Hearts of Darkness (17 page)

Mompesson and the spies.

I looked left and right down the street, searching for Smythe. ‘You are alone,’ I observed.

‘I have no friends here,’ Josselin snapped. ‘I told you before, I don’t know these people. The villagers will suffer what fate God plans for them, and the spies shall be dealt with.’ He extracted his hands from his pockets and lay them upon the top of the wall. ‘You are spies, but you are agents of God besides. He sent you to release me of my chains.’ He cocked his head as if expecting a reply.

‘What of the man you spoke to at the service?’ I asked. ‘Is he not another of Clarendon’s men, a friend of yours?’

‘Clarendon employs a small army,’ Josselin replied. ‘Galileo is just another spy that asks questions and promises redemption.’ His eyes seemed to fix upon a point distant. ‘The less I speak, the more I learn. No man can resist speaking. If you would know what lies in a man’s heart ask nothing, for he will reveal it readily. Ask him a question, and he will protect even the most fleeting thought as if it were a great secret.’

I thought again of Dowling’s children and Jane’s pregnancy. Ask nothing was Josselin’s advice. It hadn’t worked thus far.

Josselin continued to stare. ‘I have a lot to do today. Later we will talk, for we must decide what to do next.’ He turned his attention to me, searching, like I was the harbinger of some great secret. I thought of Withypoll. We hadn’t told him about Withypoll yet.

He nodded slowly. ‘Tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘If not before.’

Another day in Hell, but I couldn’t think how to protest. ‘We must eat.’ My stomach reminded me.

‘Go to Buxton’s house,’ said Josselin. ‘I will send Smythe with food.’ He waved a hand, again most royally, and headed off back towards the pond.

‘Back to the cottage, then,’ I said, watching him walk away, striding long like he owned all of Essex. ‘We should see how the Hancocks fare, anyway,’ I said to Dowling. ‘Now would not be a good time to plot an escape.’

The track back into the woods was once more deserted, all the villagers having hurried home despite their licence to wander.

Only the birds sang sweet.

I heard the sound of wailing even before we reached the cottage. I thought I recognised the voice of Mary Hancock, desolation wracking her brittle soul. There was no end to it, it seemed, no escape. We could stop, turn, and walk the other way, but we would find misery there too. Death was all around.

The Hancock’s house nestled deep in the grass, just below the line of the road, sinking beneath a mound of creeping ivy. Loud weeping sounded from the window, the lament of a mother that discovers she may lose a child. Too late then for the Hancocks to think of leaving. Was it late for us too? My chest constricted and I struggled to breathe. Not the plague, I told myself, just naked fear.

I stepped to the small glass window and peered in, Dowling at my elbow. Six people knelt about a bed upon which lay two figures; one
still and quiet, the other feverish. Mary Hancock knelt upon the floor wiping a child’s brow, the boy we met on our first day. She watched his every move from behind her black hair, fallen wild across her face. The boy writhed and twitched, eyes closed, body glistening, moaning quietly.

One of the girls tended to the father, dabbing at his forehead while tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. I would have thought him dead already were it not for the colour of his skin, a fierce burning scarlet. The boy bared his teeth and dug his fingers into the flesh of his own chest.

The children all looked to their mother constantly, biting their lips and fighting the tears, realising something was wrong, yet not wanting to distress their mother further. Then one of the younger girls screamed, pointing at me. ‘Marshall Howe,’ she shrieked, composure shattered.

Mary Hancock looked straight at me, cloth held suspended above her child’s face. For a moment I sensed the same horror I saw in her daughter, but she quickly recovered her wits and rose, striding to the door, furious.

‘Why are you here?’ she demanded, throwing the door wide open. ‘Why do you come?’

‘We heard weeping,’ Dowling explained, stepping away. ‘We came to see if we might help.’

‘We help each other by leaving each other alone,’ she beseeched him, bitterness in her voice. ‘That way we make sure the plague doesn’t spread. Do you not understand? That is what we were told.’

I understood well enough, though I reckoned it was nonsense. It hadn’t stopped the Pest in London and hadn’t stopped it here. The whole village hid behind closed doors for fear of spreading the plague, yet the plague killed two of every three already.

‘I have some leaves.’ I pulled the packet from my pocket. ‘And a pipe.’

She glowered, furious, then slammed the door closed. Nine of them snuggled together in their little nest, two adults, six children and the Pestilence.

‘Who will dig the graves?’ I realised. ‘Marshall Howe digs only the last.’

Dowling didn’t reply, just stared, eyes soft, jaw loose.

