In the fading glare of a lightning flash, he glimpsed two dark shapes stumbling towards the line of skull-topped poles.
Red hair plastered to her head, Meg struggled up the slope with both arms wrapped about a limp, lolling Dee. Her pale, rain-slick face was set with determination. Twisting round, the Irish woman dumped the magician to the ground and drew her dagger from her skirts in one fluid movement. ‘Stay away,’ she hissed. ‘Our business together is done.’
‘Betrayal truly is in your nature.’
‘You do not know me,’ the woman snarled. ‘You have no right to judge me.’
Pointing at the prone alchemist, the spy demanded, ‘What have you done to him?’
‘A minor potion administered while his blood was up-’
Will laughed without humour. ‘During your seduction.’
‘I do what I have to do.’ Tears of anger flecked her eyes. ‘Though I am sure you doubt every word I say, this life of mine is not an easy one. A woman in this business is forced to make hard choices. And you shall not judge me!’
‘I have had enough of your deceit. Speak plain. Now.’
‘The magician comes with me.’ In another flash of lightning, Red Meg’s eyes sparked. ‘You cannot begin to understand what it is like in my homeland. You have been safe here behind Dee’s defences. But in Ireland, entire villages are destroyed by the Unseelie Court as they hunt my countrymen for sport. Misery inflicted on families down the generations. Children torn from their parents and taken to that foul place the Fair Folk call home, and replaced in their cribs with mewling, spitting things that drink only blood. You cannot begin to know our heartbreak. You cannot plumb the lakes of tears my people have cried. You will never understand the suffocating blanket of terror that swathes every village, every home. Dee can save us! He knows the secret ways to enable us to defend ourselves.’ The dagger wavered in her trembling hand. ‘He could bring us back to the light. But you would never pass on his knowledge willingly. You have always treated Ireland as a larder to be raided whenever your bellies were empty, and our people as slaves to tend to your every whim.’
‘And so you plotted to steal him from under my nose. You accepted Henry of Navarre’s request to aid me so you could get close to me, and thereby close to Dee.’
The spy took a slow step around the Irish woman, waiting for her to lower her guard.
‘Is it right that your country is protected and mine suffers so badly?’ she cried above the desolate wind. ‘You talk of the Brotherhood of Man, how we should all stand together against the Unseelie Court, ignoring our religious differences and our trivial human concerns. Yet you ensure England is safe and my home suffers. Is this fair? Is it right? Does it meet the moral standards you have set for yourself?’
The pounding rain stung the spy’s face, but the woman’s words struck just as hard.
‘Let me take Dee.’ Her voice softened. ‘Show compassion. Do a great deed that will transform the lives of an entire people.’
Will wavered. He glanced down at the rain-soaked alchemist. The elderly man was beginning to stir.
‘If you do not, then you and you alone condemn my people to suffering,’ Meg pressed.
‘And when you proposed that we should flee this business and live a high life in each other’s arms across Europe — was it all lies, Mistress Meg? Trying to find a weakness in my heart just as the Unseelie Court seek to exploit the weaknesses in men for their own ends?’
A devastating look of painful, heartfelt emotion flared in her eyes. Like a cat, she sprang at him with the dagger. Shocked by the ferocity of her attack, the spy watched the blade drive towards his heart, only flinging up his left arm to knock her wrist away at the last.
‘There is too much at stake to consider the emotions of two people. We are nothing here,’ Meg hissed.
‘Agreed.’
Under the lightning-torn sky, Meg twisted again, so that she appeared to be a part of the storm. Swooping under his outstretched arm, she thrust her blade through the spy’s doublet and nicked the flesh over his ribs. Ignoring the burst of hot pain, Will dropped to his haunches, balancing on the tip of his left hand and swinging his right leg around in an arc. He hit Meg at the back of her knees, and her feet slipped from under her.
He pinned the Irish woman’s wrists with his hands and squeezed until the dagger fell from her grasp. ‘This is over,’ he urged. ‘Leave now and you can keep your life.’
