The Scar-Crow Men (49 page)

Will continued to fly, off the roof and out into the void. When he reached the limits of the rope, his arm almost tore from its socket. Tumbling back, he crashed against the stone of the cathedral wall for the third time. His wits near knocked out of his head, he hung, too weak to descend. Every fibre of his being burned, and he could feel hot blood slicking his torso.

‘I die on my own terms, devil,’ he croaked.

With the Hunter’s passing, the rain slowly stopped and the thunder rolled away. In the silence that followed, Will could hear familiar chilling music and smell the syrupy scent of honeysuckle caught on the wind. The Unseelie Court were making their way across the cathedral roof.

He considered letting go of the rope and plunging to his death, rather than letting himself fall into the hands of those foul creatures. Yet even then, at the end, he found it impossible to relinquish life.

‘And are ye going to keep hanging there like a slab of meat in a butcher’s?’

‘Meg?’ The spy pictured the red-headed woman leaning over the edge of the roof. ‘My sight has been stolen from me, for now. I cannot climb down, but there is a way.’

There was silence for a moment and then she hissed, ‘Our Good Neighbours will be with us soon. You must trust me.’

Will laughed.

‘You must trust me,’ the woman repeated. ‘I will climb down. Take your hand off the rope and wrap your arms around me.’

‘So you can fling me into the void and be done with me?’

Ignoring him, she replied, ‘I am stronger than you think and I have a head for heights like no other. I can support your weight for a little while.’

Fading in and out on the breeze, the music of fiddle and pipes drew nearer.

‘Trust me,’ she whispered.

‘Very well,’ he heard himself saying.

As Meg grasped the rope, Will felt her breath on his ear. ‘This is the moment when everything changes,’ she whispered.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

SIR ROBERT CECIL PACED ANXIOUSLY OUTSIDE THE COUNCIL
chamber, his hunchbacked form throwing off his gait so that it appeared he was on the deck of a seagoing galleon. Hands clasped behind his back, his face set, he looked the
model of brooding contemplation. Nearby, the mercenary Sinclair and his shadow, Rowland the record-keeper, waited.

The Secretary of State’s concentration was broken by echoing, urgent footsteps and he glanced up to see Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, striding into the gloomy antechamber, blinding in white doublet with gold embroidery, white breeches and white cloak.

‘You,’ the Earl said, jabbing a finger at the black-gowned secretary. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as your good self, I would wager,’ Cecil replied with a false smile. ‘Summoned to appear before Her Majesty, who has been ensconced for this past hour with the Privy Council.’

The flamboyant man blanched. ‘The council? Meeting without either of us in attendance?’

The secretary noted cruelly that his rival’s face and clothes now merged into one single pool of insipidity. ‘Perhaps we are both on our way to the Tower. It appears your cunning manipulations – some would say deceit – have not earned you the advantages you so fervently desired.’

The door to the Council Chamber swung open and Cecil shuffled in. Essex hastened to catch up, ensuring that he arrived in the Queen’s presence at the same time as his rival.

The throne stood with a row of arched windows behind it so that Elizabeth was always perceived in a halo of light. Even so, she looked old and withered, her chin falling to her breast, her white make-up and red wig serving only to exacerbate the cadaverous quality of her hollow cheeks and eye sockets.

The secretary was immediately struck by the presence of Her Majesty’s maid of honour, Elinor, erect and beady-eyed at the Queen’s left arm.
A woman? Here?
he thought, forgetting the gender of his monarch in a manner that would have made Elizabeth proud, were she aware of his thoughts.

But the Queen seemed unaware of almost everything in the room. Her lids hung heavily as though she were on the brink of sleep, her stare deadened.

Behind her, the Privy Council stood, black robes, grey beards, sallow skin, their expressions too emotionless for Cecil to read the intent of the gathering.

‘Robert. And Robert,’ the Queen drawled. ‘In these dark times, I find your rivalry … tiresome.’

Essex shuffled uneasily and then gave a deep bow. ‘Your Majesty, may I offer my profound apologies.’

Cecil tried not to show his contempt.

‘You must put aside your differences, for there is a matter so pressing it demands all your abilities,’ the monarch continued. ‘It has been brought to my attention that the traitor William Swyfte is returning to England, from France, even as we speak.’

