The Devil's Looking-Glass (6 page)

Relief flooded him when he burst from the great Kentish forest and saw the large, brick-built merchant’s house on the edge of the village, the family home, safe and secure. His father had made no little money, buying up the woodland to feed the endless demand for timber for the great seagoing vessels that had made England such a power across the world. His breath burning in his chest, Tobias scrambled up to the door, his only thought, odd yet somehow right
, The crows shall not get me now.

And then he was in the bright morning room and his brother was there, good Stephen, strong and wise, sitting by the cold ashes in the hearth. Tobias felt a yearning that he couldn’t explain. But then Stephen turned his broad, rosy-cheeked face to him and gave a sad smile, and Tobias realized that his brother was dead, overseas, as so many of his family had died
.

‘
There is no reward in killing a King,’ Stephen said
.

Tobias felt a cold reach deep into his bones, but before he could respond the vision shattered, the glittering shards falling away into the dark
.

He jolted awake. The floor where he had been lying was cold. His mouth felt as arid as if he had swallowed a hogshead of ale the night before. A shaft of early morning sun fell through the open door of one of the rooms and caught a constellation of drifting dust motes. All was still. In the autumn chill, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Launceston and Carpenter were stirring behind him, and beyond them he saw the woman they had guessed to be the rooming house owner, Moll Higgins, sitting against the cracking plaster on the wall. Though dazed, she looked as if her wits had returned.

Strangewayes struggled to think clearly. Though the unsettling dream about his brother still had its hooks in him, fragments of the previous night emerged. He recalled Dee coming down the stairs, and the terror he felt, an unnatural terror as if all his senses were warning him of something he could not see. He remembered the flashes of light, and the smoke and the booming, like the swell of the ocean against a hull heard on the bilge deck. And the last thing that sprang into his mind was Will grabbing hold of the Irish spy and hauling her down the stairs.

Strangewayes heaved himself to his feet and made his way unsteadily down the creaking wooden treads. Swyfte was slumped next to the open front door, the woman nowhere to be seen.

‘Dee?’ Strangewayes gasped as his companion stood up. ‘The mirror?’

Will shook his head, running a hand through his tousled black hair. Gathering his wits, he spun out into the cobbled street. Liverpool was lit by a thin orange light as the sun edged up over the horizon. Across the still streets, a hum rose up from the direction of the docks.

‘Zounds, what happened last night?’ Strangewayes demanded.
‘Dee was filled with fire and brimstone. Never have I seen him that way. Was he possessed by devils?’

‘Possessed, aye, that is a good enough explanation,’ Swyfte replied, distracted. ‘When I looked in his eyes, I saw no sign of the man I knew. Something dark has been awakened within him.’ His tone was measured, his words free of shock or unease, and Strangewayes guessed he had already started to reach some understanding of the alchemist’s transformation.

‘He laid low those night-things as if they were drunken apprentices. Where did he get such power? And why did he only reveal it this past night?’

‘These are questions for another time,’ Will replied, dismissing any debate with a wave of his hand. ‘For now, we must hope we still have an opportunity to prevent a greater disaster. Let us to the docks, and pray that we are not too late.’ He threw himself down the cobbled slope towards the crack of sailcloth and barked orders, the cries of the gulls and the dank smell of the wide, grey river.

Strangewayes shielded his eyes from the bright morning light as they emerged from the shadowed alley on to the quayside. The dock-workers were already hard at their labours, grunting and sweating as they heaved bales on to the backs of carts. The horses stamped their hooves and snorted, the apple-sweet scent of their dung caught in the sharp wind off the water. The steady beat of wooden mallets echoed from the shipwrights’ dens. To that rhythm of seagoing life on the Merse, merchants waved their arms in the air as they auctioned their wares, haggling over prices, and sailors sang their work-shanties on board the great vessels at anchor.

Tobias followed Will’s gaze along the forest of masts large and small. His heart fell when he realized the carrack had already sailed.

‘We have lost Dee,’ he said with bitterness, ‘when we were so close. What now for us all?’

‘Keep your spirits up.’ Swyfte seemed oddly unmoved despite the desperate situation in which they found themselves.

