Nathaniel flinched and turned away, pretending to search for a new candle.
‘She never mentioned your name,’ Strangewayes continued, ‘but I can see that my suspicions were correct. You know of the play, and of the cipher it contains, I wager. It is vital in opposing the plot that now grips all of Nonsuch, yes?’
‘I know nothing of this.’ Nathaniel found the candle and proceeded to tease out the wick with intense concentration. ‘I am but a lowly assistant, not privy to the great affairs of England’s spies.’
The red-headed man grasped the end of the sack and tipped out a thick slab of papers. Nathaniel saw the familiar signature of Kit Marlowe on the stained and dog-eared frontispiece.
‘Here is the play. The Tragical History of Doctor Faustus.’ Strangewayes all but choked on the words as if he had uncovered the skull of a friend. ‘I sought it out to win Grace’s heart.’
Unable to contain himself, Nathaniel grasped the sheaf of papers and flicked through the pages to check it was the thing he had sought for so long. ‘You stole this from Master Cockayne’s chamber?’
‘What I discovered in there was …’ The spy paused and swallowed. ‘It convinced me this was not a matter for Grace … nor for any woman. I could not deliver the play to her for fear it would draw her further into this monstrous affair.’ Growing even paler as he reflected, he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. ‘For days I thought it would drive me mad. I slipped into a dark pit and was sure I would never be able to claw my way out. And yet … I did.’ Strangewayes sounded amazed that he had survived his ordeal.
‘What did you discover?’ Nathaniel asked, unnerved. Memories of pale faces burst briefly in his mind, and he struggled to recall something that remained frustratingly elusive.
‘I would not wish that knowledge upon you. A month ago, perhaps. But I am a different man now. There is no going back from what I saw.’ The spy collapsed on to a stool, his head in his hands. ‘Yet, the play is here. Can you break the cipher?’
‘I can. But you should know, Grace is stronger than you think. Stronger than most men, though she acts at times in a reckless manner. She will not forgive you if you keep this from her.’
Strangewayes looked up with a haunted expression. ‘Tell me, what should I do? I no longer know myself.’
Pulling up a stool, Nathaniel examined the play in the circle of light from the candle. ‘You do not need to tell her what you found in that chamber. But we owe it to her to reveal we have this prize.’
Reluctantly, the spy nodded. ‘Very well. Break the cipher. Then I will do whatever is necessary to oppose this plot. I have a stain upon my mind that I can only expunge with honest toil, and if it costs me my life, so be it.’
The young man studied the older, and felt a wave of compassion. Never would he have imagined seeing the arrogant, unpleasant spy brought so low. He was interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Grace,’ Nathaniel said, answering the door to find his friend waiting there. ‘We were just talking about you.’
The young woman stepped in and looked from one man to the other. ‘I confess, I saw Master Strangewayes making his way here. How are you, Tobias? I have missed you.’
The red-headed man looked surprised by her comment, but forced a weak smile. ‘It is good to see you too, Grace.’
Nathaniel closed the door and ushered the woman to the table. ‘You will not believe this. We have the play. Finally. Master Strangewayes recovered it from Master Cockayne’s chamber.’
Grace gave a strange smile.
The door swung open. Nathaniel spun round. ‘We are uncovered.’
The spy leapt to his feet, drawing his rapier.
In stepped Grace, another Grace, her face flushed, her brow knitted. ‘Now we shall have a reckoning,’ she hissed.
Before the two men could move, the newly arrived Grace strode across the chamber and grabbed her counterpart, throwing her against the wall. Snatching a candlestick from the mantelpiece, the furious young woman swung it with force at the temple of her rival. The first Grace slumped to the rushes, unconscious.
Nathaniel and Strangewayes gaped. Before either of them could make sense of what they had witnessed, another figure slipped into the room and closed the door.
‘What a merry dance,’ Red Meg O’Shee said with a sly smile. ‘There have been fools aplenty in these fun and games, but now we start to peel away the masks.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
‘I WANT TO SEE WILL SWYFTE’S BLOOD WASHING ACROSS THE quayside and into the filthy Thames,’ Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, announced from his commanding view over the legal quays. Dressed in his favourite white and gold doublet, he stood on the roof of a carriage surrounded by fifteen spies, one hand on his rapier. ‘By this day’s end, the man who was once England’s greatest spy will be dead.’
