‘Can there be survivors from such a wreck?’ Strangewayes asked. ‘If Dee is lost—’
‘This is not the time to speculate,’ Will said, a little more curtly than he intended. For a moment, his thoughts turned to Meg, but he set them aside when the lookout cried, ‘Land ahoy!’
Courtenay’s brow furrowed. ‘There is no land in these waters.’ Yet when they rushed to the forecastle, they saw white-topped waves crashing against a jagged reef, and beyond it the hazy outline of an island in the dying ruddy light. ‘Hard a starboard,’ the captain bellowed to the helmsman, adding with a growl, ‘We’ll not end up on the rocks like those other poor bastards.’
Will gripped the rail, peering towards the island. He could make out a hilly, tree-covered central area, and grey cliffs to the south and north with a stretch of sandy strand directly ahead. ‘Dee could have washed up there,’ Strangewayes said in a hopeful tone.
‘Aye,’ Bloody Jack growled, raising the tele-scope to his eye. ‘He’s as tough as a tanner’s hide, that one. Wring his scrawny neck and he’d still keep on breathing. And I’ve wanted to do that a time or two. We’ll sail to the north and drop anchor. Only a madman would try to cross that reef with night coming in,’ he added without a hint of irony.
Will watched the darkening waves as the ship sailed astern. So much misfortune had afflicted them in recent days, he barely dared to hope for some small relief. Beside him, Courtenay cursed. ‘What afflicts that fool at the helm?’ Once more, the island lay directly ahead. He snatched the tele-scope from his eye and roared to the helmsman, ‘I said, hard a starboard!’
The Tempest turned a starboard again, but within moments Will blinked his eyes in the growing gloom and saw the island ahead of them once more. Courtenay’s face darkened. ‘Will we never be out of these cursed waters?’ he muttered.
Three more times they attempted to sail round the island’s northern edge, and three more times they failed. ‘It seems,’ Will said, ‘that this island is waiting for us.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
STREAMS OF TORCH-FIRE blazed through the dark of the London night. Alarmed cries rang off the high stone walls of the Palace of Whitehall as the guards raced across the courtyard, their boots clattering, weapons clanking as they ran. In the flickering light of the brands worried white faces were caught, eyes urgently trying to pierce the deep gloom around the Lantern Tower.
‘Find it!’ Sir Robert Cecil bellowed. A sheen of sweat glistened on the spymaster’s forehead despite the wintry chill that had reached long into spring. ‘Slay it without a moment’s thought.’
He whirled as a low snarl rumbled out from a corner of the courtyard, a sound that would not have been out of place in the Queen’s menagerie but which he knew came from something that walked like a man. A moment later the growl echoed from the other side of the square. So fast, he thought, quaking.
The torches whisked around in confusion. In the gloom, stars of ruddy light danced off burgonets and cuirasses. The spymaster glimpsed a pale face frozen in the wavering flames, mouth ragged with horror, but it was gone in an instant. Another man dashed past him, yelling in fear. Round and round he spun, caught up in the visions flashing before his eyes – a stabbing pike, a guard staggering back, clutching his head, a blood-spattered burgonet bouncing across the cobbles – until he grabbed at his chest where his heart was pounding fit to burst.
Those inhuman snarls seemed to be echoing all around, as if there were a host of the things and not just one.
Another face flashed by, torn and bloody. The guard stumbled in the dark and lay still.
Cecil cried out in a fury born of fear, demanding his men do something, anything, to end this slaughter.
And then, as the snapping and snarling reached a new pitch, the bestial cry was cut off with a strangled gurgle.
‘To me,’ the spymaster bellowed. As the surviving guards gathered around him, their combined torchlight lit a chaotic scene. Fallen bodies, gleaming pools of blood and scattered cordwood where the intruder had attempted to tear through the towering bonfire surrounding the Lantern Tower to free the Faerie Queen. ‘Is it dead?’ he barked. He needed to show that he was not afraid, but his hands would not stop shaking.
