The Scar-Crow Men (14 page)

‘And you? If even the great and famous Will Swyfte can be hunted in the streets of London I would think you would want to find a safe bolt-hole.’

‘Of course not, Nat. That is exactly what they would expect me to do.’ Though his eyes glittered like ice, Will grinned. ‘First, I go to find John and Robert at our agreed meeting place to share what we all have discovered. And then I ride to the very source of this danger and these lies – Nonsuch Palace.’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘WHO MURDERED MY FRIEND?’ WILL DEMANDED, BURSTING INTO
the candlelit chamber with the big mercenary Sinclair at his heels, blood streaming from his nose.

Roaring, the bodyguard lunged for the spy until his master, Sir Robert Cecil, flapped a diffident hand to halt him in his tracks. ‘Leave him. Master Swyfte is searching for a length of rope to hang himself,’ the spymaster said.

Reluctantly, Sinclair retreated, closing the door as he went, but his parting glance left Will in no doubt that retribution was already being planned.

Like its owner, the chamber was filled with shadows that hid a multitude of unpleasant secrets. Plain walnut panelling contained the gloom that pressed in against the single candle in the centre of a large table swamped with papers. There was a chair, a bench and two stools, but no other comforts. Cold, grey ashes cascaded out of a Kentish stone fireplace on the far wall. Despite the heat of the summer night, it was not warm.

Will had expected some resistance when he crossed the moonlit hunting grounds on the last leg of his three-hour ride from London. But as he rode down the sweeping lane to the turreted gatehouse, all was peaceful. Old Henry’s legacy, the grand brick and stone lodge, sprawled beyond, candles gleaming in the windows. The guards allowed him into the inner court without a second glance and the only jarring note was the stark gallows erected to execute any member of the court displaying signs of the plague. Death was the great leveller. Even a royal heart was afflicted with fear of the end.

As the spy made his way through the thrum of servants to Cecil’s chamber on the second floor of the western wing, he found the familiar rhythms of court life troublingly incongruous. The palace appeared untouched by the tensions unfolding in the city.

His ermine-fringed black gown flapping, Cecil went to the window and opened it a little, then stood with his back to Will looking out over the hunting grounds. ‘It is too warm in here. Summer comes up hard, and the beekeepers say it will be hot.’

‘I have no interest in the passing of the seasons. I want—’

‘I know what you want,’ the spymaster snapped, half turning to fix a cold eye on his agent. ‘You waste your time and your breath. What is one death compared to the two thousand victims of the plague this month alone in London?’

‘All deaths are not equal.’ Leaning across the large table, the spy pointed an accusatory finger at his master. ‘Christopher Marlowe was a loyal servant to the Queen, and to England. He sacrificed his pleasures and all his potential to do your work, and the work of your predecessor, Sir Francis. And the fame he achieved for his writing will echo down the years—’

‘Pfft. What use are writers?’ Cecil waved a hand as if swatting a fly.

‘Nevertheless, he deserves more than this lack of concern I find at every turn.’ Will took a breath to steady himself. ‘I would know who ordered his death. And why.’

Clasping his hands behind his back, the spymaster held his head at an aloof angle, but made sure he kept the table between himself and his visitor. ‘Marlowe had few friends,’ he said scornfully. ‘He was barely trustworthy. Time and again the powers of this office were required to save him from punishment. Theft. Deception. The propagation of his unseemly religious views. His inappropriate liaisons with young men. The stabbings and the beatings caused by his vile temper. And on, and on.’

‘Marlowe had his troubles. He was not at peace with the work we do.’ Will clenched his fists on the tabletop, his knuckles growing white.

‘There is no great plot here. No mystery. No wider danger,’ the spymaster stated. ‘Nor is there any meaning to your
friend
’s death. It was as sordid and empty as anything else in his wasted life.’

‘The man who killed Kit works for Thomas Walsingham. You may be aware of that name,’ the spy pressed.

Cecil flashed a glare at Will’s impudence. ‘And one of the other men there, Skeres, works for Essex,’ he responded sharply.

This new information wrong-footed Will. He had been right: spies everywhere, secret connections, a web in which Marlowe had been caught.

Cecil could see Will’s thoughts play out. ‘I repeat, no plot. There were spies present because that is our world. There are spies everywhere. That is rather the point, is it not?’

