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 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 authorisation.’
‘What authorisation did Josselin produce?’ demanded Withypoll.
‘He requires no authorisation,’ the short man replied. ‘He lives in Colchester, and is on his way back to see family. He is a great man.’