The Scar-Crow Men soa-2

by Mark Chadbourn

  ‘Marlowe had his troubles. He was not at peace with the work we do.’ Will clenched his fists on the tabletop, his knuckles growing white.

  ‘There is no great plot here. No mystery. No wider danger,’ the spymaster stated. ‘Nor is there any meaning to your friend’s death. It was as sordid and empty as anything else in his wasted life.’

  ‘The man who killed Kit works for Thomas Walsingham. You may be aware of that name,’ the spy pressed.

  Cecil flashed a glare at Will’s impudence. ‘And one of the other men there, Skeres, works for Essex,’ he responded sharply.

  This new information wrong-footed Will. He had been right: spies everywhere, secret connections, a web in which Marlowe had been caught.

  Cecil could see Will’s thoughts play out. ‘I repeat, no plot. There were spies present because that is our world. There are spies everywhere. That is rather the point, is it not?’

  Will scrutinized the spymaster for a flicker of guilt that would suggest complicity in the murder. ‘When he was not working, Kit took pains never to associate with spies. He was always a man of great taste.’ Will’s voice dripped acid. ‘Which suggests to me that the meeting in Widow Bull’s house in Deptford concerned our work, in some form or other.’

  ‘Do you think I would not know of such a meeting if it was our business?’

  ‘I think you would not tell me.’

  Cecil’s cheeks flushed with mounting anger. ‘Marlowe was not in good spirits recently. His temper was short. He acted in an erratic manner. And he was becoming more voluble in expressing his heretical views. The pamphlets were beginning to chide him for his atheism. He could not keep his mouth shut. These are the actions of a man whose wits were abandoning him. In the end, he lost control and paid the price. Nothing more.’

  ‘It sounds as though his end was a happy one for you and the Privy Council. Words against religion could have incited the population at this time of calamity when the people need God more than ever.’

  Cecil slapped the palm of his hand down hard on the table. ‘Now you accuse me.’

  ‘I merely state a fact.’

  Leaning across the table, the spymaster spat, ‘Marlowe was an irritation. And one that was being contained. He was reporting daily to the Privy Council to answer the claims made against him, and give his assurances that he would not continue to make incendiary statements. No charges had been brought, but it was only a matter of time.’

  ‘Kit was no traitor.’ In a rush of anger, Will swept a goblet from the edge of the table with the back of his hand. Cecil leapt back as if he had been scalded.

  ‘So you say,’ the spymaster growled. His gaze flickered towards the closed door beyond which Sinclair waited. ‘In this time of permanent war, when the Unseelie Court circles constantly, ready to strike, and Spain unleashes plot after plot, what other word would you use to describe one of our own citizens who sets out to undermine the established order?’

  ‘The Unseelie Court have already struck!’ Will began to round the table. Fearful, Cecil hurried around to the other side. ‘I witnessed their involvement in a vision,’ the spy continued, ‘but more importantly, my men have seen the Enemy working alongside a group of English plotters. Men of authority, it would seem by their actions, who have attacked me and my allies.’

  ‘You are mad!’

  Will watched the spymaster’s eyes, still unsure if he had any connection to the wider plot. ‘’Tis true. Even while we fight among ourselves, our true Enemy unveils a grand plot that could threaten the Queen’s own life and all of England. This is not a time for secrets-’

  ‘No.’ Turning away, Cecil waved a hand to silence Will.

  ‘You must go to the Privy Council-’

  ‘No!’ The spymaster whirled back, eyes wide and fearful. Will was struck by the intense reaction. ‘Your grief has swept your wits away. You see plots where there are none. The Unseelie Court working with Englishmen! Listen to yourself.’

  Will’s anger abated. He scrutinized Cecil again, his trembling hands, his slippery gaze, his too-strong denials. Stepping back from the table, Will folded his hands behind his back. ‘Our defences are crumbling,’ he said with as much calm as he could muster. ‘The ones Dr Dee put in place all those years ago. The ones that have kept our Queen and country safe from the supernatural foe that has preyed upon us since the Flood.’

  The spymaster snorted.

