He thrived upon the generosity of those who believed the tale he cultivated.’
I wondered if Benjamin was religious. The overly religious accused every man of idleness, as I knew from personal experience. ‘He is accused of murder,’ I said.
‘I know,’ Benjamin replied. ‘And if you ask me do I think he is capable, then yes he is. He has no moral compass. If he killed a man, this is where he would come, knowing these people would protect him without question.’
I felt even more determined to penetrate the town walls, certain Josselin skulked in there somewhere.
Benjamin spoke louder, good eye open wide. ‘When the other strangers were admitted I asked Captain Scotschurch if we might enter too, but he refused me.’
‘What other strangers?’ Withypoll demanded.
‘Four men entered last week, none of them from hereabouts. They dressed strange, like dignitaries, but not English. Scotschurch wasn’t interested.’
‘Dutchmen,’ Withypoll exclaimed, a glint in his eye.
‘Perhaps,’ Benjamin replied. He blinked furiously and rubbed at the sty with dirty finger afore leading the way back up the hill. ‘That’s for you to find out.’
‘First we must fetch our horses,’ Dowling reminded us all. ‘You walk, Benjamin. We will meet you at Botolph’s.’
Back at the harbour our horses stepped nervous from foot to foot, surrounded by a gaggle of bleary admirers. Withypoll cut them short thrift. I looked back at the ship anchored out in the river, lonely and forlorn. Scotschurch didn’t drink to ward off the plague, else he would assume his responsibilities on shore. He drank to ward off the
fear, and allowed his men to do the same so they would not revolt. Pestilence had many ways to beat a man. The drunken wretches that pawed and slobbered at our legs were no less defeated, their muskets a stark reminder of their sad demise.
My horse fidgeted, skittish and tense, and I had to pull hard on his reins to stop him dashing south along the river bank. We pushed through the swaying masses, out into clean space away from the harbour. The bells of St Leonard’s pealed as we passed the church, as if signalling us to retreat. Another cart trundled westward, tarpaulin covering a heavy load.
Benjamin stood waiting at Botolph’s Gate afront of two sombre-looking fellows with hands on hips. ‘They want to see the captain’s orders,’ he said.
‘Captain’s orders and King’s orders.’ Withypoll swung himself to the ground. ‘Open the gate or I’ll open your guts.’ He pushed one of them back against the thick stone wall. ‘In the name of Charles the Second.’
‘Mayor Flanner said none may enter,’ the older man said, dancing on his toes with one arm held up against Withypoll’s blade.
‘Make your choice,’ Withypoll leered, his nose still red. ‘My blade or Flanner’s.’
For a moment it seemed like the sentry might take him on, encouraged by Withypoll’s wan complexion and stooped gait, but then Benjamin placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder. The old man caught the warning in his eyes and dipped into his pocket to retrieve a heavy key, with which he opened the grand doors.
We hurried over the threshold as Death turned its head slowly towards the light, momentarily distracted from the scenes of torment. The two guards hurried after, eager to close the door behind us. What sort of townspeople were these who left their brethren to fall upon the ground?
We emerged on foot opposite a low, green field, overgrown and deserted. The site of Botolph’s Fair, if my bearings proved right, now covered with empty tenter frames. Colchester was famous for its wool, but no one would be buying Colchester bays again for a while. Yet these two fellows looked fat enough.
I couldn’t resist asking. ‘How do you survive behind the walls?’
‘Taxes,’ one replied. ‘There is a tax levied on every village within five miles.’
Benjamin scanned the surroundings, lips drawn tight, face white. Then we followed our guides to a small crossroads; ancient, square-towered churches on three corners, like some sort of celestial vestibule.
‘Mayor Flanner will not be happy,’ the younger man whispered to Benjamin, watching Withypoll stagger down the empty marketplace. Assuredly he would not. Withypoll walked like an obstinate corpse.
Low, flat, marble steps led into the bowels of the crooked Moot Hall. An enormous, wooden coat of arms hung from the uneven roof above grand, oak doors. A row of chimney stacks stood leaning at strange angles.
One guide pointed afore the two hurried away back the way they’d come. ‘You’ll find Mayor Flanner in there.’
The entrance led to a wood-panelled hall. From our left came a faint, scratching noise, sound of quill on paper. It stopped suddenly. Footsteps sounded sharp upon floorboards.
A middle-sized man of ordinary build stared at us with cold blue eyes. ‘Benjamin!’
Benjamin bowed his head afore Flanner’s trenchant stare. ‘You don’t have the authority to keep them out, Flanner.’
Flanner smiled, crookedly. ‘You have come to find James Josselin, but you will fail.’
‘It is the King’s mission.’ Withypoll smiled back unpleasantly. ‘To prevent us would be treason.’
‘Treason.’ Flanner repeated, standing well back from Withypoll. ‘Then I will show you about the town before you leave.’ He stepped past us and back out onto the street.
‘The Dutch Quarter first,’ Withypoll called.
Flanner turned to confront him. ‘Why?’
Withypoll stepped towards Flanner and laid a hand upon his shoulder. ‘All you good country folk adopt a simple outlook on life,’ he said, as Flanner shrank from his touch. ‘Josselin is a full-grown man, yet you poor bumpkins cannot see beyond the boy. Why would I waste my time explaining to you that Josselin stabbed a lord through the chest? That Josselin is a traitor who spoils our parley with the Dutch? Yet I have pledged an oath to the King in the service of my country, so must pursue the truth anyway, whatever inconvenience it may present to the Mayor of Little Bumpkintown.’
Flanner’s sharp blue eyes settled upon Benjamin. ‘There were always those among us who envied James his situation,’ he said. ‘For some a bright star is something to be coveted. If the boy is courageous then so will be the man; that is evident.’ He pulled away from Withypoll’s grasp. ‘You gentlemen, I assume, have never met James Josselin.’
Withypoll waved an airy arm. ‘Nor do we need to. We found Berkshire’s body with Josselin’s sword protruding from his chest. Others saw him running with blood upon his hands. Seems he didn’t stop until he reached here.’
Flanner shook his head and pointed. ‘The Dutch Quarter.’
The houses seemed the same as any other, same half-timbered structures with impenetrable, dark windows.
‘I don’t know what you expect to see.’ Flanner stopped. ‘Most of these people were born here, as were their fathers before them. The first arrived more than a century ago, chased from Flanders by the Spanish.’
Withypoll grunted and stalked up East Stockwell Street beneath the great shadow of the castle. ‘What do they do now they cannot make cloth?’ he asked.
‘The town is half empty,’ Flanner replied. ‘Many left before the Pest established itself. Those that remain keep this town going. The neighbouring villages provide us with monies by which we ensure everyone is fed, but still we must arrange to buy provisions. The town must be kept clean, the sick cared for, law maintained.’ He looked to the castle. ‘We have had to lock up six families so far, who tried to visit their relatives outside the walls. Such selfish behaviour puts us all at risk.’
Withypoll turned, blocking Flanner’s path. ‘What of the Dutchmen who arrived last week?’
Flanner halted in his tracks, face frozen. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Withypoll tilted his head. ‘And your mother was my father.’ He drew his sword. ‘You speak to me as if I am your enemy, when I come from the King. Lie and I will cut you from belly to chin.’
‘There are no Dutchmen here,’ Flanner insisted, yet his blue eyes darted from me to Dowling, seeking salvation. ‘Kill me if you will, it will not change the fact.’