Hands flying to their gaping mouths, the five armed men stumbled backwards.
The resurrected figure grinned. ‘And now,’ it croaked, ‘let all hell break loose.’
Grace felt giddy with the rush of emotion and made to call her love’s name, but Nathaniel pushed by her. ‘Your sword,’ he called, tossing the rapier over the fence.
Though Grace could see he was close to exhaustion, Will snatched the glinting blade from the air and instantly found his balance. The steely-eyed man darted forward, thrusting his rapier towards the spy’s chest.
Will hooked his bare toes under one of the scurrying rats and, with a flick, hurled it through the air. Writhing, the hungry rodent hit the attacker full in the face. Needle-sharp teeth tore into flesh. Blood spattered and hands clawed, to no avail.
‘I made new friends,’ the fearsome apparition said, ‘and they are hungry.’ As the man shrieked in pain, the spy ran his opponent through.
Stunned by the attack on their leader, the other four men advanced slowly, rapiers drawn. With a cry, Nathaniel barrelled into the nearest man, knocking him to the dried mud of the burial site. The next man turned on him, but Red Meg was already there, still swaying her hips, still grinning. Up from nowhere she brought a gleaming dagger, drawing a thin red line across her foe’s neck. Blood spurted. Gurgling, the dying man fell to his knees and then pitched face down on the black earth.
The death caught the attention of the remaining two men. Lunging, Will drove his rapier through one. With a flamboyant twirl, Red Meg slammed her dagger into the eye of the last, pushing the blade deep into the man’s brain. The final attacker died under Will’s blade as he wrestled with a ferociously flailing Nathaniel.
Grace realized she wasn’t breathing. Sucking in a huge gulp of evening air, she struggled to understand how so many deaths could happen in what seemed the blink of an eye. The swarming brown rats were already feasting on the blood-spattered bodies.
Caked in the filth of the grave, Will staggered as he stepped forward. He looked as if he could barely stand. Nat rushed to help him through the gate with Red Meg a step behind, her smile now wry, her brow knitted thoughtfully.
Grace made to speak, but her voice broke and tears stung her eyes.
‘Hush,’ the spy said with an affectionate smile, his voice hoarse. ‘I survived. And I am stronger for it. It is remarkable the things you can learn when you are close to death, things that can turn your life in a different direction. And I have learned to embrace my devils.’
His smile, his bright eyes, his expression, were so enigmatic the young woman wanted to ask what he meant, but his legs buckled again and Nathaniel had to take his full weight.
As Will recovered, Grace recounted all that had transpired at Nonsuch while he rotted in Bedlam. When she had finished, he said, ‘London is no place to be right now. It is only a matter of time before the Enemy will come looking for me again. My destiny lies beyond this city.’
‘Where?’ Grace asked with a disbelieving shake of her head.
‘Our Enemy may think this war already won. It is not. A few good men can turn the tide. You and Nat have work to do at Nonsuch. John and Robert, should they have survived, have their own task. And there is one man who has always proved himself formidable in our struggle, and who is needed now more than ever: Dr John Dee.’
‘Even in Ireland, I have heard tell of that powerful court magician,’ Red Meg said. ‘Then I will accompany you. God help you, you will not walk ten paces on your own.’
‘No. You cannot trust her,’ Grace protested.
Will eyed the two men killed by the Irish woman. ‘You may be right, but our friend has shown herself an effective ally.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. But I will watch you very closely, Mistress O’Shee.’
A high-pitched cry like that of a gull at dawn echoed across the rooftops. Yet there was another quality to that unsettling sound, a deep rumble as if two opposing voices were calling at once, that made it unlike any bird they had heard before.
A shadow fell across Red Meg’s features. She looked around urgently until her attention lighted on a tall stone hall along the street to the west near where Lombard Street met Corn Hill. On one of the large chimney stacks, a figure was silhouetted against the darkening, star-sprinkled sky. It was unnaturally tall and thin with long slender limbs, but protruding from its head was what appeared to be a long, curved beak. As they watched, it put its head back and emitted that strange, troubling cry once more, and this time it was picked up by another, across the city to the south. More cries followed in quick succession.
‘Who is that, up there so high? And why does he wear a mask?’ Grace asked, disturbed, though not sure why.
