Because he was a black-hearted demon. ‘Arlington says he sabotaged a peace mission, besides,’ I revealed. ‘Which accusation by itself is serious.’ Serious enough to see him executed.
Mrs Josselin stamped her foot upon the wooden floor. ‘My son is neither a murderer nor a traitor. The idea is absurd. What evidence do you bring with you to support such an accusation?’
‘None at all.’ I spread my hands. ‘For it is not my accusation. You may ask Lord Arlington yourself, though I would not advise it.’
The young woman buried her head in her hands and began to wail, a mournful sound that spoke of fractured anguish. Discouraging besides, for I fancied she might know more of his movements than the mother. Mrs Josselin stood erect, eyes darting side to side. Embarrassed, I realised, to be presented with such grave news by one so common.
‘Would that my husband were here,’ she said, voice choking. ‘He would tell you of this family’s loyalty to King and country. He should
whip
you with it.’ She quivered with angry indignation.
‘He would be wasting his time,’ I sighed. ‘I have not challenged his loyalty, nor yours, nor your son’s.’ I held up my hand as her brow fell over her eyes. ‘For he is accused. He has fled into Essex and will be pursued. If he is innocent then there is foul trickery at play, which I am not a part of.’
Mrs Josselin stepped towards me, eyes narrowed. ‘Why else would you be here?’ she demanded, while her young companion continued to bawl. ‘Perhaps to prise stories from us you can use against him.’
I sat down heavily upon a well-worn chair with frayed upholstery. She descended upon me like a great spider and thrust her beautiful, old face into mine. It was like donning a pair of spectacles, the delicate lines that ridged her scrubbed skin loomed sharply into focus.
She cocked her head like she intended to peck out my eyes. ‘My husband is missing, not only my son,’ she said, slowly. ‘What do you know of that?’
I knew my face betrayed my unease. ‘I heard he was arrested,’ I admitted, ‘by those keen to prove your son’s guilt. Think on it, Mrs Josselin. If your son is innocent, then someone else killed Berkshire and accuses him of treachery. That person will do everything they can to ensure the lie is not discovered.’
‘Who arrested him?’
‘Arlington.’
‘Do you work for Lord Arlington?’ she asked, eyes sharp and piercing.
‘Yes,’ I nodded. ‘He commands this investigation.’
‘You said you wanted to help us,’ she said. ‘Yet you work for Lord Arlington and I know Arlington for what he is. If he has decided my son is guilty, it is because it is politic to do so. He wastes no energy in pursuit of the truth.’
‘You know him better than I, then,’ I answered, dry-mouthed.
‘Say you,’ she snapped. ‘Come now, Eliza.’ She withdrew, watching me like she would a snake.
Eliza stared at me with red-rimmed eyes sunk painfully within a snotty face, more like a young girl than a full-grown woman. As she opened her mouth I watched a strand of saliva stretch from top lip to bottom. I could not imagine James Josselin confiding anything of
importance to such an innocent. Mrs Josselin took her arm and pulled her away.
‘I am leaving tomorrow, Mrs Josselin,’ I told her calmly. ‘If you tell me nothing, then I cannot help you, and I can assure you no one else will, unless you count the King a fond acquaintance.’
She stopped her passage out of the room. ‘What would you have me tell you, Mr Lytle? What evidence do you think I might offer you? You, who come here to help, you who asks me questions about the Dutch paintings on our walls.’
‘Anything to disprove his guilt,’ I replied, standing. ‘You said Berkshire was his friend.’
‘I said his best friend, Mr Lytle.’ Mrs Josselin stabbed her long thin finger into my chest. ‘A friendship you could never understand. They are two fine men.’
‘Aye,’ I replied, angered by the contempt with which she smothered me. ‘So fine he fled. I have never met your fine son, nor the Earl of Berkshire, yet I must risk my life to find him, else Arlington will have me killed.’ I felt my face flush.
Mrs Josselin recoiled as if I’d slapped her, anger draining from her leathery face, replaced with abject fear. ‘You say my son sabotaged a peace accord. My son was determined England should make peace with the Dutch. Two great Protestant nations,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘No.’ I bowed my head. ‘Well, neither do I. Yet I would agree with your summation of Arlington’s character. I don’t know who else will help your son if not us.’
Her lips pursed again. ‘Us?’
‘There are two of us.’ I decided to tell her all. ‘Myself and David Dowling. He is a butcher. We both work for Lord Arlington, neither
of us willingly. We’ve seen what he is capable of.’
Eliza started weeping again, a whining noise with a life of its own, thin and ethereal.
‘I don’t know what I can tell you,’ Mrs Josselin replied.
‘Where he was four nights ago. What business he conducted on behalf of Arlington. Anything that proves he is not a traitor.’
‘I don’t know where he was four nights ago, for he stays often at the palace,’ she answered. ‘And I don’t know what business he conducts for Lord Arlington, for he doesn’t share royal secrets with his mother. What I will tell you is that this family has a proud history of loyalty to the King. Were the King to sit back and allow my son to be persecuted, then it would be a disgrace upon his crown.’ Her body trembled with indignation. ‘I was at the siege of Colchester in 1648, nearly twenty years ago. So was Edward, so was James. I will not tell you what indignities we suffered, but I will tell you one thing if you don’t know it already.’ She held up a trembling hand. ‘My son was but nine years old in 1648, and yet he volunteered to carry a message out to the King’s men, without my knowledge nor Edward’s.’ She pointed at my forehead. ‘They captured him and tortured him, yet he told them nothing. A nine-year-old boy.’
A fine tale, I conceded, yet it held little relevance to current events. My face must have betrayed my disappointment, for she shot me a venomous glance of ripe disgust and turned away.
‘Mr Lytle.’ Eliza shot forward and dropped to her knees at my feet. ‘You must bring him back to us. You must promise to do that.’ She seized my right hand with both of hers and dug her nails into my skin.
‘I promise to try,’ I replied. ‘Though I would gladly hear what else you might tell me of him, for I have never met him.’
‘Stand up, Eliza,’ Mrs Josselin scolded her.
‘He is a brave man,’ Eliza declared, gazing earnestly into my eyes. ‘He is quite tall and very noble. He has long, dark hair and talks all the time about fighting for his King. He yearns only to kill Dutchmen, Frenchmen or Spaniards.’ She pursed her lips, holding back the tears.
‘Aye, then,’ I answered, slipping my hand free and helping her to her feet. ‘At least I will recognise him now.’ A tall lunatic killing anyone who looks foreign.
‘But your promise.’ She snatched back my hand again. ‘You must promise to bring him back, not merely to try.’
‘Come, Eliza.’ Mrs Josselin tugged gently at her sleeve. ‘If he is a worthy man no promise is necessary. If he is not, his promise holds no value.’
The young betrothed allowed herself to be led from the room, still staring, seeking assurance desperately.
I was left alone, black-hearted and dejected. I could barely summon the energy to breathe, I felt so rotten. The young woman, so fearful she might not see her betrothed again. Likely she would not, and I knew it. Josselin’s wife, so suspicious and angry. I glimpsed the desperation hidden behind that proud mask and hated myself for seeing it. Whatever vision she nurtured, it wasn’t the one that appeared in my head; her husband lain sprawled, Arlington’s strange blade protruding from his ribs.
Another woman entered the room, another knitter, though older than the last. A stout woman with a stiff white hat upon her head and a large, black wart nestled upon her cheek. She knitted as she walked, shuffling forwards, head down.