The Scar-Crow Men

‘What is this higher calling, if not God’s work?’ Rowland asked.

‘Why, friendship.’ Launceston looked up from the prick of blood and eyed the record-keeper. ‘Chill winds blow through this world, and I see no sign of God anywhere. Yet in the midst of all this misery, one man can still extend a hand of friendship to others, and lift them out of suffering, and offer them his strength, though they be strange and unfamiliar. Is that not the equal of any miracle?’

‘Blasphemy,’ Rowland hissed.

The Earl gave a humourless smile.

Cecil began to edge towards the door, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

Launceston pointed the dagger at the secretary again. ‘Call the guards before I am finished with my business and I will take my ire out on you.’

The hunchbacked man came to a halt, unused to being ordered about in his own chamber, but knowing the Earl’s reputation too well to resist.

The spy turned to the record-keeper, raising one finger. ‘The work of the killer of spies has been much on my mind of late, Master Rowland. I imagine a bitter Catholic, trapped among his enemies, loathing the slow erosion of his religion, hating the state that inflicts such a cruel policy. And hating more the agents who carry out that state’s design. Am I correct?’

Rowland glared. His right arm twitched, his hands still clasped behind his back.

‘And then my considerations turned to the initial plan to slay the spies involved in a secret mission to the seminary in Reims, who may or may not carry with them information that could destroy the wider plot.’ Tracing his index finger along his right eyebrow, the Earl sauntered towards the hearth. ‘Who could possibly know the identities of those spies? Why, Sir Francis Walsingham, of course. But Sir Francis is dead. His records? They are missing. Who could have stolen them? Who would have access to them? Who would know their content?’

‘The record-keeper,’ the secretary exclaimed.

From behind his back, Rowland brought the curved ritual knife and waved it towards the Earl.

Launceston was unmoved. ‘But there was also the matter of the black marks upon the bodies of the murdered spies. The final piece of the puzzle. And then, this evening, I saw the ink upon the fingers of Will Swyfte’s young assistant and I began to wonder: what kind of man would have fingers stained with ink that he could smear, by accident, upon the bodies of his victims? A man engaged in constant scribbling. In accounting. In the keeping of records.’

‘You would be wise not to threaten me,’ Rowland growled, stepping back.

‘If I were wise, I would not be a spy.’ The Earl glanced towards the secretary, but still spoke to his prey. ‘You failed this night to murder my friend, and instead slew his love, but not in any ritual way that would serve your purpose. And you ran, and as you did, you imagined a new plan, did you not? You thought, who would make the greatest sacrifice, if this pattern were to be concluded? Why, the greatest spy of all. The master of spies.’

Cecil blanched.

‘You murdered my friend’s love at a time when he had discovered a spark of hope in his dismal, troubled life. You shattered his heart into a thousand pieces.’ A single tear trickled from the corner of the Earl’s eye. He touched it with his bloodstained finger, the two liquids mixing. He examined it with wonder. His first tear. ‘My friend!’

Launceston’s dispassionate face exploded into terrifying fury. Transformed into a storm of emotion as if all the lost feelings of an entire life had rushed back into him, he threw aside the trestle and thundered towards Rowland. A whirl of papers flew through the air. The blood drained from the record-keeper’s fear-torn face.

But then a glimmer of the devil-masked killer flared in his mad eyes and he lunged forward, driving his knife into the Earl’s arm. Launceston did not flinch. He gave no sign that he felt any pain. And with the blade still protruding from his flesh, he advanced.

With one fluid sweep from left to right, the sallow spy slashed open the neck of his victim. Blood gushing from his wound, Rowland fell to his knees, clasping his hands in prayer.

The Earl did not stop there.

Launceston hacked and chopped and sliced and thrust and slit until he was slick with gore and what lay in front of him was barely recognizable. And with each blow, a little of the rage left him until his usual dispassionate expression returned.

The Earl took a long, deep breath.

Cocking his head to one side, he examined the mess at his feet as if he was considering from where it came and what it might have been.

‘May God have mercy on your soul,’ Cecil croaked, clutching on to the wall for support.

