‘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.’
Le
the 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.
His heart racing, Will cast his mind back across the two weeks since the escape from London under a mound of dirty sackcloth in the back of a cart. When he had scrubbed the plague-pit filth from him, he had bought cheap clothes, and then he and Meg became Samuel Maycott, a draper, visiting family in the north with his wife Mary. He stole a dagger from a blacksmith and allowed his beard to grow unkempt. As they continued north, they were passed by riders distributing pamphlets. Under an engraving of his face, so crude as to be barely recognizable, was the legend: England’s Greatest Spy — Traitor. And beneath it, William Swyfte, hero of the perfidious invasion by the Spanish fleet, wanted for treason. By order of the Privy Council. A reward has been offered.
The spy’s thoughts burst back into the present as he careered from the foot of the hillside into a meadow, the long grass swaying like silvery water in the moonlight. Behind him, torches and lamps glimmered like fireflies among the trees. The baying of the hounds rolled down the hillside, closer now.
The two fugitives had been running since sundown when a field worker drinking his beer by the hedge had chanced to talk to them, and had grown suspicious. But Will was tiring now, he could feel it. His leaden legs shook and fire seared his chest, and he guessed Meg was in a worse state, though she never complained.
The spy heard the pounding of the Irish woman’s feet in the undergrowth. Out of control, she burst from beneath an oak into the meadow straight into Will’s arms. Strands of auburn hair fell across her face, and when she blew them back, the spy found himself looking deep into her emerald eyes. For all her forthright playfulness, her cheeks still flushed, and she was the one who pulled away.
‘Master Swyfte,’ she breathed with a hint of embarrassed laughter in her words, ‘you are my saviour.’
‘I will do my best to live up to that title, my lady. Though at the very least I can promise you an entertaining ride to the bitter end.’
‘I heard you were an accomplished rider, sir. I would see it at first hand.’ Her teasing smile faded as she glanced over her shoulder to the dark, wooded hillside.
An undulating cry rumbled behind the baying of the dogs and the increasingly loud shouts of the nearing villagers. Unnatural and unsettling, it throbbed into the very core of Will’s being.
‘Let us not tarry, Master Swyfte,’ Meg said, a flicker of unease in her eyes.
They ran.
Halfway across the meadow, with their twin trails snaking out through the long grass behind them, Will glanced back. The lights were now flickering along the tree-line, and he caught a whiff of pitch from the sizzling torches. The otherworldly cry was caught in the wind, setting his teeth on edge.
When they reached the far side of the meadow, Will realized their time had all but run out. Meg was slowing by the moment, and the pursuers and their dogs were gaining ground. Ahead lay only more meadows, a stream, no tree cover or anywhere they could hide.
‘Stop,’ he called, skidding to a halt.
The Irish woman whirled, her eyes blazing. ‘I never give up!’
‘Nor is that my plan.’ He dropped to his knees and pulled his flint from his doublet.
His companion saw instantly what he was doing, but looking towards the bobbing lights she insisted, ‘There is not enough time.’
‘Let us pray that there is. For it is our only hope of escaping that rabble.’ Will struck the flint once, twice, a third time. The crack of the stone was lost beneath the howl of the dogs and the jubilant cries of the villagers who saw their quarry had come to a halt.
His full attention focused on the flint, the spy struck it again. This time a spark caught on the yellowing grass along the hedgerow. It had not rained for nearly two weeks and under the hot summer sun the countryside had baked and the vegetation had grown tinder-dry. A cloud of fragrant white smoke swirled up. The grass crackled, the red spark licking into golden flames that spread along the foot of the hedgerow.
Will glanced back at the meadow. White faces now loomed out of the gloom beneath the lights of lantern and torch. The tone of the hounds’ howling became uncertain as they scented the smoke, and the spy watched the pursuers slow. Flames surged up the hedgerow with a sudden roar that carried far over the quiet landscape. Within moments, a wall of red, orange and gold rushed across the grassland. White smoke became grey, billowing in thick clouds that soon obscured the hesitant villagers.
Shielding his face against the heat, Will stepped away from the fire, coughing as the acrid fumes stung the back of his throat. ‘Come,’ he gasped. ‘This should provide us some cover, at least for a while.’
Impressed, Red Meg nodded as she lifted her skirts and hurried away from the blaze. ‘Your reputation is not unwarranted, Master Swyfte. But we are still in an ill pickle.’
Behind them, the dogs’ frightened barks were drowned out by the long howl of the thing they feared more. A note of jubilation edged the cry. Whatever was there sensed its prey at hand.
All humour now gone, the Irish woma
n cast a troubled glance at Will. Neither of them spoke as they clambered over a stile and ran across the next meadow.
When they reached the other side, Meg said in a hesitant voice, ‘What do you suggest?’
‘You know as well as I there is little to gain by running. If the Enemy is at our backs in open countryside, it will not relent until it has us.’
‘Stand and fight, then? But where? And do you have the strength to defeat one of those foul things?’
Will guessed his companion already knew the answer.
They reached a rutted lane, the edges lined with nettles. At the top of the stile, Will looked back to the thick fog drifting across the meadow. Dark smudges of villagers moved through it, more hesitant but refusing to give up. Yet the spy’s attention was caught by a wilder activity away to his left. Something bounded across the meadow, outpacing the men with the dogs. Will found it hard to discern its true nature; at times it moved on all fours, at others it rose to two feet, with a loping gait. It kept fast and low at all times.
Meg had seen it too. ‘It will be on us in moments,’ she said, drawing herself up. ‘Unsheath your sword. I will use my dagger. If we are to die this night, let it be with blood on our blades.’
Spinning round, Will surveyed the dark countryside. One glint of moonlight stirred a hope.
‘I am not ready to die yet.’ He leapt from the stile to run along the lane.
As they moved away from the roaring of the fire, they could hear the tinkling of water falling across stones.
A change in the wind brought dense clouds of smoke sweeping all around the two fugitives. The keening cry of their now-hidden pursuer became louder. Will wondered if the thing at their backs was circling them, choosing its moment to strike.
The shouts of the hunting party had grown angrier. The hounds were baying again, and they too were drawing nearer.
Out of the smoke, an old stone bridge emerged, the worn and crumbling parapets dappled with lichen. As Meg ran to cross it, the spy caught an arm around her waist, forcing her off the dusty lane and down the grassy bank to the stream he had heard earlier. Will didn’t slow their pace and they splashed into the cool, black water up to his calves.
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