The Scar-Crow Men soa-2

by Mark Chadbourn

  ‘Steady, Nat. That came dangerously close to a compliment. But enough pleasantries. I have work for you — to keep Grace safe and away from any trouble that may ensue.’ Will phrased his words blandly, but behind them was a deep worry that Nathaniel and Grace might encounter the Unseelie Court. He had seen the wits of strong men shattered by meeting the supernatural foe. Though his memory had created a callus, Nat still bore the scars deep inside him of his own brush with the Fay, the spy knew, and those deadened thoughts must never be stirred into life. Grace was a different case. After her experiences under the Reims seminary, she appeared more resilient, although the spy was sure Fabian had shielded her from much of the Unseelie Court’s malign influence. Will could not bear to think of harm coming to either of them.

  ‘That is like herding cats,’ Nathaniel grumbled, ‘but there is a more pressing matter.’ He leaned in and whispered urgently, ‘I have spent these past hours deciphering Kit Marlowe’s hidden message in his work, as you showed me. You must read it now.’

  ‘Well done, Nat,’ the spy exclaimed. ‘You have done me proud. Hurry to your chamber. I will meet you there.’

  Will could imagine Nathaniel grinning with pride behind his mask. But before the young assistant left, Launceston lunged forward to grab his wrist. The Earl, his ghastly features hidden behind a placid yellow mask with a black stripe down the centre, turned over the hand of the younger man and studied the palm and fingers.

  ‘What is it, Robert?’ Will asked.

  ‘A notion,’ the Earl muttered. ‘I must think.’

  Unsettled, Nathaniel dragged his hand free and hurried away. Carpenter, who wore a sapphire mask with black circles around the eyes, gave a questioning glance at his companion. Launceston ignored the gaze.

  ‘We all have a part to play here,’ Will said, looking around the group. ‘John, Robert … you have been diligent in your pursuit of the one who murders our associates. I believe he will be here, somewhere, searching for his final victim. Do what you can to find him, but take care lest you become the sacrificial lamb that brings England’s defences down.’

  Nodding, the Earl and the scar-faced man melted into the audience.

  The black-masked spy leaned into Meg and Strangewayes and whispered, ‘Should we fail in our tasks here, the Unseelie Court will sweep in like a storm. There will be hell upon this earth in the blink of an eye. We must be prepared to fight to the last.’

  ‘I am ready,’ Tobias muttered. ‘If I die this day, so be it. No great loss.’ His mask was a deep forest green with gold tracings of leaves all over it.

  ‘You have suffered a blow, my friend,’ Will said. ‘You have been offered a perspective on life that no man should have if he wishes to sleep peacefully again. But I can see you have a resilience that matches your arrogance, and so is great indeed. These feelings will pass and you will be strong again.’

  Strangewayes seemed surprisingly touched by these words.

  ‘Our job is to find the Corpus-Scythe that will destroy the Scar-Crow Men. It will be in the hands of our hated Enemy, and I feel that at this late stage in their plot they will be closer than we dare imagine,’ Will continued. ‘While the last of the defences still hold by a thread, they will not be able to walk freely among us, or draw near to our Queen. Yet they have found a nest somewhere at hand where they make ready. It is my hope that Kit Marlowe’s cipher may guide us to it.’

  The haunting music of the introductory passage transformed into an exuberant swirl of fiddle and pipe. Laughing, excited, the audience lined up along both sides of the Great Hall, dividing into couples ready to dance the pavane.

  ‘We will begin our search,’ Meg said to Will, holding out her hand for the spy to kiss. With her emotions hidden behind her red mask, the spy found the nod of her head enigmatic. ‘Come, Master Strangewayes,’ she said, waving one finger at the emerald-masked man. ‘You have the look of the Irish about you. Let us see if you have the heart.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Bounding up the echoing stone steps towards Nathaniel’s chamber, Will drew to a sharp halt at the first window. Sparks of red and gold light glimmered through the diamond panes. The spy felt uneasy as he undid the latch and threw the window open to the warm, fragrant evening.

