The Scar-Crow Men soa-2

by Mark Chadbourn

  Dismounting, Will led the horse over the cobbles on the last leg of his journey. Black-robed students walked in pairs, their tricorn hats lowered as the young men engaged in earnest conversation. Even in the street, the sweet smell of incense hung in the air.

  From the shadows of an alley, the spy watched the comings and goings at the door to the English College. He knew it would not be difficult to infiltrate the seminary. In London, Marlowe had used to joke that there were more English spies studying the catechism in Reims than honest Catholics. Escaping with his life would be a different matter.

  What terrible secrets had his old friend discovered here?

  Tying up his horse, Will adopted an exhausted shuffle for the benefit of watchful eyes and made his way to the seminary.

  The door was opened by a young priest, perhaps around twenty, with jet-black hair, a sallow complexion and a pointed nose that gave his features an unsettlingly avian cast.

  ‘Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour when you are undoubtedly preparing for your evening meal,’ the spy said with a bow. ‘But I am just arrived in Reims after a long journey from my home.’

  ‘From England?’ the priest enquired, his English heavily accented with French.

  Will nodded. ‘My name is Francis Clavell. Like many of my countrymen, I am a victim of the bastard heretic Queen. Her persecution has driven my family from their home. My brother was slaughtered in a ditch, my sister forced to endure the most terrible depravities.’ The spy lowered his head and covered his eyes, eliciting a comforting hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘We have all heard tales of the atrocities inflicted on the Christian men and women of England,’ the young man said gently. ‘This will change, and soon. It is God’s will.’

  ‘In the depths of his grief, my father dispatched me here to enter the priesthood so I can return and do whatever is in my power to right these terrible wrongs.’

  The priest hesitated. ‘My friend, we are already hard-pressed with the flood of poor souls arriving at our door with stories similar to your own. We have to turn many away, and the ones who are admitted are young and open to the teachings we deliver within these walls.’

  From his cloak, Will pulled the pouch that Northumberland had given him before he set off for France. He held it up and jangled it. ‘My father is a wealthy man, a merchant who provides timber for England’s great and growing fleet. His heart is set upon my entering the priesthood. And he will pay well to wipe away the stain of misery that now lies upon my family.’

  With a sweep of his arm, the young man stepped aside to admit Will into the well-lit hall. ‘Father Mathias will be able to make a judgement upon your request,’ he said warmly. ‘Wait here and I will see if he is available.’

  The scent of candle smoke mingled with the earthy aroma of the broth being prepared in the kitchens. Everywhere was silent. Will knew the offer of gold would buy his way into the seminary. He would have a few days’ grace to conduct his business before the authorities began to ask questions about the non-arrival of more funds. He hoped it would be enough.

  Within moments, the young priest returned to guide the spy into the chamber of Father Mathias, a portly man with a red face and currant eyes. The small room was panelled with aged oak that made it appear dark despite the two candles positioned on either side of the hearth. A gold cross gleamed on one wall.

  Will explained his predicament again, but it was clear the older priest was barely listening. Only when the money pouch was deposited on the trestle did his features suggest interest. The man restrained a smile and in faltering English gave an offer of a few days’ accommodation and an opportunity to observe the teachings in the seminary before any final decision was made.

  Father Mathias ordered the young priest, who was introduced as Hugh, to look after Will and make sure the rules of the seminary were made clear. A small chamber, barely large enough for a bed, was made ready for the spy next to Hugh’s room.

  As they made their way to the evening meal, the young priest appeared excited at the prospect of fresh conversation, and gabbled brightly about his brothers and sisters who worked on the family farm not far from the border with Navarre. The spy said little, listening with one ear while observing the other priests as they waited to enter the great vaulted hall where trestles were set end to end in two long rows with benches on each side. Separate trestles were arranged at the upper end of the hall for the senior priests.

