The Scar-Crow Men

by Mark Chadbourn

  The spy felt a weight upon him. Since the war with the Unseelie Court began, every action had unforeseen consequences, one atrocity leading to a greater monstrousness. Where would it end? With the destruction of both races? And now he was responsible for the amplification of the Fay’s ambitions, and for the misery they would heap on his own people. He began to understand that the School of Night – and Marlowe – were right. There had to be another way. ‘Then what do you plan once you have seized control of England?’ he asked.

  Fabian thrust the poker into the heart of the burning coals, sending up a shower of golden sparks. ‘We can no longer choose to ignore your world. We must engage with it. We must control it, and control you, mortals, who once were mere sport to us when we failed to understand your wondrous capabilities, and who now may well be a threat, not only to us but to all there is. Your capacity for destruction, betrayal, inflicting pain, slaughtering your own …’ He placed one hand on his forehead in disbelief. ‘You think you are the hero in this business, Master Swyfte. You are not. Humankind is a sickness, like the plague that rots your own bodies, and it must be cured.’

  ‘You wish to eradicate us, all of us, wherever we roam.’ Will saw the future unfold grimly before his mind’s eye. Once the Unseelie Court controlled England they would have a foothold upon the world, a fortress from which they could exert their influence, and yet no one would ever know they were there. The Scar-Crow Men would put the orders of their hidden masters into effect, and all England would obey, blindly.

  ‘Eradication, yes, if we have to. But for now we will be satisfied with containment.’ Fabian strode back across the chamber and stood before the spy, one hand resting on the hilt of his rapier. ‘I did not wish this path. I would celebrate you, not destroy you, and now I am forced to take actions that destroy me. But you brought it upon yourselves.’

  Will imagined Marlowe overcome by the horrors he witnessed in this place, and fleeing back to England to inform Sir Francis Walsingham. And the spymaster, in his usual way, would have taken note, and reflected, and filed away, not realizing that the seeds of his own death had already been planted.

  ‘And so you set out to cover your tracks,’ the spy said, ‘until you were ready to act. As the sacrificial victims required to enable the removal of our defences, you chose the spies who would know that you had unlocked the secret of creating life here in Reims, and who might piece together your great scheme. Two birds, one stone. Walsingham murdered first, then Clement, Makepiece, Gavell and the rest. And I was placed on your list because I met Kit Marlowe on his return to England, and you could not risk that he had told me of his nightmarish experience here beneath the seminary.’

  But Kit sought to spare me, as he always did.

  Fabian appeared truly sympathetic. ‘I would not have wished this pain upon you, but there it is. Now we have won. Our Scar-Crow Men are in position, with only your Queen yet to be replaced. One single death yet remains, and then all your defences will crumble. And our force waits in Paris, ready to sail to your shores once our own Queen has been freed from her imprisonment. Your time has passed. England is gone. The dawn of the Unseelie Court in your world now rises.’

  Will ignored the Fay’s chilling words. Something had been troubling him, and now he thought he had it. ‘And yet I feel there is something missing from your words,’ he said. ‘Your decision to pursue our spies so ruthlessly tells me Kit Marlowe discovered more here than just the beginnings of your plot.’

  Fabian nodded. ‘That is true. The discovery of the plot alone would not have been enough to stop us. But when your friend witnessed the creation of our Scar-Crow Men, he also saw the means by which we may destroy them.’

  ‘Because, if events turned sour, the soulless things could be a threat even to the great Unseelie Court.’

  ‘Every weapon cuts both ways.’

  ‘And what is this means of destruction?’ the spy pressed. ‘I would imagine ’twould need to be something that could extinguish the spark of life in your creations in one fell swoop, like the snuffing out of a candle flame. What would that be?’

  The Corpus-Scythe, he thought. And I suspect that too lies in Paris.

  Will waited for his captor to respond, but Fabian appeared distracted. With furrowed brow, the Fay half turned, cocking his head to one side as if listening to something beyond the reach of human hearing.