  ‘The Unseelie Court whittle us away one piece at a time.’ Will held Cecil’s gaze. ‘Soon there will be only the heart of those defences, the one who resides atop the Lantern Tower at the Palace of Whitehall.’

  Shock burst in Cecil’s face and he turned away so he would not reveal any more of his inner thoughts. ‘I do not know what you mean,’ he said.

  ‘I think you do. They will not relent while we keep their monarch in chains,’ the spy continued.

  ‘You think we can bargain with them?’ Cecil roared, his face now red with rage. He caught himself, stabbing a thin finger towards Will. ‘You should not know these things. You cannot be trusted-’

  ‘Who can?’ Will snapped. ‘Spies are being murdered, Gavell, the most recent-’

  ‘A rumour, thankfully untrue.’

  ‘I saw the body myself.’

  Cecil hammered a fist on the table. ‘There was no body in the deadhouse. I sent my own men to investigate.’

  ‘Because it was removed, by those parties unknown that have allied themselves with our own true Enemy. A grand lie in the making, to keep us sweet until it is too late. Where are Clement and Makepiece?’

  In the spymaster’s hesitation, Will saw that the Little Elf also feared the two spies were dead, as suggested by the list of names Launceston and Carpenter had discovered at Marlowe’s lodgings.

  ‘Drunk in some inn or other, I would expect,’ the hunchbacked man lied.

  Will leapt around the table to grab Cecil by the gown, thrusting his face close. ‘Are you one of the traitors who have betrayed us? Or is it Essex and his own band of spies, and you see some advantage to yourself in letting him play his game?’ Will shook the spymaster roughly. ‘Who had Kit killed? Tell me!’

  ‘You have gone too far!’ the spymaster shouted. ‘Sinclair!’

  The door crashed open and the towering mercenary stalked in, glowering. Instantly he drew his rapier, growling like an animal as he advanced. In the red mist of his own anger, Will pushed Cecil aside and went for his own sword. Then, struck by how quickly his simmering rage had burned out of control, he fought to contain himself, allowing his hand to fall impotently to his side.

  ‘Take Master Swyfte to his chamber and hold him there,’ the spymaster ordered, leaning on the table to calm himself. He cast an accusatory eye on Will and said under his breath, ‘I allow you some small leeway for the madness your grief has caused, but you have much to answer for. Do you think you can speak secrets vital to England’s security without consequence? You will be taken before the Privy Council tomorrow to answer the accusations against you.’

  ‘What accusations?’ Will growled. ‘That I speak the truth?’

  ‘That Marlowe has infected you with his atheism.’

  ‘You wish to silence me.’ Will’s cold, unwavering gaze brought an involuntary shudder from the spymaster. ‘What, then? The Tower? My head on a spike at London Bridge?’

  ‘Take him.’ Cecil turned away from that awful stare.

  Sinclair grabbed Will and propelled him towards the door.

  ‘This is not the end of this matter,’ Will said icily, with no further regard for his own well-being. ‘Kit’s death will be avenged. And all who stand in my way, whoever they might be, whatever position they hold, will pay.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The thunderous knocking had an insistent edge. Will opened the door to find an unsettled Nathaniel, who pushed his way into the chamber without waiting to be invited. From the shadows in the corridor, a solitary pikeman watched, as he had from the moment Sinclair had bustled the spy into his quart
ers.

  ‘I thought I was going to be locked out of the palace. They questioned me at the gatehouse for near an hour,’ Nathaniel said, taking off his cap and running a hand through his hair. ‘What has happened? Is the Queen’s life under threat?’

  Will closed the door and guided his assistant towards the table where a meagre portion of bread and cheese and some wine had been placed by a servant. He was not in the Tower yet, so the spymaster had to treat him with a modicum of dignity. ‘The Queen is well, but it appears Sir Robert has taken my warnings to heart. Some small good may come from this night.’ He carved himself a piece of cheese and spiked it with his knife. He sighed. ‘I fear I have let my mouth run away with me.’

  Nathaniel eyed his master askance as he removed his cloak. ‘You speak those words as if they are somehow new to you.’

