A Plague of Sinners (30 page)

I cleared my throat and tried to think how to answer the question wisely, but my thoughts were ragged. ‘A few things, mostly the haste with which your wife collected your body.’

‘Aye,’ he nodded, thoughtful. ‘Arlington should not have told you so soon.’ He strolled across the glade and kicked Arlington in the back, who groaned. ‘An arrogant man.’

‘Now what will you do?’ I asked, terrified.

He shrugged. ‘Leave. As I agreed with Arlington afore he betrayed me.’ He leant forward, deep brown eyes speckled with tiny green flecks. ‘Now what will you do, Harry Lytle? Will you try and stop me?’

My bowels loosened, my bladder besides, and I strained to stop myself soiling my breeches. The thought of pursuing this vile creature was unfathomable. To meet his gaze was to stare into the eyes of Satan, an immortal evil that might kill you in unimaginable pain with but a movement of its finger. I dropped the sword at his feet. ‘No,’ I answered truthfully.

‘I see,’ he replied, odourless breath warm against my face, nose almost touching mine. ‘I should kill you,’ he mused.

He reached down and ran a finger through Lord Arlington’s white hair. ‘Will you mourn for him after I run my sword through his throat?’

I held my breath.

He kicked Arlington again, lazily. ‘I spoke truth when I
told you I regret what I became. Death is easy, holds no further fascination. I yearn for a world where I might seek to become something different.’

I wondered if he believed his own words, this foul beast who killed without remorse or feeling.

‘If I kill you, then I must kill the butchers too,’ he sighed. ‘But to what end? Even the good King Poodle will be able to deduce the truth of it once he finds the treacherous Arlington here. It has all gone too far, and now I must leave.’

I breathed a little easier. Would that he didn’t change his mind.

He drew his sword. As he stood over Arlington, back to me, so my fear eased. I saw his dead brother, face burnt, jaws ripped from their sockets. I saw Death, the look of agony upon his red-soaked face. Morrison, staring at the world in disbelief as rats chewed upon his guts. The pool of blood washing about Perkins’ naked feet. The dead women at the King’s Wardrobe – who were they? Where were their families?

I saw Wharton’s back clear, every thread of the jacket that hung upon his narrow shoulders, each hair upon his head. Without thinking, I drew the cleaver from within my jacket and swung it into the back of his skull. He toppled forwards, slowly, and fell over Arlington.

A bird started to sing somewhere deep within the branches above my head. A light breeze swept across the ground blowing about my ankles. I knelt, part of my being terrified he would blink, stand, and remove the blade from his head. Blood trickled down the back of his neck and into the dusty ground, a steady stream, allaying my fears. Yet as I stood, I felt a grief so intense it pulled me back down onto my knees and forced the breath from my body in great choking gasps. I rid the world of a savage lunatic, yet felt unutterably bereft. Even
in death he violated me, took something from me I yielded innocently and without regard. Now I was a killer again, like him. I contemplated the butcher’s knife sat embedded in his head and drew a deep breath. No. Not like him.

I rolled the body away and off Arlington, whose eyes were closed. Blood seeped from a thin wound upon his forehead, yet his chest moved up and down.

It occurred to me I knew too many of Arlington’s secrets, that his life might necessitate my death. I held his head in my right hand and contemplated his cold pale skin. I thought to peel the black plaster off his nose, wondered if it might ease his laboured breathing. Perhaps if we were to leave him here he might die without our assistance. Just the thought of it froze my heart. Right or wrong? What meaning did that hold for me now?

‘What have you done?’ a voice shrieked from behind.

I turned to see Lady Wharton, gazing appalled at the back of her husband’s head. The alabaster on her face slipped down in flat layers. The foundation upon which it was plastered melted into a liquid paste and dribbled down her neck in thin streams. Her eyes darted wild. She saw the discarded sword and leapt to pick it up before I could stop her. She raised it afore her with two hands and hissed at me like a deranged cat.

I stepped backwards and she followed, kicking away her shoes. ‘If you run, King’s man, then I will cut off Arlington’s head,’ she growled. ‘You will stay here and fight me.’

I circled about the clearing, away from her husband’s body. The only other weapons here were the swords in their belts and the cleaver in Wharton’s head. I continued to circle her, praying she would move away from the bodies, but she was too aware. She crept towards me, keeping her body between me and her husband. Then she sprang, catching me off guard.

