‘Hoy!’ I cried, but they hurried away, disappearing into a clutch of houses opposite the wreckage of a priory. One enormous wall was all that remained, its edges chewed away as if by a giant rat.
I heard the wheels of a cart. At first I thought it to be a tradesman, but I turned to see a grey fellow sat huddled and hunched, clothes hanging from his slight frame like he shrunk. Two soldiers followed thirty paces behind, maintaining their distance. The carter’s brown eyes conveyed a madness that pricked my soul and made it scream. He opened his small round mouth, revealing blue gums bereft of teeth. ‘Bring out your dead,’ his weak voice shrilled.
The cart trundled past. Three bodies lay in the back of it; two long and one short, each wrapped in a rough, brown shroud. They
collected the dead during the day! I watched over my shoulder as the cart turned down a narrow alley and froze when the little fellow looked deep into the midst of my being. Like Death, sizing up my soul.
Withypoll noticed my discomfort and smiled his cruel grin afore again wiping his nose upon his shirt. ‘This is no time to fear death, Lytle, nor is it the place. He will come for you soon enough.’ Would that it was the plague he suffered from, I thought, immediately feeling guilty.
The road to Hythe wound down the hill, cutting a swathe through tight-massed suburbs. Bells pealed from a church somewhere ahead; signifying another death if the practice was the same as London. More red crosses marked the doors down either side. The air hung heavy with tar smoke, enveloping my eyes and making them itch, and burning the back of my throat.
From astride my horse, I could see down into front rooms, and up into bedrooms of the larger two-storeyed houses. Some were quiet and still, no sign of life. From others the familiar, pitiful sounds of pain and death; shrill screams and mournful dirge. One man perched upon a chair with his knees held close together, neither moving nor speaking as we passed, just staring straight ahead. Another man clutched an infant to his chest, too close for it to breathe, rivers of tears flowing either side of his streaming nose.
The bells rang louder as we neared the sharp spire of a church. A man with a shovel upon his shoulder strode across our path, ragged clothes caked in a thick coating of dried brown mud. He whistled a merry tune, an unnatural sound amidst such misery. Then at last we reached the harbour, a long stretch of dry bank looking out upon the river, teeming with soldiers, staggering about in circles or lay spread-eagled upon the ground. None of them looked like a captain.
Withypoll slipped from the back of his horse and approached a sober looking fellow with a fat, red sty in one eye. ‘Where is Captain Scotschurch?’
The balding man turned his head so he could see us each in turn with his one good eye, before pointing to a caravel moored out in the middle of the river, sails lowered. ‘He’s on the Enterprise. Doesn’t leave it.’
‘Take us there,’ Withypoll demanded.
‘He receives no man,’ the soldier replied. ‘He fears the plague. If I took you, they would shoot us from the main deck.’
‘Someone must go,’ I said. ‘Who takes him food and water?’
‘He has supplies,’ the soldier answered, trudging away. ‘If you would go, go yourself.’
Withypoll’s hand tightened upon the hilt of his sword as he watched the soldier walk away. If he attacked the soldier, the rest of the company would surely retaliate. But he wiped his forehead upon his soaking sleeve and took a deep breath, face shining white, gleaming in the sun.
I turned my attention to three boats moored upon the bank, each with oars laid flat down the keel.
‘If we fly a white flag we should at least gain the opportunity to show our credentials,’ I said.
‘Get in the boat,’ Withypoll ordered. ‘And take off your shirt.’
The ship anchored no more than fifty yards offshore. Sliding one of the boats into the river presented no problem, and it proved easy to row. I took off my white shirt and felt the hot sun burn pleasantly upon my shoulders.
Three men watched from the ship, muskets trained upon us.
‘We are King’s men,’ I shouted, nervous they might aim first at the man with the flag. ‘Sent by the King to find James Josselin.’
‘King’s men or Arlington’s men?’ one shouted back.
I prodded Withypoll in the midriff that he might show his letter. ‘Both.’
‘Aye, then,’ cried the soldier. ‘Then ye should retrieve him, but you cannot come on board.’
‘We must talk to Captain Scotschurch,’ I protested.
‘We may not leave the boat, and none may board,’ the soldier replied.
‘Tell them we insist,’ Withypoll whispered to me. ‘Else we shall return to London and inform the King himself of this treachery.’
‘Refuse us boarding, you refuse the King,’ I shouted. ‘For we represent him in this matter.’
The soldier tapped his finger to his brow. ‘I will confer.’
We waited on the boat, gently rocking on the Colne. Withypoll looked worse, eyelids heavy and jaw sagging like he found it difficult to breathe. Dowling watched him stony-eyed, grievously offended by something.
‘Hoy!’ the soldier called, once he returned. ‘One of you may board.’
‘What treachery is this?’ Withypoll spluttered, saliva flying in all directions. ‘Did you not hear what he said?’
‘Aye, so I did,’ the soldier grinned, blinking. He appeared drunk. ‘The Captain said there is but one King, and so he would admit but one of you in his place.’
Withypoll breathed deep and stood up. ‘Very well.’ He stepped towards the rigging causing the boat to lurch violently.
‘Not you.’ The soldier raised his gun. ‘I told him you look sick.’ He turned to me and pointed. ‘The little fellow. He may board.’
Withypoll eyed the rigging with teeth bared, as if contemplating besieging the ship alone. Then he fell back onto his seat and focussed his red-eyed gaze upon me. ‘Find out what is going on, Lytle, and make sure you gain assurance you will be admitted to Shyam.’ He wiped the palm of his hand against his hair.
‘Why do you not come with us to Shyam?’ I asked. ‘You say you are unafraid of the plague.’
‘I don’t fear the plague,’ Withypoll snarled, ‘but those are Arlington’s instructions.’ His face relaxed once more. ‘Besides, there is more than the plague in Shyam, Lytle, as you will discover.’ He rubbed his puffy eyes. ‘Make sure you succeed, Lytle, for if I have to storm this ridiculous ship myself, I will slice off a piece of you first.’
What else could be in Shyam, worse than plague? My spirits sunk lower than ever before. I contemplated asking this captain to sail me to Holland, else borrowing one of those muskets and shooting Withypoll from the safety of the ship. Tell Arlington it was a drunken sailor did it. But I was not a murderer. Dowling stood, legs astride, and helped steady me as I grasped for the rigging.
The three soldiers were indeed drunk. Bored, I supposed, but what captain would allow such debauchery right under his nose? A drunk captain, I discovered, upon being shown into his cabin.
He slouched upon a carved wooden chair, painted gold like a throne, wide enough to seat two men. Lions’ paws were carved into the bottom of each leg and lions’ heads upon the handles. This fellow resembled no captain I had ever seen. Short hair, black and straggly, grew wild about his scalp. Three weeks of bristle sprouted upon his big, round face. Small, dark eyes wandered about his head like he couldn’t see straight. Painted below his nose was a wide, foolish smile, revealing short, peg-like teeth, most of them rotten. He slumped in
the chair like his back was broken, and clutched its arms as if he feared falling from it.
‘Who are you?’ he slurred, grin intact. ‘You don’t look like one of Arlington’s agents to me.’
‘I am Harry Lytle,’ I replied. ‘And I am dressed so not to attract attention.’
Captain Scotschurch belched. ‘I wasn’t talking about your clothes. What do you want?’