Withypoll lifted the shining steel into the sunlight. ‘Benjamin saw them.’
‘I did not say Dutchmen,’ Benjamin protested. ‘I said they dressed strange.’
Flanner breathed deep and slow. ‘Those were churchwardens from the villages. They came with the taxes they raised.’ He glared at Benjamin. ‘Brave men to venture into Colchester, wouldn’t you say?’
‘They didn’t look like churchwardens,’ Benjamin said, blushing.
Flanner said nothing, just waited for Withypoll to lower his sword, staring with a burning hatred. Yet if they were churchwardens, why did he become so strange? Flanner lied to us about something.
‘We must go to Shyam,’ I said, watching his response.
‘No man may go to Shyam,’ he replied, still unbalanced. ‘They will admit no man. It is forbidden.’
‘Yet we will go,’ I replied. ‘We cannot leave Essex without finding Josselin. We must ask him some questions. If he is at Shyam, then we must go to Shyam.’
‘If you go to Shyam, you will die,’ Flanner replied, voice choked. ‘You don’t know what has become of that village.’
‘Yet you allowed Josselin to go?’ I said. ‘The beloved son of this fair town.’
‘Josselin is a great man,’ Flanner replied carefully, ‘and his situation is grave, very grave.’
‘Indeed it is,’ Withypoll agreed. ‘Yours besides, for if Lytle and Dowling here go to Shyam and die, and it turns out that Josselin was hiding here all the while, then both he and you, and anyone else found to be harbouring him, will be found guilty of murder and treason.’
‘Josselin is not in Colchester,’ Flanner muttered.
The sound of donkeys braying broke the silence. Flanner cursed and ran his fingers through his hair, a gesture that did not escape Withypoll’s attentions. The noise came from the east, round the base of the great mound upon which the castle stood majestic. We strode quickly through the streets, the sound of braying deafening to our
ears, until we came to the ruins of the East Gate.
Six donkeys stood in a circle, each burdened with heavy load, heads raised to the skies crying harshly to the heavens, white teeth shining in the sun. About them gathered four men in dark trousers and loose, light shirts, all wearing tan shoes. They checked each donkey’s pack and pulled at various straps and fastenings.
‘The East Gate is the way to Shyam,’ said Benjamin, staring at Flanner.
‘They are on a mission of mercy,’ Flanner explained, perspiration forming upon his brow in heavy drops. ‘They are God’s men, all of them brave.’
‘Brave or foolish?’ I asked him. ‘Did you not say they will die?’
‘God will watch over them,’ Flanner replied, though his body spoke with less confidence than his mouth. ‘They have heard the terrible tales that come from Shyam, stories of hopelessness and evil. They have pledged to purge the village of sin in the name of the Lord.’
None of which made sense. If Josselin fled London and found sanctuary between the clean walls of Colchester, then why should he make the perilous trip to Shyam? Josselin hid in Colchester, I was sure of it.
The four men finished making their last adjustments and the donkeys ceased their protests. Each man appeared grimly resolute, yet terrified besides. A dangerous addiction, the Bible. Every man sought the best of himself amongst its pages and determined to live up to that lofty ambition. Yet we were none of us so strong, nor so bold. Now these fellows realised they were just poor mortals like the rest of us, yet had created for themselves a braver man’s destiny. The donkeys seemed keenest, tempted by the long, open track and the sight of fresh, green grass. At last the men could linger no more, and
the small band picked its way through the rubble of the gate and set off for Shyam.
‘If they can go, then Lytle and Dowling can go,’ Withypoll told Flanner, smiling at me.
He surely saw the fear in my eyes. What if Josselin was in Shyam after all? Like Withypoll, perhaps he imagined some false immunity. Perhaps for him Shyam was a real sanctuary, a place no man might reach him, a place he might command the poor afflicted inhabitants.
‘What else would you see?’ Flanner asked.
‘Your best inn,’ Withypoll demanded. ‘If we must stay the night in this cursed place, then we will stay within the walls.’
‘I will take you to the Red Lion.’ Flanner beckoned. ‘I assume
you
will return from whence you came,’ he said, spitting the words at Benjamin.
Benjamin reddened, turned on his heel, and strode back towards Botolph’s Gate without a word.
If Josselin was in Colchester, we had little time to find him, for nothing would deprive Withypoll of the pleasure of seeing us step out the gate upon that sinister road to Shyam.
Curious faces stared out from the windows as we passed, and as I met the stares of men, women and children, I realised that Benjamin had been the only one of us that knew for sure what Josselin looked like.
Chapter Twelve
The position of Mars in the 7th and in Virgo signifieth effusion of bloods.
As the bells rang out for evening prayer, Dowling and I prepared to venture forth. At these times, with plague knocking upon the town gates, every man would go to church. If we wanted clear view of the remaining townsfolk, now presented the best opportunity.
Withypoll slouched in a large chair, in front of the empty fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, though the air was warm. His hair lay in wet tangles, plastered to his head, the ugly wound now open to the air. A small table stood at his elbow, upon it a jug of ale. ‘Tomorrow Shyam,’ he said, raising a mug, his words echoing about the large, empty room, worn timber walls, bare floor.
I thought to argue with him, but his eyes gleamed, feverish. With any luck he might be dead tomorrow. The landlady watched, curious, from
the doorway. Her head darted like a great chicken with a faint, black moustache.
She waited for us to walk past her afore she spoke. ‘Why do you plan to go to Shyam?’ she demanded, tugging at my sleeve.
‘To find James Josselin,’ I replied.
‘Josselin is not at Shyam,’ she snorted. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Where is he, then?’ I asked, ears pricked.
‘I don’t know where he is, but he would ne’er venture into Shyam.’ She spat on the floor and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. ‘First, it is worse plagued than even outside our own walls. Second, he would ne’er go to Shyam, for that is where Thomas Elks lives.’
The bells continued ringing. Churches would be starting to fill.
‘Who is Thomas Elks?’
‘Thomas Elks is Hugh Elks’ brother, and Hugh Elks is dead.’ She spat again upon the floor, a small, brown puddle of something sticky. ‘Thomas Elks blamed James Josselin, and swore to kill him for it.’
‘When was this?’ I asked.
‘Ten years ago.’ She tapped me on the chest and stared, her rough, weathered face smelling strangely damp. ‘Tell me why James Josselin would go back to Shyam when Thomas Elks is waiting there to kill him? Thomas Elks is as black-hearted as ever his brother was, and his brother was an evil sinner.’
‘Tell us the story quickly, woman,’ I urged her. ‘We must get to church.’
‘I must get to church besides,’ she replied indignant. ‘I need not tell you the story at all.’
‘Tell us, please,’ Dowling said, soft.
‘Well, then.’ She wrinkled her nose in my direction afore turning to Dowling. ‘Hugh Elks was an idle fellow, like all his kin. Another man, name of William Braine, sold all his stock at market and planned to leave Shyam to go to Ipswich, I think.’ She spat a third time, this time close to my boot. ‘One day, at the time of morning prayer, a man entered William Braine’s house with a visor upon his face. Braine’s daughter was there alone, for she was sick, making cheese.’