Her sodden hair plastered against her brow, Meg loomed over the Hunter’s shoulder. She plunged her own dagger down. The pale creature must have sensed her, the spy guessed, for at the last it twisted aside, the blade tearing into its shoulder. With all his strength, Will thrust Xanthus off him.
Scrambling to his feet, he caught the woman’s hand. ‘Get behind the line of defence,’ he shouted over the storm. ‘You should not have come to me.’
Before she could argue, he thrust Meg back towards the chasm. Determined to seize his chance to end the Hunter’s life, Will turned to see Xanthus hunched over a small silver casket with a death’s-head carved on the front. As the box began to open of its own accord, Will was struck by a blast of icy air. In the shadows beneath the lid, he thought he glimpsed movement.
The Irish woman grabbed Will’s shoulder. ‘It is the Wish-Crux, containing the Hunter’s daemon,’ the Irish woman said. Afraid, she stared past Will’s shoulder to the yawning dark inside the casket. ‘All Hunters have their familiars.’
Swarming shapes were emerging from the box. Hunched over the Wish-Crux, Xanthus glowered at the two spies.
Tearing herself from the sight, Meg dragged Will towards the chasm and together they tumbled over the now-invisible line of defence left by the Egyptians on to the sandstone steps. Looking back, Will saw the Hunter had retreated beyond the circle of lamplight.
‘I will never turn away, never stop.’ Xanthus’ growling voice rolled out of the dark. ‘It would have been better for you if you had died here.’
In the next flash of lightning, Will saw his enemy had gone.
Turning back to Meg, puzzled, he said, ‘You risked your life for me.’
‘You risked your life for the boy.’ Her eyes were pools of shadows, her face unreadable.
‘I am in your debt.’
‘I do not want your gratitude,’ she said with a dismissive turn of her head. ‘Do you think I would stand by and watch you die if I could help?’
Will couldn’t answer without offending her. Courage of that kind was the last thing he had expected from someone so duplicitous, and he felt troubled that his ability to appraise her coolly was now in question. Was all that she said about helping him honest? Did she truly hold the affections at which she hinted? He bowed. ‘I thank you, nonetheless.’
As they approached the foot of the steps, the lantern light revealed the gypsies waiting silently. In their faces, Will saw awe, and hope. He felt humbled.
When Samuel ran up and hugged his legs tightly, Will handed the lantern to Meg and lifted the lad on to his shoulders. ‘I thank you,’ Silvanus said, stepping forward. ‘My wife thanks you. And all of my people are grateful to you. You owed us nothing, yet still you risked your life to save my son.’
‘Any man would have done the same.’
‘You know as well as I that is not true. My son now lives because of you and you alone. None of us here will forget that. In our travels across this world, we will always speak kindly of William Swyfte, and your name will pass rapidly among my kind. In future, when you need aid, the Moon-Men will answer the call.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
‘I SHOULD WARN YOU,’ WILL WHISPERED TO MEG AT THE DOOR OF the Warden’s chamber at Christ’s College, ‘Dr Dee is quite mad.’
The caravan had reached Manchester in the hot, muggy early evening of 15 July. As they crested the hills ringing the town, the brassy sun punched shafts of light through the grey cloud cover to illuminate brown-tiled roofs, workshops spouting plumes of white smoke, and the grey stone bulk of the churches and great halls amid the jumble of tiny streets. The St Swithin’s Day celebrations were still under way, and Will and Meg had left the gypsies juggling and dancing as their women moved among the crowds, begging for food. A gap-toothed man had directed the couple to what he called ‘t’owd church’, the college buildings to the north, quiet now that Evensong was done.
The spy hammered on the door with the hilt of his dagger. From within came the sound of loud, unholy curses, and the door was thrown open with such force Meg stepped back in shock, her hand at her mouth.
Though approaching seventy, the alchemist crackled with the vitality of a man half his age. Will saw Meg was entranced by the magical symbols etched on his pale arms, disappearing into the depths of his ruby-coloured gown, and the small animal bones hanging from silver chains strung across his chest so that he rattled whenever he moved.
