The Scar-Crow Men (26 page)

Glowering, the spymaster avoided his secretary’s helpful hand, and strode over. ‘Let us be brave in our decision,’ he urged the waiting council members, ‘and keep God in our hearts and minds at all times. It has been decided that an agreement by the six of us on the state of William Swyfte’s mind will be accepted by the full council later.’

Nodding, the other men muttered their agreement. All of them had skittish, unsettled eyes at the prospect of setting foot in Bedlam.

Cecil’s secretary, a pale, intense young man with the demeanour of a preacher, grabbed the iron ring on the door and pounded on it three times. A moment later, the Keeper appeared, bowing and fawning and then spitting in the palm of his hand and smearing it across his sleep-tufted hair to flatten it. Excited by the reverberations of the secretary’s knock, the inmates of the Abraham Ward clamoured wildly.

‘Ignore them, my lords. They’ll quieten down soon,’ the Keeper muttered, sweeping one chubby hand towards the newly whitewashed corridor that led to the ward.

‘Let us be done with it, then,’ the spymaster said, leading the procession of councillors behind the grubby man. ‘We have important business when we are done with this distraction.’

By that important business he meant ensuring he quickly regained favour in the eyes of the Queen, and that swaggering jackanapes Essex was consigned immediately to the shadows of Nonsuch. The spymaster was sickened by how much advantage this whole affair had cost him. Her Majesty would barely meet his eye, and his rival’s spies blustered around the palace as if they owned it.

Fresh straw had been scattered across the dirty floor of the Abraham Ward and bunches of newly cut purple lavender had been hung above every door. The sickly-sweet aroma did little to dispel the stink of the vault, but at least the Keeper had made some effort for his honoured guests, Cecil accepted grudgingly.

Their sweaty guide led the way to a locked door halfway along the gloomy ward. The spymaster hated losing an operative with the skills of Swyfte, but the spy was expendable, like all the men in the secret service. Yes, Cecil thought with a nod, the over-confident, smug, drunken, fornicating rake had certainly outlived his usefulness.

Selecting one large iron key from the huge ring he carried, the Keeper unlocked the cell door and swung it open. With another fawning bow, he raised an arm to direct the Privy Councillors inside.

Stepping across the threshold, the Little Elf took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was quiet, and he could just make out the dark shape of the spy lying on the floor near the far wall. The hunchbacked man was surprised. He had expected to be greeted by mockery, perhaps one of the caustic comments that he had tolerated for too long. Had the experiences in Bedlam been so terrible that the cell’s occupant had been broken, his wits gone, like the other unfortunates who resided in that foul place?

‘Master Swyfte,’ the spymaster said in a firm voice.

There was no response.

Impatiently, Cecil beckoned to the Keeper, who passed a candle in a wax-encrusted holder. With one hand to protect the wavering flame, the small man held the light in front of him. ‘Swyfte,’ he barked.

Shadows danced across the wall. Still the spy did not move. Just as he had started to believe he had been spared the unpleasantness of ordering an execution, Cecil heard a weak groan emanating from the figure in front of him. As he leaned in to urge the spy to sit, the words died in his throat.

Black dots flecked the back of the spy’s prone hand.

The spymaster’s chest tightened. With trembling fingers, he moved the candle to his left to reveal a glistening, bloody pool of vomit trickling from the edge of Swyfte’s mouth. Cecil’s mind screamed at him to flee, but it was as if the candle was drawn inexorably along the body. The man’s head was tilted at such an angle that the bare skin of his neck was revealed, and there, caught in the wavering light, was a purplish boil, and another just visible under the bloodstained ruff.

The spymaster recoiled as if he had been burned. ‘The plague!’ he cried, his voice breaking. ‘He has the plague!’

The other Privy Councillors hurled themselves away from the cell door, one of them stumbling backwards on to the floor in his fear and haste. Blood draining from his face, the Keeper clutched both hands to his mouth.

Cecil all but ran from the cell, slamming the door behind him. ‘This hospital is now under quarantine,’ he shouted, hurrying towards the exit from the ward. ‘Let no man enter or leave.’

