Suddenly Will understood Kit’s exhortation in the note that accompanied his play. Trust no one. And suddenly he glimpsed some of the meaning behind the vision the devil had given him in the Rose Theatre.
A faint smile told him that his opponent had revealed the information only to cause further distress, unease, perhaps fear, or despair.
The black eyes narrowed. ‘Torture me all you will, but you harm only Devereux.’
‘What are you?’ Will asked with quiet intensity.
‘You know. In the dark of the night, when you fear the worst there is of life, you know.’
The spy ripped out his dagger and the prisoner fell away from the bars, rolling back across the dirty straw to coil like a beast once more. ‘I would tell you one more thing, given freely,’ he said, ‘for the more you progress into the heart of this thing, the more misery awaits you. And I would see you suffer.’
‘Tell me,’ Will said icily.
‘All you seek springs from one event.’ Devereux crawled forward to press his face against the bars, distorting his features monstrously as he peered at Will through the gap. ‘Follow the marsh-lights back through time. Follow that small trail. You will find it for yourself.’ His mouth split in a grin that was more hunger than humour, the teeth yellow and stained with blood.
‘You think you drive me towards destruction. You do not,’ the spy said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
‘You are already on the road and you do not see it. But you will. And soon.’ Devereux looked just past Will’s left shoulder and said, ‘Ride him well, coz, when the time comes.’
The hairs prickled on the nape of Will’s neck. Despite himself, he glanced back to see if the Keeper had entered the cell silently. There was no one behind him.
‘You are no longer alone,’ Devereux taunted. ‘You have a companion now, always there, one step behind, guiding, whispering, waiting. Your own devil. For as your friend saved you, he also damned you.’
‘This time your lies are too crude,’ Will snorted.
‘Your ending is already written, Master Swyfte, by the man you trusted most, and the final word is damnation.’ Devereux’s fat, shining tongue flicked out like a snake’s. He still had not blinked.
‘I choose my own ending,’ Will stated emphatically.
As he left the cell, the door closed firmly behind him, he heard Devereux begin a keening wail, desolate and haunting like hungry birds over a lonely moor. It followed Will up to the Abraham Ward where the crazed patients watched him in eerie silence, their eyes oddly fixed a pace behind his back, and the sound only ended when he was out of the gloomy building and into the hot sun of the new day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JENNY IS STILL ALIVE.
Grace woke with a start. She was still caught up in her dreams, visions of shadowy figures, and a man with a shimmering head like the moon, and, oddly, her sister Jenny calling to her across a vast expanse of water. Jenny, whom she had not seen since she was a girl, but who still seemed as young and vibrant as the day she disappeared, though her eyes were filled with desperation, and, perhaps, fear.
It was a silly thought, she told herself. Just a dream. Nothing more.
And as that notion faded, she was struck by another. She felt a chill run through her entire body.
She was not alone.
Rigid with fear, the young woman lay on her back on her hard bed. A shaft of moonlight fell through the window across the linen sheet lying loosely over her white nightgown. The rest of her chamber was in deep shadow, but she was convinced someone sat on the stool next to her bed.
Grace could sense the presence looming over her, and smell a hint of musk, but more troubling to her, she discerned a faint, wet smacking in the stillness of the room. Fighting back the rising panic, she strained to hear.
Lips, she thought. The smacking of lips.
Someone was eating.
The young woman shuddered. Flee! the voices in her head screamed. Save yourself! Her heart thundered, but she stayed calm, telling herself that if she made a sudden move the intruder could kill her before she was halfway across the chamber.
With an almost imperceptible movement, Grace eased her trembling hand through the dark to the small stool on the other side of the bed where she had left her comb and looking glass. Her fingers closed on the cool silver handle of the mirror and she brought it back up steadily.
The wet smacking sound now seemed as loud to her as a tolling bell.
Behind her fear, the young woman felt sickened. What was it eating?
Grace thought of lashing out with the mirror and then escaping in the confusion, but her curiosity was getting the better of her. She had to see. With a smooth, gentle movement, she eased the looking glass into the moonbeam and tilted it so the milky light reflected across her bed.
