As though it could sense Carpenter’s presence, the thing turned its head slowly up to him. The pale figure’s gaze fell upon the scar-faced spy like a shroud. Thin, pale lips pulled back from yellowing teeth in what could have been a wolfish grin, or a predatory snarl, but meant the same thing.
Tearing himself out of his frozen state, the scarred man threw himself back into the room, slamming the door and dragging the bed in front of it. ‘Robert, help me,’ he pleaded pitifully, looking around the small chamber. ‘Help Alice.’
Launceston only stared blankly.
‘John, what is wrong? Have they come for you?’ the woman cried, running to grasp his arms.
Carpenter pushed her away. ‘Robert, please. I need your help. Take her … take her,’ his eyes fell upon the small window, the only way out of the room, ‘out and across the roof. It is our only hope.’
Troubled by her love’s desperate tone, the woman began to protest. Carpenter grabbed her shoulders and begged, ‘Alice, you must trust me. If you see what is beyond that door, you may never sleep again. You may lose your wits, or your life. Go now, and do not look back.’
‘What about you?’
‘I will hold off our Enemy as long as I can.’ The spy looked to the Earl and at first thought he was not going to help. But then Launceston gave a curt nod and beckoned for the woman to join him as he threw open the window and looked out into the bright morning.
Carpenter drew his rapier, prepared to die. At the Rose Theatre, he had dismissed the Earl’s warning that he would be the death of Alice, but now he was terrified he had brought about that very tragedy.
Footsteps approached the door.
‘What is out there?’ the woman whispered, growing pale.
‘Go,’ Carpenter yelled, throwing more broken furniture towards the door with his free hand.
Levering himself into the small window, Launceston wriggled out and pulled himself up on to the eaves. A moment later, he leaned back in, upside down, and grasped Alice’s arm. She shrieked as he manhandled her to the window.
‘This is not a time for niceties,’ the pale man said. ‘Do not struggle or I will drop you to your death.’
The footsteps had come to a halt and there was a faint rustling sound on the other side of the door. In the room, the quality of light dimmed, and even the slightest sound became strangely distorted.
Half wondering if he had doomed his love to a different kind of fate, Carpenter held her gaze for a moment until she was dragged up to the roof. He felt a flood of relief.
A crash shocked him alert. The door was being driven into the bed frame, and then again, pushing the obstacle away. His blade levelled, he backed to the window.
‘Get out here, you gleeking canker-blossom,’ Launceston bellowed at his back. ‘Or do you wish to die to prove your love?’
Sheathing his rapier, the spy clambered into the window space. As the door crashed open, he felt like he was peering into an open grave, but then the Earl grabbed his cloak and almost dragged him out of the window. Carpenter had a vision of his death from two quarters: from the thing in the room, or the plummet to a muddy yard where hens ran clucking. But then he was clutching for the eaves and trying to kick away from the window ledge.
The spy felt something cold and dry grab his ankle. He kicked back furiously and gave a tight grin when he met resistance. Nails dug into his flesh and inexorably he began to be pulled back inside.
The ghastly face of Launceston appeared upside-down in front of him.
‘Go,’ Carpenter gasped. ‘You have a chance to get away.’
‘And leave you here?’ the Earl replied, holding on tight.
Carpenter felt as if he would be torn in two. His leg was afire with agony as the talons continued to tear at him, but he knew the thing in the room was only taunting him; it could tear his entire limb off in an instant if it chose. Realizing he had only a moment to save himself, the spy gave himself to his companion’s grip and freed one hand so he could draw his rapier. Leaning down, he rammed the blade through the open window. He was met with a satisfying roar of pain and his leg came free.
Launceston dragged Carpenter roughly over the eaves and on to the creaking tiles. Alice cowered further along the roof. ‘Hurry,’ the scarred spy gasped. ‘It will be after us in a moment. How can it move so freely? What has happened to our defences?’
‘It is worse than that,’ the Earl said, helping his friend to his feet. He pointed down to the street where men in black cloaks and hats were running towards the house.
