The Devil's Looking-Glass

by Mark Chadbourn

  Angels! Will was struck by the irony and grimaced. Devils, more like. He thought back along the years, to all the times when Dee had believed his magics had allowed him to commune with those higher beings. He claimed to have learned the Enochian language from them and had filled vast journals with their messages. All of it had been the manipulation of the Unseelie Court, there was no doubt now. Long had they played him, posing as angelic guardians whenever they appeared in his mirror, luring him into false security, subtly subverting his suspicions, until they could exert their control. Dee’s increasingly erratic behaviour, the voices that only he heard, his inability to find warmth even in a hot room: each a sign of the Unseelie Court’s influence which Will had witnessed before.

  Yet why did they now pursue him, if they were close to having him in their thrall?

  ‘Whatever afflicts the old man has spread to the crew,’ she continued. ‘They drift through their chores as if they are in a dream. Only Captain Duncombe retains his wits, and though he is a good-hearted man, there is little he can do.’

  ‘Have they harmed you?’

  ‘It is as if they do not even know I am aboard,’ she replied, with a note of indignation. ‘Dee tolerates me, I think, as long as I offer him comfort, but I know my influence is waning.’

  ‘And your destination?’

  She held out her hands. ‘As agreed, I have the course here, for you to follow. Perhaps your own captain can plot our eventual port of call.’ Glancing at the charts and captain’s journal on the sea chest beside her, she passed on the bearing. ‘Dee works his magics to try to speed us on,’ she added. Will saw unease flicker across her features. ‘Keep a steady course, my love. I would not have you lost to me.’

  He smiled as reassuringly as he could. ‘There will be good sack and a merry jig waiting for you when we finish this business, Mistress Meg.’

  ‘Oh, I expect much more than that, Master Swyfte,’ she replied with a twinkle. Some noise off caught her attention and she leaned in and whispered, ‘I must go. Soon, my love.’

  The mirror clouded over and Will’s own dark features loomed up in the glass. He bowed his head, hoping he had not doomed Meg as he had doomed so many others. With the passing of each day, he moved further away from the light, he realized. In the end, was he so different from the Unseelie Court?

  For a moment he struggled with his conscience, listening to the roar of the sea and the bright singing of the Tempest’s crew. Putting aside his doubts, he strode out of the cabin in search of Captain Courtenay.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE TRADE WINDS had stilled. Becalmed, the Tempest simmered under a merciless sun. On deck, sailors squatted, sullen-faced, in what little shade they could find, their sodden shirts clinging to their skin. Captain Courtenay brooded in his cabin, loathing the inactivity that left his crew with too much time on their hands in a heat that always spawned arguments and blood. Strangewayes and Grace sat under a makeshift sailcloth shade on the forecastle, engaged in intense conversation. Launceston roamed around the hold, a ghost who could not face the sun. From the poop deck, Will watched the grey cloud on the horizon through Courtenay’s tele-scope in what had become an hourly ritual. He wore his white linen undershirt open to his breeches, but still felt no respite from the heat. Peering through the glass, he had started to believe he now saw something hiding within that swirling grey miasma.

  ‘If there is some ship within that fog, it is becalmed as we are. A small mercy,’ Carpenter muttered at his side. He was stripped to the waist, his lean form tanned by the tropical sun.

  Will shrugged, unconvinced. ‘Then let us concentrate upon catching Dr Dee,’ he said.

  He thought back to how the cold November of the English Channel had gradually given way to the December heat of the Canaries and how they had been forced to put into port to pick up fresh water and victuals. His cap pulled low against the hot, dry wind, Will had prowled the docks, questioning the dark-skinned men in their white tunics selling wooden cups of sweet wine and skewers of spiced lamb meat seared over charcoal. They had told of a carrack that had moored there two weeks gone, with a strange, devil-haunted crew who moved as if through a dream and spoke in slow, measured tones as they resupplied their vessel. The carrack had remained in port for near twelve days, and the dark-skinned men spoke of seeing strange lights around its mast at night and hearing disembodied voices echoing across the water. No one had been sorry to see it sail back to sea. Their tales had raised Will’s spirits. He was certain that they yet had a good chance of tracking down their prey, and much to the English crew’s annoyance he had encouraged Captain Courtenay to put back out to sea after barely two days.

