I felt suddenly sanguine, blood coursing through my veins, heart pumping. Now Collis and his bride were gone I felt free to make my own farewells. I swigged a deep draught of ale while Dowling nodded politely at an old man sat opposite. The old man sneered, sniffed loudly and continued to chew upon the inside of his mouth. The mood of this dull gathering matched the mood of London itself, still mourning its dead, wallowing in lethargic woe. A melancholy humour infecting us all. It would not affect me. Time to stop moping about the house in daytime, and drinking myself into senseless oblivion at night. I would become an apothecary, whatever scepticism I might face, and I would start the journey tomorrow. No Mermaid for me tonight, nor the next.
‘I’m going home,’ I announced to Dowling, pushing the ale jug away. ‘I will not remain mired in this foul stink.’ I eyed my mug still half full. ‘I will see you soon. If ye’d be so good as to tell Collis I can abide the smell of it no longer. Tell him I am taken sick.’ I drained the mug, for there seemed no point in wasting it, and stood up straight, bursting with intent. And I would ask Jane to marry me. Maybe.
The corridor was quiet, save for the sound of a low buzzing behind the cellar door. I stepped out onto the street, savouring the slight summer breeze blowing across the black night air.
‘Lytle,’ a quiet voice sounded close to my ear.
I swivelled upon my heel, stumbling against the wall. A tall shadow stood against the pale moon, tall and broad.
‘You cannot know how much it pleases me to renew your acquaintance,’ the voice declared.
I held my breath as the figure stepped forward. I tried to speak, but managed just a gurgle. My nightmare stood afront of me, mouth grinning wide, eyes fixed upon me like a giant cat. He looked the same as he did before, save for the pockmarks upon his young face.
‘Forman died,’ he said, voice thick with hatred, as if it was me who killed him.
Forman had been his partner, an older man, just as vicious, but calmer and more measured.
‘Wharton tied you both up,’ I croaked. ‘He killed the others, besides.’
‘And you killed Wharton,’ Withypoll nodded slowly. ‘I know. And you left me bound to a dead woman. You knew she was plagued.’ The cruel smile evaporated. ‘I recall now the moment you saw her infection. You fell back onto the floor, staring at her neck. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I remembered it afterwards. And
when you saw it, you left us there, trapped.’
‘Because you tried to kill me!’ I protested. ‘You would have killed me at the Three Cranes, you would have killed me at St Vedast.’
Withypoll nodded. ‘Would have, but failed.’ He drew a long silver blade from the inside of his coat and held the tip afront of my eyes. ‘I will not fail again.’
I thought to run, down the street or back into the house, but he stepped to his left, blocking my passage back towards the wedding party. Then he raised a languid brow, daring me to turn and flee.
‘Today, though, I must take you to Lord Arlington.’ He lowered the knife. ‘You and Dowling; he wants to see you.’ He smiled again, like he recalled a favourite joke.
My heart sank, all optimism dispersed. ‘You work for Arlington now?’
‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘Just me alone. Forman died.’
Which was the second time he told me.
He snapped and clicked his fingers. ‘Fetch Dowling. Your life is about to change.’
Chapter Two
It, viz. the year 1666, hath been ushered in with three preceding Comets, or Blazing Stars; and as unto us in England it’s attended with a grievous and consuming Plague or Pestilence, concomitant with a chargeable war against the Hollanders.
Dust stung my eyes, dancing thick in the musty air. Rubble lay strewn across the floor and thick webs curtained the corners. A single narrow slit in the wall admitted a light breeze. The Develin Tower had been boarded up for years, a ruinous mess upon the west wall of the Tower of London.
A stout man slouched in the middle of the room, hand tied to a wooden block nailed to a table. A fleshy fellow, well fed and prosperous, light-brown hair streaked with grey. Sweat beaded in small drops at his temples and his hair stuck to his forehead, plastered with blood. A purple lump bulged above his right eyelid. He watched us through his left eye, silent and bewildered.
Lord Arlington leant upon an upturned barrel, mouth pinched, brow hanging heavy. He stood when we entered, approaching with outstretched arms, cold face split by a false, yellow smile. I thought for a moment he would envelop me in the folds of his brown, silk jacket, but he stopped short, still smiling, eyes dark and fishy. I tried not to stare at the black plaster across the bridge of his nose, memento of an old battle.
‘Such a long time since last we met,’ he exclaimed. ‘St Albans, wasn’t it?’
‘Aye, your lordship,’ I replied, dry-mouthed.
He tucked his arms behind his back and cocked his head. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘What happened that day?’
I glanced sideways at Dowling, but he stood frozen. Withypoll sauntered into the room, stopping behind Arlington’s shoulder, face twisted in delighted expectation of chewing on my heart.
‘You helped us realise Wharton wasn’t dead,’ I began, sidling closer to Dowling. ‘You led us to St Albans to arrest him, where he attacked us.’
‘So he did,’ Arlington nodded slowly. ‘I do recall.’
‘You and he locked in combat,’ I continued, mouth dry. ‘You were on the verge of defeating him, when I slew him from behind.’
Arlington wrinkled his nose, unimpressed. He wiped dust from his shoulder and coughed. Truth was he betrayed us. He left us to travel to St Albans by ourselves, then arrived with a band of French soldiers to kill everyone, including us. Wharton outwitted him and I saved his rotten life.
‘Have I not remembered well?’ I asked.
‘I had him at my mercy, Lytle,’ said Arlington, pointing. ‘I would have fetched him back to London to stand trial, but you struck him
from behind with a butcher’s knife.’
A grave misrepresentation. Had I not thrown the cleaver at Wharton’s head then Arlington would have died.
Arlington turned to Dowling. ‘Was it not so, Dowling?’
Dowling hadn’t even been there. He had arrived later. Now he stared forward, unwilling to tell the lie.
‘It was,’ I lied on his behalf. ‘Yet we served you as best we could. If our efforts were not good enough, we humbly accept our dismissal.’
Arlington frowned. ‘Dismissal?’
Withypoll shook his head slow, an expression of regret.
Arlington glowered. ‘Some demanded you be put to death for the unlawful killing of nobility, but I insisted on lenience. I protected you.’
I doubted it. ‘So we are in your debt?’
‘You owe me your lives.’
I nodded at Withypoll. ‘How long has he been working for you?’
‘Since he escaped from where you left him bound,’ said Arlington, disapprovingly. ‘I find it difficult to credit how cruel must have been your humour, Lytle. To leave a man bound to an infected corpse.’
I closed my eyes. There was little to be gained in attempting to explain the events of a year ago. Arlington had already decided our fate, and no words of mine would change that. When I said nothing, he grunted, then waved at the stout man bound in the middle of the room. ‘I should like to introduce you to Edward Josselin.’
The stout man blinked at the mention of his name and jerked his hand against the bindings.
‘His son is another ungrateful wretch,’ Arlington sneered. ‘A traitor and a coward, fled into hiding.’
The older man’s jaw dropped, as if to say something, but he stopped
himself in time. He bowed his head like he feared being struck, and cast a frightened glance at Withypoll.
Arlington clicked a finger at Withypoll. ‘Give me the knife.’