The Scar-Crow Men (56 page)

His arms aching, the spy settled back against the wooden cross-frame. ‘Then you will tell me where you live, under what name, and we can meet on dark nights, and drink, and—’

‘No, Will.’ Serious-faced, Marlowe squatted on his haunches so he could look his friend in the eye once more. ‘Cecil knows of our friendship. If there is even a hint I am still alive, he will get to me through you. Or he will, at the very least, punish you … torture you … for knowing my whereabouts. I will not see you suffer.’ He swallowed. ‘Suffer more.’

‘The devil.’

‘Believe me, Will, I would not have inflicted such a terrible thing ’pon you if it had not been the last recourse. To risk your very soul … what kind of monster am I?’ In the grip of self-loathing, the playwright wrapped his arms around his head.

‘Kit …’

‘But I knew your name was on that self-same list, and that the killer of spies would claim your life soon.’ Marlowe looked up, his eyes rimmed with tears. ‘If I had got to you first, I could have explained everything. But there is no doubt I would have been murdered in the process by that foul Hunter that has stalked me half my life. No, I had one gamble and I had to risk all. Griffin and I had talked about the conjuring of devils, and I knew that through that spawn of hell I could both warn you and protect you, if only for a short while. The devil was your servant as well as your curse, was he not?’

Will nodded, stung by the pain his friend was feeling.

‘Good, good.’ The playwright wiped his tears away with the back of his hand and put on a bright grin, though his eyes still told the spy another story. ‘And here you are! Alive and well!’

‘And damned. But I have survived to see you again—’

‘And you will continue to live, free of your curse.’ Marlowe jumped to his feet and pulled out his flint, lighting each one of the four candles in turn. ‘I conjured the devil and I can free you from him.’

The spy laughed heartily. ‘Then all’s well that end’s well.’

Marlowe paused behind Will’s back, his voice growing hollow. ‘But no devil will return to hell without a prize.’

Straining to look round, the spy asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I must take your devil upon myself. ’Twas always my plan.’

Will felt a chill reach to the very heart of him. ‘It will force you to an early grave and drag your soul to hell. You cannot!’

‘I must.’ Marlowe danced back in front of the spy. He looked as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. ‘This is my gift to you. A free life, and a long one, if any spy may have such a thing. And a chance to make your own mistakes, not carry the burden of mine.’

‘No, Kit. I shall not allow it,’ Will shouted.

‘In this, you have no say.’ The playwright cast one sad, sideways glance at his friend
and then walked along the nave into the shadows.

Will raged and cursed, and in the spaces between his oaths he heard Marlowe muttering some incantation, his voice rising and falling in a rhythmic cadence. The world spun around him and he thought he glimpsed angels and demons swooping out of the darkness, and heard the haunting music of a pipe player. Smells came and went – strawberries, rose petals and then the suffocating stench of brimstone. Choking and coughing, his skin prickling, he felt a burden drop from his back, and his heart sang. He was free. A shadow moved beyond the red circle.

His face drained of blood, Marlowe stumbled back up the nave weakly, but he was smiling.

‘Damn you, Kit,’ Will croaked.

They both laughed at that, despite themselves.

‘Tell me,’ the playwright asked, ‘did you see your Jenny?’

The spy nodded.

‘The devil takes the form of a heart’s desire that we consider unattainable. And in this way it inflicts the greatest pain.’ Though the shadow appeared insubstantial to the spy, Kit was smiling at it, tears stinging his eyes once more.

‘What do you see?’ Will whispered.

Marlowe looked from the shadow to Will, but his smile did not alter. ‘I see my heart’s desire,’ he replied quietly, ‘but as unattainable as ever.’ Throwing his arms wide, he waited. The shadow crossed Will’s vision, and his friend gave a deep shudder.

‘Kit, why did you do this thing?’ the spy croaked.

‘’Tis no sacrifice, my good friend. I see you well. And that is all the reward I would ever need.’ The playwright walked around his friend one final time, snuffing out each candle in turn. The darkness swept back in. It felt colder, though Will knew it was only his heart.

‘Then this is where we say goodbye. For all time?’