‘The world has gone mad,’ Carpenter muttered.
Precariously, he edged along the tiles behind the Earl. It was hot in the morning sun and the breeze caught the scent of the fields and woods to the south. Taking Alice’s hand, he whispered, ‘Do not look back, whatever happens.’
‘John, I do not want you to live in this world any longer,’ the woman replied tearfully.
The scarred spy cast an eye towards Launceston before replying. ‘We shall talk of these matters later. But for now we must escape. I fear there is no longer a safe place for us anywhere in London.’
How far does this plot spread? Carpenter wondered as he listened to the cries of the men spreading across Bankside. He couldn’t estimate the numbers, but he now knew there were more than the five they had encountered in the deadhouse.
‘We have no choice now,’ the Earl whispered as if he could read his companion’s thoughts. ‘We must run … hide.’
Glancing back, Carpenter saw a hooked, white hand reaching over the eaves.
‘Where do we go from here?’ Alice asked, terrified.
He nodded towards a thatched cottage next to the lodging house. ‘We jump.’
Before the woman could protest, Carpenter gripped her hand tightly and propelled her towards the edge of the roof.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Keep watch? For whom?’ baffled, Nathaniel examined the wash of faces streaming along the nave of St Paul’s. Gentlemen displayed the fine silk linings of their cloaks and cutpurses slyly eyed the gullible and the rich. Merchants and lawyers ambled with clients, servants swapped gossip and usurers barked for trade. The din echoed up to the cathedral’s vaulted roof, tongues from across Europe colliding with accents from all England, Scotland and Ireland. Deals were negotiated, bargains made, crimes and conspiracies planned and meetings held. Despite the threat of the plague, Paul’s Walk was busier than any nearby street.
‘Watch for anyone watching me,’ Will replied under his breath. He kept his head down, trying to lose himself in the throng. Every sense buzzed. He edged through the press of bodies, the sweet smell of incense mingling with the sour sweat of the herd. Here and there, bright afternoon sun slanting through the stained-glass windows threw rainbows across the honey-coloured stone, small points of beauty in the middle of confusion.
Will located Sir Francis Walsingham’s final resting place with ease. Many had forgotten the location, but that sad, understated funeral had been burned into his memory as the point when everything changed.
As the old spymaster’s second cousin, Thomas, had hinted at Kit’s funeral, the lettering stood out on the unmarked stone flag that lay above the grave, despite the numerous feet that had trudged across it in the days since it had been penned. Squatting beside the steady flow of passers-by, the spy read what had been clearly scrawled in desperation: In the beginning was the Word.
Under beginning and Word had been drawn a tiny circle with a line through it: Marlowe’s private signature for his closest friend, a message for Will’s eyes only. A code? The line came from the Gospel of John and continued: And the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
What had Marlowe been trying to tell him, and what was the relevance of the double signature of bisected circles? Had Kit meant to highlight the two words — beginning and Word?
‘Will?’ Nathaniel hissed in warning. Half standing, Will peered through the stream of people to see three stern-faced men moving purposefully through t
he crowd towards the grave, their gaze fixed on Nathaniel.
‘Come,’ the spy whispered. Keeping low, he weaved through the crowd with Nat close behind him. When they reached the great east door, he glanced back and saw the glowering men had caught sight of him. Now in no doubt as to their intention, Will watched them thrusting their way through the bodies in his direction.
‘Who are they?’ the young assistant said with a note of concern. ‘More cuckolded husbands seeking recompense?’
‘Would that they were. Run, Nat. I fear it would not do to encounter those three now.’
The churchyard was just as crowded as the nave. Men haggled for business, raising their voices to drown out the preachers bellowing their prophecies of the End-Times to small clutches of the devout. As he ran past, Will snatched a handful of the cheap, sensational pamphlets from one of the sellers and flung them up into the air. The fluttering sheets only adding to the confusion, as the cursing seller scrambled to gather them up.