  And then, echoing through the night-dark chambers, the spy heard the clamour of human voices drawing nearer.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  WITH HIS CAPTORS DISTRACTED BY THE CACOPHONY OF VOICES, Will rolled across the dusty stone flags to where he had seen his rapier and dagger tossed earlier. The spy felt around in the gloom until his fingers closed on cold steel. In the dim, ruddy light, he glimpsed three of the Fay turn towards him, drawing their own swords.

  ‘Put down your arms,’ Fabian demanded with a regretful note.

  ‘To relinquish them before I have used them would be a waste,’ Will responded.

  Ferocious and fast, the three Fay moved like wolves, but the spy was ahead of them. With a heave of his leather shoe, he propelled the brazier forwards. Hot coals cascaded over the nearest foe. Piercing screams rang out, a column of flames lighting up the chamber. The air filled with the stink of seared flesh.

  Shielding his eyes from the blinding light, Will darted out of the chamber. In the dense dark, he was lost in the disorienting din of the metallic booming and the nearing shouts. ‘Grace!’ he yelled. He just caught his friend’s shrill response under the clamour.

  The spy found Grace pressed against a wall, her eyes burning with determination. Her Fay guard waited in front of her, rapier already drawn, eyes narrowed. When the supernatural being lunged, Grace hurled herself on to his back with a cry, tearing at his face with her nails. Seizing his moment, Will thrust his blade into his reeling foe’s heart. As the pale figure fell, Grace leapt free and rushed to her saviour’s side.

  The spy was surprised to see such fierce emotion in her usually placid face. ‘Why, Grace,’ he said, ‘I will need you by my side in the next Bankside brawl.’

  ‘I have been battered and beaten and questioned and imprisoned and I have had my fill!’ she snapped. ‘Now get me out of here, Will, or so help me I will turn my fury ’pon you.’ Despite her resolve, the spy saw tears of fear flecking the corners of her eyes. Her trial had taken its toll on her.

  Grabbing her hand, Will ran through the chambers towards the clamour. Not far from the stone steps leading down from the seminary, he confronted a mob of about twenty black-robed priests, their faces etched with terror. One near the front held a torch, others grasped golden crosses taken from the chambers of the senior priests. Their wide eyes searched the dark as they shouted encouragement to each other. Some muttered prayers. The spy saw Mathias at the centre of the crowd, Hugh on the edge, trembling with fear.

  ‘You wish to scar my conscience before you claim my soul, is that it, devil?’ Will hissed to the invisible Mephistophilis. ‘You have drawn these men to their slaughter.’

  ‘Who do you speak to?’ Grace asked.

  The spy ignored her. A throaty chuckle crackled in his ear.

  Distracted by their search for demons, the priests paid no heed to the two new arrivals. Will grabbed Hugh and pulled him aside. ‘You must leave this place, now,’ he urged.

  ‘Francis? Is it true, then? You brought the Devil into our midst?’

  ‘More than devils lurk down here. The evil loose in the seminary has brought you to your deaths. Flee!’

  Seven of the Unseelie Court emerged from the dark at the far end of the chamber, rapiers drawn. With their grim, pallid faces and silvery-mildewed clothes, they looked like ghosts. The priests recoiled immediately.

  A shadow crossed Grace’s face. ‘What are they? Since I was taken in Nonsuch, my days have passed like a dream from the potion I was given. I thought my captors were Spanish agents, but now—’

  ‘Later, Grace,’ Will snapped, drawing her attentio
n from the supernatural figures. He would need to talk with her, but only when they were away from that place. He shook Hugh forcefully. ‘You must compel your companions to flee. Those creatures will fall upon you like wolves,’ he barked.

  The young priest finally understood. Running back to the other men, he raised the alarm. Hauling Grace behind him, Will led the race back to the stone steps. Glancing back, he saw the gout-ridden Mathias had fallen behind, as had three of the elderly priests. Mouth torn wide, the lumbering father looked behind him, knowing what was coming. Out of the gloom swept the Unseelie Court, impassive, brutal. Their swords carved through the straggling priests with such ferocity the victims had no time to cry out. In a cascade of blood, Mathias went down. His killer barely paused.

  Thrusting Grace up the steps with a promise that he would join her, Will waited, urging the remaining men behind the woman. With his rapier levelled in his right hand, he snatched the torch from the final passing priest and backed on to the steps.