‘What do you suggest? That we steal a boat and sail for Ireland? We will feel the sharp edge of a chieftain’s broadsword if we trespass into the interior of that benighted land.’

He felt another spike of annoyance as his companion ignored him, striding out to the edge of the quay where a black-bearded seaman knotted the frayed ends of a net. ‘Tell me, friend, the carrack that sailed for Ireland,’ Will asked, ‘how much of a head start does it have?’

‘Ireland?’ The sailor’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s bound for farther shores now.’

‘What say you?’ Swyfte’s eyes narrowed.

The seaman drew the final knot on his net and admired his handiwork. ‘A new course was ordered before dawn, so I ’eard,’ he replied, glancing out across the glassy water. ‘They’ll be putting in somewhere or other to take on provisions. But then they’re bound for the New World.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

RED MEG SHIVERED,
pulling her Crimson cloak Tighter around her. The autumn wind bit hard, lashing her auburn hair, as she leaned against the oak rail and watched Liverpool disappear into the hazy distance. How easily she had sailed into uncharted waters, with Will Swyfte once again steering the new course of her life. She smiled. Though danger awaited, better a life of adventure and romance than a slow march to a grey death. She turned, looking towards the forecastle. Ahead lay the Irish Sea with its wild storms and soaring cliffs of black water. And beyond? She pushed aside all the questions that assailed her, unable to stare into the furnace of her true motivations. Time would judge if she were fool or not.

Captain Nicholas Duncombe emerged from his cabin. He was a strong man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a quiet nature that seemed more suited to scholarly pursuits than to command. He was kind, too, kinder than any other man of the sea she had encountered, most of whom always had a lustful look in their eye when they spoke to her.

The captain saw her watching him and strode over. He kept his
eyes
down, his features tense. ‘Mistress O’Shee,’ he murmured, not wishing to draw attention to their conversation, ‘I fear for all our souls. This vessel is bewitched.’ He glanced towards the helmsman who stood as rigid as an oak, oblivious of the wind pummelling his face. Meg followed his gaze across his crew, who moved as if in a dream. ‘Your companion is the devil’s own. I know not what spell he has woven over my crew, but only disaster can come of this.’

‘I cannot control Dr Dee, captain. If you would keep your life, ’tis best to do as he commands.’

‘I am a seasoned traveller on these waves, mistress, but the New World? Such a journey requires careful planning and men prepared for the rigours that lie ahead.’ The captain furrowed his brow, his fears both imagined and real. ‘We sail into the haven of pirates and Spanish warships and the Lord knows what else. Perhaps Hell itself, if your companion is any indication.’

‘But there will be good men coming to our aid, and soon. You must trust me on this.’

Duncombe searched her face, wanting to believe her words. ‘Then I will delay the taking on of provisions for as long as possible when we put in to port in Ireland, and pray to God that your good men will have a fair wind at their backs.’

Meg smiled with confidence, but she fervently hoped they could wriggle out of Dee’s grasp before they reached whatever destination the alchemist had in mind. She had seen the fire in the old man’s eyes and had no doubt that whatever he planned was terrible indeed.

‘I have little experience of sorcery, save the dark stories sailors tell each other on the waves,’ the captain went on as his fingers closed on the hilt of the dagger he wore at his hip, ‘but I fear our lot on board the
Eagle
can only get worse. Find some comfort in the knowledge that if you are threatened in any way I will defend you with my life.’

Meg winced at the captain’s kindness, but quickly offered her thanks. Here was a man who valued honour above all, far
removed
from the duplicitous and treacherous world of spies that she knew. When she peered into his weathered face, she found herself thinking of her father, though he had been gone for years now, and she felt a wave of sadness. At that moment, she feared for Duncombe more than he did for her. Could men so good ever survive in such a world?