Before Meg could respond, Will noticed the alchemist was lurching up the slope in a daze, unaware that just ahead lay the long, arcing row of skull-topped poles. Will propelled himself off the Irish woman and began to race towards the elderly man.
Dee stumbled into one of the poles, knocking it flat. The yellowing skull of a badger rolled across the turf.
Instantly, the wind dropped.
Along the tree-line, the fires winked out as one. A sound like a low exhalation rolled across the grassland.
Will dragged Dee back. His robes flying, the elderly man tumbled down the slope and slid on to his hands and knees.
The rain grew stronger. A crack of thunder rolled out and on in an unending drumroll, and sheets of white light flashed one after another. In between the strikes, the spy glimpsed ghostly grey shapes leaping like foxes, almost invisible in the downpour.
Grasping the rain-slick pole, Will rammed it back into the hole in the ground without disturbing the pattern of stones in front of it. Before he could replace the skull, Meg’s shrill cry rang out through the booming thunder. He turned just quickly enough to avoid a grey figure bounding out of the pounding rain.
Unsheathing his rapier, Will glimpsed a corpse-like face that transformed before his eyes into vibrant, strong features. His attacker was a warrior, dressed in a leather buckler stained silver and marked on the front with a black pattern that resembled a tree in winter. Like a poacher’s trap, his own blade flashed towards the spy’s heart.
Will parried, deflecting the blade to his left. Without pausing for breath, the grey man renewed his attack with a sudden spin and a forceful upper slice of his steel. Will parried again, but he was driven a step back.
In an unorthodox, unpredictable fighting style that reminded Will of the wild dances he had witnessed in Muscovy, the Enemy swordsman whirled around, changing direction in the blink of an eye. Blinded by the rain, Will parried high, then low and to his right, barely blocking each strike.
Green fire burned in the eyes of the grey foe. His face was emotionless.
As he half slipped on the wet grass, the spy felt his foe’s rapier tear through his cloak. Clamping his arm tight against the steel in the folds of the wet cloth, Will held it fast long enough to lunge with his own blade. The sharp tip stabbed the Enemy’s shoulder. The pale face darkened.
Aware that other Fay warriors could overwhelm him at any moment, Will renewed his attack. But with elegance and strength, the pale-faced swordsman spun to the left, struck, spun back, struck again. The spy felt every bone in his body jarred each time the blades clashed.
In his opponent’s icy, ebony eyes, the spy saw no hope of defeating this foe in an honest swordfight. The Enemy was too skilled with the rapier, too strong, too fast, and Will was worn down by the long, desperate pursuit across the country.
Avoiding another thrust, Will hurled his blade. Wrong-footed, the supernatural Enemy dropped his guard. Pulling out one of the pouches Dee had given him in Manchester, the spy unfurled it with a flick of his wrist.
When the blue paste splattered across the ghastly face, the Fay warrior lurched backwards, tearing at his cheeks in a frenzy. Black foam bubbled from between swollen lips, and blood dribbled from the corners of staring eyes. Gasps became unsettling, fractured cries, like the call of rooks on a winter’s day, and then the poisoned thing turned and wound a wild path across the grassland until it disappeared into the driving rain. The keening cry continued for a moment longer and then ended suddenly.
Snatching up his rapier, Will turned towards the gap in th
e defences. His mind filled with a vision of a wave of ferocious bone-white things washing him away. Yet the skull was now back in place, an exhausted Dee clinging on to the pole. The alchemist’s eyes were still hazy with the remnants of whatever potion Meg had used to steal his wits. ‘’Twill suffice, for now,’ he muttered.
The spy helped Dee to his feet and supported him back down the slope to where the other men waited, rigid with apprehension, under the lamp by the door. Meg was long gone. Though Will knew it would not be long before she was spreading blood and mayhem in her trail once more, he was surprised by a dull ache of regret and a feeling of mounting loneliness.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Holding the candlestick aloft, sir Walter Raleigh led the way down the dank stone steps into the dark cellars of Petworth House. ‘Great danger waits ahead, Master Swyfte,’ he warned, the green and red jewels of his doublet glimmering in the wavering light of the flame. ‘By all the evidence we have, the Unseelie Court are near to the fulfilment of their plot. They will do anything to prevent victory slipping from their grasp. If you think you can pass beneath their gaze unnoticed, you are mistaken.’
