Free Hearts of Darkness by Paul Lawrence Page A

say so, but when he heard of the misery that envelops that place, I know he would be compelled to return.’
    Withypoll sighed. ‘How do you know that?’
    ‘I know the man.’ The accountant shrugged. ‘He is drawn there by old ties. Why you follow him I cannot divine. You must have as much courage as he.’
    His words chilled the air and I shivered. Josselin ventured deep into the abyss, and we pursued on his coat-tails.
    ‘You said he is strange,’ I said. ‘In what way strange?’
    The accountant put a finger to his lips. ‘Ah! Distant, I would say. You look into his eyes and he stares at something a long way away, behind your back. He seems unaffected by the things that he sees.’
    ‘What else do you know of him?’
    The accountant pursed his lips and lowered his brow, in concentration. ‘He has a good friend who lives in Chelmsford, a fellow called Thyme. If you wish to know the man, find Thyme.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Thyme is a friend of mine besides. He manages Chelmsford’s accounts. He grew up with Josselin, in Colchester.’
    Withypoll grunted. ‘We must go.’ He pulled himself up to his feet and again tested his shoulder.
    ‘You should rest,’ the accountant exclaimed, but his eyes gleamed bright.
    ‘We will reach Chelmsford before nightfall,’ Withypoll replied. ‘You may tell those three men I will be bringing soldiers with me upon my return. If I have to build the gallows myself, then you shall be one of those that swings from it.’
    The accountant looked to his ledger as if alarmed it was not budgeted for, but otherwise seemed unperturbed. I imagined he nurtured as little hope as us at the prospect of our safe return.
    We retrieved our horses and resumed our journey, deeper into plague country. I tried to picture Josselin the man, to imagine what he looked like now, this strangeness in his eyes. A great man, everyone said. Hardly the murderer and traitor that Arlington described. I watched Withypoll stare ahead, and realised, reluctant, that Dowling and I were all that stood between Josselin and death. Why me? I was just an apothecary.

Chapter Nine
    We conceive this present year will be fickly, and that the Pestilence, or some such like raging Infirmity will afflict the more remote parts from London.
    Withypoll rode well ahead, unconcerned it seemed whether we followed or not. He held the reins in his right hand and leant towards his left. The cloth upon his head stuck like a strange cap, the edges of it flapping about a green stain of honey, blood and pus. Yet he steered his horse in a straight line with no sign of flagging.
    As the afternoon began to wane we reached a crossroads, a bleak piece of moorland betwixt the forests. Each road stretched straight over the horizon, barren and deserted. A man stood up as we neared, an old soldier with tatty unbuttoned jacket, hair grown wild about a naked crown. Three bottles nestled in the yellow grass, one upside down, another unstoppered.
    He threw his arms up to the sides. ‘Which way will ye go?’
    ‘Chelmsford,’ replied Withypoll, eyes half lidded.
    The old soldier pointed left and right. ‘Waltham and Billericay. I should advise you to take one or other of those roads, but not the road to Chelmsford.’ He stuck out a trembling hand. ‘Whiche’er way you choose, you must pay me, for I am responsible for maintenance.’
    Grass grew long as far as the eye could see. I feared Withypoll’s wrath, but he slumped silent.
    ‘We’ll not pay you for something you’ve not done,’ I replied.
    The soldier reached for his sword, scrabbling at his waist afore he realised he had left the weapon on the ground, next to his drink.
    ‘When did James Josselin pass through?’ I asked. ‘Tell us that and we might give you something.’
    The drunken soldier rubbed his eyes and pushed the matted hair off his forehead. ‘Two weeks ago.’
    ‘How can you be so sure?’ Dowling demanded, sceptical.
    The soldier stuck out his chest. ‘He gave