The Scar-Crow Men soa-2

by Mark Chadbourn

  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-Grace, 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 to 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.

  Carpenter cast a sideways glance at their new companion and whispered, ‘He has had a brush with dark forces. Not the Unseelie Court, yet, but he will need to be inducted into our understanding of their ways soon, or his wits will be at risk.’

  Will felt a note of compassion for Strangewayes. He had seen more than one spy destroyed by the realization that the world was a truly terrifying place. ‘Very well. We will not turn away a strong sword-arm. And how goes the search for our killer of spies?’

  ‘We have failed to find him,’ Launceston replied in his whispery voice. ‘The last name on the list was crossed out, despite our best efforts.’ Carpenter looked away, his cheeks flushed.

  ‘And yet the defences of England still stand,’ Will mused. ‘He searches for one more victim, then. An unknown.’ He looked around the group. ‘It may be one of us here who will fulfil his task, and unleash all hell upon this land. We must be on our guard.’

  ‘And now?’ Meg asked, already knowing the answer.

  Will swung himself into the saddle and proclaimed, ‘And now to Nonsuch, and blood, and vengeance.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  ‘PRAY DRAW NEAR, GENTLEFOLK, FOR THIS SPECTACLE BEGINS. Witness now, a tale told, in homely verse and music plain, of England now and England then, when knights in silver were compelled to brave the perils of the night.’ The player boomed his speech with a flamboyant sweep of his right arm. His mask was plain white save for two eyeholes topped with a mane of peacock feathers, his cloak, doublet and hose all crimson. Prowling in front of the painted backdrop of a moonlit grove, he levelled one pointed finger at the audience with an air of menace. ‘See now two faces, and two worlds, and ponder which is true. Sun or moon, or man or maid, the mirror or its reflection. For hidden in these paltry words lies the secret of your existence.’

  Will stepped into the back of the Great Hall at Nonsuch Palace as the player’s introductory words died away. His hood pulled up to preserve a sense of mystery, he wore a full-face black mask with gold around the eyeholes and the grinning mouth. He kept one hand upon his rapier but the audience paid him no heed, entranced by the first haunting chords of the music played on viol, hautboy and spinet.

  The spy had been informed that the Earl of Essex had funded this lavish masque, but it had been left to the poet Sir Edmund Spenser to devise its themes and story. He had named his work The Maske of Heart’s Desire, a title that Will found oddly unsettling.

  Yet he could not deny that Sir Edmund had created the most breathtaking masque that any royal palace had ever seen. The painted scenery, which stretched from floor to high in the shadows of the vaulted roof, covered every wall of the Great Hall so that each member of the court felt part of the unfolding spectacle. The silvery moonlight limning the ancient oaks of the greenwood and the starry sky sweeping like blue velvet above was so delicately painted that it created the illusion that the entire masque was taking place outdoors. Adding to that perception, there were trees standing throughout the hall, with wooden trunks and branches and paper leaves.

  Looking around, Will guessed all the members of the court and royal household were there, everyone wearing a mask that they had laboured over for days, adding pointed noses or painting them with humorous or frightening visages. So colourful were their fine cloaks, doublets, skirts and bodices that in the candlelight the hall appeared to shimmer as if filled with rubies, emeralds, s
apphires, opals and amethyst.

  The Queen watched the proceedings from her throne, a large ruff of white and silver framing her powdered face, her skirts and bodice ivory so that she resembled one of the snow-people the children made on Cheapside. Will thought how ill she looked, her eyes heavy-lidded, her head drooping down into her shoulders. He saw none of the vivacity that she had always displayed in public.

  After a few moments, the spy was joined by Meg, Launceston, Carpenter and Strangewayes, all wearing the masks that Grace had prepared for them. They had changed in Will’s old chamber after Grace had distracted the guards so they could slip through the palace gates.

  ‘How many here are Scar-Crow Men, their masks hiding yet further masks behind which is nothing but death?’ the spy mused. ‘Their plot is in its final hours. They will be alert to any threat, and so we must be on our guard.’

  ‘Then let us not delay,’ Meg murmured. Shaped to resemble the face of a doll, her mask was scarlet, as were her hood and cloak and skirts so that she resembled a pool of blood, a threat and a promise.

  A shorter man sidled up, unruly brown hair topping a mask that had been so quickly and crudely completed it was impossible to tell if it was the face of a cat or a dog. ‘Will? ’Tis you?’

  ‘Nat, you would recognize me if I were disguised as a tree in a forest.’ The spy felt a surge of warmth at seeing his young assistant again.

  ‘Perhaps it is the whiff of recklessness that I smell.’ The younger man paused and then added less caustically, ‘It is good to see you, Will. When you survive such odds, even I may start to believe you truly are England’s greatest spy.’