‘’Tis gone.’ The voice floated out of the dark. Cecil snatched a torch and stalked towards the sound. The flames lit a man dressed in a costly sapphire doublet and breeches, the face half turned away. He gripped a rapier dripping black blood and his cloak covered a still form on the cobbles. ‘Send your men away. They should not see this.’
The spymaster recognized the intruder and waved the unnerved guards away. Once they had gone, Sir Walter Raleigh stepped out of the shadows into the circle of light from Cecil’s torch.
‘If Her Majesty knew you were here . . .’ Cecil began.
‘And will you tell her, so that I can relate how I achieved what your impotent band could not?’ The adventurer stooped to wipe his blade on the already bloodied cloak. ‘A foul thing,’ he said, turning his nose up at the twisted shape beneath the folds. ‘There have been many of them?’
‘In recent times, too many.’ Cecil pressed the back of his quivering hand against his mouth, steadying himself. ‘The Unseelie Court may not be able to set foot upon this still protected part of England, but that does not prevent them from sending their agents in to engineer disaster.’
Raleigh sheathed his rapier. ‘But the Faerie Queen still resides in her tower-prison and the bonfire is still piled high to roast her like a suckling pig. All is well in the world.’
Cecil snorted, his laughter bitter. ‘How much longer can we go on? Those fiends whittle us down by degrees. And now you are here.’
Raleigh bowed, sweeping one arm out with ironic flamboyance.
‘Your secret society, your School of Night, seeks to use this calamity to your own ends,’ the spymaster continued with contempt. ‘While the Queen’s government is distracted and out of joint, you step in and seize power. Is that how it is?’
‘Sirrah, you wound me. We in the School of Night are all good Englishmen, loyal to the Crown.’
Cecil paced around the other man, looking him up and down. ‘Then why are you here, risking the wrath of the Queen? You have not yet earned your way back into her favour.’
‘In these darkest hours, the School of Night will stand shoulder to shoulder with you—’
The spymaster laughed again. ‘To worm your way into the heart of government. To learn our secrets, things that you can put to good use should we survive this catastrophe.’
Raleigh tapped the form under his cloak with the toe of his shoe. ‘And that matter of survival is still in doubt. For now, can you refuse our aid? We have knowledge, we have wealth, when the coffers of England are near empty. And we have some skills you may be able to use.’
Cecil’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’
‘Dr Dee is one of our number—’
‘I knew it!’ The spymaster clenched his fist.
‘Some of his occult knowledge was passed to other members – not all of it, by far, but enough perhaps to be of use in keeping the Unseelie Court at bay. This will buy Her Majesty . . . and England . . . time for Swyfte to succeed in his quest.’
‘You know of that?’ Cecil turned away, pretending to examine the huge pile of kindling in the wavering torchlight. ‘Of course you do! Yet how can I ever trust the School of Night when you have been secretly working against us for so long?’
Raleigh gave a tight smile. ‘How can you trust us? We believe in the power of knowledge, sirrah, in natural science and the occult arts coming together for the good of all men. And a new way in this never-ending war with the Unseelie Court, one that will not tarnish our integrity and may yet save the lives that are so regularly sacrificed. And we believe in honour above all. Can you say the same?’
Cecil refused to meet his gaze.
‘I have heard tales,’ Raleigh continued, lowering his voice. ‘If they are true, you would do well to hope Master Swyfte does n
ot discover what happened to his lady love. He is a man of some fame with a powerful voice . . . and a powerful temper. His rage would be a fine thing, if he were to learn the truth. I would not put money on any man standing in his way . . . or upon the survival of those responsible.’
This time Cecil whirled, a cold anger lighting his eyes. ‘You have the luxury of honour, sirrah. You hold no power. You are not faced with harsh decisions on a daily basis, where choices must be made in sacrificing one life to save two, or ten to save a hundred. Do you think my life peaceful? Do you think my soul remains untainted by those choices? Forget Master Swyfte. He will never be allowed to foment rebellion here. He will die on foreign soil once his quest has been accomplished, or he will die when he sets foot back in England. Either way, there will be an end of it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THE LANTERN GLIMMERED deep in the gloom at the far end of the orlop deck. Carpenter felt little comfort from the tiny speck of light in the stifling heat and stale air of the dark space. The cargo hold throbbed with the rhythm of the waves pounding against the creaking hull, and sometimes, when the din diminished a little, he could hear the scrabbling of rats in the bilge beneath him. He grimaced as he sucked in a breath heavy with the stink of rot and worked at the greasy ropes binding his aching wrists behind his back.
