Twelve men or more sat around a long table. All the six I followed and a half-dozen more. Their demeanour was serious and businesslike. They took their instruction from the head of the table, to my left, but I couldn’t see the speaker’s face. I ducked my head and shuffled along to another window from where I could see every man. All twelve and the man at the head besides. A familiar face. My heart pounded hard enough to break my ribs.
I looked around for Dowling, but couldn’t see him anywhere. I tried running back the way I came but it seemed I left my legs behind.
‘Calm,’ I urged myself, leaning against a wall. ‘No one is following.’ I took small steps.
Dowling appeared from somewhere, face white and hair black. I had never seen him with black hair before. ‘Harry!’ he exclaimed.
I leant back against a pillar staring at a face, a chipped stone face I recognised from St Martin’s. ‘You know who I saw?’ I whispered hoarse.
‘I told you to wait,’ Dowling growled. ‘Where did you go?’
‘I saw him,’ I said. Familiar stern face, scathing and terrible, the skin upon his neck now hung in a long fold that quivered as he spoke. Yellowing eyes, like a great rat. His silver-tipped cane leant against his chair. ‘The Earl of Shrewsbury.’
Dowling cupped my chin in his hands. ‘Shrewsbury?’
‘Aye, Shrewsbury. The murderous devil that would have seen me hanged at Tyburn.’ I struggled to stand up straight and dug my heels into the paving stones. ‘I’m going back.’
Dowling laid an arm across my shoulders, heavy as a log. ‘No.’
I felt my knees buckle. ‘He killed my father.’
Dowling gazed down upon me like he was my father instead. ‘Shrewsbury sits there with twelve men. What is your grand plan?’
‘To stick his cane down his throat.’ Gratifying but not grand.
‘By yourself?’ Dowling frowned. ‘We need help, Harry, and Withypoll is the only one I can think can provide it.’
We hurried back to the Red Lion.
‘What church did you go to?’ the old lady demanded as soon as we stepped over the threshold. ‘I did not see you there.’
I ignored her and headed straight for the table upon which Withypoll leant forwards, wet head rested on his arms.
I slapped my hands down upon the thick wood. ‘Things have changed.’
Withypoll pushed himself up, scowling. ‘Aye, the moon has risen and you are frightened.’ He shivered. ‘A change for the better.’
‘No.’ I said. ‘We found the Dutchmen.’
Withypoll raised his brows and endeavoured to look impressed. ‘Well, sit thee down and let’s partake of an ale, to celebrate your fine achievement.’
I banged the table again. ‘The Earl of Shrewsbury was among them.’
Withypoll pursed his lips. ‘A trick, Lytle? For if it is your intention to weave some fine tale that will excuse you your voyage into Shyam, then you are wasting your breath.’
‘No trick,’ I snapped. ‘We will take you to the house now, where you may see it with your own eyes. If any man is a traitor, it’s Shrewsbury. What business does he have in Colchester with a table full of Dutchmen? He is involved in this, somehow or other.
There is no point in going to Shyam. Josselin is obviously here in the town.’
‘You saw Josselin with Shrewsbury?’ Withypoll wiped his brow. ‘That is what you would have me believe?’
I breathed deep. ‘I don’t try and have you believe anything except that Shrewsbury is here. Come and we will show you.’
‘Very well.’ Withypoll clambered to his feet, breathing ale fumes into my face. ‘Show me.’
The house was but three minutes away, yet from fifty yards I felt my hopes dashed against stone walls, for all the lights were dark.
Withypoll nodded at the house. ‘Shrewsbury is there you say? Hiding in the dark.’
‘He sat there with a dozen others not ten minutes ago,’ I said. ‘We followed from St Martin’s.’
Withypoll wiped at his face in displeasure. ‘Clearly they had little to discuss.’
‘Else they saw us,’ I said.
Withypoll turned upon me. ‘Well they will not see you again for a while, Lytle.’ Not a muscle of his hard face moved. ‘You and the butcher will go into Shyam tomorrow and look for Josselin. You won’t come back without him.’
‘What if he isn’t there?’
Withypoll forced himself to smile. ‘Then bring evidence of it, else I shall assume you are lying.’
I stood my ground. ‘We are not going to Shyam when it is obvious Josselin is in Colchester.’
Withypoll regarded me strangely then turned to Dowling. ‘You saw Shrewsbury alone, butcher, or you saw Josselin with him?’
Dowling’s eyes opened wide, like he had been slapped across the face.
‘Speak up,’ Withypoll snapped.
‘He didn’t see either of them.’ I saved Dowling the lie. ‘I saw Shrewsbury by myself.’
Withypoll sighed deep and a ball of anger rose within my throat, but before I could open my mouth, the noise of braying donkeys shrilled through the quiet night air. Men hurried east, towards the broken gate. The donkeys cantered towards us in one great grey huddle, eyes wide, foam flying from their lips. Six donkeys, no loads, no men.
‘This one is bleeding,’ a man cried, grabbing one about the neck. ‘Teethmarks, look!’
‘Let me see.’ Dowling stepped forward, gripping the beast firm about its head. He probed the wound with thick finger. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Dog’s teeth.’
The donkey kicked out hard and tugged at its head, trying to bite Dowling. The rest of the herd evaded capture, kicking frantically at any that neared. They kept on running, west down the high street. Dowling let go, and the last donkey galloped with all its might until it rejoined the group.
Dowling’s companion stared after the beasts. ‘They were terrified. We won’t catch them ’til morning.’
Withypoll said, appearing at my shoulder, ‘You won’t be here in the morning. I have arranged for you to leave just before dawn. I will see you by the door at five o’clock.’ He turned on his heel and wandered unsteadily back towards the Red Lion, the crowd opening up before him, fear upon their faces.
‘How is your faith now?’ I asked the butcher.
But Dowling walked slow, lost in thought, grey-faced and sombre, eyes wet with old man’s tears. I suddenly recalled Withypoll breathing on my face, the rotten smell of his breath, and I resolved to smoke another pipe before going to bed. Another day gone. Five days now to get back to London, else lose my shop.
If the donkeys didn’t bray all night beneath my window, then I must have dreamt it.
Chapter Thirteen
As the tail of the first Comet did verge North-west, viz. towards England, so hath the Plague or Pestilence, or both, most sorrowfully wasted some thousands.
Two crows perched upon the brickwork, jerking their heads up and down, regarding us sideways like we were new carrion. A sleepy-looking guard unlocked one of the great wooden doors and pushed it open, inviting us to step outside this safe haven onto the lane that led to Shyam. Withypoll stood watching, wrapped up warm in his big coat, checking we suffered no sudden loss of nerve.
The track was narrow and covered with leaves, though we were still in summer. Grass grew high as my knees in places, and we allowed the horses to take their time. The forest confronted us from all sides, deep and impenetrable. Birds sang loud, the effect sinister, unnatural and isolating.
Shyam was but three miles away, such a short distance. Each steady step seemed to carry us there with dizzying pace. I was relieved when Dowling pulled his horse up sharp a mile or so in, pointing to the edge of the forest. A hut stood at the edge of the treeline, built from sticks and branches. A pole protruded out the top, with a dirty white flag hanging limp at its tip.