  Heads bowed, the students stood for the blessing in the lush golden light of the candles burning in the two iron chandeliers overhead. They ate in silence, simple fare of root vegetables in broth, and water to drink. Will estimated there were about a hundred priests, some of them in their twenties, a handful older, but most in their teens. The spy imagined Kit sitting at this very table, thinking the same thoughts as he used his guile to gain the acceptance of his peers. The playwright had had the luxury of time in which to earn the trust that would make lips loose and bring secrets to the surface. As Will chewed on a knob of bread, the weight of his responsibilities pressed down upon him.

  After the meal, Hugh helped the spy settle in his room. The young priest was likeable, with a quick wit and a pleasant humour. ‘You will enjoy your time here, Francis,’ he said as he lit a candle and placed it upon the ledge beneath the small, arched window, ‘but the teachings you receive will change your life and the lives of all those you encounter.’

  ‘That is my hope,’ Will replied.

  ‘But you will be worked hard. There is no time for rest. Our studies consist of two parts. Firstly, the trivium — grammar, in which you will learn to read, write and speak Latin, then rhetoric, where you will discover the powerful voice God gave you for drawing the masses into the heart of the Church. And then logic, by which you will understand how to deliver strong arguments. The other half of our studies consists of the quadrivium — music, arithmetic, astronomy and geometry. Through this you will understand the world God has created, and his plan for it.’

  ‘I have spent my life attempting to understand God’s plan for the world,’ the spy responded truthfully, though he hid the irony.

  ‘And there are, of course, prayers, and our study of the catechism, and reverent song and reflection. You will find meaning here, in a world that yearns for it.’ Hugh gave a shy smile.

  Stretching, Will said, ‘I would take a walk through my new home before I lay my head down. It will help me sleep, and it would be good to get to know the school before my studies begin.’

  Hugh’s face fell. ‘That is not possible. Very shortly the doors will be locked until first light. Under the orders of the old Cardinal, Louis de Guise, no priest is allowed to wander the halls of the seminary until first light.’

  ‘I am to be a prisoner, then?’ Will saw his plan failing before his eyes. He had imagined the night would be his best opportunity to explore the college and discover whatever Marlowe had found there. Any chances during daylight hours would be few and far between.

  Hugh crossed himself. ‘As God’s agents upon this earth, we are a prime target of the Adversary. Every day we must fight off subtle attacks upon our purity. Licentious thoughts. Uncharitable notions. But the night … that is the Devil’s time. He is at his strongest. For long years, there have been rumours that our greatest enemy walks the quiet halls at dark, seeking lone priests to seduce or destroy.’

  The spy pretended to examine the reflections of the candle flame in the window panes. The Church was riddled with devils from top to bottom, men consumed by desires for power or wealth who saw no wrong in manipulating believers to achieve worldly ends, he thought with bitter humour. Beside churchmen, even spies seemed honourable.

  ‘And so we must stay in our chambers, and hold on to our purity, and stay safe until light returns to the world,’ Hugh continued.

  Will wondered if there was indeed a devil stepping silently through the seminary at night, but he doubted it was the one the younger man imagined. How clever, then, to keep prying eyes shut awa
y. ‘Then I will sleep soundly,’ he said.

  Once the young priest had left, the spy did lie on his hard bed, but he knew he would not sleep soundly, if at all. ‘Time doth run with calm and silent foot, Shortening my days and thread of vital life,’ he muttered, once again recalling words from his friend’s play. The echoes hung eerily in the air. It was almost as if Marlowe had foreseen everything that lay ahead.

  Will struggled long and hard to find a solution to his new conundrum, but when his eyelids began to droop for a moment he was shocked alert by a weight pressing down upon him.

  Jenny’s pale, dead face lay cold and hard against his cheek, her arms around his chest, nails digging into his flesh. She felt like a bag of bones and smelled of the deep, dark earth. His limbs leaden, the spy did not have the strength to throw her off. Half turning his head, he saw her all-black eyes glinting in the light of the guttering candle flame.

  ‘Let me out,’ Mephistophilis whispered. Though the face of Will’s love remained impassive, the devil’s voice was filled with a hunger that Will had not heard before. ‘Set me free and I will help.’