How has it been brought to your attention?
the secretary thought, casting a sideways glance at his rival’s baffled face.
The two masters of all England’s spies are here before you, and we are both unaware of this development
. He saw no advantage in raising this question and instead gave a studied, thoughtful nod.

‘Our disgraced spy sails on a merchant’s vessel from Le Havre-de-Grâce and will dock at the legal quays between the Old Bridge and the Tower on the morrow.’ With an unblinking stare, Elizabeth shifted her gaze between the two men in front of her. ‘Swyfte plans my death, and the overthrow of this government. He must be prevented from reaching Nonsuch at all costs.
You
must prevent him reaching here. From this moment on, my two favoured councillors, you must work together. Use all the spies at your disposal, united in intent for the first time, and seize Swyfte the moment he sets foot on English soil. Then bring him before me, alive if possible, dead if necessary.’

Cecil flashed a quick glance at Essex’s slow-moving face and seized the moment to make his own deep bow.

‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ the Little Elf said in a confident tone. ‘I have a plan forming already.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

‘WHAT DO YOU WANT AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT?’ HOLDING A CANDLE
high, Nathaniel scrutinized the face of Tobias Strangewayes in the flickering flame. The young man was shocked by what he saw. His late caller looked so pale and drawn it seemed he had suffered a terrible bereavement.

‘I would speak with you a while,’ Strangewayes muttered hoarsely.

Feeling a pang of compassion, Nat beckoned his visitor inside his chamber. The last thing he wanted was an interruption at such a late hour. After failing to find any way to gain access to Cockayne’s chamber to search for the play, he had heard news that Cecil’s adviser had left Nonsuch for parts unknown. Hastily, Nat had concocted a last, desperate plan: to lower himself from the roof and break into the sealed room through the window. He would probably break his neck, or be arrested the moment he set foot inside the chamber, but he could think of no other option.

‘I have not seen you around the court for many a day.’ Nathaniel waved a hand towards a stool, but Strangewayes ignored the offer and went straight to the trestle by the window. He dumped a sooty sack upon it and then turned to face his host. Nathaniel saw the man’s hand was shaking.

‘Let us not waste time with small talk,’ Strangewayes said. ‘For days now I have wrestled with my problem alone in my chamber and I can see no way out.’

‘The Bishop of Winchester has cautioned against lonely wrestling in chambers.’

‘I know you and your master have only contempt for me. You think I am not worthy of the part I play—’

‘I neither know nor care about your business.’ Nathaniel placed the candle on the table next to the sooty sack. ‘I know you have mocked and reviled Will publicly, and you despise the work carried out by Sir Robert Cecil’s men.’

Strangewayes shrugged. ‘We play rough and tumble in this business. I ask only that you hear me out with an open mind.’

The spy looked so troubled, Nat could only sigh and wave him to continue.

‘I have developed … an affection for Grace Seldon. You may know this. I understand she is like a sister to you.’ Strangewayes’ eyes flickered with a touch of guilt. ‘I wish for her only the very best, though you might think otherwise. But she trusts me, and she trusts me deeply, for she told me of a work by Christopher Marlowe that was in the hands of Sir Robert’s adviser.’

Nathaniel flinched and turned away, pretending to search for a new candle.

‘She never mentioned your name,’ Strangewayes continued, ‘but I can see that my suspicions were correct. You know of the play, and of the cipher it contains, I wager. It is vital in opposing the plot that now grips all of Nonsuch, yes?’

‘I know nothing of this.’ Nathaniel found the candle and proceeded to tease out the wick with intense concentration. ‘I am but a lowly assistant, not privy to the great affairs of England’s spies.’

The red-headed man grasped the end of the sack and tipped out a thick slab of papers. Nathaniel saw the familiar signature of Kit Marlowe on the stained and dog-eared frontispiece.

‘Here is the play.
The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus
.’ Strangewayes all but choked on the words as if he had uncovered the skull of a friend. ‘I sought it out to win Grace’s heart.’

Unable to contain himself, Nathaniel grasped the sheaf of papers and flicked through the pages to check it was the thing he had sought for so long. ‘You stole this from Master Cockayne’s chamber?’

