A fire blazed inside the accountant’s house. The acrid smell of tar and rosin pervaded every inch of the immaculate room. The accountant waved an arm, eyeing our muddy shoes anxiously. ‘Sit down, gentlemen, please.’
Withypoll threw his jacket to the floor and headed for the biggest chair, next to the fire. ‘Your wife is diligent,’ he said. ‘I have never seen such a tidy house.’ He poked at three tiny figurines lined up in a perfect row on the mantle above the fireplace.
‘I have no wife,’ the accountant replied, picking up the jacket and moving the figurines to precisely where they had been before. ‘It is I who like things to be in order. Sit on the chair please and I will wash your head.’
Withypoll tried to lift his left shoulder, wincing in pain. ‘I will see
those fellows hang,’ he said, as the accountant approached with a bowl of honey and two white linen cloths.
‘I cannot excuse their behaviour,’ the accountant replied. ‘Bend your head forwards please, sir, so I might see the wound.’
With one of the cloths the accountant attempted to wipe the dirt from the gash. He dabbed and patted, exposing a two-inch cut, deep and angry, with purple edges. Withypoll said nothing as he worked, made not a sound. Once the accountant was satisfied, he took a spoonful of honey, and let it drip from one edge of the wound to the other. Then he lay the second cloth across the top of the sticky mess.
‘Is that it?’ asked Dowling, watching as the accountant tried to rub a small patch of honey from his fingers.
‘An ancient remedy,’ the accountant replied. ‘
Vis medicatrix naturae
.’ He picked up the honey bowl gingerly, with just four fingers, and took it back to the kitchen. When he returned he puffed out his chest and smiled.
‘You are the first happy man I have seen this day,’ said Withypoll.
‘Happy?’ The accountant blinked. ‘How could a man be happy? Yet I do of my best, for the Lord God watches, and I believe he hath sent me here for such an occasion.’ He stepped to a desk stood beneath the main window, upon which rested a thick ledger.
He tapped the cover of the book with a forefinger. ‘I keep a record of every man and woman in this town, every child. Through good planning and expert organisation we have raised sufficient sums to provide everyone with adequate provision, including those we hold at Cutler’s barn. Everyone pays his share of tax, and we have raised contributions from the towns about that are not so afflicted. We will survive this pestilence, even should it destroy every living soul within our boundaries.’
Withypoll laughed out loud.
‘What of the dead and the dying?’ asked Dowling.
The accountant frowned. ‘The groans of the sick are a distraction, but I persevere.’
Withypoll grinned broadly and Dowling shook his big head.
‘We are searching for James Josselin,’ I changed the subject. ‘We have a message for him from the King. Has he passed this way?’
The accountant’s bright face registered strange joy, like he experienced a holy vision. ‘Indeed he has, though he didn’t stop.’
‘What do you know of him?’ I asked.
‘He is a great man,’ the accountant replied. ‘You know what he did at Colchester?’
‘We heard something of it,’ I answered doubtfully. ‘It was a long time ago.’
The accountant rubbed his hands and filled his lungs. ‘Long ago, aye, but to understand the man, you must understand the child. Josselin’s childhood defines him.’
Withypoll rubbed his palm upon the arm of the chair. ‘I have little appetite for detail. Make this a short history.’
The accountant froze, enthusiasm pricked, but I made encouraging noises and his hands began to move again. ‘Then I will assume you are familiar with the history of the Siege of Colchester. What you may not have heard, for the story was suppressed, are the lengths to which General Fairfax went to try to persuade the Royalists to surrender. Every man knows they persevered for three months before they starved. But the full story of the barbarity has never properly been told.’
Withypoll fidgeted. ‘Tell it quick.’
The accountant turned to me, in search of a more appreciative
audience. ‘Before the siege was over Fairfax killed and tortured prisoners. He cut off their hands and fingers to obtain confessions, and distributed their rings to his men.’ He paused for effect. ‘He broke into the house of Sir John Lucas, whose house lay outside the city wall, and plundered the family vault, smashing coffins and scattering bones. His soldiers tore hair from the corpses of women and wore it in their hats as trophies, including the hair of Sir John’s poor dead wife.’
He paused again, but I offered him no encouragement, for I had heard this tale before and loathed it.
The accountant shook his head, as if in sadness. ‘The citizens of Colchester were not even Royalist, most of them. Yet when the Royalists invited the women to leave, Fairfax stripped them of their clothes and chased them back to the closed gates, where his men brutalised them.’ He shook his head again, though I saw no tears. ‘Then he starved us. First we ate the horses’ fodder, then the thatch from the houses. When that ran out we ate the horses. When we ate all the horses we ate the cats and the dogs.’
‘You were there?’ I asked.
‘Not in body,’ he replied. ‘Though yes, in spirit, for I am a loyal subject of this nation, and several of the villagers were there. What Fairfax did to the people of Colchester, Cromwell inflicted upon us all.’
God save us. ‘All of this is well known.’ I swallowed my irritation. ‘What of Josselin?’
The accountant frowned. ‘You cannot hope to understand Josselin’s bravery without appreciating Fairfax’s barbarity. Norwich needed reinforcement quickly if he was to survive Fairfax’s siege. So he determined to send a message to Marmaduke Langdale. But Fairfax guarded every exit, and lit up the walls at night so none could
escape. James Josselin went to the Moot Hall, evaded the guard, and ran up to Norwich to offer his services.’
Withypoll snorted. ‘To a nine-year-old boy it would have seemed a great adventure.’
‘A boy, true,’ said the accountant. ‘But everyone within the walls knew what Fairfax did. The sight of his men parading the bones of the dead would terrify a nine-year-old more than a full-grown man. Of course, Norwich sent him back to his family.’
Withypoll sighed. ‘Then he leapt the wall of his own accord and set off to find Langdale I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ the accountant answered. ‘He did.’
Withypoll curled his lip. ‘So he tried to escape, they caught him, and Fairfax’s men treated him rough.’
‘They held his hand and burnt his fingers with matches.’ The accountant’s voice rose an octave. ‘When he refused to talk they sliced off his nails. If you look at his hands you may still see the scars. He screamed and he cried, but he told them nothing of Norwich’s plans.’
‘Unlikely,’ Withypoll muttered.
‘I will not argue with you.’ The accountant lifted his chin and wrinkled his nose. ‘For I know James Josselin, and when you look in his eyes, you see it to be true. For not only may you see courage in those eyes, but also strangeness. He grew up a strange man, and I credit that to Fairfax.’
In my mind I saw a small boy, surrounded by brute soldiers. I saw one of them grasp his small hand and hold a flame to it, a cruel smile upon his lips. I felt my own hair prickle at the thought of it, and could scarce imagine how it must have appeared to a child. Like the worst vision of Hell, I supposed, a terrifying shattering of young assumptions.
Dowling bowed his head.
‘He is headed for Colchester,’ said the accountant. ‘He didn’t 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.’