Dee’s fierce grey eyes immediately peeled back the layers of the new arrivals. ‘Swyfte!’ he barked, scowling. ‘My misery is complete. The one saving grace of my banishment to this dismal place was that I would never have to see your impertinent, conceited face, you grinning jackanapes.’
The spy gave a deep bow. ‘Dr Dee. My life has been darker without you in it. May I introduce my companion, Mistress O’Shee?’
The Irish woman gave a seductive smile. ‘I am honoured to be in the presence of such an exalted personage,’ she breathed. ‘You may call me Meg.’
Without a hint of embarrassment, the alchemist’s eyes slid slowly over her frame and then a serpent tongue flicked out between his lips. Thrusting Will out of the way, Dee offered a hand to the red-headed woman and led her into his chamber. ‘Your beauty brightens this dark, northern town,’ he said with a lustful laugh.
Despite the summer heat, a fire blazed in the hearth. Dry rushes were scattered on the stone flags and there was an acidic reek of sweat in the air. The room was cluttered. A high-backed chair stood near the fire, alongside a pair of stools, a bench and a stained, chipped table, but almost every available space was taken up with stacks of books, charts and rolls of parchment. A faded tapestry marked with magical symbols hung on one wall. Circles of polished glass lay on the table, glinting in the candlelight.
‘I apologize for the heat in my rooms,’ the alchemist said as he guided Meg towards the bench. ‘I find it impossible to get warm these days.’
As Dee hung over Meg, whispering comments at which she giggled in an uncharacteristic but practised manner, Will’s attention was drawn to a circular mirror made of highly polished obsidian.
‘What is this?’ he asked, reaching for the object.
The magician leapt across the room to slap Will’s hand away. ‘Leave that!’ Dee yelled, his eyes blazing.
The spy took a step back, concerned at the passion he saw in the elderly man’s face.
The alchemist appeared to recognize he had overreacted and adopted a nonchalant manner. Waving a hand towards the mirror, he said, ‘It comes from the New World, part of a haul of Spanish loot. An ancient magical item, it is said to have been treasured by the age-old race which inhabits that region, and was considered sacred to their god Tezcatlipoca, who protected rulers, warriors and sorcerers. Does that answer your question?’ he added with a snap.
‘And you use its undoubtedly great magical powers for communing with angels?’ the spy asked, feigning innocence.
With a snort, Dee turned back to Red Meg. ‘I fear I am a poor host,’ he said, pressing his hands together. ‘We should have sustenance. Wine, perhaps, and beef. These aged legs of mine are feeble, however, and can barely carry me across my chamber. Could you help an old man? Pray hurry to the chaplains and ask them to order the servants to deliver food and drink to my study.’
With a polite smile, the Irish woman rose from the bench. ‘Of course,’ she replied, and left.
‘Old man?’ Will snorted. ‘You could strangle a blacksmith and still have the strength to torture a lawyer or two.’
Dee jabbed a finger angrily. ‘Do not speak to me about games of deceit, England’s greatest spy. Now, she will be gone for some time – the chaplains are away tending to the poor. Tell me – can she be trusted? Does she work for the Irish? I presume you have investigated her motives.’
Picking up a book, Will flicked through the creamy pages with a wry smile. ‘I thought you had been enchanted by her smile and dazzled by her generous form.’
‘I am no fool, Maste
r Swyfte. You know that.’ With irritation, the alchemist took the book and replaced it on the stack.
‘I would not trust her entirely, though I have found no reason to doubt her.’ The spy’s tone darkened and he beckoned for the older man to take his chair near the fire. ‘But that is neither here nor there. We have grave matters to address.’
Easing himself into the high-backed chair, the alchemist listened intently as Will related all he knew: of the Scar-Crow Men, and the plot to murder spies by the devil-masked man, of Marlowe’s death, and his play with its hidden code, of Kit’s secret spying work, and of Griffin Devereux. ‘I would understand how all these questions connect, but more, I would know who killed my friend, Kit Marlowe, and for what reason. Then I will seek revenge.’