‘The Corvata,’ the Irish woman said under her breath. She had grown pale, her features taut. ‘Your survival has already been noted. There will be no rest now.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
ON THE FAR HORIZON, A SPECTRAL GLOW LIT UP THE BLACK
waves washing into the horseshoe-shaped bay. Amid that pearly luminescence, the
outline of a ghostly galleon rocking gently on the swell could just be discerned. A smaller craft made its way steadily towards the shore.
In villages along the Kent coast, candles would be extinguished as storm-hardened sailors and their wives turned away from the windows, whispering prayers against the haunted vessel, or denying its very existence.
The night was warm, the salty breeze licking the surf into a gentle symphony where it met the sand. Beyond the whisper of the waves, owls hooted in the trees that ran down to the shore, and the marram grass on the edge of the dunes rustled as if small things moved among it.
On the beach, looking out to sea, Deortha stood with one hand high on a staff carved with black runes that resembled no human writing. Braided with trinkets and the skulls of field animals and birds, his hair glinted gold and silver in the moonlight. Despite the heat, he wore thick grey-green robes, faintly marked with a gold design of the same symbols that were on his staff.
The Unseelie Court’s magician fixed his attention on the approaching vessel, his contemplative nature set alight by satisfaction as a long-forming pattern fell into place.
An ending was coming.
Squatting, baleful and brooding like one of the gargoyles on the great cathedrals of Europe, Xanthus drew patterns in the sand with one long finger, occasionally laughing humourlessly to himself. On his shaved, pale head, the blue and black intersecting circles stood out starkly.
‘The seasons turn slowly, but a change was always coming,’ wise Deortha said, his gaze fixed ahead. ‘The king-in-waiting arrives this night and nothing will be the same again.’
The squatting thing grunted in reply.
Beside the magician, waiting like a statue of cold alabaster, was the one who passed for Lord Derby, a minor member of the Privy Council who rarely raised his voice in opposition to more outspoken characters such as Cecil and Essex, but who was always heeded when he did speak. Dressed in a black gown, a black velvet cap on his head, the Scar-Crow Man had a long, grey beard that glowed in the moonlight.
Deortha paid him no attention. Nor did the other grey shapes flitting around the fringes of the beach like moon shadows.
The small craft sped across the chopping waves in complete silence; not even the constant, rhythmic splashing of the six oarsmen could be heard. A lantern swung from a pole at the stern. And at the prow stood Lethe of the High Family, hands pressed flat against his belly, unmoved by the undulations of the craft on the waves. A long, grey cloak swathed him, the hood pulled back to reveal his silver hair, black-streaked along the centre, and a fierce expression that was tinged with both triumph and the flush of violent passion. Around his feet, a small creature gambolled. Sophisticated London folk would have thought it like the little apes that the foreign merchants sold in the market on Cheapside, but it was hairless, its ears pointed and its golden eyes held a disturbing intelligence.
When the boat reached the shore, the oarsmen jumped out into the white-licked surf
and hauled it a way up the sand. Lethe stepped out into the backwash and strode up the beach to Deortha, his pet rolling and tumbling in front of him.
‘These mortals, this cattle swaying stupidly towards slaughter, have woken us.’ The faint sibilance in the new arrival’s voice echoed the sound of the sea. ‘They have gained our attention. And that is a good thing, Deortha, for we had grown complacent. The human beasts do not know what they have done.’
The wise one nodded in response. ‘We are close. England hangs by a thread. But there is one matter that demands our notice.’
Lethe’s eyes narrowed. Deortha explained about the English spy, Will Swyfte, who had seen glimpses of what was unfolding – but far from all – and who was now abroad in England and beyond control.
‘Beyond the watch of our Scar-Crows?’ Lethe asked with a note of irritation. He cast a supercilious eye at the emotionless man who stood nearby.
‘For now,’ the Lord Derby figure replied.
‘This spy is known to the High Family. But he is one man, as weak as the rest of them, and he cannot be expected to cause any interference with our work.’ Deortha chose his words carefully. He was not concerned, but in his divinations he had often seen how the smallest and seemingly most inconsequential matter could drastically change the greater pattern. ‘Still,’ he began, ‘he is resilient, and driven by demons that we would all understand. He will not rest until he has uncovered truths that he hopes will salve his secret dreads, and in so doing he may sow confusion or cause difficulties in the construction of our grand design. For all to be thrown awry at this late stage would be …’ He tapped one finger on his lower lip in reflection. ‘Unfortunate.’