‘And we may be leaving soon,’ I reminded him, whatever his oath.

‘I will build them a fire,’ Dowling replied, teeth clenched, ‘and find vitriol or vinegar. Then we will dig graves where they cannot be seen.’

We hadn’t yet succeeded in finding bread, let alone vitriol and vinegar, and whilst I admired his sensitivity, I wondered how Mary Hancock would know we had dug holes for her if she couldn’t see them.

‘I will fetch vitriol and vinegar,’ I said. ‘You start building the fire and fetch the shovel from Buxton’s house.’

I headed back towards the centre of the village, back the way we came. In the distance a familiar figure approached.

Smythe stepped sideways, blocking my path. Though most of his head was bald, still he sported a short ginger tuft upon his forehead. He carried a bag. ‘Where are you going? You were told to stop at Buxton’s house.’

‘I came to find you,’ I replied. ‘Josselin said you would bring us food.’

‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘Am I not here?’ He handed me the bag. Inside was a loaf of bread, some sausages and a pie.

‘Do you have vitriol and vinegar?’ I asked him. ‘Or pitch, tar, frankincense?’

He screwed up his face like I was a lunatic. ‘Why do you want vitriol and vinegar?’

‘John Hancock is infected,’ I told him. ‘His son besides. We want to light a fire to fumigate the house.’

‘Ah,’ he groaned, like he was punched in the guts. ‘I’ve known Mary all my life.’ He bowed his head and placed his hands on his hips. ‘What use is a fire?’

‘They lit fires in London to keep away the plague,’ I explained, though they didn’t seem to work.

‘You think it will help the Hancocks?’ he demanded, sceptical.

More likely it would help us think we were being useful. I shrugged.

He turned on his heel and beckoned me back towards the pond. ‘Vitriol and vinegar I can fetch you,’ he said. ‘Not the rest of it. Your fire will still work?’

‘Some people used only vitriol and vinegar,’ I replied. The poor mostly. ‘It works as well as any other remedy.’ Which was not at all.

He nodded to himself, striding onward.

‘You have lived here all your life,’ I guessed, struggling to keep up.

‘Aye,’ Smythe replied, staring ahead.

‘Are you not afraid to wander the village, now it is plagued?’

He turned, mouth drawn into a tight sneer. ‘Would you have me cower in a corner while every man I know dies? Makes no difference, anyhow; the Pest still claims its victims.’

‘It was the same in London,’ I said. ‘When plague took a man, the whole house was shut up until all were recovered, then forty days more. The plague still spread.’

He eyed me with suspicion. ‘You live, though.’

‘I left for the country,’ I replied, wary. ‘As did every man that had the means. We waited for the plague to leave, then returned. I stayed
in London longer than most, but was ultimately persuaded by the voice of the majority.’

‘What voice?’ he scowled.

‘Save thyself,’ I answered. ‘It is the only sure way to avoid death.’

His cheeks flushed, and I thought he would strike me.

‘I’m just agreeing with your sentiment,’ I protested. ‘That there be no purpose in locking thyself behind closed door.’

‘Aye,’ he growled, ‘but you say there be no purpose in locking ourselves behind closed boundary, neither.’

‘I am one man,’ I replied. ‘You had this debate already, I assume.’

‘There was little debate,’ Smythe grumbled. ‘It was Mompesson’s idea. The rest of us went along with it because he said God would look favourably upon us.’ He snorted. ‘Which he has not.’

‘You live,’ I pointed out.

‘So far,’ he replied, marching on down the stony track.

We emerged into the clearing by the pond. A hand clutched at my heart. Marshall Howe was chopping wood with a great axe. I caught a glimpse of three shadows in the cage, but hurried along towards the bridge. ‘What is he doing?’ I asked Smythe.

He cast Howe a cursory glance. ‘Something for Josselin. Great oaf. What do you do in London?’

‘My father made shoes,’ I answered, truthfully. ‘I was a clerk. Now I would be an apothecary.’

‘An apothecary?’ he exclaimed. ‘No apothecary has visited here since we closed the boundaries. I heard they have cures for the plague in London. You can cure us?’

‘I shared with you the only cure I know of, and it be preventive,’ I replied. ‘Though there are many remedies you might try. A warm poultice of butter, onion and garlic, perhaps. I knew of a medic once
who swore by nutmeg, boiled meat and pickles.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He died.’ Fell face first into his dinner, I recalled.

Smythe glanced sideways. ‘What remedies do you take?’