The two men raised angry cries from all quarters as they shouldered their way through the throng. Glancing back, Will saw the three pursuers had now drawn their rapiers.
‘Stop them!’ one of the men yelled. ‘Thieves!’
A brave soul dressed in a flamboyant, expensive cloak stepped forward to apprehend the fugitives. Before he could utter a sound, Will had knocked him flat with one punch. But others were already moving in to answer the call.
‘This does not bode well,’ the assistant said, glancing around uneasily.
‘Nat, where is your sense of adventure?’ Will unsheathed his sword as he ran, flashing it back and forth to clear a path.
‘I left it in the box where I keep my wish for an early grave,’ the young man gasped, trying to keep up with his master.
Will came to a halt at the line of carts and horses trundling along the rutted street. On the other side was the jumbled sprawl of houses and filthy alleys south of Maiden Lane where he knew they would be able to lose themselves if they gained a little distance.
Glancing around for a likely opportunity, he saw heads turned suddenly away from the street, man after man crossing himself and muttering prayers. Even before he smelled the sickening spoiled-eggs stench, he knew what was coming.
As the death-cart trundled into view, Nathaniel too tried to turn away, but Will grabbed him and said, ‘This is no time to be worrying about your mortal soul, my friend. If we are fortunate there will be time enough to make amends to God.’
Grabbing the assistant by the scruff, the spy hauled him into the flow of carts. The angry calls of the carters cracking their whips and yanking on the reins to steady their horses drowned out Nathaniel’s protestations.
‘Not a moment to lose, Nat,’ Will said, eyeing the three men who had just broken through the confusion to reach the cathedral gates. He dragged the young man down the centre of the street in between the rows of carts. They came to the death-cart where the driver and his assistant sat on the bench with their heads bowed, their drawn faces scarred by the things they had been forced to witness. In the back, the corpses were piled high, tightly wrapped in stained sheets.
As Will ducked by, he flicked the tip of his rapier into the horse’s flank.
The beast reared up, whinnying in shock. Up too went the cart, the bodies tumbling like sacks of grain into the road, the driver and assistant both flung from their bench. The horse close behind also reared to avoid the grisly cargo dumped in its path, and within a moment beasts all around were skittering wildly, the carters fighting to keep them under control as their wagons swerved and ground to a halt. Along the edges of the street, men and women were shouting and calling to others to come and see the spectacle.
Will kept a tight grip on Nathaniel, dragging him under a cart to the other side of the street. He allowed himself one glance back to see the three pursuers caught up in the crush, before squeezing through the raucous mob and away into the quiet alleys beyond.
Racing along a convoluted path among the houses, he finally brought Nathaniel to a halt beside an old beer barrel where a dog sheltered from the day’s heat. A pall of smoke hung over the still alleys from the fires smouldering outside many of the homes. The Lord Mayor had directed that all refuse should be burned three times a week to help limit the spread of the plague. No one wandered these streets. Most of the traders’ premises were shut and the familiar cry of ‘What do ye lack?’ had been silenced. Used to the constant din of London, the thunder of hammers on anvils, the booming of the workshops, the shouting and singing and fighting and streets near-packed from wall to wall with people and animals, Will found the scene unaccountably eerie. London held its breath so death would not notice it.
Hands on his knees, Nathaniel sucked in gulps of air. ‘Who were those men?’ he gasped.
Will continued to search the smoke-clogged alley for any sign of pursuit. He knew that from now on he would never be able to rest. ‘Someone would prefer that the murder of Kit Marlowe remain a closed book,’ he replied. Had Thomas Walsingham mentioned the defaced grave at the playwright’s funeral to draw him into the open? Will wondered. Or had some other dark power decided that spies could no longer roam free in London? Step by step, they were being whittled back.
‘Nat, I have work for you, if you can bear to be in this foul, disease-ridden city a moment longer,’ the spy began.
The assistant eyed his master suspiciously, wondering what was to come next.