I stepped back and tripped over one of the gnarled roots, banging the back of my head against the hard earth. She grinned like a demon and lifted the sword high above her head. I held up my hands in front of my face and closed my eyes. Then a musket shot rang out and she toppled towards me, sword aimed at my chest. I rolled aside just in time. She landed next to me, bullet in her head.

‘Get up, Harry,’ Dowling called, holding out his hand.

I allowed him to lift me.

‘A strong spirit,’ Dowling mused, contemplating her dead body.

Strong, perhaps, but not compassionate.

Arlington stirred, then raised himself on one elbow. Purple welts streaked his forehead, raised and bleeding. The black plaster hung from his nose, sticking to his top lip. His shirt gaped open revealing a hard white belly. He rubbed his eyes and blinked as if he couldn’t focus. Dowling regarded him with cool disdain and headed back to the palace.

‘I am sorry for Gyles,’ I said quietly, walking alongside.

He did not reply.

Black windows peppered the wall of the palace, testament to the emptiness within, bleak and lifeless. I stopped, troubled by a thought unformed, niggling at the fringes of my awareness.

‘The child,’ I realised. ‘Dowling. The child, where is it?’ I struggled to recall Wharton’s words. ‘He said it would die, but not at his hands. She said it was resting. It must be in the house somewhere.’

‘
He
must be in the house somewhere.’ Dowling’s voice trembled, indignant.

We strode towards the broken glass doors and into the house. If the boy had been hiding with Wharton then he hid where we had been unable to find him before.

‘We don’t even know his name,’ I said. ‘We cannot call for him.’

‘Then we must search the house again,’ Dowling roared. ‘Luke, Isaac, where are you?’

The brothers came running from direction of the banqueting hall, open-faced and expectant.

‘We will stay the night,’ Dowling bellowed. ‘Indeed we will stay the week if we must. There is a child in this house somewhere and we cannot leave until he is found.’

‘I will fetch the axe,’ I said, sombre.

‘We will fetch it together,’ Dowling replied. ‘Luke, Isaac, search downstairs. Harry and I will search upstairs.’

I listened outside Wharton’s door a moment before unlocking it. I held my breath and pushed it open. The mercenary lay where last I saw him, the stick still stuck in his head.

Dowling paused a moment before picking up the axe. ‘God help us, Harry.’ He clicked his tongue. ‘How did you reach so high?’

‘Very funny,’ I replied. ‘Let’s be starting.’

We followed the same trail we did before, knocking on panels, calling out for the boy, though not by name. As we ploughed our fruitless trail I realised we had ne’er heard him speak even, had no idea of his sensibility. Would he come to our calls or shrink from them? All I recalled from afore was indifference.

The light soon faded and so we lit candles and carried on regardless, but the task seemed hopeless. We took the axe to one panelled wall and chopped through it with ease, but all we found was crumbled plaster. We decided to sleep through what night remained and start again at dawn.

I slept upon a soft couch in one of the long rooms downstairs. I dragged it next to the tall window and lay staring at the
blue-black sky, the thick blanket of twinkling stars, fiery and magnificent. Such sights inspired man to create a god, I reckoned. Yet the one he created seemed small and mean in such a context. I sighed and rolled upon my side.

I supposed we had performed a worthy service. Put an end to further misery, death and corruption. Yet I felt no joy, no achievement in it. Just dark despair.

I tried putting names to all that died, an onerous task, for the list was long. Of those I knew, none I liked. Some would mourn for Perkins, I guessed, though more for fear of God than love for the man, I reckoned. Gyles was a good man, but I barely knew him. Worthy men died of plague every day. And the child. Would God stand by and let him perish alone?

And me, Harry Lytle, investigator to the King, reporting to a lord no less. A king I never spoke to once, and a lord that condemned me to die. I did my best to prove my worth, demonstrate what a fine clever fellow I was, secure for myself a position of status. Yet in whose eyes? The eyes of a lord who would slice my throat and a king with better things to do.

I sighed and wallowed in misery and self-pity, unable to sleep. I wondered where Arlington went, though with little concern. He revealed himself to be a cowardly fellow. He wouldn’t dare venture in the house. No doubt he slept in a ditch somewhere, and would commandeer transport to London next day.

Another hour and I could lie no more. I wandered out into the hallway and fetched a candle. I decided to walk the house once more and listen for shuffling, any noise of crying. I left my shoes by the couch and walked quietly.

A large house is never silent, and wood creaked in all places as it cooled, a haunting sound. Something scratched at the
wall ahead of me, low and rapid, a mouse or rat. I proceeded to the banqueting hall, where the last remains of a dying moon shed weak illumination, then out to the broken windows once more, to listen to the night.