The door to the cabins clattered open. She sensed Dee’s presence before he stepped from the shadowy interior as if he blazed with the white heat of a forge. His hair was wild, his eyes drained of all humanity. ‘And so we leave this world behind,’ he called to the wind. He looked at Meg, and through her to the dim horizon, and gave a lupine smile.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NONSUCH PALACE ECHOED
with the sound of feet moving through vast chambers and down winding stairways. Candles threw swooping shadows across the stone walls as breathless servants hauled wooden chests between them, and dragged well-stuffed sacks, and staggered under the weight of bales. In the moonlit inner ward, horses stamped their hooves upon the cobbles. Blasts of hot breath steamed in the chill air. Cart after cart creaked under the weight of loads waiting to be transported along the highway to the Palace of Whitehall just beyond the city walls. The Queen and her court were returning to London.

In the ruddy glare of hissing torches along the walls, guards watched the hasty exodus, their furtive eyes flickering from the frantic activity to the darkness that suffocated the surrounding countryside.
Make haste, make haste
, the orders rang out, every voice trembling with unease. The bitter reek of sweat born of dread hung in the air.

Grace Seldon paused in the long gallery leading from the Queen’s chambers to peer through the diamond-pane windows at the confusion in the yard below. Her arms ached from the weight
of
the Queen’s sumptuous dresses, each one jewelled and heavily embroidered. She was wearing her plain yellow travelling skirt and bodice, and a matching ribbon held her brown hair away from her face during her labours. Since sunset had she carried garments to the other ladies-in-waiting in the courtyard, and there would be no respite until all the monarch’s chambers were bare. She had heard the tales of nameless enemies marching upon Nonsuch, the mutterings of blood and thunder and impending doom, as she had heard them so many times before. She raised her chin in defiance. These were dangerous days and she would not jump at shadows.

The murmur of familiar voices rustled along the gallery, and Grace pressed herself back into a darkened chamber before she could be seen. She bristled as she heard the arch tones of that duplicitous little man, Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster, who had often turned his poisonous words against Will. The other was the Earl of Essex, a self-important braggart who swaggered through the palace in his white doublet and hose as if all eyes must ever fall upon him. She peered through the crack in the door as they neared.

‘Too many rumours swirl around this palace. Threat, danger, death, drawing closer by the hour,’ Essex was saying in a grim whisper.

‘You think we should speak true?’ Cecil exclaimed with contempt. ‘Better by far that they have their imagined fears.’

‘Though the spectre of the plague still haunts London, I will feel some comfort once we are behind the walls of Whitehall. The defences still hold there?’

‘For now.’

Plotting as ever
, Grace thought. Never could a word be trusted that came out of either man’s mouth. And upon their shoulders rested the future of England. As they neared, she stepped back a pace, still watching. What an odd pair they made, the tall, muscular Essex looming over the shorter, hunchbacked Cecil. Yet power resided with the smaller man, she knew.

‘And have we news from Swyfte?’ the Earl asked.

Grace’s ears pricked and she leaned closer once more.

‘As yet, no word. It sickens me to have to put our faith in such a coxcomb.’

‘Elizabeth favours him.’

Clenching his fists, Cecil ground to a halt only a step away from Grace. She held her breath. ‘Will our Queen hold such a high opinion of that rake if he fails to return Dee and she is tossed into a burning pit with all of England?’

‘Swyfte—’

‘Speak to me of Swyfte no more,’ the spymaster snapped. ‘He has always been one step away from turning upon us, and only his effectiveness has kept his head upon his shoulders.’

‘If he learned the truth about the woman he lost—’

Cecil ground his teeth, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘He will not. If he fails to return Dee to us, his life is forfeit. If he succeeds . . . He has brushed close to the truth too many times and we can tolerate it no more. Too much is at stake.’

The spymaster grunted his distaste and set off along the gallery at a fast pace. Essex hurried to keep up. Once the two men had disappeared from view, Grace eased out of her hiding place, chilled. She heard herself hailed and turned to see Will’s young assistant Nathaniel Colt, red-faced and sweating, with a large sack thrown over his left shoulder and another gripped in his right hand.

‘Nat!’ she exclaimed, relieved to see a friendly face. Clutching the monarch’s dresses to her chest, she hurried up to him and whispered, ‘I fear Will’s life is in danger.’

‘Will’s life is always in danger,’ Nathaniel sighed. ‘Rogues, cuckolded husbands, poor card players, jealous rivals . . . and that is even before we discuss the Spanish.’ He saw her worried expression and softened. ‘Tell me what you know, Grace.’