‘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.