Launceston pulled the knife from his arm and threw it. The blade spun, glinting in the candlelight, until it rammed into the panelling, singing for a moment before falling still.

‘I have no soul,’ the Earl said.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

‘THE SCAR-CROW MEN ARE SURROUNDING THE QUEEN,’ STRANGEWAYES hissed from the door to the Great Hall, his hood pulled up around his forest-green mask. ‘At least, I think they are those monstrous constructions. Who can tell?’

Will Swyfte pulled the young spy aside and peered into the vast chamber. Centre-stage, the figure menacing the maiden tore off his mask to reveal another beneath, this one a hideous concoction of animal fur and leaves. A cry rose up from the audience, and many of the women turned away, their hands covering their eyes.

‘I will protect you from yon fiend,’ the peasant called out, drawing a wooden sword.

While most of the court and the palace workers were held rapt by the players, a few circled away from the crowd, moving from different directions towards the Queen. On her throne, Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered and her head sagged. She seemed oblivious to the masque playing out for her benefit. Beside her, Elinor whispered gently in the monarch’s ear.

‘We must defend Her Majesty. Quickly, now.’ Will turned back to the antechamber where the other spies waited with Dee and Raleigh. Although he had replaced his yellow mask, Launceston looked a nightmarish sight, his grey cloak, doublet and breeches sodden and black, and a bloody trail across the flagstones behind him. Beside the Earl, Carpenter stood in his sapphire mask, despair and determination fighting for supremacy.

‘You may leave us,’ Will said to Meg, who looked disconcertingly innocent in her doll’s mask. ‘You will find it too much of a conflict to protect a monarch so reviled by some of your countrymen.’

‘You mean you cannot be sure which way my blade will turn.’ The Irish woman pulled her scarlet hood over her red hair. ‘But I will play my part.’

From under his cloak, Will drew the Corpus-Scythe and thrust it into the alchemist’s hands. ‘Here, doctor. Do what you can with this. Its magics appear mysterious to me, but the Unseelie Court believe it can withdraw the spark of life that animates the Scar-Crow Men.’

Dee’s eyes glowed with an insane glee. His cloak of animal pelts swirling, the magician clutched the bone artefact to his chest and ran into a shadowy corner of the antechamber.

‘Now we make our stand.’ Will swung open the door into the Great Hall. ‘But take care where you point your rapiers,’ he added, casting an eye towards Launceston. ‘We shall not be thanked for skewering good, upstanding members of the court.’

‘How do we tell who is friend and who is foe, then?’ Carpenter snapped.

‘We have no friends, John. Only those who will harm us, and those who merely despise us. Let them make the first move and then act accordingly.’

Immaterial but oppressive, Mephistophilis settled on Will’s back, hooking his invisible talons into flesh. The spy sensed the devil’s disappointment at the repeated failures to oversee a horrible death. Perhaps this was the time, finally.

Will pushed his way into the throng in the Great Hall with the others close behind. Those he presumed to be Scar-Crow Men were approaching the Queen slowly, so as not to draw attention to themselves.

Mournful pipe music floated through the trees under the fake moon. The players had frozen into a tableau, the peasant disarmed, the unmasked beast-man looming over the maiden. The audience applauded.

Darting around the edge of the hall, the spies reached the Queen before the Scar-Crow Men. With a serpent-like hiss, Elinor dipped a hand into the folds of her skirts.

Red Meg, who was nearest to the maid of honour, struck like a viper, grabbing the woman’s hair and yanking back her head so that her own dagger could flash across the exposed throat. The female spy contemptuously dumped the dying Scar-Crow behind the throne, its skin growing mottled and black with the marks of the plague.

For one long, ringing moment, horrified silence fell across the court. When the furious cries erupted, Will and the other spies had already surrounded the stupefied monarch, their rapiers drawn and ready to repel any attackers.

‘Treason!’

‘Murder!’

‘A plot!’

‘They seek to kill the Queen!’

The voices were drowned by the ringing of cold steel. All around the circle of spies, the men of the court raised their swords to protect their monarch. Will surveyed the array of freakish masks – dogs, pigs, harlequins, wolves, glittering ensembles of jewels and gold – and realized it was impossible to tell the Scar-Crow Men from their human counterparts.