  ‘This time there may be more at stake than hurt feelings. In anger, I revealed a secret I have carried with me for several years. A secret that goes to the very heart of England and the Queen’s security — and, in truth, what it means to be an Englishman and how we perceive ourselves in the world.’ The spy made to eat the cheese, stared at it for a moment and then tossed the knife and morsel on to the table. ‘And I, God help me, must defend the ideal, knowing the darkness and violence that lies behind it. Am I then as tarnished?’

  ‘You are too hard on yourself, as always.’

  Smiling at the young man’s loyalty, Will poured Nathaniel a goblet of malmsey wine. The assistant, who rarely drank to excess, took the offering hesitantly.

  ‘There are plots upon plots unfolding all around us, Nat, and we can no longer trust all that we once held close. You must be on your guard,’ Will said, his face serious.

  ‘Is this why you are held prisoner?’

  Will poured himself some wine and rested one foot on a stool as he drank. ‘It takes more than one guard to hold me prisoner.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I forget myself,’ the assistant said. ‘England’s greatest spy. The great Will Swyfte towers above all normal men.’ His gaze fell on the sheaf of papers set on the table in a pool of candlelight. ‘You have been reading Kit’s play.’

  Will traced his fingers across the surface of the wine-stained first page. ‘Kit was a greater man than even his most ardent supporters believed,’ he said. ‘There are deep messages in this play, about our propensity for pride, certainly, but also the lengths we will go to to fulfil our own personal quests, even when we know to do so will damage us or those around us.’ Though Will knew Marlowe was writing about himself, the play was unsettlingly apt for his own situation; he could no more give up on his search for Jenny than Faustus could walk away from his deal with the Devil. He found a page and read, almost to himself,

  ‘Why this is hell, nor am I out of it.

  Think’st thou that I, who saw the face of God,

  And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,

  Am not tormented with ten thousand hells

  In being depriv’d of everlasting bliss?’

  ‘Unlike you, I am a God-fearing man,’ Nathaniel sniffed, ‘and I do not like all this talk of devils and hell. Remember: speak his name and you will summon him.’

  ‘You are a fortunate man, Nat, for you have found your own private heaven in employment with me,’ Will said, lightly.

  Nathaniel snorted.

  Will tapped his finger on the papers. ‘But in his cleverness, Kit has hidden messages here on two levels. The one in symbolic form, in the themes of the play, and that will be hard to decipher without knowing the author’s intent. But look here for the other.’

  On a line halfway down the page, Will pointed to a letter O with a barely visible dot beneath it. He flicked on two pages and let his finger trail down the lines until he located a W marked with another dot. Three pages on, another highlighted letter appeared.

  ‘A code,’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘A cipher, to be exact. A code involves the substitution of words or phrases, a cipher the substitution of letters.’ Will pointed to a page where he had copied out marked letters — E, T, M, I, T, O, W, R, W, E. ‘I have not yet collected all Kit’s hidden marks, but even then I will not be able to understand the meaning.’

  ‘The cipher is too hard to break?’

  Moving the quill and ink pot to one side, Will sat on the stool and found a clean page. ‘Kit always used what is known as a Vigenere Square,’ he said. ‘Vigenere was a French diplomat who studied the codes and ciphers of the great masters Alberti, Trithemius and Porta and then developed their work into his own system. It is remarkably strong because it uses not one but twenty-six separate cipher alphabets to conceal a message.’

  Will took the quill, dipped it in the pot of ink and proceeded to draw a grid of twenty-six by twenty-six squares. Above the grid, he inscribed the alphabet, and then numbered each row from one to twenty-six down the side. ‘This is the plaintext,’ he said, pointing to the alphabet at the top, ‘where we choose the letters we want to encrypt.’

  Along the first row of the grid, he then wrote the alphabet beginning with B and adding A in the twenty-sixth box. On the second row, he began the alphabet with C, adding A in the twenty-fifth box, and B in the final one.

  ‘The system continues, shifting the letters one space to the left on each line,’ he explained. ‘Then it is a matter of using a new row of the grid to encrypt each new letter of the message you wish to send.’