Back in the hallway I hesitated to climb the stairs, still mindful of the dead Frenchman in Wharton’s office. What if the boy hid in some hole in that room, the room Lady Wharton had been keen to avoid? I climbed the steps, boards creaking beneath my feet.

Then I heard it, a slow patter of footsteps coming towards me. I ran down the stairs and round into a black shadow, praying the groaning stairs wouldn’t scare whoever it was. I pinched out the flame of my candle. The footsteps were light and quick, not those of an adult. I held my breath and waited. Then saw something flit across the polished tiles, diagonal, and disappear. I pursued him fast, desperate not to lose him.

‘Harry,’ a voice called hoarse. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Shhh!’ I hissed. ‘Follow and be quiet, Dowling.’

A candle lit the passage ahead, from a turning to the right. The kitchen.

There we found him, sat upon a stool, chewing on an old chicken leg.

By the time we reached the City I made up my mind, the silence of our mournful passage providing ample time for reflection. Seven bodies in the back of our wagon, two killed by me and two by Dowling, a sickly affair.

I left Dowling at the Guildhall after seeking from him a favour that caused his sad face to erupt forth into a state of appalled horror.

‘If you do not grant me it, Davy, then likely I will attempt it anyway,’ I said.

He didn’t reply, just readied himself to remonstrate, for which I had neither time nor appetite.

I held up a hand. ‘I will come and find you.’

With that I headed east back towards Seething Lane.

Oliver Willis was out. Liz sat in their library, a thin volume rested upon her lap.
Anima Astrologiae
. I saw Wharton’s private room again in my mind. The view out onto the forest. The mercenary lain against the wall with the astrologer’s stick protruding from his eye.

‘I didn’t know you took an interest in astrology,’ I said.

‘It has played a great part in my life recently.’

‘You did not say so to Marjory Henslowe.’

Liz bowed her head and bestowed upon me a faint smile. ‘She was not of a mood for civil discourse once you arrived. You upset a few people that evening.’

‘Aye,’ I conceded. ‘So I did.’ I waited for her to speak, yet she said nothing. ‘Your father is out?’

‘Yes.’ She held her lips together tight and looked to the floor. ‘I think we will go to St Albans.’

‘St Albans?’ I exclaimed. ‘I would go further north. The plague is already at St Albans.’

‘We are not leaving to escape the plague, Harry.’ She squared her shoulders. ‘St Albans is where we come from, where Father built his wealth afore we came here. Now that wealth is gone we must go back to St Albans where he will begin again.’ She scanned the room, the hundred or more books that sat upon the shelves. ‘One day we hope to return.’

I caught her eye, pained and afraid. ‘I had hoped to …’

She folded her hands upon her lap. ‘Hoped to what, Harry?’

Hoped to what, indeed.

‘Did he hurt you?’ I asked at last.

‘No, Harry.’ She clenched her small fists and screwed up her mouth. ‘He terrified me.’

I could think of little else to say. I wanted to ask if we might 
spend time together before she left, walk or dine, but now did not seem to be a good time.

She leant over and placed five delicate fingers upon my green silk sleeve. ‘Harry, I am a merchant’s daughter from St Albans, not much of a match for a King’s man.’ I opened my mouth to protest, but she squeezed my arm and dug in her fingers. ‘Which matters not, Harry, for I see you as an unlikely courtier.’

A short blade in my hairy belly.

‘My father was fond of you for a while, but I fear you lost that affection. For my part I find you rather short, Harry, and I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, you are also a little stout.’

I opened my mouth, but no words emerged. It was like being slapped across the face with an old fish. I closed my mouth and breathed deeply. ‘I think I am a worthy man,’ I replied. Sometimes.

She turned to me and smiled sadly. ‘Worthy perhaps, Harry, but I have no desire to spend another night at the Tower in the name of worthiness.’

‘No matter then.’ I swallowed my disappointment. ‘I shall keep my eyes open for a short, stout woman with a taste for pies and ale and nights abroad.’

She laughed out loud, bright and trilling, before stopping herself and turning upon me a solemn eye. ‘I like you well enough, Harry. May God watch over you.’

I stood. ‘And you, too.’

My heart was sore, but not broken. The meeting had proceeded much as I anticipated and I had other duties to perform. The day would have to wait for when I might allow myself to feel this pain, allow it to soak through.

‘Goodbye, Liz.’ I bowed to kiss her hand.

‘Goodbye, Harry.’

I found Dowling still at the Guildhall, tight and anxious as always.

‘Did you get it?’ I asked.