Her chest tight with apprehension, the young woman snapped her head round to see what was caught in the glimmer.
In her plain, grey nightgown, Elinor, the Queen’s maid of honour, was hunched over like a bird of prey, talons curled. Her eyes were wide and white in the moonlight, her hair a wild, wispy mane.
Grace shrieked.
The older woman leapt to her feet, knocking over the stool, and lurched out of the chamber with the door banging behind her.
Sitting up in her bed, Grace covered her face and tried to calm her racing heart. She told herself Elinor must have been sleepwalking, although every sign had suggested the maid of honour was wide awake. But the younger woman was troubled most by what she had seen her friend doing in that brief flash.
A lock of Grace’s long, well-combed hair had been clamped between the maid of honour’s thin lips. She felt the end of the strand, still wet with saliva.
Elinor had been eating her hair.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IN THE SWEET PLACES INHABITED BY THE UNSEELIE COURT, THERE is always music in the air, and beauty, and joy, and the haunting fragrance of honeysuckle. But not here. Fabian of the High Family wipes away a single tear searing his cheek and wonders how long he must endure the miseries of the cold human world. It is dark, the grand horizons obscured by stone walls, and echoing through them the thunderous rhythm of hammers upon anvils beating out the final days of man.
Fabian dreams of mirrors.
Selecting a long shin bone from the jumbled pile beside him, the doleful being proceeds to carve shapes and symbols in the yellow-white surface. Dressed in inky doublet and breeches, his hair black, his eyes too, Fabian reflects on the harsh decisions forced upon his people, known at times in the tongue of men as the Fay. And harsh they certainly are, for all poor mortals, that race which he admires so, and pities too. If only his brothers and sisters saw the Sons of Adam in the same light.
Sons of Adam. Fabian laughs at that. The stories they tell themselves! If only men knew the truth.
Finishing his carving, the black-garbed Fay takes the shin bone and inserts it into a hole in a circular piece of stone cut from bedrock under the light of the full moon. Silver symbols glisten on the stone in the seething red light of a brazier. Fabian waves his slender fingers over the collection of objects scattered across the bench – the skull of a bird, a pink seashell taken from the beach at dawn, a five-bladed knife, a globe that throbs with an inner white light – and wonders which one to select next.
The booming of the hammers does not slow, and it never stops.
Two looking glasses stand in the gloom on the edge of the low-ceilinged chamber. The surface of one clouds and a dim light appears within it. When the surface clears, Fabian sees a spectral figure, tall and thin and dressed all in grey, his long hair a gleaming silver with a streak of black along the centre. Clinging to his arm is a hairless, ape-like creature with golden eyes. It stares too long, too hard.
‘Lethe,’ Fabian says in greeting, his attention still focused on his work. ‘The Corpus-Scythe sings to me. I can hear the shape it wants to be. Soon now. Soon.’
The silver-haired being inscribes a circle i
n the air with his index finger, and laughs.
‘Do not hurt them. They shine like stars, if only you could see it,’ Fabian whispers, his voice almost lost to the din.
‘Your pleadings are tiresome,’ Lethe sighs. ‘Whatever you have discovered in your unpickings, the fact remains that the race of men are the architects of their own destruction. Have you forgotten that our Queen is now held at the top of a tower in one of their palaces?’ He clutches a hand to his mouth for a moment, fighting queasiness. His voice rising to a shriek, he continues, ‘Our Queen, a prisoner. Alone, suffering, a victim of man’s betrayal. The fuel for the very defences that have locked us out of the land where we once sought our sport.’
The ape-thing places one paw upon its master’s cheek to calm him.
‘We will have our Queen back, Fabian. But that is only the start,’ Lethe continues, his voice trembling with emotion.
Fabian chooses the five-bladed knife and affixes it to the stone with gold wire, muttering the ritual words under his breath as he does so.
‘Then we are to proceed?’ he asks when he has finished the next stage of his long, intricate task.
