The Scar-Crow Men (39 page)
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.
Dismounting, Will led the horse over the cobbles on the last leg of his journey. Black-robed students walked in pairs, their tricorn hats lowered as the young men engaged in earnest conversation. Even in the street, the sweet smell of incense hung in the air.
From the shadows of an alley, the spy watched the comings and goings at the door to the English College. He knew it would not be difficult to infiltrate the seminary. In London, Marlowe had used to joke that there were more English spies studying the catechism in Reims than honest Catholics. Escaping with his life would be a different matter.
What terrible secrets had his old friend discovered here?
Tying up his horse, Will adopted an exhausted shuffle for the benefit of watchful eyes and made his way to the seminary.
The door was opened by a young priest, perhaps around twenty, with jet-black hair, a sallow complexion and a pointed nose that gave his features an unsettlingly avian cast.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour when you are undoubtedly preparing for your evening meal,’ the spy said with a bow. ‘But I am just arrived in Reims after a long journey from my home.’
‘From England?’ the priest enquired, his English heavily accented with French.
Will nodded. ‘My name is Francis Clavell. Like many of my countrymen, I am a victim of the bastard heretic Queen. Her persecution has driven my family from their home. My brother was slaughtered in a ditch, my sister forced to endure the most terrible depravities.’ The spy lowered his head and covered his eyes, eliciting a comforting hand upon his shoulder.
‘We have all heard tales of the atrocities inflicted on the Christian men and women of England,’ the young man said gently. ‘This will change, and soon. It is God’s will.’
‘In the depths of his grief, my father dispatched me here to enter the priesthood so I can return and do whatever is in my power to right these terrible wrongs.’
The priest hesitated. ‘My friend, we are already hard-pressed with the flood of poor souls arriving at our door with stories similar to your own. We have to turn many away, and the ones who are admitted are young and open to the teachings we deliver within these walls.’
From his cloak, Will pulled the pouch that Northumberland had given him before he set off for France. He held it up and jangled it. ‘My father is a wealthy man, a merchant who provides timber for England’s great and growing fleet. His heart is set upon my entering the priesthood. And he will pay well to wipe away the stain of misery that now lies upon my family.’
With a sweep of his arm, the young man stepped aside to admit Will into the well-lit hall. ‘Father Mathias will be able to make a judgement upon your request,’ he said warmly. ‘Wait here and I will see if he is available.’
The scent of candle smoke mingled with the earthy aroma of the broth being prepared in the kitchens. Everywhere was silent. Will knew the offer of gold would buy his way into the seminary. He would have a few days’ grace to conduct his business before the authorities began to ask questions about the non-arrival of more funds. He hoped it would be enough.
Within moments, the young priest returned to guide the spy into the chamber of Father Mathias, a portly man with a red face and currant eyes. The small room was panelled with aged oak that made it appear dark despite the two candles positioned on either side of the hearth. A gold cross gleamed on one wall.
Will explained his predicament again, but it was clear the older priest was barely listening. Only when the money pouch was deposited on the trestle did his features suggest interest. The man restrained a smile and in faltering English gave an offer of a few days’ accommodation and an opportunity to observe the teachings in the seminary before any final decision was made.
Father Mathias ordered the young priest, who was introduced as Hugh, to look after Will and make sure the rules of the seminary were made clear. A small chamber, barely large enough for a bed, was made ready for the spy next to Hugh’s room.
As they made their way to the evening meal, the young priest appeared excited at the prospect of fresh conversation, and gabbled brightly about his brothers and sisters who worked on the family farm not far from the border with Navarre. The spy said little, listening with one ear while observing the other priests as they waited to enter the great vaulted hall where trestles were set end to end in two long rows with benches on each side. Separate trestles were arranged at the upper end of the hall for the senior priests.