  Barely a sliver of red sun lit the horizon and the shadows now reached across the still hunting grounds which surrounded Nonsuch Palace. In the black line of trees beyond the grassland, bursts of fire came and went. No longer cowed by England’s fierce resistance, the Unseelie Court waited. Leaning out, Will followed the trail of flickering lights in the growing gloom. More than he had ever seen before, they reached around the palace on both sides. An army was there, waiting to sweep in once the final defence fell.

  Running on, Will arrived at his assistant’s door and knocked lightly before pushing his way in. Caught in the light of the candle on the trestle, Grace stood with her back to Nathaniel, her arms folded, her chin stuck out defiantly. She glared at the spy. ‘You told Nat to look after me?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I will not be kept locked up like a child because you fear I will knock my elbows or my knees.’

  ‘It is your neck I am concerned about.’ Will tried to dampen the annoyed frustration he felt. He had little patience for his friend’s temper at this time. ‘You will do as you are told, Grace. When it comes to saving your life, I will act as I see fit and I will brook no arguments from you.’

  The woman turned on him, her small hands bunching into little fists of rage. ‘How much have you kept from me these long years?’

  Will felt a cold, hard stone form in his chest. Was this the moment he had long feared? For years he had wrestled with the dilemma of how to keep Grace and Nathaniel close so that he might protect them from the threat of the Unseelie Court, yet how to shield them from the knowledge of the same when the supernatural forces swirled around him like a storm? His two friends deserved to live normal lives, but he had always known that sooner or later the pressures would tear apart his carefully constructed facade. ‘This is not the time,’ he said flatly.

  ‘I cannot believe that mewling, laughing thing that we have locked away and fed on scraps was accepted as Grace,’ Nathaniel muttered. Will could see the same suspicion in his young assistant’s eyes that Grace took no pains to hide. They both felt betrayed. ‘’Tis the Devil’s work.’

  ‘There are devils and there are devils, Nat,’ the woman said. ‘In Reims, I saw and heard terrible things, but the ones who held me … they are as shadows in my mind.’

  With concern, Will glanced at his assistant, whose features darkened as he tried to recall old fears mercifully locked in his mind.

  ‘Though I can barely recall my captors, you knew them,’ Grace continued, jabbing a finger towards Will. ‘You have been keeping secrets from both of us, thinking that they would frighten us out of our wits. And, I would wager, secrets that involve the disappearance of my sister Jenny.’ Will was stung by what he saw in her cold eyes.

  ‘I am a spy. It is my business to keep secrets. There are many things that I do not tell either of you. And that is how it will remain.’

  ‘Very well then. So you set yourself against me, after all this time.’ The woman turned her back and marched into the shadows in the corner of the chamber. ‘I am not a child any more. It is not for you to decide what is right for me. From this moment on, I will do all in my power to find out the truths that you know, and I will accept the consequences of my actions, for good or ill.’

  Putting aside his worry, Will turned to his assistant. ‘Nat, I need to see your good works with Kit’s cipher. Time is short, and this entire conversation may be moot before the night is out. But you should both be careful what you wish for.’

  Nodding in understanding, Nathaniel gave a placatory smile and beckoned Will to the trestle where the dog-eared play sat at the edge of the candlelight. There was a quill and a pot of ink, and a single sheaf marked with the assistant’s precise handwriting. The black ink had splashe
d across the table and Nathaniel plucked a rag to wipe it up before attempting to clean his stained fingers.

  Pulling up a stool, the spy studied what Nathaniel had written.

  ‘There is one last section I have not yet deciphered,’ the young man said. ‘But I will do that forthwith.’ He leaned over his master’s shoulder and added, ‘I know not what help it will be. It makes no sense to me.’

  The spy read aloud: ‘As defences fall, the Enemy makes a nest in plain sight of the Queen. Take heed. They hide in mirrors. Four candles will mark the way, at the rose and cardinal, a full fathom deep. Beware.’

