‘What news?’ he asked.
‘She’s pregnant,’ I replied, sitting next to him.
He pounced, smothering me against his sweaty chest. I pushed myself away and escaped his flailing arms. He smiled wetly, like an old woman regarding young lovers.
‘Have you seen Josselin?’ I asked, seeking to distract his attention.
‘He’s not come out,’ Dowling replied awkwardly, settling himself.
It was easy to see who came and went, for the path from door to gate stretched fifty yards. We sat across the road, with fine view between the gateposts.
‘Do you want to go and see Lucy?’ I offered.
‘Later,’ he replied, more sober. ‘When I have worked out what to tell her.’
Unlike him, I thought. He hadn’t seen her for a week.
Two servants hovered outside Clarendon’s front gate wearing smart, blue suits and tall hats festooned with ribbons. Large, young men, lithe and strong, posturing for the ladies.
‘So we sit here all day,’ I muttered, watching them preen.
‘Else go for a ride upon the Spanish donkey,’ said Dowling.
I recalled the horror and disgust upon Jane’s face when first I told her of our mission to extract Josselin from Shyam. What would she think of our new mission; to wait for Josselin to step into a trap?
‘We collude in an innocent man’s death.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘Speak to Clarendon. Josselin says he is committed to peace.’ I thought aloud.
Dowling slapped his hands on his knees. ‘Did you not hear what Arlington said? We are to wait for Josselin and report his arrival.’
‘I heard,’ I answered, standing. ‘But if we comply with that instruction, then what next? Kill a man?’ I had already severed a man’s finger. ‘If we fail, then I will take Jane away, out of England if need be.’ It sounded desperate even as I said it, yet we could not sit idly by.
‘I don’t want to leave England,’ Dowling protested.
‘God will watch over you, won’t he? I doubt he is impressed to see you just sitting here.’
Dowling raised himself slowly, face contorted in indecision.
The two servants noticed our approach when we were still but halfway across the street. The tallest watched with a supercilious sneer etched upon thick lips, black brow curled above dark eyes. He raised a wooden cane and pointed it at my chest, as if defining the boundaries of an invisible territory.
I brushed the end of the stick aside. ‘We work for Lord Arlington. We have news for Clarendon.’
‘What news?’ The taller man smirked. ‘Get thee gone, vagabonds, before we stick you like pigs.’
My throat constricted and fire smouldered in my belly. ‘Tell him we spoke to James Josselin. Tell him Josselin is in London.’
The shorter man regarded me seriously, eyes wandering from my tangled, greasy hair down to the toes of my ruined boots. ‘If I deliver such a message and it rouses his interest, then he will throw you into a dark place from where you may never emerge, should you speak false.’
Dowling lurched forwards with clenched fists. ‘We don’t speak false.’
The guard opened the gate and slipped through, still suspicious. The other guard bid us come closer, afraid we might flee now the message was to be delivered. We waited beneath the climbing sun in silent anticipation. The guard returned but a short time later, beckoning with his sword, brisk and serious.
‘I will come with you.’ I pointed at Dowling. ‘He will stay here.’
Dowling’s jaw dropped as he prepared to protest. Then I saw him stop, recognising how important it was that one of us remain outside to watch for Josselin. The tall servant hesitated a moment before harrying me forwards beneath the gaze of forty windows.
‘Move along.’ The guard shoved me. ‘Don’t mistake yourself for a guest.’
He opened the door upon the most opulent of interiors. The marble floor sparkled white beneath my feet like a great mirror. Rich, new tapestries hung upon wood-panelled walls, depicting scenes of woodlands and fields, and lots of French peasants. The central staircase twisted an intricate path from the floor up into the shadows of the silent interior.
‘What are you waiting for?’ growled the guard, poking me in the back. He prodded me left, down the darkest corridor, naked of wood, bare plaster heralding the wing of the house yet to be completed.
I stepped carefully past a pile of planks and a long row of open doorways, until reaching a small plain door tucked around a corner, nestled in a small recess. The guard turned the key in the lock and held it open. Beyond was darkness.
‘Is that a dungeon?’ I stepped back. ‘I came here of my own free will.’
‘So you did,’ the man replied. ‘Now you are subject to his lordship’s will. Get inside.’
He raised his sword and his partner appeared behind him, face alive with curiosity. I saw no choice but to step into the bare stone corridor.
Light shone weak from around the corner. To my surprise the sentry followed, pushing me along the curved passage towards a large, square room, bright but damp. An open doorway led outside to a brick stairwell, but it was barred with an iron grille, as were the windows. I stopped upon the threshold, wary, but the guard kicked me in the back of my right knee and shoved me forwards, slamming closed a second iron grille, leaving me trapped, like a bird in a cage.
‘Don’t worry,’ the guard said in low tone. ‘If you be telling the truth then you will walk back the way we came. If not.’ He shrugged. ‘You were warned.’
He slipped back into the gloom, footsteps echoing down the passage.
I touched the wet stone with my fingertips. The staircase outside was straight and narrow. At the top of the stairs grew green bushes and trees. Creeping vines fell down the walls. We were at the base of a damp pit, a strange cell without obvious purpose. I shook the iron grille. It was locked tight. This was Clarendon’s house, the place he lived. Why should he build a prison in his own private residence?
More footsteps, again from the corridor behind, heavier this time. A man appeared at the bars, tall and stern, a handsome fellow with shiny, black hair. Green eyes stared like a hungry cat.
‘Open the door,’ he snapped to someone behind.
The key turned in the lock and he stepped inside, padding softly like a big lion. He descended upon me without fear or caution, stood more than six feet tall, broad and solid. Not old man Clarendon. He went to seize one of my ears, but I slapped him away. He smiled, teeth glinting in the wet sunlight. ‘Tell me your name,’ he said, utterly at ease.
‘Harry Lytle,’ I replied quickly, not for a moment contemplating a lie.
‘Perhaps I have heard of you,’ he frowned slightly. ‘Though I cannot recall in what context.’ He seized one of my hands in his own before I could move, inspecting my fingers. ‘You have soft hands,’ he remarked, piercing eyes probing mine with fascinated curiosity. He rubbed the lapel of my jacket between finger and forefinger. ‘Why have you come here, Harry Lytle?’
‘To talk to Clarendon,’ I replied, unable to keep the tremor from my voice. He stood too close. Though his clothes were of the finest quality and every hair upon his head lay in immaculate order, ne’ertheless he gave off a rank odour, like a beast that eats raw meat and makes no effort to cleanse itself.
‘Persuade me you deserve his attentions,’ he demanded. ‘Else I will bury you in his garden.’
I couldn’t think. I tried to remember why I came, my objective. ‘Has James Josselin come here?’
He cocked his head and frowned, folding his arms behind his back. ‘Why do you ask?’
I wished I’d kept my mouth closed.
‘Speak,’ the man commanded. ‘What do you know of James Josselin?’
‘I know he is accused of treachery and killing the Earl of Berkshire,’
I answered, nervous. ‘He denies both.’
‘How do you know?’ he asked, eyes dull and angry.
‘He told me,’ I replied.
The big man regarded me like I was a mysterious puzzle. ‘Josselin has fled to Shyam, beyond Colchester. Shyam is plagued.’