Here, on this ship of the dead, the spy fought back his fear. He had been in many tight spots in his life, but few as desperate as this. His plunge from the Tempest into the violent sea had smashed the breath from him. Brine had flooded his nose and mouth, the undercurrent sucking him into the black water below. Swept back up to the surface, he had seized a fleeting chance to gulp one last gasp of air, and as he did so he glimpsed the white face of the foul thing he had dragged into the seething cauldron. If Lansing of the High Family had been swept to an agonizing death at the bottom, his own passing would have been worth it. The last thing he remembered was feeling arms close around him as Launceston attempted to keep him afloat. He marvelled: Launceston, who had no feelings for any living thing, who slaughtered innocent and guilty alike with the dispassion of a butcher preparing meat for the table.
Carpenter screwed his eyes shut. For some reason, the hated Enemy had saved him and stowed him away here in the filthy, stinking hold. Why did they not kill him and be done with it? He was no use to them; he knew nothing. Perhaps his suffering was simple sport, or revenge against a man who had been a thorn in their side for years, however ineffective.
‘Do you miss your friends? Your family?’
He flinched at the voice and almost cried out. His senses had told him that the hold was empty, but he should have known better; the Unseelie Court were like ghosts. The voice was that of Lansing. He was disappointed that the hated Fay had survived too, but he should have expected it.
The Fay asked his question again, his voice measured.
‘I have no family,’ Carpenter spat, ‘and no friends either. I have nothing in my life except the work I do, so do not think you can torture me with false hopes.’
‘We are not the monsters here.’
The spy laughed long and hard.
Footsteps echoed as Lansing drew closer. Carpenter tensed, expecting to feel a blow or the prick of a dagger, but instead he heard the Fay’s passionless voice at a lower level as if he were crouching to look his prisoner in the eye. ‘There is great beauty in our world. Music that can move men to tears. Art. Philosophy. The joy that comes from being at the centre of life and all the wonders it offers. You think us demons, but we are not so different, our two people.’
‘And yet you have treated men like cattle, ready for the slaughter, since the beginning of time,’ Carpenter sneered. ‘Stolen our children for sport, or our youth or our lives. Turned women to stone, destroyed families and whole villages, blighted lives for amusement or because we did not bow and scrape before you.’
‘And men are so different? We do not hurt our own kind. Can the same be said of your privateers in Africa, or in the New World? Of your own Queen, in her own homeland? So much misery inflicted on those who worship by another creed – and yet pray to the same God!’ An incredulous laugh rolled out from the dark. ‘Since man walked tall, the world has been awash with blood. Not one race, not one country, has never raised a weapon in anger against another. Those who have suffered at your own hands far exceed the number we have tormented. And we are the monsters?’
‘You twist things to seduce me with words,’ Carpenter said. He let his shoulders sag.
‘Nothing is as simple as it is made out to be by men of power. They always twist things to achieve the outcome they require. But I do not have power. I am just a warrior, like you, in this ceaseless shadow-conflict those greater than us have carved out.’
‘Like me? I think not. For all my flaws, I have honour.’
‘Then you have not had your fill of this battle, as I have? You do not wish to see it end and return to your home and your life? If this war were over, I would go in an instant and hold no hatred in my heart for any man. That is my most fervent wish.’