‘I am well aware of the threat that surrounds me at every turn, but do not underestimate my cunning,’ Will’s voice echoed in the chill, mildew-smelling air. ‘All is not done here.’
‘The Enemy certainly agrees,’ Northumberland muttered as he took up the rear, ‘or they would not have the house under siege.’
At the foot of the steps, the candlelight revealed vaulted cellars festooned with silvery cobwebs and pools of stagnant water glistening across worn flags. The Earl pointed into the shadows to their left and they continued on their way amid the echoes of their footsteps.
‘Dr Dee appears to have suffered no lasting harm from the potion the Irish witch used to seduce him,’ Northumberland added. ‘In no time at all, I foresee him once again contributing his wisdom and his magical skills to the fight we now have ahead. We may yet break this siege quickly.’
‘Once they discover I am gone, as they will in no time, I am sure, they will leave you alone,’ Will said. ‘At least until their plot is complete. And then I would imagine the School of Night would be high on their list of problems to be excised with alacrity.’ He gave a low laugh. ‘I am impressed by your achievement, gentlemen. To be despised by both the Privy Council and the Unseelie Court is a remarkable thing.’
‘We cannot be trapped in this war for all time, Master Swyfte.’ As they came to the far wall of the cellar, Raleigh let the candlelight play along the slick stone. ‘We have all been imprisoned in the dark for too long, caught between opposing forces that have only their own interests and survival at heart. It is time for a new age of enlightenment, when we can throw off this benighted existence and continue our journey upwards.’
‘To walk with the gods themselves?’ the spy asked wryly.
‘Aye. Why not? There is godhood in all of us,’ the explorer replied.
‘I fear your stomach for blasphemy and treason will be the death of you.’ Will pressed one hand on the wall. It felt solid enough.
‘You are part of our conspiracy now, whether you like it or not.’ The Earl smiled.
‘You are not afraid that I will betray you, given the opportunity?’
‘Kit Marlowe trusted you, and so do we. He held you to the highest standard, Master Swyfte, and you were not found wanting. He refused our entreaties to admit you to our circle only because he wished to protect you from the sword that hangs over all our heads.’ Henry Percy turned back to the wall and began to feel along the edge of a column.
When he found the stone he was searching for, he put two hands on it and pressed. With a grinding noise, the stone slid into the column. A section of the wall shifted. The spy felt a blast of cold, stale air.
Raleigh raised a finger and one wry eyebrow. ‘The fine thing about a secret society is that its members can hide in plain sight. Here in England, and across Europe. You will never be short of friends, Master Swyfte. And in your darkest hour you may find allies that you never knew existed.’
‘That is reassuring, and I thank you both.’ Will bowed.
‘Take this.’ Raleigh proffered the candlestick. ‘This tunnel was built long ago, as a route for escape in times of trouble. Parts of it may not be safe. At the far end there is another secret door that leads into All Hallows church in Tillington, far beyond the forces of the Unseelie Court. It will buy you a little time.’
Taking the candlestick, Will stepped into the gap in the wall. Ahead of him lay a stone-lined passage with a roof so low he would have to stoop. An inch of dirty water covered the floor.
Northumberland leaned in. ‘There is a cottage overlooking the churchyard, the home of Jerome Marsham, a good, hard-working man,’ he said quietly, his voice still carrying deep into the dark. ‘Tell him Henry Percy has asked for the loan of his horse, and that he will be well recompensed. Ride south to Portsmouth where you will find Captain Argentein and his ship and give him this.’ He handed the spy a rolled-up parchment with a still-soft crimson wax seal. ‘It will buy you free passage to France and the secrecy you need to hide your identity.’
Will slipped the parchment into a hidden pocket in his cloak. ‘Then I leave England behind me. This country teeters on the brink of an abyss and I know not if it is within my power to prevent it,’ he reflected darkly. ‘It seems with each day this world turns further from the light. But I will not be swayed, whatever horrors lie ahead.’
