The Devil

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

Sapphire ghost-lights shimmered around the masts of the galleon tossing on heavy seas towards England. On the forecastle, Dr John Dee, alchemist, scholar and spy, stretched out his arms to the lowering sky and muttered his incantations. The heavens crashed in response. Sheets of white lightning flickered along the western horizon. The long night was coming to an end.

Wind lashed his silver hair, but he stood like an oak against the rising gale and fixed his stony gaze upon the grey-green smudge of land ahead. If war was coming, he would not turn away. Come hell or high water, he would drive those devils out of England.

On the main deck, Bloody Jack Courtenay roared with laughter as the storm swirled around him, and the crew bellowed their songs of death and blood and wine and women. The Tempest heaved across the turbulent waters towards home.

Louder and louder still, Dee howled his invocation, until his throat was raw and his ears rang. But then shafts of sunlight punched through the thick bank of grey cloud to illuminate the green fields of England, and for a moment he thought he saw a multitude of shadows take to the air like a murder of crows.

Flee, he thought with a grim smile. Flee and never return.

The wind dropped. The thunder rolled away. And the galleon sailed into calm waters.

On the quayside at Greenwich, Sir Walter Raleigh waited, the silver thread in his jerkin a-shimmer in the morning sun. ‘Doctor,’ he boomed in greeting, as Dee strode down the plank on to dry land. ‘You have been sorely missed.’

‘I have not missed you, you preening popinjay,’ the alchemist barked. ‘Now let us away to London. There is still desperate work to be done. We are not out of deep water yet.’

The two men climbed into the waiting carriage, and as it trundled on to the rutted road leading west the adventurer recounted his tale. ‘Cecil is a fool,’ he muttered, ‘and a prideful one at that. Though it opened the door to disaster, he refused all aid from the School of Night and sent me away from the palace. The price has been high. Many have died during the long siege.’

‘Her Majesty?’

‘She is safe, for now. But I fear Cecil would sacrifice even her rather than give up his hold on power.’

Dee nodded. ‘He is a dangerous man, and desperate with it. He will never turn his back on his dark games of deceit and treachery, though we now face a new age, and a better one, in all hope. We must see what we can do.’

‘He will not rest until the School of Night is broken on his rack,’ Raleigh said. ‘We have a long fight upon our hands.’

‘We always have had, and always will,’ the older man replied.

The adventurer leaned in close, his face darkening. ‘We should all watch our backs. I fear Cecil will go to any lengths now. He has already vowed to see Swyfte dead, should he set foot upon English soil again.’

Dee’s face hardened. ‘Then let us make haste!’

The carriage clattered through the gates of the Palace of Whitehall in the warmth of the afternoon sun. As the alchemist clambered down, he cast one eye to the top of the Lantern Tower. All was still. The Faerie Queen would enjoy her grim cell for a while yet.

Once Raleigh had departed, Dee strode through the dusty, echoing halls, sensing the wretched atmosphere that hung over all. Guards leaned on their pikes, faces drawn. The sour reek of sweat pervaded the silent galleries. The court clustered together for safety in the halls surrounding the innermost ward, where the Queen’s own chambers lay. The black-robed Privy Councillors drifted around, whispering and ashen-faced, as they waited for yet another futile meeting to begin.

As the Queen’s sorcerer entered the hall, eyes looked up in shock and a slow murmuring begin to spread outwards, growing louder until it broke into a resounding cheer. Dee glowered at them all. Fools, he thought. You are your own worst enemies. He glimpsed Cecil watching him through the throng, as conflicted as ever. Relief and loathing struggled for supremacy in the spymaster’s features.

Dee had a long night of incantations and spell-casting ahead of him in order to shore up England’s beleaguered defences, but first he had more pressing business. He pushed through the pathetically grateful courtiers and strode towards a young man who had arrived to investigate the tumult. Dee saw in an instant the worry etched into the face of Swyfte’s faithful assistant, Nathaniel Colt. Sensing news, the crowd fell silent in order to hear what the old man had to say. Kind words rarely came to the alchemist’s lips, but he felt bound to summon them.

‘Your master yet lives, and if the gods are willing he will be home soon.’ Dee’s spindly hand clutched the young man’s shoulder. ‘Pray for his safe return. The perils facing him are great indeed, but Albion has never had a sword like Will Swyfte, and perhaps never will again.’ This was a message that would reach far beyond the fellow’s ears, he knew.

Nathaniel smiled with relief, stuttering his thanks. Dee glanced around and saw Cecil glowering. He bared his teeth at the spymaster, then bellowed to the crowd, ‘Clear the way. I have important news for the Queen alone.’