‘Should they come as one we will be overwhelmed,’ Tobias whispered aside.

Will was impressed by the resolve he heard in his former rival’s voice. ‘The great and good of the court are used to acting only in their own interests, Master Strangewayes. Each one here will first seek glory before they learn the advantages of humble teamwork.’

The words had barely left the spy’s lips when a man in a black and white embroidered doublet and a cherub mask lunged with his rapier. Will parried easily, but within a moment his blade was flashing in a blur to prevent three attacks at once.

The din of steel upon steel surged all around.

‘Can they not see we have our backs to the Queen and we are defending her?’ Carpenter snarled above the clash.

‘Their blood is up, and like any virgin boy in his first stew it has driven out their wits,’ Will called.

Distracted by one opponent, Strangewayes failed to parry a second and the rapier tore through the sleeve of his left upper arm, raising blood. He cursed loudly, but did not flinch from the fight.

Will parried low to his right, whipped up his sword to deflect a lunge from the cherub-masked man in front of him, and continued through to parry another thrust from a swordsman to his left. Barely had his steel stopped ringing when he returned once more to the first. On the next pass-through, he circled his rapier around the blade of his cherub-masked opponent and with a flick of the wrist disarmed him. The sword flew through the air, the women of the court scattering amid shrieks.

For long moments, Will saw only flashing steel and looming, garish masks. He heard only clash after clash until his ears rang. But then, rising above the clamour, came a high-pitched noise like a bow being drawn across a fiddle, the sound continuing on and on until his teeth were set on edge.

A man in a ram’s mask staggered, his hand fluttering to his forehead. Lurching back and forth like a drunkard, he pitched across the flagstones. The three swordsmen in front of Will hesitated and drew back a step, glancing at the prone figure.

Another man fell nearby, and a woman. Within a moment some twenty bodies were scattered across the hall floor. Dee had worked his magic. As the Scar-Crows dissolved into corpses, the masks hid the worst of the putrefaction but the exposed flesh of the hands and the rising stench sparked panic.

‘The plague!’ a woman screamed.

Will tore off his black mask and shouted, ‘Stay calm, good gentlefolk. Heed the words of Will Swyfte. I stand here as a loyal defender of our Queen. This is no mark of the plague, but a plot, now exposed.’

‘You have been charged with treason,’ a man called. ‘Why should we believe you?’

‘Swyfte speaks truly.’ A still-shaken Cecil lurched across the room towards the throne. As he eyed Will, the spy could see his master’s sharp mind turning, sieving, weighing, seeking out the advantage in this situation. A flicker of a smile crossed the Little Elf’s lips. Turning to the gathered court, he called, ‘Where is the Earl of Essex? Is he not here to protect Her Majesty in this direst moment?’ He shook his head in dismay, sweeping an arm to the gathered spies. ‘Then thank God for my trusty men. For they each suffered hardship and false accusations to see this plot exposed. Master Swyfte is a hero, as we all know. Could anyone here believe him traitor?’

Launceston sidled up to Will and muttered, ‘I could slit his throat before he reaches his chamber.’

‘We will keep that option in reserve for now, Robert, but thank you for your kindness. Sir Robert Cecil is here to test me and make me a better man.’

The other spies stripped off their masks. Will saw the relief in each face, apart from Carpenter’s. The scarred spy looked as if he would never smile again. The secretary called for the ladies-in-waiting to help the Queen back to her chambers to recover, and then beckoned to the man who was once again England’s greatest spy.

While the bodies were dragged away, the spies rested, exhaustion clear in every face. Cecil beckoned for Will to follow him.

‘This is a time for forgiveness and understanding,’ the hunchbacked man said as he led the way through the antechamber and up the steps to the first floor. ‘We have had our differences, you and I, but much of that was undoubtedly caused by the wilful mischief spun by the Enemy’s agents.’

Will knew Cecil would betray him in an instant, if there was some personal gain in it. It mattered little. That was the game, and they both knew the rules.

‘I am sure any differences that remain can be smoothed over, for a small monetary fee and an extended period of recuperation in Liz Longshanks’ Bankside stew.’

