I snatched my coat from his grubby hands and stalked off like I was offended. By now there were so many soldiers, and so few citizens,
I felt like a soldier myself, else a ghost drifting unseen amongst the living.
The entrance to Duke’s Place teemed with excitement, a stinking cloud hovering above the throng below, the smell of too many unwashed men gathered close together. I held my breath and slipped silently between the bodies, reminding myself that Withypoll was far away, scouring the streets west. Arlington would remain above it all, back at Whitehall. None here would recognise me I told myself, again and again.
Every orifice of Josselin’s house gaped open, the leaning windows like yawning mouths, belching foulness upon the street below. Soldiers sat upon its doorstep, others passing in and out like it was a barrack. Gone was the quiet grace and dignity of the week before, now besmeared with the loud exuberance of raucous bantering.
I wondered what mess the soldiers made of the delicate interior and where were Mrs Josselin, Eliza and the silent servants. I narrowed my eyes and scoured the house front, searching, until I spied two pale faces, staring out a turret window at the top of the mansion. Too far away to be sure, but they looked like Josselin’s mother and betrothed, peering out, frightened and bewildered.
Anger welled up deep inside my belly at the ignorant dolts who sat with their backs to the wall, playing cards, those who stomped across the floor of a house that wasn’t theirs. Something of the scene reminded me of Colchester, how it must have been when Fairfax’s soldiers surrounded the City, depriving the innocent of food and provisions. I looked for Josselin. If I could find a way, then so could he. If I felt anger, what would he feel? Where was he?
I wandered discreetly about the yard, seeing if he stood as witness in some nook or cranny. I looked to the sky, to surrounding houses,
to see if he hid, but nothing. I looked up again at the two women and tried to work out in which direction they stared. What would he do, I wondered? He wouldn’t sit idly by, that was certain, yet neither would he charge out into the open with his sword, to be cut down by the small army about him. I tried to think like Josselin, but found it hard.
The sun passed the height of its day’s journey. Nearly three o’clock. I wondered what became of Dowling. I imagined he saw me waylaid on Fenchurch Street. He probably proceeded north, to approach by way of Leadenhall. St Katharine Cree was just around the corner.
With one last look at the window high above, I made my way through the crowd back onto the main street, and walked the short distance to the church. The churchyard was tucked down an alley, behind the church itself. Dowling sat upon a bench, hands on knees, white head standing out against the blue sky. He leapt to his feet as soon as I opened the gate and enveloped me in a crushing embrace.
I pushed myself away as soon as his grip slackened, wiping his perspiration from my face.
‘You were more circumspect than I, then,’ I said. ‘No one followed you?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think they’ll expect us here, not with so many soldiers. What did that fellow say to you?’
‘Asked me my name,’ I replied. ‘I told him John Fisher.’ I thought again of the scene at Duke’s Place. ‘Soldiers have taken over Josselin’s house. Mrs Josselin and Josselin’s betrothed stand staring from a top-floor window.’
Dowling grunted.
‘Josselin will not stand idly back,’ I exclaimed, agitated. ‘I cannot think what he’ll do, but he will do something. Arlington hasn’t read
him well. He shouldn’t have called him traitor, nor ransacked his house.’ I closed my eyes against the wind. ‘Josselin is close by,’ I said. ‘I sense it.’
‘Very well, Harry,’ sighed Dowling. ‘You propose we walk the streets?’
‘I am going back to Duke’s Place for a while,’ I decided. ‘We will meet back here at dusk.’
Dowling slouched, brow furrowed, mouth downturned.
‘Ask God, Davy.’ I patted him on the shoulder. ‘He shall guide thee continually and make fat thy bones. Thou shalt be like a watered garden.’ Something like that.
I patted him again and headed back to the Josselin house. Something was afoot.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
For in those places shall be Wars, Seditions, and Uproars, strange Winds, Barrenness, and acute diseases, viz. either very strange Feavers, or the Sickness.
I heard the shouting before I reached the court, the singing too, loud and tuneless. Soldiers crowded into the middle of the square, heads thrown back, swilling beer from glass bottles.
All fell silent, then a loud roar, ‘Arlington!’ Every man lifted a bottle to the blue sky. The first time in Arlington’s life he had been toasted so readily.
I thought to inspect one of the bottles, but the soldiers stood in a circle, like a pack of dogs guarding a pile of bones. Unlike Arlington to be so generous.
Josselin’s house stood empty; all the soldiers stood outside supping happily. There was enough beer for every man to drink at least two bottles. No sign of Mrs Josselin or Eliza at the window. Their
opportunity to feed themselves while the soldiers were distracted.
I walked the perimeter, across the shadow of a great oak growing in one corner, across the front of the other two large houses that bounded the small square. The side of Josselin’s house stood in shadow, but something moved, a flash of light catching the sun. I approached closer, wary of a drunken soldier. Before I could explore further, a bottle smashed. I turned towards the revelry to see two men fall to their knees, clutching at their throats. The rest watched, anxious, so quiet I could hear the sound of both men breathing, wracking gasps, like their lungs burnt. A third man held his hands in front of his eyes like claws. Six more pawed at their necks, wide-eyed and terrified. I stepped back into the shadow, pressed against the wall.
Those who didn’t succumb stepped nervously through the fallen, inspecting the bottles from which they drank, else throwing them as far away as they could muster. One man thrust his fingers down his throat and forced himself to gag. Others followed his lead, but too late. They too struggled to breathe, collapsing upon the dust, gasping for air. I placed my hands at my own throat, momentarily afraid the plague unveiled itself again.
A hand landed on my shoulder. I startled, and looked round into Josselin’s battered face, his naked, shaven head. He wore rough, plain clothes, wide, linen trousers, and flapping, cloth shirt, in the style of a butcher. A good disguise. With bruised face devoid of hair, he looked like any other common fellow. He smiled, calmly.
‘You are the apothecary,’ he whispered. ‘A fiftieth of a grain is deadly. I put half a grain in every bottle.’
I stared, disbelieving.
He gripped harder. ‘I wouldn’t see them suffer. They will die quick.’ He cast me an inquisitive gaze then nodded at a man close to us whose face contorted in agonized grimace. ‘First they burn from throat to belly. Then hands and feet, and all their skin. They feel like they are being flayed.’ The groans and screams confirmed it, as thirty men lay dying.
Three soldiers stood watching, aghast, and unaffected. The few who chose not to drink. They gathered in a huddle, seeking solace in each other, unable to tear their eyes from the dreadful scene.
‘Soon they will lose the power of sight, and will lie there deaf, ’til death comes,’ Josselin breathed. ‘With a fiftieth of a grain it would take half the day. With half a grain most will be dead before they realise what has happened.’
‘Wolfsbane,’ I guessed. ‘Monkshood.’ A plant with medicinal properties, rarely used because it was so poisonous. A white powder that dissolved only in strong drink.
Josselin patted my shoulder. ‘Well done, apothecary.’
‘Why?’ I asked, watching as one man clutched his belly, bending his neck back with eyes closed, a shallow, whining noise escaping his blue lips. An innocent man.