The spy did not reply at once. The Fay’s words struck a note deep within him. He had been left for dead, scarred, betrayed, deceived; had seen the woman he loved murdered and been denied the opportunity to walk away from the business of spying. Cecil would never let him leave. All the secrets he knew were too valuable, he accepted with bitterness. ‘I have heard of your plans,’ he said at last, giving no sign of his true thoughts. He pushed his head up in defiance. ‘You would wash us all away in a tide of blood. You want to win this war by leaving no trace of men upon the earth—’
‘We want only one thing,’ Lansing interrupted in a soothing voice, ‘the return of our Queen, my sister, taken from us in an act of grand betrayal when all we wished to do was make peace.’
‘Do you think I can trust a word you say? Your very existence is based upon deceit and lies.’
Carpenter felt icy breath on his ear and recoiled in revulsion. He smelled strange spices. ‘One more time,’ Lansing whispered. ‘We are the same.’
The spy wanted to feel anger, but the Fay’s calm words seemed to have sapped his rage. He sagged back against the damp boards, dreaming of a home that had not existed for many years.
‘Do you ever feel lost?’ Lansing continued. His soles scraped on the boards as he began to circle his prisoner. ‘If that word chimes with you ever, then you know my people. We are lost, all of us. Wanderers who travelled from four distant cities, Gorias, Murias, Finias and Falias, four places of such wonder and enchantment they could bring any who laid eyes upon them to tears of joy. But our way was lost, and we could never find our way home, and for as long as we have known we have been yearning for those magical, fabled cities. No peace in our days, no contentment, only endless searching. Our sadness eats into our hearts and turns our thoughts grey. But one day, we believe, we will finally find our way back and then, and only then, will we find peace.’
Carpenter felt a dismal mood descend upon him. He closed his eyes, letting his thoughts float back through the years and across the miles, to his father, in his cups and laughing by the hearth, and to his mother, wearing her best mustard skirts and white apron as she trudged through the snow to church on Christmas Eve. What uncomplicated lives they led. If only he had recognized that before he had left in search of coin in the Queen’s employ. Other scenes marched through his thoughts: the fields around his home where he knew every bird’s nest, how every shadow fell in the autumn twilight; the sound of the men singing as they drank their apple-beer after a hard day bringing in the harvest. He bowed his head. Lost, he thought, with such poignant regret it made him wince. ‘Did Launceston survive?’ he croaked.
‘Your friend is safe.’ Lansing’s footsteps retreated a few paces. Carpenter wondered if the Fay was drawing his blade for the first of many cuts and realized he cared little. ‘You may see him again soon,’ the Fay continued. ‘If only there would come a time when this war no longer tore friends apart.’
‘Nor would I expect you to. You are an honourable man, as am I. But there are steps we foot soldiers can take which could free us all from daily suffering, steps perhaps unseen by our masters caught up in their grand visions.’
Carpenter allowed himself a moment to imagine what life would be like without that struggle. He did not hear Lansing approach again.
‘We need no grand betrayal to end this war,’ the Fay was saying. ‘Only one thing, one small thing. The sorcerer, Dee.’
The spy snorted. ‘Without Dee, England falls. You will be able to do whatever you want with us.’
‘As I said before, all we want is our Queen returned. When she is seated once again upon the Golden Throne, there will no longer be need for struggle. We are no different, you and I. We want the same things.’ Lansing repeated the sentiment in a honeyed voice, the words almost dreamlike as they wove among Carpenter’s thoughts. The spy felt himself falling under their spell. We are the same. We want the same things. Lost. ‘Dee’s hands are drenched in blood. You know as well as I that few would call him a good man. He has no honour. What a small sacrifice he would be to achieve such a great end.’
And on Lansing spoke, the steady beat of his quiet words an enchantment that swept Carpenter’s wits away. Little of what followed did the spy recall, only the great swell of his yearning as he thought of fleeing his blood-drenched work for a simpler life.
And then he heard Lansing say, ‘Will you help end this war?’
And he replied, ‘I will.’
Though it was dark, he was sure the Fay was smiling. ‘We would join you with us, so we can whisper our secrets. Guide you. Comfort you.’
‘Why do you need me?’ he murmured. ‘You can raise the dead to do your bidding. You have your Scar-Crow Men. I am but one man, and a lowly one at that.’
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