‘Enjoy your time, Master Swyfte, for I will have need of you shortly. The Earl of Essex will no doubt remain a buzzing fly in my ear, and I must show Her Majesty that my network of spies is worth more than his.’ The secretary came to a halt at a window overlooking the hunting grounds. ‘I have half a mind to recruit his man Strangewayes. It would annoy the Earl no end.’

‘I would advise against that, Sir Robert. Tobias Strangewayes is a hothead, unreliable, inexperienced—’

‘And I am sure that under your training, Master Swyfte, he will blossom into an exemplary spy.’

Knowing there was no point in arguing, Will curbed his irritation. He peered out into the night and saw the ghostly flames melt away. ‘It is over,’ he said.

‘For now. But we have much work to do to rebuild our defences. The Unseelie Court may strike again, quickly, while we are in disarray. We must never let down our guard.’ Cecil eyed Will askance. ‘I know you dislike me, Master Swyfte, and you feel I am a poor substitute for Sir Francis Walsingham, but I will never allow England to lose this war. We shall defeat the Enemy, whatever it takes.’

Will saw that Cecil believed his own words, but the spy had other things on his mind. He asked baldly, ‘Did you, or the Privy Council, have Christopher Marlowe killed?’

‘Your friend was a threat to England. He had blasphemous views, and treasonous ones too. He had grown apart from the policies of Her Majesty’s government and we could not allow such a famed playwright to express those views publicly.’

Long-suppressed anger surged in Will. He gripped the hilt of his dagger, ready to thrust it into Cecil’s heart.

But the hunchbacked man shook his head and held the spy’s gaze. ‘It was the Privy Council’s intention to have Marlowe sent to the Tower, that is true. But no murder was sanctioned. When news of his death reached us, we were as surprised as you.’

Will couldn’t deny what he saw in the spymaster’s eyes. ‘Kit was not slain by Rowland. The manner of death was different ... no ritual marks or cuts. So who killed him?’

Cecil held his hands wide. ‘Marlowe moved on the edges of our society, among thieves and cut-throats, and though he was sent as a spy, he began to enjoy the life of those circles. Death comes quickly and easily there. It may well be that his ending was as meaningless as the circumstances suggest. An argument, over a few pennies.’

‘I cannot believe that.’

The secretary shrugged; there was nothing more he could say.

‘I will not rest until I discover the truth,’ Will stressed. ‘Somewhere, Kit has a hidden enemy.’ The spy turned and strode down the stairs, blood pumping in his head. He had answered every question that had plagued him since the business began, except the one that mattered most.

In the antechamber, Meg waited, a splash of scarlet in the candlelight. She came over to Will and kissed him gently on the cheek. ‘So, you trusted me to stand next to your Queen and not put a knife in her back. What has happened to you, Will Swyfte?’ she asked wryly, her green eyes gleaming.

The spy didn’t know the answer. Everywhere he looked, the world was changing, and few of his old certainties remained. ‘A flask of sack will put the world aright,’ he replied. ‘Will you join me?’

‘Are ye asking me to step out with you, then?’

‘I have a love, Red Meg. She has taken my heart and I cannot offer it elsewhere.’

Will expected the Irish woman to be offended, but she only laughed. ‘Men are such simple folk, and you expect the world and feelings to be just as simple. The heart is harder to navigate than the high seas, Master Swyfte.’

‘What game are you playing now, Meg?’

The woman laughed again, catching herself with a hand to her mouth. ‘We have trust between us now, yes?’ she asked.

The spy thought for a moment, and nodded.

‘Then that is enough for now, and I will ask no more. Let us see where the winds blow us.’

‘I will not abandon Jenny. Do not waste your time hoping.’

The Irish woman gave only an enigmatic smile.

Before he could question the woman further, Nathaniel hurried up, clutching the sheaf of papers that was Marlowe’s play. ‘Will,’ he began breathlessly, ‘I have deciphered the final section of Kit’s hidden message. It is as obscure to me as that business with roses and fathoms, but you may make sense of it.’ The assistant handed his master an ink-spattered parchment.