I dug into my pocket. ‘My leaves and pipe.’ I showed him.

He eyed the leaves eagerly. ‘Do they work?’

‘I am not dead yet,’ I answered. ‘Though I think more by good fortune. Here.’ I offered him the packet. ‘Take some.’

‘I will try it,’ Smythe resolved. ‘Keep the packet until we reach my home.’ He shook his head, as if trying to shake a thought out his ear. ‘Why come to Shyam? Save thyself, you say. Flee the plague while you may. Yet you come to Shyam?’

‘That’s right,’ I nodded. ‘Not willingly, neither. We were sent to see if Josselin still lives. He you all adore.’

‘So you are not Buxton’s brother?’

‘No,’ I confessed. ‘That was a lie, for Elks’ benefit.’

‘A lie,’ Smythe repeated to himself, between clenched teeth.

Once we crossed Fiddler’s Bridge, Smythe issued an instruction to wait while he disappeared into his home, taking my packet with him. It felt strange, like he took my hand, or a foot. He emerged soon after with two bottles, one large, one smaller. ‘Why come after James Josselin?’ he demanded.

‘He is an important man,’ I replied. ‘He works for the King.’

Smythe handed me the bottles. ‘Well now you can tell them where he is, if you survive the plague yourself.’

‘How do you all know him so well?’ I asked. ‘He has visited only once, has he not? And did he not offend Thomas Elks? I thought Elks had many friends amongst the villagers.’

‘Elks had friends,’ Smythe agreed, ‘though many are now dead.
Josselin was one of them once, for he came here oftentimes to collect taxes and pay for the goods we sent to market. We all knew him, Elks more than most, for his father leased a big holding west of Town Head.’

‘You all loved the tax collector?’

‘Aye,’ Smythe nodded vigorously. ‘He gave what was owed, and turned a blind eye when he saw folks had not the means to contribute. I know for a fact he made up the difference out of his own estate when it was necessary.’

I frowned. ‘He
was
a hero then.’

‘Aye,’ Smythe nodded again. ‘Which is why so many of us was ashamed the way he was treated in return.’

‘What do you mean?’

Smythe scratched his head and grimaced. ‘Hugh Elks was a violent man and everyone knew it. That’s why Josselin went first to his house when Lizzy Braine was found dead. His own family disowned him, all except Thomas. Even Thomas tried to talk to him, but Hugh wouldn’t be talked to. He wouldn’t watch your eyes for more than a few seconds afore he was distracted by something else.’

‘Hugh Elks did kill Lizzy Braine?’

Smythe scratched the back of his head. ‘He killed her, and deserved what he got. None resented Josselin for it, none except Thomas Elks. Elks bided his time, waited for nightfall. Then he and some others went round to the rectory and dragged Josselin out by the boots. First they tried to hang him, then they tried to burn him.’ He rubbed his hands upon his face. ‘The Reverend did nothing about it, just locked himself behind his own door. Not Mompesson, he wasn’t here then. None of the villagers did owt about it either, though few were around to witness it. Josselin saved himself, it’s said. Found some
Godly strength when he saw the fire, kicked and punched his way free. Ran all the way back to Colchester and never been back since, not till we found him in the barn.’

‘Does he not resent you all?’ I asked, aghast.

‘He never came back to discuss it,’ Smythe replied. ‘Though he seems much changed. Difficult to tell what he thinks, but we saved him from Elks this time, didn’t we?’ He turned to face me, eyes anxious.

‘Aye,’ I agreed. ‘Elks told you to release the dogs, and you chose not to.’

Smythe sighed. ‘Perhaps God will look upon us more kindly now.’ He looked me in the eye and nodded. ‘You have your food, you have your vitriol and vinegar. Now be on your way.’

‘Where is Josselin?’ I asked.

‘Snoring his head off on my bed,’ Smythe replied. ‘Drunk himself into a stupor.’

I put out my hand for the rest of my leaves. How would we get Josselin out of Shyam if he was drunk all the time?

We lit the fire and dug the graves, just two of them, well away from the cottage. It took most of the afternoon, for the ground was hard and my muscles soft. By the time we finished, I stank worse than the dead cow.

We barely spoke, for if Dowling’s thoughts were as morbid as mine, there was little to be served in sharing such gloomy forebodings. We had to leave Shyam; that was the answer to everything. And if we succeeded in taking Josselin with us, perhaps this village might reassess its commitment to die alone. Colchester was plagued besides; it was not as if their isolation served any real purpose.