  Sensing the threat ahead, the Fay swordsmen slowed when they saw him. Waving the sizzling torch in front of him, Will edged up one step at a time. There was no room for more than one of his foes to strike at him.

  As the spy crept upwards, the nearest opponent lunged. Parrying the thrust easily from his higher position, the spy jabbed the torch into his foe’s face. The Fay screamed, clutching at his ruined face as he tumbled backwards on to his companions. Turning heel, Will raced up the steps.

  When he reached the long tunnel, he could see the priests had left open the alabaster statue of the Virgin and Child. The bodies of six men littered the stone floor, victims of the Unseelie Court’s traps. Avoiding the swinging blades, Will plunged out into the seminary and swung the statue shut behind him.

  While the other priests fled, Hugh waited with Grace. ‘Where now?’ she gasped.

  ‘Where now, indeed?’ Will replied. ‘If I could take you straight to England, I would. But it is Paris that calls me, a city I now fear is in the grip of our greatest enemy.’ Sheathing his rapier, he turned to the young priest. ‘You are a good man, Hugh, and do not deserve to be wrapped up in this terrible affair,’ he said. ‘I have little love for priests who plot the end of my Queen, but warn your fellows to stay away from the spaces beneath the seminary. I do not think the forces that lurk there can remain now they have been uncovered, but it would be best not to take any risks.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Hugh asked, awed.

  Will gave a deep bow. ‘Why, I am England’s greatest spy, my friend. I have been on a long journey to hell, but now I am back and determined to take some of damnation’s fire to my enemies.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  RECLAIMING HIS HORSE FROM THE SEMINARY STABLES, WILL WAS soon galloping through the narrow streets of Reims, with Grace clinging to his back. At the walls, a sleepy guard in a padded leather doublet opened the gates for them. As much as the spy hated passing through the lonely vineyards and meadows by night, he knew he could not remain in the town until daybreak. Fabian’s warped compassion for the human race would be tested to the limit in the coming hours.

  ‘Were you harmed?’ he asked. ‘You spoke of being battered and—’

  ‘It is nothing. I am well,’ the woman replied with a brusque tone that surprised him. He felt that he had offended her in some way.

  For a while, he questioned Grace on the circumstances of her capture at Nonsuch and how she was brought to Reims, but her memory was addled by potions. He was, however, concerned to hear of the mounting fear and repression at the palace. But when Grace noted that she feared for Nathaniel, he added, ‘Nat has survived far worse. I would trust him to win through in any situation.’

  ‘Then you should tell him,’ she snapped, ‘instead of criticizing him at every turn.’

  ‘Grace, if there is something wrong—’

  ‘Nothing is wrong.’ The woman gripped the spy’s back as tightly as his devil.

  Will rode on in silence. But as the dusty track passed from the vineyards into the woods, he noticed a light glimmering away in the trees. Two more appeared as he trotted on. Had Xanthus found him at last? The spy frowned. Reining in his steed, he considered riding back to the vineyards.

  In silence, two musketeers stepped out from the trees and trained their weapons upon him. Their moustaches and beards waxed and pointed, they wore felt hats, short leather jerkins and bandoliers. From the well-tended weapons and clothes, the spy could see they were not roadside bandits.

  In French, Will tried to explain that he and Grace were simply poor travellers who could not afford to pay for a night at an inn in Reims. The men’s cold eyes didn’t waver. With a thrust of their weapons they silently ordered the two travellers to dismount.

  The spy could not risk injury to Grace. His anger simmering, he allowed the two of them to be marched through the trees.

  On the other side of the small wood, canvas flapped in the breeze. Moths performed intricate dances in the pools of light thrown by lanterns at the entrances to a huddle of grey tents. The smell of roast pork still hung in the warm air around a crackling camp fire, and Will could hear horses snorting and stamping their hooves nearby. From the men sitting around in groups holding quiet conversations, he guessed it was a small fighting force.

  As they neared the largest of the tents, a tall, balding man stepped out to greet them. His beard flecked with white, he wore a black gown, but he carried himself with the strength and grace of a fighting man. ‘My name is Maximilien de Béthune, duc de Sully. Follow me,’ he said in English, his voice deep.