The spymaster was afraid he was going to be sick from the terror sweeping through him, but the other Privy Councillors were all too distracted by their own inelegant scramble to escape from the plague-infested ward to notice Cecil. Cursing loudly, they jostled through the door and continued running into the yard where the carriages waited.

In the sun, the spymaster regained his composure. Turning to the blanched Keeper, he said, ‘God has already passed His judgement on William Swyfte, and may the Almighty have mercy on his soul. This matter is now closed. I will inform the Privy Council this afternoon.’

‘What … what do I do with him?’ the frightened man whispered.

‘When he passes, call for a watchman who will send the death-cart,’ Cecil replied with a deep, juddering sigh. ‘The labourers will take the body on its final journey to the plague pits, where it will be buried with the other poor souls.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE CELL DOOR GROUND OPEN. AFTER A MOMENT OF SILENCE, A
low voice said, ‘Stinks.’

‘Stinks everywhere in here,’ a gruff voice growled in reply. ‘Stink and madness go together.’

‘Looks dead.’

‘Ah, he does.’

Lying face down in the filthy straw, Will couldn’t see anything, but he guessed the two men were pulling cloths over their mouths and noses to keep out the noxious, infecting fumes of the plague. He sensed one kneel beside him, hovering for a moment before prodding him sharply in the back.

‘He’s done, all right. Not breathing. Cold,’ the death-cart labourer muttered. ‘Let’s get him out of here.’

Will’s head ached from where it had been pressed for hours against the chill flagstones. His limbs had ceased working within moments of taking the clear potion which Red Meg had left with him after she had applied the plague disguise over his exposed skin. He had found the sensation of his thoughts roaming freely within a seemingly dead body unsettling in the extreme at first, a foretaste of the grave, and, with his devil whispering in his ear, perhaps a flavour of hell too.

Inured by their daily dose of plague deaths, the labourers didn’t even give the spy a cursory examination as they rolled him in a fresh linen shroud. As the two men pulled the material tightly over his face, Will was overcome with panic that even his barely perceptible breathing would be stifled. Might he die while faking death? he wondered, the irony not lost on him.

Rough hands gripped his ankles and under his arms and he was lifted amid grunts and curses. The cloth smelled of damp and mildew. His mouth was dry, his tongue fat and unmoving and heavy in his cheek.

Swaying, the spy was carried across the cell. At the door, his head cracked against the jamb, stars flashing before his closed eyes. His ankles clattered against the wood. But the discomfort cleared his thoughts a little, and when the shroud snagged on the splintered wood of the old cell door, he felt the linen tugged from his face enough to let in a little cool air.

Quarantined in their cells, the inmates were silent, but Will was convinced he could once again dimly hear Griffin Devereux’s wild laughter rising up from the depths.
There is more madness in the governance of England than there is in this pitiful place
, the spy thought bitterly.

Cursing and wheezing behind their masks, the death-cart labourers carried Will’s body through the Abraham Ward, along the corridor and into the entrance hall, battering his bruised limbs on every door they passed. And then he was out in the hot sun, which warmed him even through the linen. From the street, he could hear the rattle of wheels on ruts, the whinny of horses and the whistle of carters, the hailing of good friends and the shouts of the guards on the wall above the city gate. Despite his predicament, his spirits rose after the long days in the stinking gloom of Bedlam.

His toes twitched involuntarily. The potion was starting to wear off, as Red Meg had told him it would.

The two men came to a halt, and then began a slow swing. Gathering speed, Will was swept back and forth three times, until, with a loud grunt, the labourers let go of him. The dizzying sensation of flying made his head spin. Winded, he crashed on to what he knew must be the back of the death-cart, with his feet higher than his head. The shroud tore away from the upper half of his face and sunlight seared his eyes through his lids, painful after the ever-present gloom of his incarceration.

As the stink of human rot swept into his nose, the spy’s stomach turned. Unmoving elbows and knees prodded his back, and with his limited vision he could make out four blackened fingers close to his face. The index finger was extended downwards as if pointing the way to the doom that awaited them all. Will felt a pang of fear that he might contract the plague, though he had heard that some physicians thought the dead were no longer infectious. If he had been a religious man, he would have prayed for that to be true.

Will could hear the death-cart labourers arguing nearby, but couldn’t make out their words under the stamp of the horse’s hooves and the breeze whistling around the hospital yard. After a moment, the two men climbed on to the cart’s seat and with a crack of the whip they lurched off.