Will read the final part of the playwright’s secret communication. The meaning was indeed curious, but one word leapt out at him: Wykenham, the ghost village, where devil-haunted Griffin Devereux had slaughtered the entire population in his search for hidden knowledge.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

THE FULL MOON TURNED THE MEADOWS OF NORTH NORFOLK INTO silver pools and limned the oaks and elms lining the winding lane. Guiding his horse at a steady trot, Will searched the lonely countryside for any sign of danger. The hooves beat a steady rhythm on the hard-baked mud. Dusty and tired from the road, he could smell the tang of the nearby sea in the salt marshes and thought he could hear the dim crash of the waves. An owl hooted, low and mournful, in the dark slash of wood to his right. A russet fox loped across the nearest field, pausing briefly to look in the spy’s direction. There was no sign of human life.

It had been a slow journey north from Norwich along poor tracks and through areas roaming with footpads ready to rob the unwary traveller. Will had broken his trek at an inn where he had been warned repeatedly not to venture anywhere near Wykenham. Haunted, the locals said. The ground still wet with blood. The cries of the dying heard in the quiet of the night.

But Will had to know the meaning of the final cryptic comment hidden in his friend’s play. You will find the truth in Wykenham.

Was Griffin Devereux, Bedlam’s most terrible resident, responsible for Kit Marlowe’s murder? Was that death linked to the scores who had been slaughtered in Wykenham, or to the devil that the poor, mad soul appeared to have conjured?

Nothing good could surely come of a journey to that haunted village, but he had to know the truth to put Kit to rest in his heart.

Will felt the spectre of his old friend creep back into his mind, as it had repeatedly since that evening at Nonsuch when the Unseelie Court had been forced into retreat. In the thin grey light of the following morn, the spy had stood over Marlowe’s grave in Deptford Green listening to the wind from the river singing in the branches of the churchyard yews. Memories had surfaced, of drunken nights and intense debates about God and politics, but mostly Will had thought about the mysteries that had been threaded through the playwright’s life. Though they had been the best of friends, there was so much that the spy had never seen in Kit. In truth, Will wondered, had he been a poor companion? Had he been obsessed by his own troubles and ignorant of the deep currents that had swept Marlowe into the arms of the School of Night?

And was that why the playwright had cursed Will with a devil that tormented his thoughts and drove him towards an early grave? The spy had thought it an aid, but as Mephistophilis gripped him tighter by the day, he began to wonder otherwise. It would not be long until an end came, he was sure, and his soul would be damned.

Even if that were the case, Will missed his old friend deeply, missed the kindnesses, missed the only man who had understood his life. He could never blame Kit.

As the spy followed the rutted lane around a bend, he saw the silhouette of a church steeple against the starry sky and the low outlines of what appeared to be houses. All was dark.

His horse trotted on.

The trees thinned out as he neared Wykenham, but on one great gnarled oak on the outskirts the spy noticed that a piece of timber had been roughly nailed. Dismounting, Will led his steed over and struck a flint to a handful of dry grass and twigs. The flames fanned up, the orange glow illuminating his brooding face as he leaned towards the timber and read what had been marked there in pitch.

Keep out. The devil is here.

As the spy climbed back on his horse and rode the last length of lane into the village, his skin began to prickle. He felt unseen eyes upon him and an unsettling atmosphere, like the tension before a storm. On the soft night breeze, what sounded to Will like whispers were caught and distorted, but it might have been just the wind in the eaves. A door banged. The shriek of the hunting owl floated across the still street from the yews in the churchyard.

Where to begin the search for clues? The spy tied up his horse and strode into the middle of the street, turning slowly. Long, yellowing grass grew against the timber and daub walls. Panes were shattered and doors hung ragged.

Investigating the nearest home, Will smelled damp and mildew. Pieces of furniture remained in place, stools, benches, a trestle spattered with bird and rat droppings, and flasks and knives stood ready for a meal never to be completed.

Only ghosts lived in Wykenham.

Moving from silent house to silent house, he neared the church where rumour said the greatest atrocity had been committed. The wind moaned through the yews as if to welcome him.