The air was thick with the stink of pitch from the barrels along the quayside, but behind it floated the sharp smell of cloves and the sticky aroma of cinnamon from the spice ships. Shielding his eyes against the morning sun glinting off the glassy, slow-moving river, Devereux surveyed the forest of masts that obscured the north bank. Only the grey Kentish stone bulk of the Tower of London loomed above the long queue of ocean-going vessels waiting for a free berth. Almost a hundred stretched prow to stern, from the shadow of London Bridge past St Katharine’s, bobbing in the gentle breeze.
Though London was still subdued under the yoke of the plague, the legal quays were throbbing with the yells and shanties of seamen and dockworkers, the slap of sailcloth and the creak of rigging, and the hammer of wooden mallets where hasty repairs were being carried out. Customs men buzzed back and forth assessing the cargo that had been landed from the foreign ships.
Swyfte had chosen his arrival point well, the Earl thought with a nod. In that hive of busyness, the spy could lose himself in the throng of sea-dogs shuffling towards the crowded ale-houses on the river bank, or in the jam of merchants’ carts, or the groups of cat-calling doxies seeking trade.
Devereux smiled to himself. Swyfte thought himself clever, but this time he had met his match.
Leeman, a plump, red-faced spy with a missing eye, clambered on to the seat of the carriage, wheezing. ‘All the cut-throats are where they need to be. I told ’em, not a penny until they brought Swyfte to us. Dead. You are still certain of that, sir?’
‘We take no chances, Master Leeman. Swyfte has proved himself a cunning dog. You would not want his sword between your shoulder blades, no?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then dead it is.’
The Earl brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, reflecting on the curious change that had come over his Queen. A passing thing, he was sure. He watched the barrels being unloaded along the wharf while the ship carrying Swyfte prepared to moor. Pedalling furiously, a man sat inside a large wheel contained within a cabin raised on poles. A rope ran from the wheel, over a pulley, along a jib and over another pulley, where it dangled to the deck of a carrack. There, three seamen attached a barrel to the rope with hooks.
Devereux allowed his gaze to wander to the carefully positioned carts and stacks of barrels along the wharf where Swyfte’s caravel was about to dock. One by one he picked out the rogues they had rounded up, all of them in place, pretending to be dockworkers in felt hats moving barrels, or smartly cloaked merchants overseeing the unloading of cargo, or bare-chested seamen resting after hard labour. Ten strong-armed men, each carrying a musket. No chances.
‘Master Leeman, give the order to get ready.’
With a nod, the one-eyed man lurched to the cobbles, hurrying among the flow of sweaty labourers to whisper to each agent in passing. Essex watched hands go to muskets hidden in the bales of straw or under sailcloth or timber.
The caravel came in. Straining, grizzled sea-dogs tied up the creaking ropes and the gangplank clattered on to the wharf. Essex studied the men moving around on deck. Where was Swyfte?
Mopping his brow, Leeman climbed back on
to the carriage seat. ‘All set, sir. He will be the first to disembark?’
‘The arrangements have been made, Master Leeman.’
With nods and sly glances, the cut-throats abandoned their false tasks and picked up their muskets. Keeping their heads down, they gathered by twin rows of carts and other obstacles that flanked the gangplank and which would funnel their intended victim towards the pitch-filled barrels. The matchlocks were primed, flints ready to ignite the fuses.
Calm, patient, the Earl folded his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest. Leeman shaded his one good eye. ‘There,’ the ruddy-faced man announced, pointing towards the caravel.
In his black cape and cap, Will Swyfte stepped on to the gangplank and hurried down, eager to lose himself in the wharfside crowd.
The ten men stepped into the mouth of the funnel and levelled their weapons. Flints sparked. Devereux saw the flare of fear in the spy’s face. At the foot of the gangplank, Swyfte skidded to a halt, caught in the grip of the terrible sight confronting him, and then he turned, preparing to bound back to the ship.
