Free Hearts of Darkness by Paul Lawrence Page B

me three pennies and I asked him what day it was. He told me it was the 11th August and I told him that was the day my son was born. Then he gave me a fourth penny.’
    ‘Josselin left London on the 18th of August,’ I said, recalling Arlington’s account.
    ‘I don’t know when he left London,’ the old soldier licked his lips. ‘I only know when he came through here.’
    ‘What else did he say to you?’ I asked.
    The soldier screwed up his nose. ‘He asked me if I fought, and I said I didn’t fight because all the battles were at sea. Said I’d
like
to fight. He told me to save meself for the French because to fight the Dutch was like to fight your own brother.’
    ‘Which proves his treachery,’ Withypoll growled. ‘Now get out of our way.’
    I threw the soldier a penny before he got himself killed.
    He bowed. ‘You need not demand it, sir. Pass with my blessing if it be your intent. I only pray you is well informed, and that you are all aware of the dangers you will find on this road.’
    Withypoll kicked his horse forward. ‘Praying is a waste of time.’
    We reached the Moulsham turnpike two hours later. Like the Ilford turnpike it stood unmanned, gate unlatched. Someone had painted the gatepost bright red and tried to daub a large, red cross upon the road. It lay there undisturbed, untouched by horse’s hoof.
    I spoke my fears aloud. ‘Does it mean the entire village is infected?’
    ‘Someone paints a gatepost and you assume the worst,’ said Withypoll. ‘What dangers can there be to three men on horseback? We are not stopping.’ Yet he steered his horse from the highway and waited for me to go first.
    Half-timbered two-storey buildings lined either side of the high street, jetties protruding over the street, blocking the sun. Many doors bore the red cross, others were nailed closed. To keep the inhabitants within, or to deter thieves. I wondered which. An eerie silence engulfed us, broken only by the sound of hoof on dirt.
    A figure emerged from a shadow twenty yards ahead. It stopped stock-still when it saw us, then ran across the street and disappeared. Like a rat afraid of being trapped.
    Ahead loomed another turnpike, a well-fortified barricade built from planks and posts. Ten men barred passage, armed with swords, sticks and a musket. The gate was narrow, through which might barely pass a small cart. Beyond it a stone bridge, a precarious structure with broken walls arching over the River Can and into Chelmsford.
    ‘We come in the name of the King,’ called Withypoll, as we approached. ‘Let us through.’
    ‘We will not!’ cried a stout fellow, shorter even than me. ‘Why do you seek entry to our poor town? We are grievously afflicted. Go back from where you came.’
    Withypoll clenched his fists. ‘We are following a man who has travelled this way already. Since you granted
him
access, you will grant
us
access.’
    ‘What man?’
    ‘James Josselin.’ Withypoll spat the words out like orange pips.
    The man turned to his colleagues. They made appreciative noises and nodded their heads keenly. The stout fellow turned back to us. ‘James Josselin is from these parts, but you are strangers. What is your business with James Josselin?’
    Withypoll swept back his jacket to reveal his shining sword. ‘Read our credentials and allow us passage, else I shall knock over your poor barricade and chase you into the river.’
    The short man produced a musket and levelled it at Withypoll. ‘You are a rude fellow,’ he remarked, calmly. ‘Show me your credentials.’
    I prayed Withypoll would try and knock down the barricade, but instead he leant down, shoulder stiff, and handed over the King’s seal.
    The short fellow handed his gun to a colleague and took the letter in both hands afore rubbing a fingertip across the wax. ‘This may be the King’s seal,’ he acknowledged, ‘but it says nothing of travelling through Chelmsford, nor of James Josselin. It is not adequate