  The magnitude of Marlowe’s message dawned on Will, and he sat back and repeated in an awed whisper, ‘They hide in mirrors.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  ‘What do you know? Do not keep it to yourself, damn you,’ the sapphire-masked Carpenter growled to Launceston as they eased through the shadows on the edges of the Great Hall. The audience’s attention was gripped by a beautiful blonde-haired young woman sleeping on a bed of red roses and blue forget-me-nots while masked children dressed as elves gambolled around her. Among the gnarled trees, a tall man in a black cape and a white beak-nosed mask watched the sleeping maiden with an air of menace. Low, tremulous notes from a pipe-player added to the scene’s unsettling feel.

  ‘When I have something to say, I will say it,’ the Earl replied, thoughtfully looking up at the staring eye of a pale moon constructed out of candles, mirrors and white gauze.

  ‘Over these past years I have learned all your deep currents. You saw something on Swyfte’s man. What was it?’

  ‘In good time. These thoughts must settle on me like the morning dew on the meadows. Only then will I know if there is any value to them.’

  Riddled with impatience, Carpenter cursed under his breath.

  The Earl looked across the sea of bizarre masks until his gaze fell upon the short, hunchbacked figure of Cecil standing alone, familiar even in disguise. His black robes were topped by the face of a grinning ape.

  ‘Where is Sinclair?’ the sallow-faced spy mused.

  ‘That slab of beef? Probably roughing up some poor soul for a handful of pennies.’

  Pausing beneath an unfurled banner of silver stars against a midnight-blue background, Launceston slowly searched the audience.

  Carpenter snorted derisively. ‘You are a strange little man. Those beady eyes, always watching, watching, worming your way inside heads to chew on brains.’

  The Earl gently touched the forehead of his yellow mask. ‘Because all men are governed by those deep currents you claim to see in me. Some are beyond my understanding, however much I strive to know them. Young lovers. The fathers and mothers of children. The men I understand see little value in compassion. They do not comprehend love, or faith, or the softer emotions. They are hollowed out. Or mares, ridden by devils.’

  Carpenter watched the Irish woman and that red-headed clot-pole Strangewayes slip out of the Great Hall, having completed one circuit. Off to search the deserted palace, he presumed. When he noticed his companion was still gazing intently around the hall, he snapped, ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘Patience, thou flap-mouthed ninny. Let us consider what we have learned. The killer of spies is a man who perceives his victims as less than human, for who could commit such atrocities if the victims were seen as father, brother, son?’

  Carpenter felt unsettled by his companion’s perception. He knew the mind of the butcher too well. ‘Yes, a God-fearing Catholic perhaps, who has let his beliefs drive reason from his mind. Who believes he is doing God’s work.’

  ‘Hence the angel’s wings.’ Through the eyeholes, Launceston’s eyes flashed. ‘A Catholic who has been forced to deny his faith. Who lives a secret life.’

  ‘Many do.’

  The yellow-masked spy continued to look purposefully around the entranced audience. Searching for someone in particular, the scarred man thought. ‘In the wrong man, these things build, like barrels filled with still-fermenting beer that blows the lids right off. Why, to contain such heartfelt beliefs can drive a man mad. And where, in all of England, would such a man most have to hide his beliefs?’

  ‘Here, in the heart of government.’

  Launceston nodded. ‘Amid the very persecutors of his faith. Such a person would show the world the visage he saw on those he hated.’

  ‘A devil’s mask.’

  ‘A man who pretends to be a devil, but thinks himself an angel.’

  The play paused for the moment with the maiden awoken by her menacing suitor, the elves scattering in fear. With the excitement deferred, the musicians teased the members of the court with another lively dance. The fiddles began, the hautboy rang out.

  ‘But who would be capable of such things?’ the scar-faced man asked.

  ‘Who, indeed?’

  While the Earl studied the lines of men and women forming on both sides of the hall, Carpenter noticed a woman in pale yellow skirts and bodice waving from the doorway leading out of the Great Hall. Even in her mask and in the half-light, he recognized his love, Alice Dalingridge. She had clearly seen through his disguise too. Yet something in her frantic waving alarmed him. The sapphire-masked spy thrust his way through the throng. When he reached the door, he was troubled to discover Alice was no longer there.