Ten barrels flamed. The cracks rang across the legal quay, sending the gulls shrieking up into the blue sky. Flung up the gangplank by the force of the shots, the black-clad spy convulsed and then grew still, one arm hanging down towards the black water.
Essex hammered a fist into the palm of his hand in jubilation and leapt from the carriage, thrusting his way through the curious dockworkers and seamen. The cut-throats milled around the body, avoiding the crimson pool gathering at the foot of the gangplank.
‘Stand back,’ the Earl ordered. ‘Master Leeman.’
The one-eyed man lumbered forward and turned over Will’s body. Essex’s grin became fixed, slowly turning into a snarl of rage. ‘That is not Swyfte,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is our agent on board this vessel.’
The dead man was about the spy’s age, but his face was pockmarked and the cap hid a bald patch. Beneath the cloak, his hands were bound behind his back and he had a kerchief shoved into his mouth to prevent him calling out.
‘Find Swyfte!’ the Earl barked, whirling round. He felt a pang of fear. Though Will presented a dashing front to the world, Devereux knew the spy had no reservations about killing his enemies, whatever their status in life.
A gush of crimson splattered across the cobbles at the end of the funnel of carts and barrels. One of the rogues, a big-boned slab of meat, stumbled forward, clutching his throat, his life’s blood pumping between his fingers.
The moment he collapsed, the cut-throats and spies erupted in cries of panic. Rapiers and daggers flashed. The men circled, looking this way and that.
‘Double the pay for the man who brings me Swyfte’s head,’ Essex shouted. As the rogues overcame their fear and fanned out across the wharf, the Earl beckoned to Leeman, whispering, ‘Gather our men and retreat to the carriage. There is no point risking our own lives when we have these low men to do our business for us.’
As Leeman gathered the spies, Devereux edged along the carts, eyes darting around. Too many curious men clustered around for him to get any sight of the spy.
If Swyfte has sense, he will be long gone by now, he thought.
The flurry of a black cloak on a pile of barrels drew the Earl’s attention, gone by the time he turned. But a rope tied loosely in a noose fell around the neck of one of the stalking cut-throats. It was yanked tight and the poor soul flew up, feet kicking, before his breaking neck cracked like a musket shot across the wharf.
While Devereux’s gaze was on the corpse falling back to the cobbles, more blood gushed away to his left. One rogue dropped to his knees, hands pressed tightly against his stomach, a second grasped at his slit throat, and a third was already face down in a growing pool when Essex’s gaze fell upon him.
‘’Swounds,’ the Earl muttered in horrified awe. Throwing aside caution, he ran towards the carriage, the spies bolting all around him. By the time he reached the safety of the coach roof, three more bodies littered the wharf.
Across the quays, sailors, merchants, doxies and labourers crowded, cheering. Through the bobbing heads and raised arms, Devereux glimpsed a whirling shadow and the flash of steel. He felt a chill run through him. Another dying scream rang up to the screeching gulls.
Pale-faced, Leeman clambered on to the seat. The spies gathered all around, fearfully glancing at Essex in case he sent them into the fray. But the Earl was caught fast by the unfolding drama. Through a gap in the bodies, he saw Swyfte thrust his rapier through the heart of the final cut-throat, and then the spy leapt on to the back of a barrel-laden cart. He gave a flamboyant bow to his audience, his right arm thrown wide.
‘This is not some stage,’ Essex stammered, barely able to contain his outrage.
A roar went up from the assembled throng and hats were thrown high.
‘Why are they cheering him? He is a traitor. The word has gone out to all parts of our nation,’ the Earl gasped. ‘Master Leeman, Swyfte must not escape or the Queen will have all our heads. Find him.’
Torn between two potential deaths, the one-eyed spy lurched away with three chosen men, but he returned in a few moments with a gap-toothed boy wriggling in his grasp. Leeman gave the youth a rough shake and barked, ‘Tell your betters what you saw.’
Snarling like an animal, the youth wrenched himself free. ‘For a penny!’
‘Pay the boy, Leeman,’ Essex said through clenched lips.
Once the exchange had been made, the boy calmed and said, ‘Sir, the man in black stole a horse and rode away.’