The silver-haired being claps his hands together with glee. The hairless ape-thing mimics its master. ‘For the Fay, for the great, glorious Unseelie Court, a new age beckons. We step out from our sweet, shadowy homes into harsh light. This course has been thrust upon us, but we shall not flinch. We shall remain resolute. And soon, soon now, only one world shall exist. Our world.’
The second mirror clouds, then glows. Fabian glances up to see inscrutable Deortha, staff in hand, the skulls of mice and birds braided into his hair. Behind the conjuror, four candles flicker in the centre of a stone chamber, their flames reflected in a hundred golden-framed mirrors covering the walls. A black-robed man kneels in front of a wooden cross. Muttered prayers rustle out into the still room.
‘Da, quaesumus Dominus, ut in hora mortis nostrae Sacramentis refecti et culpis omnibus expiati, in sinum misericordiae tuae laeti suscipi mereamur.’
The praying man wears a devil’s mask on his face and the wings of an angel on his back. Deortha gives Lethe a cold smile and a deferential bow. ‘Exaltus. We are to expect you soon?’
‘Soon. I am eager to look out over my new realm.’ Lethe strokes slender fingers across the head of the golden-eyed creature. It mouths the same words as its master speaks. ‘Your puppet dances to the tune we play?’
Deortha glances at the praying man. ‘His weakness was easy to find, and even easier to prise apart. He has allowed his love of his God to unbalance his fragile wits, and now he sees his deity everywhere. Even here.’
The two Fay laugh. Fabian shakes his head sadly.
‘And so he finds sanctity in the blood he spills,’ the conjuror continues. ‘He kills by our design. The victim, the time, the place. And with each life lost another part of England’s defences crumbles. This land will be ours, as it once was.’
‘And that is only the beginning,’ Lethe says, his pet says. ‘And our enemies know nothing?’
‘They go about their business as if all was well with the world, these foolish men. And so we move quietly and steadily, drawing ever closer, and by the time we are seen it will be too late.’
‘Soon, then,’ Lethe whispers, the glass clouding around him. ‘Soon.’
In the other mirror, Deortha turns to examine their puppet. His prayers complete, the man stands. Over his head, he raises the Gerlathing, the knife-that-severs-souls. The ritual blade glimmers in the reflected candlelight.
‘Tell me, angels of the Lord,’ the devil-masked man cries. ‘Who dies next?’
And on and on the hammers clash upon the anvils, beating out the final days of man.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE STEADY CLANG OF IRON ON STONE SOUNDED TO WILL LIKE THE remorseless proclamation of a funeral bell. He felt the vibrations run through his Spanish leather boots, up his black-clad legs and into the pit of his stomach as he crouched on Paul’s Walk in the dark belly of the cathedral. His stomach responded with a queasy sensation that only added to his feeling that the world was out of kilter.
In the wavering light of the candle, Carpenter’s scarred face glistened with a sheen of sweat. One blow with the iron rod along the join between the flagstones. Another.
Thoom. Thoom.
Along the nave, near the east door, Will could just make out Launceston standing guard in case anyone came to investigate the disturbance. The Earl was as grey and still as one of the statues of the saints that looked down from the alcoves along the north wall.
Crouching next to the candle to prevent the light reflecting through the stained-glass windows, Will watched Carpenter work. Chunks of stone were flying off the flag. Soon it would be possible to work the rod into the join and lift the paving.
‘Defacing a monument to God’s will. Disturbing the dead. Grave-robbing. Perhaps they could even make a case for necromancy,’ Carpenter growled, pausing to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘I sometimes wonder if we can go any lower. But you always surprise me.’
‘I see it as my life’s work to provide you with new experiences, John,’ Will replied. ‘Besides, count yourself lucky. I am already wanted by the Privy Council after failing to present myself to them this morning, and they are not known for their moderation.’
When he had left Bedlam in the early morning sunlight, Will had made his way to the back room at the Cross Keys on Gracechurch Street where he had arranged to meet his two companions. Once the two men heard the information Will had gleaned from Griffin Devereux, they all agreed no more time could be wasted. The devil-masked murderer had to be found and stopped before the final defences fell.