  ‘There is some mistake. I am just a lonely traveller,’ Will began.

  Maximilien gave a knowing smile. ‘No, you are not. You are England’s greatest spy, William Swyfte.’

  For once, Will was silenced.

  ‘We are not fools here, sir. Our spies are as proficient as your own,’ the gowned man continued, holding open the tent flap for them to enter. ‘You have been under observation since you disembarked at Cherbourg.’

  ‘Then I apologize for my deceit,’ Will replied, stooping to enter the warm golden glow of the lamplit interior. ‘I doff my cap to fellow practitioners of the great art.’

  Behind his wry exterior, the spy was instantly on his guard, his eyes darting around in search of any threat. A trestle stood to one side covered with charts, a flask and a half-eaten knob of bread with a knife stuck in it. But his attention was drawn to a tall, tanned man standing with his hands folded behind his back. He was expensively outfitted in a gleaming sapphire doublet, the buttons jewelled, the ruff extravagantly folded. His beard was well tended, his smiling face suggesting a man of good humour.

  ‘The King,’ Maximilien boomed.

  ‘Your Majesty.’ Will gave a deep bow. Grace curtsied at his side, her gaze fixed shyly on the ground. Henri let his eyes linger on her for a moment, his smile becoming playful.

  ‘The King indeed,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘The word is still strange to my ears after this long, hard struggle. There were times when I thought I would always remain Henri de Navarre.’

  ‘The Catholic League now support your claim to the throne?’ the spy asked, puzzled.

  Henri chuckled. ‘Why, I am a Catholic these days, Master Swyfte. Had you not heard? On the twenty-fifth of July I renounced my old faith completely. Now I am a committed Papist,’ he tweaked his waxed moustache, his eyes gleaming, ‘the resistance in Paris will eventually crumble and I will finally be allowed to ride into my capital city. And so, all things fall into place.’

  The spy recalled Cecil’s suspicions at the Rose Theatre almost three months earlier. ‘And the Huguenots?’ he enquired.

  ‘After the bitter religious strife that has torn this country apart for so long, they are understandably distressed that I appear to have crossed to the other side. But they will come around. What other choice do they have?’

  ‘I imagine my Queen is not best pleased that you have renounced her faith.’ It was an understatement. Will imagine
d Elizabeth flying into one of her incandescent rages when the news was delivered to her.

  ‘Once I am crowned in Chartres, she will understand that I am still the same Henri.’ The King strode to the trestle and took a sip from his flask of wine. ‘Perhaps I will even be more useful to her. I see myself as a bridge, Master Swyfte, like the one I plan to build across the Seine when I am finally allowed into Paris, to unite the right and left banks. There will be peace in Europe only when our two religions can live side by side. When we achieve that, then we can join together against our common Enemy.’ His eyes flickered from Grace to Will, and he nodded to indicate that he would not elucidate while the woman was present. ‘For now,’ he continued, ‘Paris remains beyond my control.’

  The spy inwardly winced. It would be difficult enough to spend time in the Unseelie Court’s midst without also having to deal with a city that had only recently survived Henri’s siege and would suspect any stranger of being one of the King’s spies.

  ‘There are other matters afoot, of which we will speak more in a short while.’ Draining his flask, the King smacked his mouth.

  The tent flaps were furiously thrown open and in a flurry of skirts a woman stormed in.

  ‘You!’ Grace exclaimed.

  Red Meg O’Shee cast only a fleeting glance at her. ‘I hear the buzzing of a fly,’ she sniffed.

  Grace fumed, but the Irish woman had already turned her attention to Will, a cold fire in her green eyes.

  With a hand to his high forehead, the King exclaimed, ‘Mistress, if Gabrielle finds you here—’

  ‘Do not worry, Your Majesty. Your true love’ – the red-headed woman gave the words a sardonic twist, her gaze still fixed on the spy – ‘will not be made aware of such an outrage.’

  In Meg’s disrespectful attitude towards the monarch, Will saw the deep currents that run between old lovers.