Hearts of Darkness by Paul Lawrence Page A

in my ear, tickling like a fly.
    I rubbed the dirt from my cheek. ‘Jane was right. If Josselin fled all the way to Shyam, what can we say to persuade him to return? That all is forgiven and we promise safe passage?’
    ‘He ran because he was afraid,’ Dowling replied, marching across the cobbles. ‘He will not prove his innocence hiding in Shyam. By thetime we find him his temperament may have righted.’
    ‘What do we know of his temperament?’ I grumbled. ‘His mother told us nothing, his betrothed told us less. I pray
someone
might tell us of the man.’
    ‘God will watch over us,’ said Dowling with customary simple-mindedness .
    ‘Then may he strike down Withypoll with a thunderbolt,’ I exclaimed.
    ‘The Lord our God is righteous in all his works which he doeth.’
    Righteous and vindictive it seemed to me, but I said nothing. If we were to negotiate this journey without losing our lives, we would need to be mindful as well as hopeful. I resolved to manage my fear as well I could, to ensure I didn’t become distracted. Culpepper’s leaves seemed to help.
    Withypoll waited at Bishopsgate perched atop of a great, black mare, grinning like it was the best day of his life. Relieved, no doubt, we hadn’t scuttled from the City in the middle of the night. The first glinting of sun shone red behind the back of his head, bathing us all in orange glow.
    Two more horses stood soft shouldered, noses to the cobbles, one dark brown, the smaller one white. I prayed mine was sweet-tempered.
    I recalled the day, two years ago, when soldiers fetched me to Tyburn in the back of a cart. How the terror spread from my belly to my fingers and toes as we neared Tyburn Hill. The cruel smirks upon the faces of the spectators who lined the streets, waiting for us to try and escape, ready to throw us back. Today Withypoll was the crowd and that twitchy-looking beast was the cart. I inhaled a deep breath and walked calm.
    ‘Good morning, rogues,’ Withypoll hailed us hearty. ‘Why soglum? Today we renew acquaintance with an old friend.’ He laughed at his own joke while his horse snorted and rolled its eyes like it would trample us to death.
    I slung my pack upon my steed’s saddle, filled with all the bread and meat Jane had in the pantry and two gourds of fresh water. The horse looked up, only faintly interested, as I hauled myself upon its back and concentrated on sitting straight.
    There were few folks around to watch us leave, just a thin procession of tradesmen braving the end of the night, scuttling through the shadows as if afraid of being seen. Out of London we saw no one at all, just the long road east stretching ahead, deserted and overgrown.
    Birds sang from the forest and the undergrowth shifted occasionally in response to the sound of the horses’ heavy hooves. I felt like
I
was Death, riding towards a place of hopelessness and misery, avoided by all that breathed.
    Once the air warmed, I slung my jacket across the horse’s broad shoulders, clinging with my thighs to its back, trying not to look down. Dowling rode alongside breathing heavier than his steed, resenting the presence of Withypoll behind.
    We reached the Ilford turnpike mid morning. A dilapidated gate hung unsteady on a rotting timber framework, supported by a pile of rocks and stones. Three stools lined up in a row, all empty. Withypoll kicked the gate and it toppled over, leaving us open passage. So much for local diligence. All turnpikes were supposed to be manned with armed men. I had been counting on one of those armed men to take umbrage at Withypoll’s arrogance and shoot him dead.
    A hundred yards past the turnpike we came across a coach lainupon its side in a ditch. It looked like it rested here several days, the fabric across the canopy peeling and rotten.
    Faint scrabbling noises sounded from within. We stopped our horses upon the other side of the road, Withypoll as curious as us. Dowling swung himself to the ground and approached.
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