Shaken roughly, the spy watched the cobbles pass beyond the edge of the cart. The horse took a wide arc, trotting through the open gates into the flow of traffic on Bishopsgate Without. Conversations faded away the moment the grim burden was seen. Will felt a shadow as he passed under the city walls, and then the rough ride eased as the cart rolled on to the smooth limestone and flint paving of Bishopsgate Street. As life began to return to his limbs, the spy gave in to the gentle rocking and the sounds of the vibrant city.

Ahead lay the plague pit, his final resting place.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

‘KEEP YOUR HEADS DOWN AND STOP YOUR BICKERING OR YOU WILL
be the death of us,’ Nathaniel hissed, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low on his face. Behind him, in the shadows of a court on the east of Bishopsgate Street, Grace glared at the woman they knew as Lady Shevington.

Smoothing down her crimson skirts, the Irish woman replied with a condescending smile, ‘Bickering only happens among equals.’

The younger woman’s tart response was drowned out by the loud honking of a flock of geese being driven south along Bishopsgate. With the traffic backed up in all directions, the carters and draymen yelled abuse, shaking their fists and their whips, but the drover marched along behind his birds, uncaring.

‘Will they bring the death-cart through this crowd?’ Nathaniel asked, concerned.

‘You must trust me. They will want him in the pit and buried, and the business done with as soon as they can,’ Red Meg replied. ‘They would not wait until the evening for a man like our Will.’

‘
Our Will
,’ Grace snapped. ‘You have spoken to him … what? Twice?’

‘But I know a kindred spirit when I see one.’

Nathaniel thought his young friend was about to strike the auburn-haired woman. Grace’s face was flushed, her left hand gripped into a tiny fist.

Shouting, whistling and beating his stick on the limestone roadway, the drover moved his flock of geese on. The traffic began to flow once more, most of it running south to the river or west to the market at Cheapside. Shielding his eyes against the sun, Nathaniel continued to look north along the row of large houses, past the great stone bulk of St Helen’s Priory to the city walls. After a while, he saw a ripple pass through the merchants and servants bustling along the street’s edge as head after head ducked down and turned towards the walls of the houses.

‘It comes,’ he whispered, waving a hand to catch the attention of the women behind him.

With silence in its wake, the death-cart trundled along Bishopsgate Street, its progress as steady and relentless as the plague. Nathaniel tried not to think what horrors his master must be experiencing.

At the crossroads, the death-cart drifted out into the centre of the street. The flow of drays and carts gradually drew to a halt, allowing the morbid carriage to turn right on to a cobbled way.

‘Yes!’ Nathaniel exclaimed quietly. ‘We were right. They go to the Lombard Street plague pit.’

‘It’s the nearest one to Bedlam,’ Red Meg said in a bored voice.

Filled with anxiety, Grace urged, ‘We must hurry, before Will is thrown into the pit.’

‘Do not hurry!’ the Irish woman snapped. ‘We must not draw attention to ourselves. We will have time to stop those slow-witted fools, even if we adopt the steady pace of servants off to market.’

Nathaniel set off first from the lea of the shadowy court, darting among the horses and carriages and into Lombard Street. Clutching his hand to his mouth, he smelled the stench of rot long before he reached the location of the mass grave. In the summer heat, droning clouds of black flies swarmed overhead. Bloated and lazy from feeding, they formed a thick cover on windows, blocking out the light.

Twisting up the brim of his hat, Nathaniel spotted the two labourers sitting on the edge of the street in the shade of a whitewashed house, mopping the sweat from their brows before the exertions that were to come. A roughly erected wooden fence with a gate in it led to a field of churned earth where the trees, shrubs and flowers had been rooted up. Rats scurried over each other in their feeding frenzy. The land was divided into plots. Five had already been used, the fresh earth heaped atop them. In the sixth plot lay a yawning hole. Crossing himself, Nathaniel couldn’t help a shudder when he looked at it.

The two women arrived at his side a moment later. Grace’s face was drained of blood, her gaze skittering across the graves and the contents of the cart, but Red Meg was unmoved. She primped her auburn hair, a seductive smile alighting easily on her lips.