‘When was he here?’ I asked.
‘Ten days or so,’ Jefferies replied. ‘Ask Duttman. He has a better memory than I.’
‘Why do you say he was strange?’
Jefferies steepled his fingers in front of his chin. ‘Any man is strange that journeys to Colchester from London these days, but he was distracted. He knows Thyme well. They are friends. Yet when he learnt what had happened, he barely acknowledged it. Just raised a brow and shook his head. I’m not sure he understood.’
‘Did he tell you why he travelled east?’
‘In the name of his brother, who is dead,’ he said.
‘He has a brother?’ Withypoll asked, eyes bright.
Jefferies shook his head. ‘He has no brother.’
‘That’s all you can tell us?’ I asked.
‘All I can think of,’ Jefferies replied. ‘Now it gets dark, and you plan to sleep here the night.’
‘Somewhere clean and untouched,’ said Withypoll. ‘As far away from this stink as we are able.’
Jefferies nodded. ‘I will take you to the Feathers. It’s furthest out of the town, close to Treen Bridge.’
Out on the street the last light faded. Candles speckled the sides of the road ahead of us, marking those houses where still folks lived. Three or four braziers burnt saltpetre and oil. It had been a long, hot day and my head throbbed like I was kicked by a cow.
Withypoll seized my elbow as Jefferies marched ahead. ‘Josselin is a cowardly fellow, Lytle. He flees to Colchester for one reason, and one reason only.’
‘What reason?’ I asked, detesting how close he stood to me.
‘Because he has nowhere else to go. And because it’s plague country he assumes no one will follow. It is as clear as that. With no thought as to those he left behind.’ He released my elbow and lay a hand on my sleeve. ‘Remember that, Lytle,’ he leered. ‘For you have left your servant behind, have you not? Of whom you are very fond.’
He winked before striding after Jefferies, leaving me speechless and terrified all over again. Dowling laid a heavy arm across my shoulder and we trudged miserably through this black wasteland, my soul wriggling in frenzied anxiety of what lay in store for us in Shyam and what might lie in store for Jane back in London.
The evening air rang out with the sound of cruel laughter as Withypoll and Jefferies made friends; one devil with another. What chance of discovering an avenging angel out here in plague country?
I pulled my pipe out from my pocket and smoked more of Culpepper’s leaves. Six days until I had to be back in London.
Chapter Ten
It’s true, his Majesties Royal City of London hath in 1665 been sore afflicted with the Plague and Pestilence, and it may also much spread into several other parts of his Dominions.
Early next afternoon we reached the top of a rise and looked down upon Colchester, tucked into a long, winding bend of the River Colne. The castle perched atop a great mound of earth overshadowing all. It reminded me of London; tall stone walls dividing the town’s densely housed heart from sprawling surrounds. More houses huddled together in a great spiral, from city wall down to Hythe harbour.
We lingered a while, seeking to orient ourselves with the misery below, but we were too far away to discern anything but peaceful urbanity, serene upon a lush, green plain beneath blue skies. Birds sang unnaturally loud from deep within the darkness of the green forest surrounding. It was said the swallows left London months afore the plague, sensing its arrival. Yet the birds that remained thrived
oblivious. Why did the plague not affect them? Why did the birds not fall from the sky and land upon our heads?
Tension welled within me, urging me to turn my horse away from the horror I knew lurked beneath us. Dowling, though, seemed reconciled. He rode as a pilgrim, straight-backed, faithful, and free of doubt, or so he would have us believe. Withypoll sniffled and coughed, red-eyed and shivery. Perhaps an angel travelled with us, after all. He coughed through the night, and I determined to stay as far away from him as possible. He reckoned he couldn’t contract the plague twice, but I knew of men who had.
‘For who do you wait?’ growled Withypoll, wiping his sleeve across his nose. His brow glistened and sweat soaked the front of his shirt. A new, green stain soiled the new, white cloth upon his head.
‘Look by the abbey,’ said Dowling, voice low.
The abbey stood closest to us, next to St Giles’ church, both structures nestling within the same low-walled compound. The church lay in ruins. All that remained of the abbey was its great gatehouse, both buildings victims of Fairfax’s siege. My eye swept across scattered rubble and broken walls, missing initially the square black hole, stark against the long grass. Next to it movement, what looked like two carts.
‘A pit,’ I realised.
‘A pit,’ Withypoll repeated with disdain. ‘The town is riddled with plague; of course it has a pit. Now we must go.’
‘Why go through it?’ I asked. ‘Why not go round?’
‘The road to Shyam goes through the town,’ Withypoll replied. ‘There is no other way. Now gird your limp loins.’
Four drunk soldiers manned the turnpike on Malden Road, dressed in ragged red tunics and armed with guns. They slumped in a
line, backs to the gate, legs spread-eagled. Two slept, snoring loudly, mouths wide open.
‘Hoy!’ one cried, without standing. ‘Welcome to Colchester.
Ad multos et faustissimos annos.’ He raised a bottle and poured a long measure down his throat. ‘Why would ye enter this cursed place?’
Withypoll leant down, sweat dripping from his chin. ‘We are King’s men. Open the gate.’
‘The gate is already open,’ the drunk soldier replied. ‘I don’t contest your right to pass, only your good reason.’ He squinted at Withypoll’s swollen, red nose. ‘Are you devils?’
‘Who commands you?’ Withypoll demanded, jumping to the ground.
‘Captain Scotschurch,’ the man slurred.
Withypoll kicked him in the thigh. ‘Scotschurch?’
‘Aye.’ The drunk soldier frowned and waved an arm towards his gun.
Withypoll seized the weapon and threw it onto the road. ‘Where will we find this Captain Scotschurch?’
‘On the ship.’ The drunkard blinked slowly and belched. ‘At Hythe. Go ye there and talk to him if you will.’ He waved a hand and stared away into space, much offended it seemed.
Withypoll climbed back into his saddle and spurred his horse on through the gateway, allowing the beast to tread perilously close to the drunken soldier’s hand. The abbey and its grounds stood away to our right, the pit hidden behind a short wall, overgrown with ivy. I nudged my own steed towards the left side of the street.
The road led us up to the town wall, to a row of houses built just a few steps aside from it. Head Gate was barred afront of us, thick oaken door firmly closed. Two soldiers slouched against the wall, one each side of it, both armed. A townsman watched us approach with a grim face and said something to one of the soldiers. They looked up, the townsman’s face lined with thick, angry furrows, the soldiers’ indifferent.
Every house at each corner of the crossroads bore a red painted cross. Some were brown, old and faded, others brighter. The plague resided here a while. One of the houses appeared abandoned, broken door hung crooked on its hinges. Open windows exposed a derelict interior.
Ignoring the townsman we headed east along the front of the wall, coming next to a narrow passage, dark and quiet. I peered into the gloom and made out another gate, smaller, also barred. ‘This is like London,’ I realised. ‘They lock the gates to keep out the Pest.’
‘Which be their business,’ Withypoll grunted. ‘We have no need to enter the town yet. The soldier said the Captain was at Hythe.’
Two men walked out from behind an arch. The gate closed afore we reached it.