He handed me the document without a word.

‘If we are called to see Arlington, you know where I will be.’

‘God be with you, Harry,’ was all he said. ‘I will see you soon.’

I gazed a moment into his old brown eyes and resisted the temptation to hug him to my chest. ‘Thank you, Davy.’

He shook his head and handed me the reins to his horse and cart.

‘I will return them within the week,’ I promised.

He waved like he heard enough, and turned to walk wearily back towards Newgate.

Hearsey sat afront my house still. I took the long sword from the wagon, marched towards him, and pushed the blade against his chest.

‘Stand!’ I commanded, which he did. I took the key to my door and pushed him towards it.

‘How is Jane?’ I asked.

‘She is well!’ he protested. ‘The medic says she recovers.’

I opened the door. ‘As I always believed. Then you shall have no qualms spending a few minutes inside my house.’

He looked for help, but I had positioned the cart so few might see us. The street was quiet anyway.

Jane emerged from the kitchen, pale and thin, with but a few marks only about her face to show for the pox. ‘Harry.’

I never was happier in all my life. Joy surged from my belly, up my throat and all over my face. I stopped the smile before 
it escaped, allowing myself but a small awkward grin. ‘Good morning, Jane.’

I prodded Hearsey into my front room, bid him sit, and whispered into his ear. ‘You sit here, John Hearsey. If you try to break out through my window then I shall chase you down the street and run you through the guts. I haven’t forgotten what you did to me.’

He leant back, big head pale.

‘Harry, what are you doing?’ Jane poked me in the ribs from behind. ‘I am supposed to stay here alone another thirty-five days.’

‘We’re leaving now.’

‘I can’t leave now. I have no certificate of health.’

I pulled the document Dowling obtained for me from my jacket. ‘Now you do.’

She clutched at her hair and screamed. ‘Harry, I wanted to leave London
before
I was infected with plague, not after. Why should I wish to leave now?’ She stamped about the floor in a small circle. ‘I am alone in the house, with Hearsey bringing me food and provisions. I am as safe as any person might be. Why now, when I would stay, do you insist that we leave?’

I felt deflated, my heroic endeavour unrecognised. ‘There are many at St Giles who rejoiced their recovery from the sickness, thinking they were spared. They were struck again and died.’ I spoke low so Hearsey couldn’t hear. ‘While you have been lain here, insensible, so many more have died this week. More people are infected every new day and the plague is now rampant within the city walls.’

Jane’s eyes welled with tears. ‘My aunt died.’

‘I know,’ I said, soft. ‘I was in here on Thursday and on 
Friday. It was I chased out the first nurse they left here that sat and snored.’

‘It was not!’ she replied, indignant.

‘Aye, so it was,’ Hearsey called from the room behind us. ‘And I punched him in the belly for his troubles, for he wore a medic’s costume.’

‘Ow!’ she howled. ‘Then you are the one who looked under my nightdress!’

‘I did not look under your nightdress,’ I exclaimed. ‘I changed your nightdress because you had fallen onto the floor and lay in your own mess.’

‘You are not a medic!’

‘There was no medic, nor no nurse,’ I protested, indignant.

‘There was not,’ agreed Hearsey from the other room.

Jane wrung her hands and hung her head. She wavered, body blowing from side to side as though she would fall over.

‘Hearsey!’ I called.

‘Aye!’

‘Will you help me load provisions onto the wagon?’

‘You are not allowed to leave this house,’ he declared. ‘You nor I. Now we all must stay here forty days.’

‘I am not staying here forty days,’ I assured him. ‘If it pleases you I will be happy to strike you upon the eye and witness that you never stepped over the threshold.’

‘Very well.’ He emerged into the hall.

We left the house after lunch, after I punched Hearsey in the face.

‘Where are we going?’ Jane demanded sullenly, bouncing up and down upon the wagon.

‘Cocksmouth,’ I answered.

‘Where your mother lives.’

‘Aye.’

‘Where it is dirty and the people are lewd and men keep pigs in their house living with them?’

‘Aye,’ I conceded.

‘Could you not have found somewhere better?’ she demanded. The sun beamed down upon her red hair, and it shone for the first time in a week. ‘I am recovering from plague, and you would have me live in a pigsty?’ She shook her head and clicked her tongue. ‘I don’t know why I stay with you.’

‘You are not staying with me,’ I answered, indignant. ‘I am going to a boarding house at Ewell. My mother has room only for one.’

At which the ungrateful woman poked me in the eye so hard I couldn’t open it again for a week.