The candles in the room appeared to dim, as if even talk of the Unseelie Court had drawn a cold darkness to them. Dee stared into the depths of the fire for a long moment. Will had never seen him so grim. ‘You require my help?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘I need you, Dr Dee. England and the Queen need you before the last of our defences fall. Yes, we are few. Yes, the forces ranged against us are overwhelming. But we are fearless, and bloody-minded, and a resistance group this small can be fleet of foot. It may already be too late, but if there is one chance we can strike back, we must take it.’
‘The defences could fall at any time.’ The alchemist’s voice was almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire. ‘The Enemy already has its puppets in place. Once they are secure, they will come for us first, you know, and our suffering will be worse than a thousand hells. You are mad to fight this. Run. Hide.’
One foot upon a stool, Will reached out his hands, imploring. ‘There is hope, doctor. The Enemy has expended great effort in hiding whatever Kit Marlowe discovered. Why would they send a Hunter at my heels unless they feared I might discover one chink in their plot that could bring it all crashing down?’
Dee nodded thoughtfully, but was still unconvinced.
The spy saw his opportunity. ‘I have travelled the length of England in the most perilous circumstances for one reason: to call upon the great and powerful Dr Dee. You are the terror of the Fay, the man who locked those foul creatures out of the land they had tormented for generations. I have risked all because with you on our side anything is possible. The Unseelie Court fear you, sir.’
Dee’s eyes blazed. ‘Those popinjays should never have dismissed me from the court. That grand betrayal after all I did for the Queen and England. This would never have happened if I had been there.’
Will smiled to himself.
‘But where would we begin?’ the alchemist mused, tugging at his beard. ‘The defences will need to be repaired. But that takes weeks, perhaps months.’
The spy paced the room, feigning deep thought, although he had planned his strategy long ago. ‘Who would be privy to Kit’s secrets?’ he muttered. ‘Someone must have knowledge of that mysterious business of his.’ He paused theatrically and raised one finger. ‘Wait. Griffin Devereux spoke of a clandestine group … the school that meets at night, he called it. Have you heard of any such thing?’
In the gleam in the alchemist’s eye, Will saw all he needed to know.
Dee weighed how much he should say, and then came to a conclusion, waving a cautionary finger at the spy. ‘There is much you do not know about your friend, Master Swyfte. He lived another life far removed from the one he shared with you.’
‘Kit did not want to endanger my life or taint my reputation, such as it is.’
The alchemist rose from his chair and cracked his knuckles. From a hook in one corner, he fetched his cloak of animal pelts, a grotesque assemblage that still retained the heads of the beasts. ‘What would you say if I told you Master Marlowe was part of a conspiracy that threatened the very stability of England?’
‘Kit was no traitor.’
‘Oh, he was, Master Swyfte. As am I.’ As Dee pulled on his cloak, he came to resemble some country poacher rather than one of the most feared men in all England.
‘Do not play games with me,’ the younger man cautioned, more sharply than he intended.
The magician spun round, his eyes narrowing at the implied threat. ‘I speak the truth, you rump-fed pignut. Within England there is a group of men who oppose the government, yes, and the Queen herself.’
‘You are Papists?’
Dee gave a mocking laugh.
‘Those accusations were levelled at Kit.’
‘Come now, Swyfte. You have played this game for a long time now. You know as well as I that when power speaks, it never says what it means.’
‘The accusations of atheism the Privy Council made against Kit?’ Will prowled the chamber, keeping one eye on the older man.
‘You are closer to the truth with that, but only a little. Atheism covers many sins, and it is a suitable tool for the government to use to frame Master Marlowe as, shall we say, a certain kind of offender who carries no weight in the eyes of God-fearing folk.’
‘A slur, then. The Privy Council tried to demean him. Make him appear worthless. And Kit was never worthless!’ The spy grew angry.
‘I know this: the Privy Council feared young Marlowe’s ideas more than the Catholic plotters, more than the Spanish. Yes, more than the Unseelie Court.’
Will turned to Dee and glared. ‘Are you suggesting it was not the Enemy who killed Kit? That his murder was at the bidding of the Queen, or Cecil, or one of those other bastards?’