‘Who knows? Fate plays strange games.’ Marlowe walked to the edge of the moonbeam falling through the stained-glass window. For a moment, he was jewelled. ‘But you know I live. And I know you live. And though we may never speak again, our friendship crosses the gulf in our dreams.’

‘Do not go, Kit. Let us find another solution.’

Marlowe stepped beyond the moonbeam. Now he was grey, a ghost once more. ‘Make the most of this world, Will, for life is fleeting, and the jewels you see around you disappear in a twinkling.’

Will felt waves of emotion rushing through him until he thought he would drown. There was joy that his friend was alive, and at the powerful bond they shared. And there was a terrible ache at the suffering Marlowe had taken upon himself so that Will could be free. Will felt the depth of that sacrifice burn into his heart.

The dark swallowed Kit up.

‘’Tis unseemly to quote oneself, but there is a time and place for all things,’ the playwright said from the shadows, his voice laced with playful humour borne of relief that this dark game was over.

‘
Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing?

I tell thee, ’tis not half so fair as thou
,

Or any man that breathes on earth
.

‘Goodbye, my friend, and live well.’

And then Christopher Marlowe was gone.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

THE BELLS RANG OUT ACROSS ALL LONDON
.

Riding home, Will Swyfte enjoyed the feeling of release conjured by the musical peals rolling across the rooftops. The plague had passed, for now. But like the Unseelie Court it would come back, probably sooner than anyone knew.

Now that the Lord Mayor and the Aldermen had agreed it was time for life to return to normal, the markets would overflow once more, streams of merchants and rogues, rich visitors and labourers in search of work all flooding back to the thronging, noisy streets from the countryside, and from across Europe. The inns and the stews and the bear-baiting pits would be back in rude health, and so too would the theatres, where the common man would once again stand in ranks to hear words crafted by brilliant young men.

Like Christopher Marlowe.

On the long, hard journey from East Anglia, Will had had plenty of time to reflect on his old friend and the sacrifice the playwright had made. But he found comfort in the knowledge that Kit’s days would be happier, whatever waited for him at the end of the road.

Life was about small victories. No one ever won the war. The spy understood that now more than ever.

And you took your joys where you could.

But even in the middle of those lambent thoughts, Will began formulating hard plans, and ones that would take him far away from all he knew, to distant shores and hot climes, as hot perhaps as hell, where a devil told him Jenny was held.

In the warm, rosy light of the late afternoon, Will arrived at Nonsuch to be met by Nathaniel. ‘Did you find an answer to the mystery?’ the young assistant asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

‘One mystery was solved, Nat, but we can never divine the mysteries of the human heart,’ the spy replied as he dismounted in the inner ward.

The young man rolled his eyes. ‘You have been drinking and dallying in a stew, have
you not? It is only wine and women that draw the poetry out of you.’

‘One day, Nat, I will teach you the value of poetry and that not all questions need answers.’

With a snort, Nathaniel took the reins of the horse.

‘Where is Grace?’ the spy asked. ‘I would have thought she would be here to greet me. Is she engaged with the Queen?’

In the flutter of his assistant’s eyes, Will received much of his answer. Nathaniel led the way to the garden door, pointing past the clouds of midges dancing in the sunbeams to where Grace walked with Tobias Strangewayes. Her head was bowed and a smile played on her lips, but it was in the flash of her eyes and her easy laughter that Will saw the truth.

‘Grace deserves happiness,’ Nathaniel suggested, a little uncomfortable as if he recognized that he was overreaching himself. ‘She will never find it with you. You have said as much youself.’

‘I wish her well, Nat,’ Will said with a reassuring grin, yet he was surprised to feel a faint regret. To be loved so strongly and defiantly, as Grace had loved him, had been a source of hope and comfort, he recognized now, but it would be cruel of him to continue receiving her affection when there was no hope of him ever returning that love. But he would miss her, as he missed Marlowe.

‘The court has taken note of its losses,’ the young man began, pretending to study the swallows swooping in the blue sky. ‘Men and women are missing, the ones who had been replaced. Are they alive somewhere, waiting to be freed, or were they slaughtered the moment they were taken? I have asked Master Carpenter to explain events, and Robert of Launceston, but all I receive are curses and abuse.’

‘It is a great mystery,’ Will parried.

‘Will you tell me what happened here in these recent weeks?’ the assistant asked hopefully.