Standing at the lychgate, Will was caught by a movement on the edge of his vision back along the moonlit street. Whirling round, he searched the shadows. All was still. Yet he was sure he had seen someone dash across the way, keeping low.

A door banged, and again, and again, the rhythm matching the beat of the spy’s heart.

At the far end of the village, near where he had left his horse, a shadow bobbed from an open door and was gone in the blink of an eye. Another appeared at the edge of a house on the opposite side of the street. Now he was seeing movement everywhere, as if the dead of Wykenham were gradually waking.

Drawing his rapier, the spy counted at least seven figures slipping in and out of the shadows along the street, all of them converging upon him.

Will’s blood thundered in his head as the shapes crept nearer. He was ready for a fight. Looking around for a place to make a stand, he sensed someone behind him. Turning, he was confronted by another shadow stepping free from the gloom beneath the lychgate.

The last thing the spy heard was a low voice saying, ‘You have found hell.’

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

WILL CAME ROUND ON HIS KNEES IN THE DARKENED NAVE OF THE church, amid the faint scent of old incense and with the moonlight breaking through the stained-glass windows. His wrists ached from where he had unconsciously chafed them against the ropes binding him to a roughly constructed timber cross-frame. His head throbbed, more with anger that he had allowed himself to be taken like a novice than from whatever potion had been used to still his senses. And that failure would undoubtedly cost him his life, for Marlowe’s killer – or killers – would never allow him to walk free. He yanked hard at the bonds and rattled the frame furiously, but they held tight.

When the spy looked down, he saw a circle had been inscribed around him with some kind of pigment the colour of blood. Magical symbols were scrawled on the outside and four stubby, unlit candles had been placed at what he presumed were the cardinal points.

Peering into the dark, he thought he glimpsed movement. ‘Reveal yourself,’ he shouted, his voice laced with cold rage.

Footsteps echoed off the flagstones. A figure emerged into a moonbeam, the familiar face dappled by the reds, greens and blues of the stained glass. Dressed in a black half-compass cloak over a fine black doublet embroidered with silver crosses, Thomas Walsingham, second cousin to the old spymaster, Sir Francis, bowed. When he rose, he tugged at the tip of his beard and gave a lopsided grin. Will had not seen him since they had stood together beside Kit’s grave on the day of the funeral in Deptford Green.

‘You are a long way from your grand new home in Chislehurst,’ the spy noted.

‘Needs must when the devil drives.’

Will could contain his anger no longer. ‘You were Kit’s friend,’ he spat.

‘Yes, I was. And patron too, as you well know.’ In the flicker in Walsingham’s eyes, Will saw the hint that this rich, elegant man had been more than a friend.

‘Do ye still need us?’ a voice called from somewhere near the font. Three figures emerged from the gloom. After the patron’s appearance, the spy was not surprised to see any of them.

Sullen-faced and grey of hair, Ingram Frizer would not meet Will’s eye, as he had refused to do in that warm room when he made his claim of self-defence at the inquest into Marlowe’s murder. Beside Frizer were the other two key players in that mockery of an investigation: the moneylender Nicholas Skeres in a shabby brown doublet, and Robert Poley, the spy and cunning deceiver. Poley wore an old black cloak that hung down to his ankles.

‘Take yourselves back to your business. This matter is near an end.’ The patron dismissed the three men with a flutter of his hand.

‘There are too many spies,’ Will muttered, unable to hide his bitterness.

Walsingham nodded. ‘We are good at our deceits. Sometimes so good we can even forget what is real and what is a lie.’ A shadow crossed his face.

‘So, a conspiracy, then.’ Will strained at his bonds.

‘A conspiracy indeed. There is no other way to describe the School of Night.’

‘You are one of them?’

Tugging his beard once more in thought, the patron replied, ‘We are many. Though we are not all known to each other, so there are mysteries and secrets among us, too. Raleigh and the others at Petworth had no idea of our involvement in this matter. It had to be that way. We could not risk word of our plans leaking out.’

‘I see that clearly. They would be less than pleased to know you had murdered one of their own.’