The alchemist hesitated.
‘If they did, I will have their blood.’
Dee eyed the younger man. ‘Even the Queen’s?’ he asked in a quiet voice.
‘We both gave our all to the powers that govern England, doctor, and we have not been repaid with kindness. In the end, you must ask who you really trust. Who matters most. Who decides what is right or wrong.’
‘Why, Master Swyfte, I fear you are finally leaving callow youth behind,’ the older man mocked. ‘You are now entering a twilit world where there are no longer any easy choices. Are you up to the challenge?’
‘We shall see. So, Dr Dee, can I count on your support in this suicidal endeavour?’
The alchemist returned to the obsidian mirror on the table and stared thoughtfully into its depths. ‘How could I possibly resist?’ he replied sourly. Becoming animated, he clapped his hands once, loudly, and then stabbed a finger into Will’s face. ‘If we are to halt the terrible events that are in motion, we must act quickly. The one who is killing the spies will follow a prescribed pattern. Time, place, the stars in the heavens – all part of the ritual. When he failed to slay you, he was forced to wait for the right moment for his next victim. I cannot know what path he follows. It is in the hands of the gods now, and all we do may already be futile. But we must try, eh, Swyfte, for that is who we are?’
‘Throw caution to the wind, doctor, and let us strike fast and hard.’ The spy’s grin faded when he realized the alchemist was staring at him in a curious manner. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked.
‘You have two shadows.’
The spy glanced back and saw that Dee was right. Stretching behind him was his own shadow, and, beside it, another, over-lapping, but twisted, monstrous.
‘What have you done?’ the elderly man asked in a small, troubled voice.
‘It appears I can never be afflicted with loneliness,’ Will said, attempting to make light. When he saw Dee’s expression remained unmoved, he added with a flamboyant sweep of his arm, ‘Hell strives with grace for conquest in my breast. What shall I do to shun the snares of death?’
‘Well you may ask.’ The alchemist circled the spy, examining him this way and that. ‘You have been cursed.’
‘My devilish companion was conjured during the performance of Marlowe’s new play, a warning from Kit.’ Will gave a shrug to show he was unmoved by the threat.
‘Then in his aid your friend has damned you.’ Will was surprised, and troubled, by the hint of pity in Dee’s voice.
‘By the one who set it. And he is dead. I wish it was within my power to provide a solution, but for all my subtle skills there is nothing I can do when such a thing has been raised by another.’ For a long moment, the magician plucked at the sleeves of his gown in reflection, unable to meet the younger man’s eye. ‘The devil will burrow deeper into the heart of you until he destroys you from within, and there is nothing you can do about it. There is no way for me to sweeten this bitter pill, Swyfte, and I know you would not want me to. You are a strong man, and you have shouldered much suffering in your life, and I have no doubt you will face this with the valour I see in you. I would not have it this way, but there it is. You are doomed, and the end will not be pleasant.’
‘Enough, doctor,’ the spy interrupted. ‘I have carried burdens before, and I am more concerned with surviving tomorrow, and the day after, than with what miseries may or may not await me in the future.’ He gave a grim smile. ‘Live for today, and let the devil take what may be.’
The alchemist appeared oddly touched by the young man’s words. He moved rapidly to the clutter at the rear of the chamber, knocking over piles of books until he found a large wooden chest. ‘A little help in the battle to come would not go amiss, eh?’ From the depths of the chest, he pulled a wooden tube and a velvet pouch and offered them to the spy.
Will examined the object: the tube was hollow and the pouch contained small, sharp arrows.
‘Our adventurers treat the New World men as savages, but their knowledge is quite profound. That is a blowpipe. Tip those darts in poison, slip one in the end …’ Dee mimed a blowing action. ‘They travel far … farther now that I have improved the design.’
‘Poison, you say?’
The alchemist drew several small cloth bags out of the chest. ‘I have refined the potions over the years. The blue paste …’ He grinned. ‘Even those white-skinned bastards will recoil from that one.’
Will slipped the gifts into the secret pockets in his cloak.
The Scar-Crow Men Page 26