Will scrutinized the spymaster for a flicker of guilt that would suggest complicity in the murder. ‘When he was not working, Kit took pains never to associate with spies. He was always a man of great taste.’ Will’s voice dripped acid. ‘Which suggests to me that the meeting in Widow Bull’s house in Deptford concerned our work, in some form or other.’

‘Do you think I would not know of such a meeting if it was our business?’

‘I think you would not tell me.’

Cecil’s cheeks flushed with mounting anger. ‘Marlowe was not in good spirits recently. His temper was short. He acted in an erratic manner. And he was becoming more voluble in expressing his heretical views. The pamphlets were beginning to chide him for his atheism. He could not keep his mouth shut. These are the actions of a man whose wits were abandoning him. In the end, he lost control and paid the price. Nothing more.’

‘It sounds as though his end was a happy one for you and the Privy Council. Words against religion could have incited the population at this time of calamity when the people need God more than ever.’

Cecil slapped the palm of his hand down hard on the table. ‘Now you accuse me.’

‘I merely state a fact.’

Leaning across the table, the spymaster spat, ‘Marlowe was an irritation. And one that was being contained. He was reporting daily to the Privy Council to answer the claims made against him, and give his assurances that he would not continue to make incendiary statements. No charges had been brought, but it was only a matter of time.’

‘Kit was no traitor.’ In a rush of anger, Will swept a goblet from the edge of the table with the back of his hand. Cecil leapt back as if he had been scalded.

‘So you say,’ the spymaster growled. His gaze flickered towards the closed door beyond which Sinclair waited. ‘In this time of permanent war, when the Unseelie Court circles constantly, ready to strike, and Spain unleashes plot after plot, what other word would you use to describe one of our own citizens who sets out to undermine the established order?’

‘The Unseelie Court have already struck!’ Will began to round the table. Fearful, Cecil hurried around to the other side. ‘I witnessed their involvement in a vision,’ the spy continued, ‘but more importantly, my men have seen the Enemy working alongside a group of English plotters. Men of authority, it would seem by their actions, who have attacked me and my allies.’

‘You are mad!’

Will watched the spymaster’s eyes, still unsure if he had any connection to the wider plot. ‘’Tis true. Even while we fight among ourselves, our true Enemy unveils a grand plot that could threaten the Queen’s own life and all of England. This is not a time for secrets—’

‘No.’ Turning away, Cecil waved a hand to silence Will.

‘You must go to the Privy Council—’

‘No!’ The spymaster whirled back, eyes wide and fearful. Will was struck by the intense reaction. ‘Your grief has swept your wits away. You see plots where there are none. The Unseelie Court working with Englishmen! Listen to yourself.’

Will’s anger abated. He scrutinized Cecil again, his trembling hands, his slippery gaze, his too-strong denials. Stepping back from the table, Will folded his hands behind his back. ‘Our defences are crumbling,’ he said with as much calm as he could muster. ‘The ones Dr Dee put in place all those years ago. The ones that have kept our Queen and country safe from the supernatural foe that has preyed upon us since the Flood.’

The spymaster snorted.

‘The Unseelie Court whittle us away one piece at a time.’ Will held Cecil’s gaze. ‘Soon there will be only the heart of those defences, the one who resides atop the Lantern Tower at the Palace of Whitehall.’

Shock burst in Cecil’s face and he turned away so he would not reveal any more of his inner thoughts. ‘I do not know what you mean,’ he said.

‘I think you do. They will not relent while we keep their monarch in chains,’ the spy continued.

‘You think we can bargain with them?’ Cecil roared, his face now red with rage. He caught himself, stabbing a thin finger towards Will. ‘You should not know these things. You cannot be trusted—’

‘Who can?’ Will snapped. ‘Spies are being murdered, Gavell, the most recent—’

‘A rumour, thankfully untrue.’

‘I saw the body myself.’

Cecil hammered a fist on the table. ‘There was no body in the deadhouse. I sent my own men to investigate.’

‘Because it was removed, by those parties unknown that have allied themselves with our own true Enemy. A grand lie in the making, to keep us sweet until it is too late. Where are Clement and Makepiece?’

In the spymaster’s hesitation, Will saw that the Little Elf also feared the two spies were dead, as suggested by the list of names Launceston and Carpenter had discovered at Marlowe’s lodgings.

‘Drunk in some inn or other, I would expect,’ the hunchbacked man lied.