  ‘And have the deaths of good if misguided men upon my conscience? Never.’

  The devil’s nails dug deeper. ‘Set me free. I can cause such mayhem here in this house of goodly men. I can bring their deepest fears up hard against them, and perhaps, when they see the darkness that dwells just beyond their doors, it will reaffirm their faith in the light.’

  The spy laughed at his tormentor’s attempts at manipulation. ‘Or perhaps it will destroy them. And then you will take joy in a blow struck against all that you oppose, and I will be the cause of it and it will haunt me to the end. Two birds, one stone.’

  The not-Jenny licked Will’s cheek slowly, a mockery of the creature’s seductive pose. The tongue felt rough and chill. ‘You do not know what I oppose, nor anything of my true nature. You hear the ruminations of small men and think them fact, when in truth you know nothing of the mysteries of life, of devils, of the Unseelie Court, of what you think magic, of anything that spins around your mundane existence. How could you — you are man, and men are like cattle locked up in the dark of a barn. When you try to make sense of the sounds from beyond the walls, you can only guess.’

  ‘Fair guesses, though.’ The spy tried to will strength into his arms, but he could not move them an inch. ‘I know your nature is to cause harm. Whether you are one of the devils the preachers warn us about, or something else entirely, I recognize evil.’

  Mephistophilis gave a scornful laugh. ‘There is no good nor evil in this world. There is only what you want and what you will do to achieve it. I want to be set free. You want to save the people of your homeland from the terrible harm that is about to be unleashed upon their heads. And you still say no?’

  Will was struck hard by the dilemma the devil presented to him. He felt lost, cut adrift from the moral certainties he had once enjoyed, and now he found it a trial to see right from wrong. There was only what he wanted, and how far he would go to achieve it.

  ‘You will disrupt the workings of the seminary, and allow me space to go about my business?’ the spy asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you must not kill.’

  Silence.

  ‘That is my only condition.’

  The laughter began low in the devil’s throat and rolled out to fill the chamber. ‘There are worse things than death, indeed.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  In the suffocating heat of the night, the sweat-slick man kneeled against the splintered post, whimpering. A large iron nail had been rammed through his left ear into the wood. Held fast, he was splattered with mud and dung from the crowd that had pelted him intermittently throughout the day for causing an affray in the nave of St Paul’s. His tears had long since dried along with the blood that encrusted his swollen lobe, but he could still muster a curse through his dry, split lips: ‘Damn you, Launceston. Carpenter, thou pig-swiver.’

  From the shadows edging the cobbled square outside Newgate Market, the two spies watched Jerome Pennebrygg with weary eyes.

  ‘How much longer must I sit here waiting for the plague to tug at my elbow?’ Carpenter balanced his throwing knife on the tip of his index finger.

  ‘Must I listen to your complaints all night, you mewling, idle-headed pumpion?’ the Earl protested. ‘Does the mouse throw itself upon the trap the moment the cheese has been set? These things demand patience.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say, you yeasty puttock. You have nowhere better to be.’

  ‘The woman,’ the pale man said with a faint sneer.

  ‘Yes, the woman. Alice and I are to meet and walk and talk and act like normal people for once, just for an evening, so we can pretend the world is not about to fall around our ears. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Launceston replied archly. ‘Take a wherry to Bankside. Watch a play. Dance at the Bull. Skip through the fields and pick wild flowers together.’

  Carpenter cursed.

  The Earl searched the dark around the market for any sign of movement. Though the stink of animal dung was still ripe in the warmth, the carts had long since departed, and the market-sellers had packed up the remnants of their corn and meal. In that busiest part of London, the few quiet hours were passing.

  ‘What if the devil-masked killer does not come tonight?’ Carpenter continued to grumble. ‘Do we nail Pennebrygg’s nose to the post tomorrow for a scuffle in Christ Church? And his other ear the day after, and so on until he looks like a pincushion?’

  ‘If need be.’

  ‘The killer may not come.’

