of chains. As it approached I saw it was a man, and behind him two more men, two women, and a boy. A tall fellow wearing a brown leather coat followed, poking them periodically with a long stick. A long sword at his belt dragged in the dirt.
The man at the front stared to the ground, round-shouldered and hopeless, an empty hollowness that spoke of despair. His shirt hung in tatters about his chest, barely covering his bony ribs. Though it was sunny, a fresh breeze kept the air cool, yet they all dripped sweat like they walked for hours.
‘What is going on?’ Dowling called.
The man in the leather coat peered up. ‘What business is it of yours? You shouldn’t be here.’
‘King’s men,’ Withypoll replied, leaning forwards on the horn of his saddle. ‘Answer the question.’
‘They come from Chelmsford,’ the man answered, jabbing one of the women viciously in the back of the thigh. She stumbled a moment,but recovered. ‘They tried to cross the turnpike. When we refused them passage they said they would walk through the fields at night, so we arrested them, for at least one has plague, and if one has plague, likely they all do.’
‘Where are you taking them?’ Dowling demanded.
‘To Cutler’s barn,’ the warden replied. ‘We’ll lock them up for forty days, and if they still live when we open the door, they may proceed on their way.’
‘You’ll feed them?’ growled Dowling.
‘They’ll get food and water,’ the man replied. ‘For as long as they need it.’
‘Stop a moment.’ I jumped from the back of my horse. ‘I want to talk to them.’
The man with the stick eyed me suspiciously, but struck the boy on his ankles, forcing him to stop.
I tried to catch the eye of any one of them, but they all gazed at their feet. ‘When did you leave Chelmsford?’ I asked, keeping my distance.
None responded.
‘Did you come across a fellow travelling in the opposite direction?’ I asked. ‘A tall fellow, James Josselin.’
One of the women raised her head. Her eyes shined, yet failed to focus. The bones in her face stuck out sharp and her cheeks were gaunt. If she didn’t die of plague, likely she would die of hunger.
I approached her closer. ‘You saw Josselin?’
She nodded quickly. ‘Before Witham,’ she whispered. ‘He spoke to us. We were so happy when he told us who he was.’
‘You know him?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she replied, voice trembling. ‘Every man knows JamesJosselin. That he returns to Colchester is a great sign, a miracle.’
‘How was he?’
‘A handsome man,’ she said.
‘Was he ill?’
She shook her head. ‘He rode a black horse, tall and proud, like the gentleman he is. He gave us his food and shared kind words.’
‘And he headed for Colchester?’
She nodded again. ‘As I said.’
‘What else do you know of him?’
She looked to the man with the stick, bewildered. ‘He is James Josselin,’ she said. ‘A great man.’ She bowed her head as if afraid of being struck.
‘In what state is Colchester?’ asked Dowling, changing the subject, much to my frustration.
‘Half the town is dead, the other half waits,’ she replied in dull monotone.
Though I imagined nothing less, still my heart stiffened inside my chest.
‘We must go,’ said the man with the stick, gruff.
Withypoll snorted. ‘Locking them in a barn will not deter anyone,’ he said. ‘You should shoot them through the head and string them from gibbets.’
The six in chains appeared not to hear his cruel words, but I yearned to punish him. Instead we watched the procession renew its miserable passage.
Over the bridge more people stopped to watch, dull-faced and laggardly, like their heads slept atop their walking bodies. All was silent, as if the villagers swore an oath never to speak. Withypoll rode oblivious, staring with undisguised contempt. I felt uneasy and kickedmy horse, but it refused to respond, maintaining the same pace as Withypoll’s mount.
A wild-eyed
The man at the front stared to the ground, round-shouldered and hopeless, an empty hollowness that spoke of despair. His shirt hung in tatters about his chest, barely covering his bony ribs. Though it was sunny, a fresh breeze kept the air cool, yet they all dripped sweat like they walked for hours.
‘What is going on?’ Dowling called.
The man in the leather coat peered up. ‘What business is it of yours? You shouldn’t be here.’
‘King’s men,’ Withypoll replied, leaning forwards on the horn of his saddle. ‘Answer the question.’
‘They come from Chelmsford,’ the man answered, jabbing one of the women viciously in the back of the thigh. She stumbled a moment,but recovered. ‘They tried to cross the turnpike. When we refused them passage they said they would walk through the fields at night, so we arrested them, for at least one has plague, and if one has plague, likely they all do.’
‘Where are you taking them?’ Dowling demanded.
‘To Cutler’s barn,’ the warden replied. ‘We’ll lock them up for forty days, and if they still live when we open the door, they may proceed on their way.’
‘You’ll feed them?’ growled Dowling.
‘They’ll get food and water,’ the man replied. ‘For as long as they need it.’
‘Stop a moment.’ I jumped from the back of my horse. ‘I want to talk to them.’
The man with the stick eyed me suspiciously, but struck the boy on his ankles, forcing him to stop.
I tried to catch the eye of any one of them, but they all gazed at their feet. ‘When did you leave Chelmsford?’ I asked, keeping my distance.
None responded.
‘Did you come across a fellow travelling in the opposite direction?’ I asked. ‘A tall fellow, James Josselin.’
One of the women raised her head. Her eyes shined, yet failed to focus. The bones in her face stuck out sharp and her cheeks were gaunt. If she didn’t die of plague, likely she would die of hunger.
I approached her closer. ‘You saw Josselin?’
She nodded quickly. ‘Before Witham,’ she whispered. ‘He spoke to us. We were so happy when he told us who he was.’
‘You know him?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she replied, voice trembling. ‘Every man knows JamesJosselin. That he returns to Colchester is a great sign, a miracle.’
‘How was he?’
‘A handsome man,’ she said.
‘Was he ill?’
She shook her head. ‘He rode a black horse, tall and proud, like the gentleman he is. He gave us his food and shared kind words.’
‘And he headed for Colchester?’
She nodded again. ‘As I said.’
‘What else do you know of him?’
She looked to the man with the stick, bewildered. ‘He is James Josselin,’ she said. ‘A great man.’ She bowed her head as if afraid of being struck.
‘In what state is Colchester?’ asked Dowling, changing the subject, much to my frustration.
‘Half the town is dead, the other half waits,’ she replied in dull monotone.
Though I imagined nothing less, still my heart stiffened inside my chest.
‘We must go,’ said the man with the stick, gruff.
Withypoll snorted. ‘Locking them in a barn will not deter anyone,’ he said. ‘You should shoot them through the head and string them from gibbets.’
The six in chains appeared not to hear his cruel words, but I yearned to punish him. Instead we watched the procession renew its miserable passage.
Over the bridge more people stopped to watch, dull-faced and laggardly, like their heads slept atop their walking bodies. All was silent, as if the villagers swore an oath never to speak. Withypoll rode oblivious, staring with undisguised contempt. I felt uneasy and kickedmy horse, but it refused to respond, maintaining the same pace as Withypoll’s mount.
A wild-eyed
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