Walsingham gave a sad smile. ‘You think poorly of me. Understandable under the circumstances, but it still stings. I always admired you, Master Swyfte. You were a good friend to Kit. You made his life richer and provided a light to guide him through the darkness. For that, I thank you.’

Will was stung by the incongruous tenderness in the patron’s voice. There was love, certainly, a confirmation of what the spy had seen in the man’s eyes earlier.

Clapping his hands together, Thomas gave a silent laugh at the spy’s expression. ‘You have questions. Of course you do. But they are not for me to answer.’ He gave another bow accompanied by a flamboyant sweep of his arm. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, Master Swyfte, in another place.’

‘In hell?’ the spy growled.

‘Hell is all around us. I aspire to somewhere greater.’ And with that, Walsingham swept down the nave and disappeared into the dark.

The spy returned to his attempts to break his bonds, but they were tied too tightly. Gasping for breath after his exertions, he did not hear another figure approach.

‘Hello, Will.’

He was so shocked by the gentle voice that he was convinced his heart would stop. In front of him stood a ghost. Wrapped in a hard-wearing cloak, Christopher Marlowe sported the same sad smile that Will recalled from the last time they had met. His brown hair was a little longer, but the fuzz on his chin still resembled that of a youth. The spy gaped, trying to find words that could express his whirlpool of emotions and thoughts.

The playwright held up a hand, his face darkening. ‘I have been a poor friend to you. I put you through great suffering, but it was all necessary, if you will only let me explain—’

‘I saw your body.’

‘You saw a body.’ Kit sat on the edge of a splintered pew. ‘A poor soul, a seaman, beaten to death outside an inn on the river and transported to Mrs Bull’s house by my good friend Thomas Walsingham and his associates. The sailor had the great misfortune to resemble me in size and shape if not in features. But once his brains had become a caul across his face, none was the wiser.’

Will flashed back to the hot room on that June morning, remembered glancing at the body on the floor when the blanket was thrown aside to reveal the wound to the jury. His grief had prevented him from lingering upon the gruesome sight, and who else in that place would have paid it more than cursory attention? None of them knew Marlowe personally. They might have seen rough engravings in pamphlets, perhaps, but who would remember the features? In the end, it had come down to Frizer, Skeres, Poley and Mrs Bull to confirm the identity of the victim.

The spy grinned. ‘It was a conspiracy.’

Marlowe’s features lit up as he saw the warmth in his friend’s face. ‘It was. A conspiracy to save my life. And what better place to hide than here, in haunted Wykenham, desecrated by my good friend Griffin Devereux, where no man dare set foot.’

‘To escape the death planned by your enemies.’

‘The Unseelie Court had placed me on their list for the killer of spies. I had seen and knew too much of their plot to live. And the Privy Council had decided I was a threat to the very stability of the nation and had to be removed forthwith. Execution was only a matter of time. I have always been skilful at making enemies, less so at conjuring friends. But then the ones I have are worth more than any man could want.’

Will shook his bonds, grinning. ‘Set me free. I would knock you on your arse, and then drink your good health.’

With clear sadness, the playwright shook his head. ‘I cannot do that.’

‘Why not? Set me free, you coxcomb.’

Marlowe leaned forward so he could look his friend full in the face. ‘The consequences of my actions must play out. There is no going back from here. If your presence in Wykenham tells me the Unseelie Court have been defeated, as I hoped once I had alerted you to the plot, then well and good. But the Privy Council, and Cecil in particular, will not rest until I am dead and gone.’

‘I will not let him harm you. I will petition the Queen—’

Shaking his head, the playwright smiled dolefully. ‘My only hope for peace is to leave my old life behind.’

Will thought for a moment. ‘A new identity?’

Marlowe nodded.

‘Kit, what about your reputation?’

‘My reputation.’ Laughing, the playwright jumped to his feet, declaiming like one of his players, ‘That is like the air. But my writing, Will, that means the world to me. If I could not write, I could not live.’ Bending down, he held out a hand passionately towards the spy. ‘But I have made plans, coz. I have a friend, a good man, a playwright of some talent. We will collaborate on many great plays, and though they will be published and performed in his name, I will still have had a part in that grand creation and that is enough for me.’ Spinning around on his private stage, he glanced over his shoulder and smiled shyly. ‘Look out for them, Will. You will know them when you see them, wise and cultured friend that you are. And I will hide in them many clues and messages in wordplay and in code. And I will even give mention to my saviours and the future salvation of this nation, the School of Night. See if I don’t.’

