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as the villagers withdrew again into their shells.
    God teased us.

Chapter Eight
    It prenotes much juggling and under-hand dealing in all manner of Negotiations.
    A fire blazed inside the accountant’s house. The acrid smell of tar and rosin pervaded every inch of the immaculate room. The accountant waved an arm, eyeing our muddy shoes anxiously. ‘Sit down, gentlemen, please.’
    Withypoll threw his jacket to the floor and headed for the biggest chair, next to the fire. ‘Your wife is diligent,’ he said. ‘I have never seen such a tidy house.’ He poked at three tiny figurines lined up in a perfect row on the mantle above the fireplace.
    ‘I have no wife,’ the accountant replied, picking up the jacket and moving the figurines to precisely where they had been before. ‘It is I who like things to be in order. Sit on the chair please and I will wash your head.’
    Withypoll tried to lift his left shoulder, wincing in pain. ‘I will seethose fellows hang,’ he said, as the accountant approached with a bowl of honey and two white linen cloths.
    ‘I cannot excuse their behaviour,’ the accountant replied. ‘Bend your head forwards please, sir, so I might see the wound.’
    With one of the cloths the accountant attempted to wipe the dirt from the gash. He dabbed and patted, exposing a two-inch cut, deep and angry, with purple edges. Withypoll said nothing as he worked, made not a sound. Once the accountant was satisfied, he took a spoonful of honey, and let it drip from one edge of the wound to the other. Then he lay the second cloth across the top of the sticky mess.
    ‘Is that it?’ asked Dowling, watching as the accountant tried to rub a small patch of honey from his fingers.
    ‘An ancient remedy,’ the accountant replied. ‘
Vis medicatrix naturae
.’ He picked up the honey bowl gingerly, with just four fingers, and took it back to the kitchen. When he returned he puffed out his chest and smiled.
    ‘You are the first happy man I have seen this day,’ said Withypoll.
    ‘Happy?’ The accountant blinked. ‘How could a man be happy? Yet I do of my best, for the Lord God watches, and I believe he hath sent me here for such an occasion.’ He stepped to a desk stood beneath the main window, upon which rested a thick ledger.
    He tapped the cover of the book with a forefinger. ‘I keep a record of every man and woman in this town, every child. Through good planning and expert organisation we have raised sufficient sums to provide everyone with adequate provision, including those we hold at Cutler’s barn. Everyone pays his share of tax, and we have raised contributions from the towns about that are not so afflicted. We will survive this pestilence, even should it destroy every living soul within our boundaries.’
    Withypoll laughed out loud.
    ‘What of the dead and the dying?’ asked Dowling.
    The accountant frowned. ‘The groans of the sick are a distraction, but I persevere.’
    Withypoll grinned broadly and Dowling shook his big head.
    ‘We are searching for James Josselin,’ I changed the subject. ‘We have a message for him from the King. Has he passed this way?’
    The accountant’s bright face registered strange joy, like he experienced a holy vision. ‘Indeed he has, though he didn’t stop.’
    ‘What do you know of him?’ I asked.
    ‘He is a great man,’ the accountant replied. ‘You know what he did at Colchester?’
    ‘We heard something of it,’ I answered doubtfully. ‘It was a long time ago.’
    The accountant rubbed his hands and filled his lungs. ‘Long ago, aye, but to understand the man, you must understand the child. Josselin’s childhood defines him.’
    Withypoll rubbed his palm upon the arm of the chair. ‘I have little appetite for detail. Make this a short history.’
    The accountant froze, enthusiasm pricked, but I made encouraging noises and his hands began to move again. ‘Then I will assume you are familiar with the history of the Siege of Colchester. What