‘No, Nat, I will not.’

Nathaniel made a strangled cry of frustration in his throat.

‘These are grave affairs of state, and suitable only for the ears of great men such as myself,’ the spy gently taunted.

‘Tell me at the least, was it the Devil’s work?’

‘We are all devils, Nat, and angels too, and hell and heaven is made by our own hands.’

Nathaniel slapped one hand on his forehead. ‘A direct answer. One day. And my life will be complete.’

The spy smiled to himself.

The two men returned inside. Will intended to see Meg, for she had been much on his mind too on his journey home, along with thoughts of wine and food and lusty conversation. Though Jenny would always be his love, he was intrigued by the Irish woman and confused by the strange emotions she ignited within him. But as the spy climbed to his chamber to wash and change, the sound of two pairs of running feet disturbed him.

Carpenter and Launceston met him at the top of the steps. ‘Our master demands our attendance,’ the Earl said. ‘There is trouble afoot.’

Sighing, Will waved a weary hand.

‘Cecil has already seen you,’ the scarred spy cautioned. ‘There is no denying him.’

As the three companions marched along the Grand Gallery, Will sneaked a sideways glance at Carpenter. Something was broken in his face. Will thought his friend looked as if all the anger had drained from him, along with all the hope that had slowly built since his first meeting with Alice. Will had seen that look before, in the mirror, in the long days after Jenny’s disappearance and he knew what lay within was even worse. He hoped it would pass.

‘I am sorry to say, John, I fear you will be kept very busy in the coming days. No time for rest or private thought,’ he said, trying to appear blithe. ‘In my rush to get to Norfolk, I have not yet discussed matters with Sir Robert, but I learned some troubling news during my time in France.’

When he caught Launceston looking at him, the ghost of a smile appeared to be playing on the man’s pale lips. Puzzled, Will presumed he must be mistaken.

‘The Unseelie Court are in the process of unveiling an even greater plot than the one we defeated this past summer. It is no longer their aim simply to punish England for our transgressions. Their ambition now extends to all the countries of the world.’

Carpenter brought the other two men to a halt and grasped Will’s arm. ‘Is this true? We are on the brink of a war that could destroy all of human endeavour?’

‘I am sorry to say it is, John. The Fay are like the hydra in the stories Kit Marlowe liked to spin. Cut off a head and two more grow. We have seen them extend their influence into Spain and France. Now they plot to move on many fronts, to control their puppets on thrones, to manipulate others, to seize control wherever they look.’

The scarred spy’s grieving expression was replaced by one of righteous anger. ‘Alice is dead because of their hand. Nothing will stop me from fighting those bastards wherever they might raise their heads. From now on, that is my purpose in life.’

Pumping one fist into an open palm, Carpenter marched ahead, filled now with fresh incentive. Launceston held Will’s gaze for a long moment, but the spy could not read whatever moved behind the Earl’s eyes. The sallow man gave a curt nod, of thanks, perhaps, and moved on.

Cecil was not in his own chamber. The three spies found their master in the room that had belonged to Robert Rowland, a hand pressed to his forehead. Instead of the heaps of records that had belonged to the killer of spies, there were now charts of the night skies, great volumes, their creaking leather bindings inscribed with magical symbols, small glass bottles, powders and potions, all of which Will guessed had been transported from Dee’s old library in Mortlake.

‘What matter is so pressing that a man cannot change his doublet?’ Will asked.

The secretary pointed a wavering hand to the boards where the rushes had been brushed aside to reveal a magical circle marked out in pitch – or half marked, for the line trailed away next to a dripping brush. Around it were scattered shards of glass from smashed potion bottles and a book with the pages torn by an errant shoe.

‘Dee has been taken,’ Cecil raged, shaking a fist at the gods, ‘before he could complete our magical defences.’

‘How do you know the old man didn’t stagger away in one of his rages?’ Carpenter sneered as he looked around the chamber. ‘Or that he is not pursuing one of the maids, as is his wont?’

‘Because one of those very maids saw him lurch from this room and collapse outside the door, his eyes rolling back in his head,’ the hunchbacked man said bitterly, prowling around the cramped room. ‘And when that maid returned with help, the alchemist was gone.’