The spy nodded to both men and made his way along the passage. Raleigh and Northumberland watched the golden light receding like a firefly disappearing into the dusk.
Soon only the dark remained.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
In the black, lonely forests, spectral lights floated. Unfamiliar reflections stared back from streams and rivers, the flesh slowly melting from the skull beneath. At crossroads, crows sometimes appeared to speak in a shrieking, unrecognizable language. And in the silvery meadows underneath the full moon, dark figures danced with carnal abandon, while in nearby villages parents with tear-stained faces searched for their missing children.
From the moment he set foot on French soil, Will had sensed the haunted atmosphere that lay across the land. England had been slowly waking to the evil of ancient days as the defences fell. Here it was as if the land had long since passed into the hands of the Enemy. He had never felt the like before, even in places where the Unseelie Court walked freely.
It was 9 August. The spy’s horse trotted towards Reims, where the great bulk of the three-hundred-year-old cathedral was silhouetted against the ruddy sunset. Beyond the walls of the small town, the jumble of narrow, winding streets was thrown into near-permanent shadow. It was, Will felt, a place that held its past close to its heart.
The glassy surface of the Vesle river burned with reds and oranges as it wound past the town, the air heavy with the acrid smell of smoke from the workshops producing cloth for trade across Europe. It was a busy town. Even in such a time, Will could hear the competing cries of merchants and apprentices ringing out from the streets, the clatter of tools and the hiss of bellows. The face shown to the world was that of the honest artisan toiling fruitfully every day. But it was religion that truly ruled in Reims.
The spy’s throat was dry from the dusty tracks he had followed through the vineyards scattered across the landscape. The sea journey from Portsmouth aboard Captain Argentein’s carrack had allowed him to put aside thoughts of Meg’s betrayal so he could concentrate on plans that required the greatest subterfuge. An Englishman abroad in France was no unusual sight with so many Catholic refugees fleeing Elizabeth’s resolutely Protestant rule, but he knew it was only a matter of time before Xanthus would pick up his trail once more. Will knew his only hope was to find answers with the utmost speed and move on.
And if the spy had any doubt about the growing power of the Unseelie Court, he found confirmation in the lights far beneath the blue-green waves on the sea crossing, and in
the booming noises, like thunder, that rose from the deeps.
Arriving in Cherbourg on a bright, windswept morning filled with the salty scent of the sea and the spices brought in by the Portuguese great ships, Will had bartered with the merchants overseeing the unloading of barrels along the quay. Among the harbour workers there were signs of the tension between Catholics and Protestants but no mention of a supernatural threat, though Will saw hints of fear in eyes darting towards the roads leading into the countryside. Surrounded by the constant slap of sailcloth and crack of rigging, he secured employment guarding three carts transporting barrels of sack to a warehouse to the north of Paris.
Once they had reached their destination, and with a pouch of Dee’s trinkets for protection, he purchased a horse and travelled north-east by day, at night sleeping in taverns where there was at least some chance of safety from the powers that controlled the lonely countryside.
His beard and hair now unruly, his clothes travel-stained and worn so that few would identify him as a gentleman, he kept his head low as he rode into the darkening streets of Reims. The cathedral’s twin towers loomed over the town, its creamy-yellow stone and ranks of weather-worn sculptures blackened by smoke. The dying sun turned the rose window on the west front into a glittering, multi-coloured eye, unflinching and unforgiving.
It was a Papist fortress, Will knew, and under the guidance of Rome had become one of the most dangerous places in Europe in the eyes of Queen Elizabeth and the Privy Council. He recalled the old spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham losing his normally impassive demeanour to fly into a rage when speaking of the threat originating from the town. Its source lay behind the walls of the Catholic seminary attached to the university that crouched in the cathedral’s shadow. The elderly puritan had railed at God’s spies, as the Papist bastards called them, the seminary’s graduates, who were trained as much in insurrection as scripture and then delivered to England’s towns to seek the overthrow of the Queen’s rule.
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