‘In his letter, Kit said: The truth lies within. But seek the source of the lies without. The first sentence clearly implies he had hidden a message within the play he sent me. The second …’ Will raised one finger as he turned over his conclusion to be sure it was correct. ‘The lies refers to the story. A fiction. What Kit meant was that we should look in the world around us for the origin of his story of Faustus. If I am correct that will point us in the direction of the answers we need.’
‘There were some plays from abroad about Faust, yes?’ The words were muffled as the assistant covered his mouth and nose to keep out the death-stench.
‘Perhaps. Perhaps there is more to it than that. And I want you to find the answer for me. There are scholars who know these things in London. Seek them out.’ Will clapped a hand on the young man’s shoulder.
‘And you? If even the great and famous Will Swyfte can be hunted in the streets of London I would think you would want to find a safe bolt-hole.’
‘Of course not, Nat. That is exactly what they would expect me to do.’ Though his eyes glittered like ice, Will grinned. ‘First, I go to find John and Robert at our agreed meeting place to share what we all have discovered. And then I ride to the very source of this danger and these lies — Nonsuch Palace.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
‘Who murdered my friend?’ Will demanded, bursting into the candlelit chamber with the big mercenary Sinclair at his heels, blood streaming from his nose.
Roaring, the bodyguard lunged for the spy until his master, Sir Robert Cecil, flapped a diffident hand to halt him in his tracks. ‘Leave him. Master Swyfte is searching for a length of rope to hang himself,’ the spymaster said.
Reluctantly, Sinclair retreated, closing the door as he went, but his parting glance left Will in no doubt that retribution was already being planned.
Like its owner, the chamber was filled with shadows that hid a multitude of unpleasant secrets. Plain walnut panelling contained the gloom that pressed in against the single candle in the centre of a large table swamped with papers. There was a chair, a bench and two stools, but no other comforts. Cold, grey ashes cascaded out of a Kentish stone fireplace on the far wall. Despite the heat of the summer night, it was not warm.
Will had expected some resistance when he crossed the moonlit hunting grounds on the last leg of his three-hour ride from London. But as he rode down the sweeping lane to the turreted gatehouse, all was peaceful. Old Henry’s legacy, the grand brick and stone lodge, sprawled beyond, candles gleaming in the windows. The guards allowed him into the in
ner court without a second glance and the only jarring note was the stark gallows erected to execute any member of the court displaying signs of the plague. Death was the great leveller. Even a royal heart was afflicted with fear of the end.
As the spy made his way through the thrum of servants to Cecil’s chamber on the second floor of the western wing, he found the familiar rhythms of court life troublingly incongruous. The palace appeared untouched by the tensions unfolding in the city.
His ermine-fringed black gown flapping, Cecil went to the window and opened it a little, then stood with his back to Will looking out over the hunting grounds. ‘It is too warm in here. Summer comes up hard, and the beekeepers say it will be hot.’
‘I have no interest in the passing of the seasons. I want-’
‘I know what you want,’ the spymaster snapped, half turning to fix a cold eye on his agent. ‘You waste your time and your breath. What is one death compared to the two thousand victims of the plague this month alone in London?’
‘All deaths are not equal.’ Leaning across the large table, the spy pointed an accusatory finger at his master. ‘Christopher Marlowe was a loyal servant to the Queen, and to England. He sacrificed his pleasures and all his potential to do your work, and the work of your predecessor, Sir Francis. And the fame he achieved for his writing will echo down the years-’
‘Pfft. What use are writers?’ Cecil waved a hand as if swatting a fly.
‘Nevertheless, he deserves more than this lack of concern I find at every turn.’ Will took a breath to steady himself. ‘I would know who ordered his death. And why.’
Clasping his hands behind his back, the spymaster held his head at an aloof angle, but made sure he kept the table between himself and his visitor. ‘Marlowe had few friends,’ he said scornfully. ‘He was barely trustworthy. Time and again the powers of this office were required to save him from punishment. Theft. Deception. The propagation of his unseemly religious views. His inappropriate liaisons with young men. The stabbings and the beatings caused by his vile temper. And on, and on.’
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