Closing his eyes, Devereux threw a hand to his forehead. ‘To Nonsuch,’ he muttered.
‘No, sir,’ the boy said. ‘I heard ’im say to his mount, “Away, to Tilbury.”’
Essex stared at the youth, his thoughts racing. ‘Tilbury?’ The blood draining from his face, he turned to the one-eyed spy and gasped, ‘Bloody John Courtenay is an old friend of Swyfte’s and he is captain of the Tempest, the fastest, most heavily armed galleon in all of Christendom. The Tempest is moored at Tilbury. If Swyfte gets hold of it, he can wreak untold havoc all around the coast of England. Master Leeman, gather our men. We ride for the docks.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
‘I DID WHAT YOU TOLD ME, SIR,’ THE GAP-TOOTHED BOY SAID, holding out a filthy hand.
Will slipped a penny into the youth’s palm. ‘Money well spent. You did the country a great service, lad.’
‘The country? Bugger that. You are Will Swyfte, England’s greatest spy. My father read me all your stories from the pamphlets.’ The boy’s eyes were bright with awe as he clasped the penny and bolted into the dispersing crowd of seamen and merchants.
The thunder of hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels echoed across the wharf. The spy allowed himself a smile at the fulfilment of his plan before slipping away to find a horse. Essex and the bulk of his local spies would spend the next day or two at Tilbury trying to prevent a plot that would never happen. That would make Will’s monumental task at Nonsuch a little easier, with fewer swords to get in his way.
Within half an hour, the spy was merging into the flow of heavily laden merchants’ carts trailing out of the legal quays towards London Bridge or routes to the south. His mind drifted back across the long, exhausting journey. After he had climbed down the vertiginous walls of Notre Dame in the dying storm his sight finally returned with a euphoric rush on the banks of the Seine. Stealing a small boat, they made their way to the coast. Meg had remained at his side throughout, but never once did they mention their feelings, though he was sure it was on both their minds.
At Le Havre-de-Grâce, Meg joined Grace aboard Henri’s galleon and sailed first to make arrangements back in England. Will meanwhile sought out an English merchant, a tall, serious-faced man by the name of Carrington, whom Raleigh had identified as a ‘close associate’ of the School of Night. The spy was surprised how quickly he was provided with safe passage on a ship bound for England, and more, how easily Carrington had acceded t
o Will’s strange request – a ship-to-ship transfer midway across the Channel to thwart the plans of Cecil or Essex, who, Will knew, would have spies watching for him in France. They would be waiting for one caravel, while the spy arrived a little earlier on another.
And when Will had discovered one of the Earl’s spies aboard the first vessel, the crew had been quick to follow his directions, which had resulted in the poor soul’s death at the legal quays.
Yet for all the help he had received, he was troubled by the influence of the School of Night. Their power and reach were greater than he had ever imagined, and Will wondered if they had hidden aims, perhaps great ones, beyond what he had heard at Petworth. But that was a matter for another day.
Following the lane east along the river, he came to a thick bank of oak and elm, directly opposite the grey stone mass of the Tower, just visible through the masts of the ships queuing for the legal quays. Dismounting, he led his horse under the cool canopy of the trees to an apple orchard. Beyond it were meadows, pools and gardens and beyond those lay Bermondsey House, where the Queen had accepted hospitality on many an occasion. The grand hall had been constructed from the stones of the Benedictine abbey, knocked down under the orders of Old Henry, and it was in the abbey grounds he now stood.
As Will searched among the trees, a piercing whistle drew his attention. Carpenter beckoned him over to where a seductively smiling Meg waited with the grim-faced Earl, Launceston, and four horses. One other was there: Essex’s man. Strangewayes.
Meg saw Will’s face darken and she stepped forward to block the spy’s path. ‘Leave him be, my sweet,’ the Irish woman said. ‘Master Strangewayes has suffered enough in recent days. The lash of your tongue is one punishment too many.’
Eyes cast down, the red-headed man looked deflated.
‘You can be trusted?’ Will demanded. ‘Or will you go running back to your master at the first opportunity?’
‘I stand with you,’ Tobias said flatly.
The Scar-Crow Men Page 39