage of a village. I felt like a trespasser and headed back out into the sunshine.

I looked at my hands and prayed the plague did not already creep upon them, silent and invisible. ‘We must be more careful, Davy,’ I said, the words sounding ridiculous even as I spoke them. ‘If we will see London again we should be more discreet.’

‘Have faith, Harry,’ Dowling replied, so quiet I could barely hear him.

‘Good morning,’ Josselin’s throaty growl spoke from beyond the low stone wall. He stood upon the street alone, hands in pockets. ‘How fares the Reverend?’

‘Not so well,’ I replied, thinking to wipe my hands upon his cheeks.

‘I think you should leave him alone now,’ Josselin warned. ‘God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth. The Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries.’

‘Why do you dislike him so much?’ I asked. ‘I thought you hadn’t met him before.’

‘I haven’t.’ Josselin smiled his terrible smile, eyes gleaming bright. ‘Yet he nestled beneath Elks’ wing like a small chicken. For that he should be punished.’