The fire burnt brighter as the skies darkened. The birds sang frantic, like they feared the dusk.

‘I am going to wash at the pond,’ I said, once we finished. ‘We’ll remind Smythe to feed the Hancocks.’ And I wanted to see if Josselin had surfaced – take advantage of the opportunity to talk to him sober.

The Hancocks’ house was quieter now. Peering in discreetly I saw the family gathered as they were before, one of the girls curled up asleep upon the floor. The boy still wriggled, restless, but not so much.

We trudged back towards the pond, counting the windows lit by candle. Most were dark. A chill breeze froze my damp skin. What I wouldn’t do for something hot to eat, a mug of beer and a comfortable bed. I thought again of Jane, wondered what she was doing right now. I wondered if she thought of me, worried even. What a strange notion that was.

The gibbets were all removed, but in their place an awful, black, shadow against the cobalt sky, slashed with dark streaks of cyan. My bowels melted and my legs trembled. Marshall Howe had been building a gallows, and from the gallows hung five bodies.

We approached cautious, the night air silent. Someone lay prostrate on the ground afore the swinging corpses. Two poles, driven deep into the ground, supported one long beam from which the bodies dangled. Across the beam someone wrote in dripping paint:

The words seemed familiar.

‘In the name of God, what wickedness is this?’ Dowling exclaimed,
staring at the corpses, swinging gently in the slight breeze. ‘They have murdered men of God!’

‘Not men of God,’ a low voice sounded from beneath our feet. The long bundle unravelled itself and Josselin emerged, eyes dead, face pallid. ‘Yet they did not deserve this.’

‘Those are your words,’ I said. ‘You used those very words in front of the rectory.’ At that moment I felt utterly sick of that place, sick of the people, sick of the world. Flies covered the two corpses upon the left, crawling with great intent. Flesh peeled already from the cheekbone of the first, wet and grey. A magpie perched upon the second man’s head, pecking at his scalp. ‘You hang dead bodies?’

‘I didn’t do it,’ Josselin croaked. ‘Marshall Howe did it. He heard my words and thought I instructed him.’

Elks seemed to be looking at me, eyes open wide, bulging from their sockets, mouth affixed in a permanent sneer, black tongue protruding.

‘You didn’t stop him?’ Dowling snorted, incredulous.

‘I was asleep,’ Josselin protested. ‘I heard nothing.’ He looked up at me, his expression similar to that upon the clerics’ faces afore we left them in the cage to go to Smythe’s house. ‘Someone else should have stopped it.’

‘Why?’ Dowling snapped. ‘You told the village you were in charge.’ He pointed to the writing on the beam. ‘Those are your words. This is your will.’

‘I was drunk!’ Josselin cried. ‘I was locked up in a shed for five days without food nor water.’

Despite the atrocity I felt some sympathy as I gazed down upon his young face. The face of a young boy bewildered by someone else’s
cruelty. He dug into the dirt with his deformed fingers. I reminded myself he was chased here by Arlington, accused of a crime he likely did not commit.

‘You still say they were spies?’ Dowling said, low.

Josselin pointed at each of the bodies in turn. ‘Greenleafe, Meshman, Ansty, Allen,’ he recited. ‘I know them, though I did not wish for this.’

I scanned the five contorted faces. Was it possible? Certainly it was the kind of scheme Arlington would relish, but would four spies allow themselves to be so easily snared?

The ground shook to our left. Framed by the outline of the church, the figure of Marshall Howe, striding slowly in our direction.

‘Have you talked to him?’ I asked Josselin.

Josselin shook his head and climbed to his feet, wiping his cheeks with his palms, succeeding only in smearing them with dirt.

Howe stared blankly at Josselin, frowning slightly as if he couldn’t understand why no one patted him on the head.

‘Howe,’ Josselin said, rubbing the back of his head. ‘Did you hang these men?’

The big man nodded, slowly, frown deepening.

‘You did a thorough job,’ Josselin turned away. ‘For which I shall be commended.’

Howe continued to look puzzled.

Josselin sighed. ‘I need to go for a walk. Cut down the bodies, Howe, and take down this gallows.’

He turned to me. ‘You stay here with him. Make sure it is done. I will be back soon.’

With which he marched off into the descending darkness, red skies casting a funereal aspect upon the scene afore us. Marshall Howe
folded his arms and gazed stern, growling beneath his breath as if he blamed us for his master’s foul mood. We sat ourselves down upon the softest grass we could find, away from the gallows, and settled down to another night in paradise. If we didn’t leave tomorrow I would lose my shop.