Glancing around uneasily, Carpenter muttered, ‘Since you mentioned those Unseelie Court bastards were close at hand … close enough to look us in the eyes … I see them in every shadow. Hell’s teeth, I am like a child! Why don’t they show themselves and I can plunge my steel into their guts?’
‘Do not wish it upon yourself, John. The Enemy will strike soon enough.’ Will eyed the dark areas of the cathedral, as uneasy as his companion. ‘It is these Scar-Crow Men that trouble me more. Fay agents who can pass as human, or humans who have sided with the Enemy? I do not know how much of Devereux’s words I can trust. But one thing is for sure, now we have to watch our own kind too.’ He shook his head, concerned.
Carpenter grunted. ‘We are alone, then. There is nowhere we can be sure we are safe.’
Will could not argue.
After a break, the scarred man continued with his work.
Thoom, thoom, thoom.
Will cursed himself for jumping at shadows all day. As he had slipped through the city gates after leaving Bedlam, two pikemen in shining steel helmets were chatting lazily in the sun, but another watched Will as if he had committed some crime. On Corn Hill, a man in an emerald-coloured cap with a band of black and white triangles paused suddenly in his walk to turn and stare at Will in an accusatory manner. Brought to a halt by a flock of sheep being driven to market, a lawyer in a black gown and carrying a purple-ribboned sheaf of papers had glowered at him. The wife of a wealthy merchant had watched him from the first floor of one of the large houses lining Cheapside. A gentleman in a furred compass cloak engaged in buying a mutton pie from one of the street sellers locked eyes with him for a long moment.
Imagination or truth? Had the Unseelie Court already all but won and no one yet knew?
Thoom, thoom, thoom.
Will was drawn from his reverie as Carpenter came to a halt. In the summer heat, sweat trickled down the scarred man’s brow and soaked his doublet. The iron rod they had recovered from the cathedral tool store in the crypt was now jammed in the fractured joint between two flags. Gripping the top of the rod, the two men heaved together, and with a deep, resonant grinding the stone was levered free. Beneath was a layer of gravel and rubble that the masons had used to level the floor after the interment.
With the
shovel they had also brought from the store, Will began to dig with determined strokes until the tool clanged against the stone that lay above the narrow burial vault. The spies paused, listening to the echoes roll out through the vast space. Along the nave, the ghostly figure of Launceston glanced back their way.
‘If I am to lose my head for this, my dying breath will be a curse to damn you to hell,’ Carpenter snarled.
‘Why this is hell, nor am I out of it,’ Will recalled, but there was a bitter note to the humour in his voice.
The scarred man only snorted, his gaze fixed on the stone covering now revealed. After a moment, he asked in a quiet voice, ‘What possesses you to do this? None of us could call Sir Francis Walsingham friend, but surely he deserves better than to have his rest disturbed?’
Tossing the shovel aside, Will plucked up the iron rod. ‘The dead are gone from this world. My concerns are for the living,’ he muttered. He drove the rod into the dusty groove along the edge of the scratched covering. ‘Why did Kit choose this grave to leave his message?’
‘Because he knew the defacement of our former master’s final resting place would eventually draw our attention,’ Carpenter said with a shrug.
‘That is one answer.’ Drawing a deep breath, Will prepared to put his weight against the rod. ‘Like all writers, Master Marlowe played tricks with words. In his hands, they often meant more than one thing at the same time. In the beginning, he wrote, here. A clue to the solution of the message he hid in his play, I am sure. The word. The keyword to his cipher. But I also feel he wanted us to look here for the beginning of this plot, or one beginning. There is usually more than one as events unfold.’
‘Now you are starting to speak like him,’ Carpenter sighed.
The spy pressed against the rod. As the stone lifted with a groan, such a foul stench rushed out that Will choked, and Carpenter turned away, covering his face. Gripping the edges of the heavy stone, the two men struggled to lower it on to the cathedral floor beside the gaping black hole. ‘What is that monstrous reek?’ the scarred man spluttered.
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