  Stepping outside the hall, he heard the scuffle of footsteps in the stillness ahead. He ran through the antechamber and up the four steps into the long corridor. Anxious, he noticed all the candles had been snuffed out. At the far end of the corridor, the scarred man glimpsed a ghost, a whirl of pale yellow skirts, gone in an instant.

  ‘Alice?’ Carpenter called. His voice rustled along the walls and disappeared into the dark.

  He felt his skin prickle with apprehension.

  His chest tightening, the scarred man raced along the inky corridor to where he had seen the pale form. He skidded to a halt next to the steps down to the kitchens, smelling the spicy aromas of that evening’s pork.

  Grasping a candle in its iron holder, Carpenter lit it with his flint. Apprehensively, he watched the flame dance as he held it in front of the draughts rising up from below. He could hear no sound. Drawing his rapier, he descended.

  He wanted to call Alice’s name, but resisted. Better to go stealthily, he thought. Refusing to think about what might be ahead, he settled into his five senses, the grip of cold steel in his hand, the echoes of his footsteps, the dancing shadows, the rising scents of baked bread and strawberry wine, and the taste … the iron taste of fear in his mouth. But not for himself.

  In the caverns of his mind, her name rang out: Alice … Alice … and the echoes of promises made in the dark.

  Waves of heat from the crackling ovens washed up the stairs. With sweat beading his brow, the spy eased into the echoing kitchens, looking all around. Shadows drifted across the brick-vaulted ceiling. A row of trestles ran down the middle of the chamber, still streaked where they had been wiped down by the kitchen workers after the meal. Sacks of flour lined one wall. Fragrant cured hams hung from hooks overhead. One swung gently from side to side.

  At first the spy refused to accept what his eyes told him. ‘Let her go,’ he whispered. Tossing the candle to one side, he tore off his blue mask and set it on the end of the trestle.

  In front of the ovens, the black-cloaked man in the devil mask held Alice with one arm around her waist, the other holding a dagger to her neck. His angel wings cast a grotesque shadow on the orange bricks behind him. Alice’s mask had fallen away, and she stared at the spy with wide, terrified eyes.

  ‘It is me you want,’ Carpenter urged. ‘You have used Alice to draw me out, and now you have me. Set her free so you can complete your vile business and loose all hell upon this place.’

  ‘No, John!’ the woman cried, tears burning her cheeks.

  His head spinning from fear for his love, the spy forced himself to remain calm. Making a show of it, he sheathed his rapier, but inside his cloak his lef
t hand closed on his dagger unseen. ‘See, I am unarmed,’ he said. ‘Set her free.’

  Carpenter’s eyes locked intently on Alice’s.

  Keeping the dagger pricking the woman’s neck, the devil-masked man unfurled his other arm and beckoned for the spy to step forward. With a shudder, Carpenter saw a droplet of blood appear on his love’s pale skin.

  The scar-faced man stepped forward, presenting his chest for the blade. ‘One final time: set her free now, or so help me I will carve you like those hams above.’

  ‘John, go now,’ Alice cried. ‘If you die, I do not want to live.’

  ‘Hush. Your life has more value than mine.’ Carpenter fixed his gaze on the slits in the devil mask. The eyes within were tinged with madness.

  Sobbing, Alice was barely able to catch her breath.

  For one long moment, two pairs of eyes were locked in concert. Then, fluidly, the devil-masked man hurled the woman aside, thrusting his dagger towards the spy’s chest.

  Alice screamed.

  Lurching away, Carpenter sought to bring his own blade out from beneath his cloak, but he was an instant too slow. He sensed death’s cold breath on his neck.

  And then the spy felt Alice’s hands thrust him aside.

  Stumbling to one knee, Carpenter jerked his head up to witness the devil-masked man’s blade plunge into Alice’s heart. The black stain spread too fast across her pale yellow dress. For one moment that seemed eternal, Carpenter was locked in hell.

  Alice had given her life for his.

  His love’s startled eyes fell on the spy, and a final, sad smile sprang to her lips. As she slipped to the floor, pulling the dagger from the hands of her murderer, the spy caught her and cradled her in his arms. Tears seared his eyes.

  Seeing his advantage was gone, the devil-masked man ran, the crack of his footsteps echoing off the brick walls.