  Nathaniel puzzled over the Vigenere Square for a moment and then concluded, ‘But how does the one receiving the message know which rows have been used? You have twenty-six different choices for every letter. It would take a lifetime to determine the true choices from the multitude available.’

  ‘Nat, you are cleverer than you appear,’ Will said with a warm smile.

  Nathaniel gave a dismissive shrug.

  ‘The hidden message can only be understood with the use of a keyword, known to both the sender and the receiver,’ Will continued. ‘Pay attention now, for even the cleverest may stumble here.’

  ‘Speak slowly, master, for I am but a thick-headed country boy, and not someone who keeps the wheels of your complicated life spinning,’ Nathaniel said archly. He sipped his wine in a studiedly aloof manner.

  ‘Let us say the keyword is BLACK, and our message begins, Marlowe says.’ Will wrote the message and then above the first five letters wrote BLACK, and the same over the second five. ‘We repeat the keyword across the entire message. Then we take our Vigenere Square. See, the first row begins with B. That means the first letter of our message must be encrypted with this row.’

  He traced his finger along the plaintext alphabet above the grid until he found the M of Marlowe and continued down to the first line to find the letter N. ‘N is the first letter of our coded message. Then we proceed to the row beginning with L, then A, then C and so on until the entire message has been encrypted.’

  Leaning in, Nathaniel thought for a moment before circling the keyword with the tip of his index finger. ‘And you are about to tell me Master Marlowe uses a different keyword for every message, and you have no knowledge of the current one.’

  ‘Remember, Nat, before you outgrow your boots, a little intellect is like a little gunpowder — enough to blow your hands off, but not enough to achieve anything worthwhile.’ Will poured himself another goblet of wine, realizing how much he valued the company of his assistant. He had taken it for granted for a long while, as he had so many other things in his life.

  Tearing off a chunk of bread, Nathaniel chewed on it lazily. ‘I am warmed by the knowledge that you always have my best interests at heart, and I am duly chastened,’ he replied in a tone that dripped acid. ‘Why, if I got ideas above my station, I might demand a higher wage and then I would be beset by the problem of how to spend my earnings, instead of bare survival.’

  With some of the tension relieved, Will returned his attention to Marlowe’s play and the secretly marked letters. He could try to guess the keyword, but he knew it would be a futile exercise;
Kit would never have chosen anything obvious. But the fact that he had sent Will the annotated play in the first place indicated that he expected Will to break the cipher.

  The defacement of Walsingham’s grave was part of the puzzle, Will was sure. In the beginning was the Word. The easiest answer was that the keyword was God. And the Word was with God, and the Word was God. But it was too short to create an effective cipher, and Marlowe always revelled in double meanings; the one on the surface meant one thing, but the one beneath was more important, more profound. The answer lay there somewhere. Why that biblical quotation? Why Walsingham’s grave? The clues and hints had been sent through different channels so they would not all be intercepted, each one only beginning to make sense when they were viewed as part of the whole. There were still pieces missing, but Will was convinced he was drawing closer to the solution.

  ‘This puzzle will not be solved without a great deal of thought,’ he mused. ‘Nat, you appear troubled by your own discoveries. Tell me what you found out about the origin of Kit’s play.’

  Suddenly weary, Nathaniel leaned back and sighed. ‘I spoke to scholars aplenty, labouring away in their dusty rooms. I did not rest. And now I rather wish that you had not given me this task.’ The assistant steadied himself with a gulp of wine. ‘I am told Master Marlowe’s story of Doctor Faustus is based upon a much older one of a man who sold his soul to dark powers for knowledge. This is detailed in Latin pamphlets that have been preserved for many years. There was also another fiction, in German, based upon this legend and published six years ago, and some feel Master Marlowe may have had a translation and used this as the basis for his play.’

  ‘A story circulating for years, told and retold … That is not the answer I needed, Nat.’

  ‘There are many elements of Master Marlowe’s play that are not apparent in the original story,’ the assistant continued. ‘It is believed that he also drew upon another tale, one that is founded in truth. You have heard of Wykenham?’