The man at the front stared to the ground, round-shouldered and hopeless, an empty hollowness that spoke of despair. His shirt hung in tatters about his chest, barely covering his bony ribs. Though it was sunny, a fresh breeze kept the air cool, yet they all dripped sweat like they walked for hours.
‘What is going on?’ Dowling called.
The man in the leather coat peered up. ‘What business is it of yours? You shouldn’t be here.’
‘King’s men,’ Withypoll replied, leaning forwards on the horn of his saddle. ‘Answer the question.’
‘They come from Chelmsford,’ the man answered, jabbing one of the women viciously in the back of the thigh. She stumbled a moment,
but recovered. ‘They tried to cross the turnpike. When we refused them passage they said they would walk through the fields at night, so we arrested them, for at least one has plague, and if one has plague, likely they all do.’
‘Where are you taking them?’ Dowling demanded.
‘To Cutler’s barn,’ the warden replied. ‘We’ll lock them up for forty days, and if they still live when we open the door, they may proceed on their way.’
‘You’ll feed them?’ growled Dowling.
‘They’ll get food and water,’ the man replied. ‘For as long as they need it.’
‘Stop a moment.’ I jumped from the back of my horse. ‘I want to talk to them.’
The man with the stick eyed me suspiciously, but struck the boy on his ankles, forcing him to stop.
I tried to catch the eye of any one of them, but they all gazed at their feet. ‘When did you leave Chelmsford?’ I asked, keeping my distance.
None responded.
‘Did you come across a fellow travelling in the opposite direction?’ I asked. ‘A tall fellow, James Josselin.’
One of the women raised her head. Her eyes shined, yet failed to focus. The bones in her face stuck out sharp and her cheeks were gaunt. If she didn’t die of plague, likely she would die of hunger.
I approached her closer. ‘You saw Josselin?’
She nodded quickly. ‘Before Witham,’ she whispered. ‘He spoke to us. We were so happy when he told us who he was.’
‘You know him?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she replied, voice trembling. ‘Every man knows James
Josselin. That he returns to Colchester is a great sign, a miracle.’
‘How was he?’
‘A handsome man,’ she said.
‘Was he ill?’
She shook her head. ‘He rode a black horse, tall and proud, like the gentleman he is. He gave us his food and shared kind words.’
‘And he headed for Colchester?’
She nodded again. ‘As I said.’
‘What else do you know of him?’
She looked to the man with the stick, bewildered. ‘He is James Josselin,’ she said. ‘A great man.’ She bowed her head as if afraid of being struck.
‘In what state is Colchester?’ asked Dowling, changing the subject, much to my frustration.
‘Half the town is dead, the other half waits,’ she replied in dull monotone.
Though I imagined nothing less, still my heart stiffened inside my chest.
‘We must go,’ said the man with the stick, gruff.
Withypoll snorted. ‘Locking them in a barn will not deter anyone,’ he said. ‘You should shoot them through the head and string them from gibbets.’
The six in chains appeared not to hear his cruel words, but I yearned to punish him. Instead we watched the procession renew its miserable passage.
Over the bridge more people stopped to watch, dull-faced and laggardly, like their heads slept atop their walking bodies. All was silent, as if the villagers swore an oath never to speak. Withypoll rode oblivious, staring with undisguised contempt. I felt uneasy and kicked
my horse, but it refused to respond, maintaining the same pace as Withypoll’s mount.
A wild-eyed fellow stepped in front of us, waving a musket. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. ‘You cannot pass through here. Go back the way you came.’
Two more men emerged from the gathering, both carrying thick staves.
‘We have credentials,’ Withypoll replied, staring down his nose. ‘Get out of our way, else suffer the consequences.’
The wild-eyed fellow stayed his ground, staring expressionlessly. Only his lips moved, twitching in spasm. Withypoll snorted, then spurred his horse straight at him, the great, ugly steed sending the wild fellow sprawling to the dirt. I wondered if he died, but he rolled over, groaning. Withypoll sneered just afore one of the other men hit him on the back of the head with a long stick. He fell sideways off his horse, crashing onto the road and landing on one shoulder. Blood trickled into the dirt from a gash on the back of his head and he didn’t move. God spake, I thought, the hairs on my neck prickling with excitement. Withypoll’s assailants stood around him in a circle, sticks raised above their heads, madness in their eyes. I held my breath. If he wasn’t dead, then surely they would finish him.
‘What is going on?’ a voice called.
A smart fellow marched towards us, clean-shaven chin perched high upon a stiff, white collar, hair smeared with some kind of oil to keep his hair straight. He spoke with rounded vowels and carried one arm held out in front of him parallel to the ground, hand hanging limp. ‘You men. Step aside.’
His head jerked like a rooster, twitching at every movement, like
he feared being assaulted. The men with sticks lowered them to the ground, shoulders softening, and the moment was gone.
‘Who are you?’ the strange man asked, standing over Withypoll, but looking to me and Dowling. ‘What have you done?’
Withypoll groaned. I stepped sideways just as his black eyes settled upon mine. He stared with burning hatred as if it was me that struck him and breathed hard as he struggled to his feet, clutching his left shoulder with his right hand.
‘We are on King’s business,’ I answered, afraid what Withypoll might do. ‘We are on our way to Colchester. We have papers.’
‘As I told these men,’ Withypoll crouched, teeth bared. ‘Before they struck me down.’
The man with oily hair turned to Withypoll’s assailants, pointing his arm at them. ‘Why did you strike him?’
‘He tried to kill us with his horse,’ the wild-eyed fellow snarled. He and Withypoll eyed each other like dogs.
‘Take the papers from my jacket, Lytle,’ Withypoll commanded. I tried to avoid his eye as I fumbled in his coat. I could feel his heart beating inside his shirt, pounding hard and fast against his ribs as if it would break out. He grimaced, inspecting his shoulder. ‘To strike a King’s agent is treason, and the punishment for treason is death.’ He looked up at the man whose intervention saved his life. ‘What will you do?’
‘Ah!’ The man’s finger began to twitch and draw circles in the air. ‘I am the financier, you see. It is my job to organise things.’
‘The turnpike is broken and no one guards it,’ said Withypoll. His face was white, like a dead man risen.
‘I manage the money,’ the fellow protested. ‘I am the accountant. It is the constable’s job to manage the turnpikes.’
Withypoll scanned the small gathering that watched from a distance. ‘And where is he?’
The accountant straightened his jacket and raised his chin, watching a rivulet of blood trickle down Withypoll’s cheek and drip onto his collar. ‘He died last week and no one has replaced him. Let me take you to my house and mend that wound.’
Withypoll eyed the three men with staves as if contemplating their immediate execution, but instead allowed himself to be led away by the accountant who dared hold him by the arm.
I lingered a moment, asking the crowd who remained if any knew Josselin, but they dispersed like leaves in the breeze, and soon we stood alone as the villagers withdrew again into their shells.
God teased us.
Chapter Eight
It prenotes much juggling and under-hand dealing in all manner of Negotiations.