‘He is an important man,’ I replied. ‘He works for the King.’
Smythe handed me the bottles. ‘Well now you can tell them where he is, if you survive the plague yourself.’
‘How do you all know him so well?’ I asked. ‘He has visited only once, has he not? And did he not offend Thomas Elks? I thought Elks had many friends amongst the villagers.’
‘Elks had friends,’ Smythe agreed, ‘though many are now dead.
Josselin was one of them once, for he came here oftentimes to collect taxes and pay for the goods we sent to market. We all knew him, Elks more than most, for his father leased a big holding west of Town Head.’
‘You all loved the tax collector?’
‘Aye,’ Smythe nodded vigorously. ‘He gave what was owed, and turned a blind eye when he saw folks had not the means to contribute. I know for a fact he made up the difference out of his own estate when it was necessary.’
I frowned. ‘He was a hero then.’
‘Aye,’ Smythe nodded again. ‘Which is why so many of us was ashamed the way he was treated in return.’
‘What do you mean?’
Smythe scratched his head and grimaced. ‘Hugh Elks was a violent man and everyone knew it. That’s why Josselin went first to his house when Lizzy Braine was found dead. His own family disowned him, all except Thomas. Even Thomas tried to talk to him, but Hugh wouldn’t be talked to. He wouldn’t watch your eyes for more than a few seconds afore he was distracted by something else.’
‘Hugh Elks did kill Lizzy Braine?’
Smythe scratched the back of his head. ‘He killed her, and deserved what he got. None resented Josselin for it, none except Thomas Elks. Elks bided his time, waited for nightfall. Then he and some others went round to the rectory and dragged Josselin out by the boots. First they tried to hang him, then they tried to burn him.’ He rubbed his hands upon his face. ‘The Reverend did nothing about it, just locked himself behind his own door. Not Mompesson, he wasn’t here then. None of the villagers did owt about it either, though few were around to witness it. Josselin saved himself, it’s said. Found some
Godly strength when he saw the fire, kicked and punched his way free. Ran all the way back to Colchester and never been back since, not till we found him in the barn.’
‘Does he not resent you all?’ I asked, aghast.
‘He never came back to discuss it,’ Smythe replied. ‘Though he seems much changed. Difficult to tell what he thinks, but we saved him from Elks this time, didn’t we?’ He turned to face me, eyes anxious.
‘Aye,’ I agreed. ‘Elks told you to release the dogs, and you chose not to.’
Smythe sighed. ‘Perhaps God will look upon us more kindly now.’ He looked me in the eye and nodded. ‘You have your food, you have your vitriol and vinegar. Now be on your way.’
‘Where is Josselin?’ I asked.
‘Snoring his head off on my bed,’ Smythe replied. ‘Drunk himself into a stupor.’
I put out my hand for the rest of my leaves. How would we get Josselin out of Shyam if he was drunk all the time?
Chapter Twenty-One
Those Comets which are carried against the order of the signs, do ever intimate a change of Laws.
We lit the fire and dug the graves, just two of them, well away from the cottage. It took most of the afternoon, for the ground was hard and my muscles soft. By the time we finished, I stank worse than the dead cow.
We barely spoke, for if Dowling’s thoughts were as morbid as mine, there was little to be served in sharing such gloomy forebodings. We had to leave Shyam; that was the answer to everything. And if we succeeded in taking Josselin with us, perhaps this village might reassess its commitment to die alone. Colchester was plagued besides; it was not as if their isolation served any real purpose.
The fire burnt brighter as the skies darkened. The birds sang frantic, like they feared the dusk.
‘I am going to wash at the pond,’ I said, once we finished. ‘We’ll remind Smythe to feed the Hancocks.’ And I wanted to see if Josselin had surfaced — take advantage of the opportunity to talk to him sober.
The Hancocks’ house was quieter now. Peering in discreetly I saw the family gathered as they were before, one of the girls curled up asleep upon the floor. The boy still wriggled, restless, but not so much.
We trudged back towards the pond, counting the windows lit by candle. Most were dark. A chill breeze froze my damp skin. What I wouldn’t do for something hot to eat, a mug of beer and a comfortable bed. I thought again of Jane, wondered what she was doing right now. I wondered if she thought of me, worried even. What a strange notion that was.
The gibbets were all removed, but in their place an awful, black, shadow against the cobalt sky, slashed with dark streaks of cyan. My bowels melted and my legs trembled. Marshall Howe had been building a gallows, and from the gallows hung five bodies.
We approached cautious, the night air silent. Someone lay prostrate on the ground afore the swinging corpses. Two poles, driven deep into the ground, supported one long beam from which the bodies dangled. Across the beam someone wrote in dripping paint:
BE NOT MERCIFUL TO WICKED TRANSGRESSORS — SPIES AND TRAITORS.
The words seemed familiar.
‘In the name of God, what wickedness is this?’ Dowling exclaimed,
staring at the corpses, swinging gently in the slight breeze. ‘They have murdered men of God!’
‘Not men of God,’ a low voice sounded from beneath our feet. The long bundle unravelled itself and Josselin emerged, eyes dead, face pallid. ‘Yet they did not deserve this.’
‘Those are your words,’ I said. ‘You used those very words in front of the rectory.’ At that moment I felt utterly sick of that place, sick of the people, sick of the world. Flies covered the two corpses upon the left, crawling with great intent. Flesh peeled already from the cheekbone of the first, wet and grey. A magpie perched upon the second man’s head, pecking at his scalp. ‘You hang dead bodies?’
‘I didn’t do it,’ Josselin croaked. ‘Marshall Howe did it. He heard my words and thought I instructed him.’
Elks seemed to be looking at me, eyes open wide, bulging from their sockets, mouth affixed in a permanent sneer, black tongue protruding.
‘You didn’t stop him?’ Dowling snorted, incredulous.
‘I was asleep,’ Josselin protested. ‘I heard nothing.’ He looked up at me, his expression similar to that upon the clerics’ faces afore we left them in the cage to go to Smythe’s house. ‘Someone else should have stopped it.’
‘Why?’ Dowling snapped. ‘You told the village you were in charge.’ He pointed to the writing on the beam. ‘Those are your words. This is your will.’
‘I was drunk!’ Josselin cried. ‘I was locked up in a shed for five days without food nor water.’
Despite the atrocity I felt some sympathy as I gazed down upon his young face. The face of a young boy bewildered by someone else’s
cruelty. He dug into the dirt with his deformed fingers. I reminded myself he was chased here by Arlington, accused of a crime he likely did not commit.
‘You still say they were spies?’ Dowling said, low.
Josselin pointed at each of the bodies in turn. ‘Greenleafe, Meshman, Ansty, Allen,’ he recited. ‘I know them, though I did not wish for this.’
I scanned the five contorted faces. Was it possible? Certainly it was the kind of scheme Arlington would relish, but would four spies allow themselves to be so easily snared?
The ground shook to our left. Framed by the outline of the church, the figure of Marshall Howe, striding slowly in our direction.
‘Have you talked to him?’ I asked Josselin.
Josselin shook his head and climbed to his feet, wiping his cheeks with his palms, succeeding only in smearing them with dirt.