Elks approached Smythe while all watched Josselin, transfixed. Elks whispered, hands held forward, but Smythe moved away without meeting his eye.
The ginger-haired man arrived, panting, with Josselin’s clothes, just as Josselin clambered onto the bank. Josselin pulled on his drawers as
if no one watched, then a flowing, silk shirt and blue, silk breeches. The sun reached halfway up the sky and the air was warm. Josselin handed his long black coat back to the ginger-haired man, who took it like his servant. With his long, dark hair pulled back off his face and tied behind his shoulders, Josselin resembled the King himself.
Smythe ducked his head as if tempted to bow. ‘Would you like something to eat?’
‘To drink.’ Josselin turned on his heel and headed up the track. ‘Wine, if you have it.’
Smythe exchanged glances with his companions and shrugged. ‘We have ale.’
‘Ale, then.’ Josselin waved an arm and lengthened his stride. ‘This cage.’ He turned to look at Smythe. ‘Is that where you will imprison Mr Elks?’
Elks glowered, stumbling when the ginger man shoved him.
‘He hasn’t eaten for a week and he asks for ale?’ I whispered at Dowling.
‘I fear for the health of any man that spends a week in the conditions we witnessed,’ Dowling replied. ‘Stay alert, Harry.’
Josselin stood with hands on hips, face contorted in ripe disgust as he surveyed the circle of iron gibbets, decomposing corpses grown another day more rotten. He turned to Smythe. ‘Who are all these people?’
‘The village swore an oath to stay and they tried to leave,’ Smythe replied, avoiding Josselin’s horrified stare. ‘The Reverend Mompesson commanded it, and Elks enforced it.’
‘We all enforced it,’ Elks interrupted, angry. ‘As God is your witness, you dare deny it?’
Smythe muttered and ducked his head.
Josselin caught sight of the cage at the edge of the pond. ‘Who are those wretches?’
‘Four clerics.’ Smythe traipsed in his wake, shoulders slumped. ‘They came in two days ago on donkeys. Said they would tend to our souls then return to Colchester. Thomas said we should lock them away as well.’
Elks snorted, as the rest of the group followed Josselin to the bars of the cage.
‘Good,’ exclaimed Josselin leaning forwards. ‘I’m glad you did, for these are not clerics.’
Smythe opened his mouth as if to say something, but settled instead for exchanging glances with his mystified colleagues.
I approached close enough to see the spark of excitement in Josselin’s eyes, the tip of his tongue dance quickly between his teeth. The two clerics that lived quaked beneath his gaze, sensing there was something wrong. They looked to me as if in search of explanation.
‘Godfrey Allen and John Ansty,’ Josselin declared triumphant. ‘The dead men are Greenleafe and Meshman. Spies. If it were up to me I would put them to death.’ He turned away. ‘Where’s that ale?’
Smythe wiped his palms on his arse. ‘At my house,’ he replied, attempting to smile. ‘Over the bridge.’
‘Away, then!’ Josselin declared, pointing at the sky. His dark eyes settled on me. ‘Come, Arlington’s men. You I trust. Come with me.’
The clerics gazed at me with pleading eyes, hands clasping the bars. ‘What does he say?’ one of them whispered. ‘I have never heard those names before. We are clerics from Colchester. Ask Mayor Flanner.’
I raised my head and saw Marshall Howe stood behind the cage, glowering with murderous intent. My throat constricted and I turned quickly to Josselin. ‘You are sure they are spies?’
He rattled the tip of his boot against the bars. ‘Of course. Arlington’s scum. Murderers and thieves.’
The two clerics shook their heads silently, clasping their hands and biting their lips.
‘Marshall Howe.’ Josselin raised his chin. ‘Stop staring at my good friends. Lock Elks in the cage and take down all these bodies. Take them to the church.’
Howe’s expression didn’t change, nor did he move a muscle of his body.
‘Don’t worry about Mompesson,’ Josselin mouthed the words with exaggerated care. ‘I will go and speak with him after I have visited Smythe at his humble abode.’ He nodded his head and showed his teeth. ‘Come, Arlington’s men.’
I chased after him. ‘What will you do to the clerics?’
‘I have no idea,’ Josselin replied, looking over his shoulder. ‘I cannot release them, for those two dead men are plagued. We should leave them there for forty days, I think.’
Dowling scowled and scratched at his head, unable to tell if Josselin was serious and reluctant to ask. Smythe ran ahead, while Elks protested loudly behind us, Howe bundling him into the cage with the clerics.
A pale face peeked out from the window of a small cottage just the other side of Fiddler’s Bridge, a narrow walkway of wooden planks bound together with twine. A young woman with dark hair, wide-eyed and hesitant. She disappeared once she set eyes on Josselin.
Smythe emerged carrying a large stone flagon and three cups. He offered the cups to Josselin and to us. Dowling shook his head and I refused, determined to retain my wits.
Josselin pushed two of the cups against my chest. ‘You would have me drink alone? Drink.’
We complied, me more willing than Dowling. Much to my surprise it tasted pleasant, like fresh apple. Josselin enjoyed it even more than I, for he sank the first cup in two draughts, nodding at Smythe for a refill.
He breathed deep and inspected his surrounds as if with fresh eyes, gazing into the boughs of the trees. ‘Difficult to believe this place is plagued. Such a beautiful place, I always thought.’ He finished his second cup barely slower than the first and belched softly. ‘Now I want to talk to the Reverend. Bring the flagon.’
A row of wild, yellow roses spread across the front of the rectory, tended lovingly. The door and windows were closed. Josselin kicked open the gate and staggered up the path, eyes half lidded. The village wardens watched from behind the low stone wall, fidgeting. Half a dozen other villagers emerged from the quiet to watch from a distance.
Josselin banged his fist upon the door. ‘Mompesson!’ he shouted, slurring.
A face appeared at the top window, craggy and heavy with a large straight nose. The man’s eyes were big and brown, unusually melancholic. He opened the window and leant out, hair hanging down his back, tied and clean, brushed of all knots. His elegant white linen shirt bore a plain broad collar. ‘My wife is asleep,’ he protested, staring down at Josselin. ‘Can ye not talk quietly?’
‘Certainly.’ Josselin waved an arm and staggered, before taking another swig from the flagon. ‘Come downstairs and we shall talk quietly.’
Mompesson didn’t move. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, eyeing the small gathering.
‘I am James Josselin,’ Josselin bowed. ‘Known to all for my exploits as a young boy.’ He held his hand up to his face and stared at the ridges on his fingers as if they were new.
Mompesson frowned. ‘Why do you come to Shyam, Mr Josselin? Our village is quarantined.’
‘I have been here some time, Reverend,’ said Josselin. ‘Your friend Thomas Elks locked me in a barn.’
Mompesson leant further out of the window in an attempt to read Josselin’s expression. But Josselin was drunk, swaying from side to side and licking his lips.
‘It’s true, Reverend,’ Smythe affirmed. ‘We found him ourselves.’
Josselin stepped in front of him. ‘How many have died, Reverend?’ he cried. ‘More than half the village. And what in God’s name inspired you to squeeze your own people into gibbets? What barbaric practice is that? Are they not your flock?’ He threw back his arms, legs splayed.
‘That was Elks’ decision,’ Mompesson replied, keeping his voice down. ‘We all decided, together, to remain within the parish boundaries until the plague abated.’