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.’

‘And the defences were not yet repaired, you say? How much work had he done?’ Will asked.

Cecil fixed a gimlet eye on the spy. ‘Enough to stop the Queen being stolen from under our noses, I would wager. But we will see more incursions from the Enemy. More Englishmen tormented, murdered in their homes, corrupted. This must not stand!’

Launceston stroked a long finger down his chin, staring into the middle distance. ‘But what enemy could get into Nonsuch and take the alchemist from his very chamber? Have we no guards ’pon the gates?’

Without another word, Will walked out of the door, and once he was out of sight of the other men he ran to his own room, a slow anger burning in his chest. On the trestle, by the open window, lay a scroll tied with a red ribbon. With feverish hands, he tore it open and read what had been written in a florid script.

My sweet,

By the time you read this, there will be miles between us. It pains me to leave you so, without at least a kiss, but I fear you would demand more of me than I can give before you would let me depart!

This is a fine and valuable prize indeed. The hinges need oil for it creaks and groans, but I am certain it will serve its purpose and keep all manner of things. I imagine you must miss it dearly. Why, if I did not know better, I would be looking over my shoulder night and day.

Until we meet again, think kindly of me.

Your Meg

Will laid the parchment on the trestle and tapped it with the tip of his index finger in thought. A smile sprang to his lips, despite himself. The letter’s intention was clear to him: part taunt, part tease, a kiss blown before the candle was snuffed out, but most importantly an encouragement to follow.

And that was undoubtedly what Cecil would want too. Will could almost hear the spymaster’s barked orders to bring Dee home and lay waste to any who stood in the way. There was so much at stake – England’s defences, the safety of the nation’s men and women.

But what of the spy’s own plans?

Red Meg had played her final hand well. She had gained the prize she sought so dearly to protect her countrymen, and she had left Will with a dilemma. Knowing full well he was determined to sail in search of Jenny, she had laid her trail to entice him into her own arms.

Will tapped the parchment once, twice, a third time, and on the final beat he had decided his course of action.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My editor Simon Taylor for first-rate guidance; Carole Ambrose for codes and ciphers; my good friend David Devereux, gourmet, author and exorcist, for allowing me to steal his family name.

Note

The version of The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus by Christopher Marlowe used in this book is the quarto of 1616.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

A two-time winner of the British Fantasy Award, Mark Chadbourn was raised in the mining communities of South Derbyshire and studied Economic History at Leeds before becoming a journalist. Now a screenwriter for BBC television drama, he has also run an independent record company, managed rock bands, and worked on a production line and as an engineer’s ‘mate’. He is the author of the celebrated The Dark Age, The Age of Misrule and Kingdom of the Serpent trilogies. The Swords of Albion novels, featuring Will Swyfte, were inspired in part by a mysterious portrait discovered at Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, which may be the only surviving depiction of the playwright and alleged spy, Christopher Marlowe. It is inscribed with the motto Quod me nutrit me destruit – ‘That which nourishes me destroys me’.

Mark Chadbourn lives in a forest in the Midlands. To find out more about him and his writing, visit www.jackofravens.com

Also by Mark Chadbourn

THE DARK AGE:

THE DEVIL IN GREEN

THE QUEEN OF SINISTER

THE HOUNDS OF AVALON

THE AGE OF MISRULE:

WORLD’S END

DARKEST HOUR

ALWAYS FOREVER

KINGDOM OF THE SERPENT:

JACK OF RAVENS

THE BURNING MAN

DESTROYER OF WORLDS

LORD OF SILENCE

THE SWORDS OF ALBION:

THE SWORD OF ALBION

For more information on Mark Chadbourn and his books, see his website at www.jackofravens.com

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS

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First published in Great Britain

in 2011 by Bantam Press

an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright © Mark Chadbourn 2011

ISBN 9780593062517