‘What I discovered in there was …’ The spy paused and swallowed. ‘It convinced me this was not a matter for Grace … nor for any woman. I could not deliver the play to her for fear it would draw her further into this monstrous affair.’ Growing even paler as he reflected, he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. ‘For days I thought it would drive me mad. I slipped into a dark pit and was sure I would never be able to claw my way out. And yet … I did.’ Strangewayes sounded amazed that he had survived his ordeal.

‘What did you discover?’ Nathaniel asked, unnerved. Memories of pale faces burst briefly in his mind, and he struggled to recall something that remained frustratingly elusive.

‘I would not wish that knowledge upon you. A month ago, perhaps. But I am a different man now. There is no going back from what I saw.’ The spy collapsed on to a stool, his head in his hands. ‘Yet, the play is here. Can you break the cipher?’

‘I can. But you should know, Grace is stronger than you think. Stronger than most men, though she acts at times in a reckless manner. She will not forgive you if you keep this from her.’

Strangewayes looked up with a haunted expression. ‘Tell me, what should I do? I no longer know myself.’

Pulling up a stool, Nathaniel examined the play in the circle of light from the candle. ‘You do not need to tell her what you found in that chamber. But we owe it to her to reveal we have this prize.’

Reluctantly, the spy nodded. ‘Very well. Break the cipher. Then I will do whatever is necessary to oppose this plot. I have a stain upon my mind that I can only expunge with honest toil, and if it costs me my life, so be it.’

The young man studied the older, and felt a wave of compassion. Never would he have imagined seeing the arrogant, unpleasant spy brought so low. He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Grace,’ Nathaniel said, answering the door to find his friend waiting there. ‘We were just talking about you.’

The young woman stepped in and looked from one man to the other. ‘I confess, I saw Master Strangewayes making his way here. How are you, Tobias? I have missed you.’

The red-headed man looked surprised by her comment, but forced a weak smile. ‘It is good to see you too, Grace.’

Nathaniel closed the door and ushered the woman to the table. ‘You will not believe this. We have the play. Finally. Master Strangewayes recovered it from Master Cockayne’s chamber.’

Grace gave a strange smile.

The door swung open. Nathaniel spun round. ‘We are uncovered.’

The spy leapt to his feet, drawing his rapier.

In stepped Grace, another Grace, her face flushed, her brow knitted. ‘Now we shall have a reckoning,’ she hissed.

Before the two men could move, the newly arrived Grace strode across the chamber and grabbed her counterpart, throwing her against the wall. Snatching a candlestick from the mantelpiece, the furious young woman swung it with force at the temple of her rival. The first Grace slumped to the rushes, unconscious.

Nathaniel and Strangewayes gaped. Before either of them could make sense of what they had witnessed, another figure slipped into the room and closed the door.

‘What a merry dance,’ Red Meg O’Shee said with a sly smile. ‘There have been fools aplenty in these fun and games, but now we start to peel away the masks.’

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

‘I WANT TO SEE WILL SWYFTE’S BLOOD WASHING ACROSS THE
quayside and into the filthy Thames,’ Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, announced from his commanding view over the legal quays. Dressed in his favourite white and gold doublet, he stood on the roof of a carriage surrounded by fifteen spies, one hand on his rapier. ‘By this day’s end, the man who was once England’s greatest spy will be dead.’

The air was thick with the stink of pitch from the barrels along the quayside, but behind it floated the sharp smell of cloves and the sticky aroma of cinnamon from the spice ships. Shielding his eyes against the morning sun glinting off the glassy, slow-moving river, Devereux surveyed the forest of masts that obscured the north bank. Only the grey Kentish stone bulk of the Tower of London loomed above the long queue of ocean-going vessels waiting for a free berth. Almost a hundred stretched prow to stern, from the shadow of London Bridge past St Katharine’s, bobbing in the gentle breeze.

Though London was still subdued under the yoke of the plague, the legal quays were throbbing with the yells and shanties of seamen and dockworkers, the slap of sailcloth and the creak of rigging, and the hammer of wooden mallets where hasty repairs were being carried out. Customs men buzzed back and forth assessing the cargo that had been landed from the foreign ships.

Swyfte had chosen his arrival point well, the Earl thought with a nod. In that hive of busyness, the spy could lose himself in the throng of sea-dogs shuffling towards the crowded ale-houses on the river bank, or in the jam of merchants’ carts, or the groups of cat-calling doxies seeking trade.