‘Then let us ensure this mortal is destroyed. I would see him struck down, his body torn open and his internal workings laid bare for the ravens to feast upon,’ Lethe said. He held his left arm out for his pet to scramble up his body and nestle in the crook of his elbow. Its golden eyes fell upon the Scar-Crow Man and it bared its needle-sharp teeth and hissed. ‘And it should be done in plain view, so all his own kind will see and learn.’
‘We have played him in times past,’ Deortha replied, looking beyond his master to the dark horizon, ‘thinking he might be suitable to advance our plans. Like all mortals, he is riven with weakness, his strengths made ragged by emotions. Love, yearning, dashed hopes, despair. There may still be a part for him to play.’
‘England falls before this summer turns. What need for him then?’
‘Very well.’ Deortha gave a faint bow of his head.
Lethe pressed the tips of his fingers together and turned his attention to Xanthus, who still squatted like a beast beside them. ‘This spy killed your brother, a Hunter like yourself,’ he said. ‘He has troubled you too, I understand.’
The shaven-headed thing gave a low, contemptuous growl deep in his throat. Looking up at his master with hollow eyes, he nodded. ‘I will find him.’
Lethe pursed his lips. ‘Of course you will, for no quarry ever escapes you. Your brother could never be driven off course, pursuing his prey with the cold, relentless force of a winter storm. But you are better. This spy is already as good as dead. But I would
have more.’
Deortha gave another slight bow and turned to Lord Derby. ‘Let the word travel out to every corner of this land: William Swyfte is no longer England’s greatest spy and garlanded hero of all Albion. He has betrayed his Queen, his country and his fellow men. This traitor is now an outlaw, who must be hunted down and given up to the authorities. His name, his reputation, mean nothing. All England now stands against him. Do you understand?’
The Scar-Crow Man nodded, emotion springing to his face – at first concern, then righteous fury as he searched for the correct response. ‘I will return to Nonsuch this night and summon a meeting of the Privy Council for the morrow. The Queen will be advised forthwith. Will Swyfte will be shunned by all God-fearing Englishmen and brought to justice in no time at all. Traitor. Outlaw. His days are numbered.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
THE HOWL OF A HUNTING DOG DRIFTED ACROSS THE NIGHT
-shrouded countryside, low and mournful in the stillness. It was joined by another, and then another, the baying of the hounds becoming one insistent, hungry voice.
Breathless from the chase, Will grabbed a leaning elm to halt his careering descent down the steep hillside. In the dark, exposed tree roots threatened to break his neck, tufting grass obscured sudden drops where the soil had slipped away in heavy rain, and rabbit holes peppering the slope promised to break ankles or tear ligaments.
The spy held out a helpful arm to the red-haired woman scrambling down the bank behind him. She clutched for branches to prevent a sudden fall and tore at her crimson skirts where they were caught on brambles. Dirt streaked her face and sweat glistened on her knitted brow.
‘I do not need your aid,’ Red Meg responded ferociously, as if he had offered to take her there and then.
‘This is not a time for pride, my lady. Proclaim your independent spirit now, but it will only result in a noose round both our necks by dawn.’
The Irish woman let forth a stream of cursing the like of which Will had heard only in the bustling shipyards along the Thames. ‘Do not think me some weak and bloodless woman,’ she snapped. ‘I have fought your marauding countrymen with a sword, a dagger and an axe across the bogs and mountains of my home. And I have survived, alone, in the cities of Europe and Africa, where women are traded like goats and treated worse.’
‘We have an entire village in pursuit and you would rather proclaim your independence? You will be the death of us.’ With a shake of his head, the spy set off down the slope once more, skidding among the great old oaks and tangled hawthorns. Occasionally, he stopped to look back and saw Meg keeping pace, determination etched on her face. Grudgingly, he had to accept that her boasts were all true; few other women could have survived the privations they had experienced since escaping the hot, plague-ridden capital.