  ‘All of London now knows Pennebrygg is suffering here. A religious man will certainly have heard of the outrage perpetrated in the cathedral.’

  ‘The murderer may have changed his plans. He might suspect a trap. He might not come for days, or weeks.’ Carpenter slipped his knife back into its sheath. ‘Meanwhile, we waste our time.’

  Sighing, Launceston turned to his companion and levelled his unblinking gaze. ‘The killer understands the movements of the heavens, like Dee, and works by the waxing and waning of that silver light,’ he said, pointing at the moon peeking out from behind a solitary cloud. His tone had the weary patience of an elderly teacher addressing a child. ‘Consider: Clement and Makepiece disappeared, presumed murdered, before the end of May. Gavell was slaughtered on the cusp of June, Shipwash in July. We are not overrun by white-skinned night-gaunts so the last of our defences still hold. No other murder has been committed, and now we have passed Lammastide. The apples have been bobbed, the horses garlanded and the harvests of August begun. The killer will come, before the moon is full.’

  Carpenter looked from the sky to the Earl, and then down to the cobbles, shrugging. ‘He might not,’ he mumbled.

  For another hour, the two spies watched.

  Carpenter saw the movement first. A shadow separated from the inky dark beneath the overhanging first floor of the grand house across the street, darting along the edge of the Great Conduit that supplied water to the city’s homes. Launceston drew his dagger. Pressing himself against the wall, the scarred man held his breath and watched the moonlit area around the post where Pennebrygg was slumped. No one could reach the spy without being seen.

  The figure crept to the edge of the cobbled square, the stark interplay of light and shadow gradually revealing a grotesque form, horned and angel-winged, floating in the dark. He moved so silently that Pennebrygg was not aware of his arrival.

  As Carpenter stared, he realized that he was looking at a masked man wearing voluminous black robes and a cloak. A knife glinted.

  ‘Ready?’ Launceston asked.

  Carpenter grew rigid. He saw another movement, this time on the other side of the square. A swirl of a cloak, a flourish of ivory skirts.

  Alice.

  The spy felt the blood drain from him. She had come looking for him, he was sure, and she was troubled. Her face was etched with c
oncern, her movements insistent as she looked around the square.

  Ice-cold, Carpenter’s breath grew hard in his chest. He looked from his love to the devil-masked man, who had seen the new arrival and had come to a halt on the edge of the shadows. The knife caught the light as it turned. Was the murderer thinking to attack Alice, kill her and then continue with his sickening ritual? Was he waiting until she had departed?

  Carpenter shuddered. What should he do?

  ‘The fool,’ Launceston spat. He turned from the woman to his companion and glared. ‘See what you have done.’

  The Unseelie Court’s agent had stepped back into the dark. With his heart thundering, the scarred man tried to pierce the gloom around the circle of moonlight.

  Casting half a glance at the muttering Pennebrygg, Alice stepped into the square and called softly, ‘John?’

  Carpenter made to step forward. The Earl flashed out an arm to hold his companion back. ‘This may be our only chance,’ he hissed. ‘Would you sacrifice all England for your love?’

  I would sacrifice all England and more, the scar-faced man thought.

  Barely had the notion crossed his mind, when he glimpsed the flutter of angelic wings behind the woman’s left shoulder. The fearful spy began to move forward as the murderer stalked towards Alice, his cruel blade ready to plunge into her back. Thrusting Launceston aside, Carpenter hurled himself out into the open, his rapier drawn.

  His love began to smile when she saw him.

  ‘Run!’ Carpenter bellowed. He saw the woman’s features grow taut, and feared he was too late.

  Instinctively, Alice darted to one side. The knife skimmed her shoulder under her cloak. With a shriek, she half turned to see the monstrous devil-mask looming over her, then she pulled up her spreading skirts and ran.

  The spy was flooded with relief, but only for a moment. Through the holes in the red mask, black eyes locked upon his. Carpenter saw understanding. Sickened, he knew exactly what was running through the cut-throat’s mind as the devilish figure spun round and set off after his disappearing love.