Will leapt around the table to grab Cecil by the gown, thrusting his face close. ‘Are you one of the traitors who have betrayed us? Or is it Essex and his own band of spies, and you see some advantage to yourself in letting him play his game?’ Will shook the spymaster roughly. ‘Who had Kit killed? Tell me!’

‘You have gone too far!’ the spymaster shouted. ‘Sinclair!’

The door crashed open and the towering mercenary stalked in, glowering. Instantly he drew his rapier, growling like an animal as he advanced. In the red mist of his own anger, Will pushed Cecil aside and went for his own sword. Then, struck by how quickly his simmering rage had burned out of control, he fought to contain himself, allowing his hand to fall impotently to his side.

‘Take Master Swyfte to his chamber and hold him there,’ the spymaster ordered, leaning on the table to calm himself. He cast an accusatory eye on Will and said under his breath, ‘I allow you some small leeway for the madness your grief has caused, but you have much to answer for. Do you think you can speak secrets vital to England’s security without consequence? You will be taken before the Privy Council tomorrow to answer the accusations against you.’

‘What accusations?’ Will growled. ‘That I speak the truth?’

‘That Marlowe has infected you with his atheism.’

‘You wish to silence me.’ Will’s cold, unwavering gaze brought an involuntary shudder from the spymaster. ‘What, then? The Tower? My head on a spike at London Bridge?’

‘Take him.’ Cecil turned away from that awful stare.

Sinclair grabbed Will and propelled him towards the door.

‘This is not the end of this matter,’ Will said icily, with no further regard for his own well-being. ‘Kit’s death will be avenged. And all who stand in my way, whoever they might be, whatever position they hold, will pay.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE THUNDEROUS KNOCKING HAD AN INSISTENT EDGE. WILL
opened the door to find an unsettled Nathaniel, who pushed his way into the chamber without waiting to be invited. From the shadows in the corridor, a solitary pikeman watched, as he had from the moment Sinclair had bustled the spy into his quarters.

‘I thought I was going to be locked out of the palace. They questioned me at the gatehouse for near an hour,’ Nathaniel said, taking off his cap and running a hand through his hair. ‘What has happened? Is the Queen’s life under threat?’

Will closed the door and guided his assistant towards the table where a meagre portion of bread and cheese and some wine had been placed by a servant. He was not in the Tower yet, so the spymaster had to treat him with a modicum of dignity. ‘The Queen is well, but it appears Sir Robert has taken my warnings to heart. Some small good may come from this night.’ He carved himself a piece of cheese and spiked it with his knife. He sighed. ‘I fear I have let my mouth run away with me.’

Nathaniel eyed his master askance as he removed his cloak. ‘You speak those words as if they are somehow new to you.’

‘This time there may be more at stake than hurt feelings. In anger, I revealed a secret I have carried with me for several years. A secret that goes to the very heart of England and the Queen’s security – and, in truth, what it means to be an Englishman and how we perceive ourselves in the world.’ The spy made to eat the cheese, stared at it for a moment and then tossed the knife and morsel on to the table. ‘And I, God help me, must defend the ideal, knowing the darkness and violence that lies behind it. Am I then as tarnished?’

‘You are too hard on yourself, as always.’

Smiling at the young man’s loyalty, Will poured Nathaniel a goblet of malmsey wine. The assistant, who rarely drank to excess, took the offering hesitantly.

‘There are plots upon plots unfolding all around us, Nat, and we can no longer trust all that we once held close. You must be on your guard,’ Will said, his face serious.

‘Is this why you are held prisoner?’

Will poured himself some wine and rested one foot on a stool as he drank. ‘It takes more than one guard to hold me prisoner.’

‘Ah, yes, I forget myself,’ the assistant said. ‘England’s greatest spy. The great Will Swyfte towers above all normal men.’ His gaze fell on the sheaf of papers set on the table in a pool of candlelight. ‘You have been reading Kit’s play.’

Will traced his fingers across the surface of the wine-stained first page. ‘Kit was a greater man than even his most ardent supporters believed,’ he said. ‘There are deep messages in this play, about our propensity for pride, certainly, but also the lengths we will go to to fulfil our own personal quests, even when we know to do so will damage us or those around us.’ Though Will knew Marlowe was writing about himself, the play was unsettlingly apt for his own situation; he could no more give up on his search for Jenny than Faustus could walk away from his deal with the Devil. He found a page and read, almost to himself,