  They battled squalls along the tropics and sweltered in the relentless heat. Christmas came and went with Courtenay ladling cups of festive wine to a long queue of his men, and prayers at dawn and song at nightfall. And when the topmen spotted a Spanish treasure galleon they fought their natural instincts and veered off course for a day to avoid a confrontation. And then, just as the end of their journey was in sight, the winds had dropped one week out of the West Indies.

  For two days now they had drifted, watching for what might lie at their backs while tempers simmered. Courtenay had taken to wandering the deck with lash in hand, his gimlet eyes offering a warning of what lay ahead if any man dared cause trouble. No clouds marred the blue sky. Not even the faintest breeze wafted across the water. How much longer could they endure this cauldron of heat before something broke, Will wondered?

  He sensed Carpenter shifting uncomfortably beside him and put down the tele-scope. ‘What is on your mind?’ he asked.

  The other man ran a hand under his hair to rub the pink scar marring his face. ‘The woman is no business of mine,’ he began, ‘but we have had words, Launceston, Strangewayes and myself, about your delay in instructing her in the true nature of the threat we face.’

  ‘And they sent you to speak to me?’

  ‘I came of my own accord,’ Carpenter snapped. ‘We all know what happens to those unprepared for their first meeting with those pale-skinned bastards. Even foreknowledge is not always enough to offer protection for some, as you well know, but she deserves a chance to steel herself, does she not?’

  Will flinched inwardly. He knew he had been remiss in not revealing to Grace the secrets of the Unseelie Court the moment she had been found aboard. But she had shown such spirit in coping with the privations of the past weeks, never complaining, always bright, ever offering a kind word when she saw the other spies in a gloomy mood, that he hadn’t the heart to bring darkness into her world. He looked towards the main deck where she walked among the sweltering crew with a leather pail of seawater with which the sailors could mop their burning heads and necks. She reminded him still of Jenny, and the life she might have had if she had not been taken from him. He had no desire to see Grace’s innocence tainted, her hope and her future stolen as her sister’s had been, and he would protect her until the last possible moment.

  ‘The more you delay, the more danger you put her in,’ Carpenter pressed, as if he could read Will’s thoughts.

  ‘I will deal with her when I am good and ready,’ he said, ending the conversation.

  Already irritable, the other man flushed with frustration. He gripped the rail and hissed, ‘Will you take no advice from anyone? The great Will Swyfte, England’s greatest spy! Who knows better than all others . . . until disaster strikes, and then he throws his friends to the wolves.’

  ‘What happened between us is long gone, John. Will you not let go of it?’

  ‘Easy words for you. You do not see the results of that betrayal every time you look in a mirror.’

  Will grunted. What could he say to ease the other man’s pain that he had not said a thousand times? He thought back to frozen Muscovy and the flight through the stark woods where they were attacked by the nameless creature that had been summoned by their enemies. He had thought Carpenter slaughtered in the assault. If he had returned to se
arch for his friend, he could well have lost not just his own life but all they had gained for the Queen during their expedition. For a while Carpenter seemed to have come to terms with what he saw as a grand betrayal. Clearly, resentment still simmered inside him, but Will had a greater fear.

  ‘John, when this business is done . . . should we survive . . . you must ask for time away from your duties,’ he said. ‘I sense the taint of the Unseelie Court in you, that creeping despair that afflicts all of us eventually when we have spent too long battling those things.’

  Carpenter looked over the water, not meeting Will’s eyes. ‘Time away? I am sick of all this. Sick to the heart. I would leave the service of Sir Robert Cecil for ever and seek a new life for myself where there are no nightmares walking under the sun.’

  ‘You know Cecil will never sanction that,’ Will said gently. ‘You are too valuable in this long fight—’

  ‘This never-ending fight!’

  ‘Few others have your expert touch, John, your knowledge of the Enemy, your ability to look them in the eye and survive. The Queen needs you.’

  ‘Enough,’ the other man snarled. ‘I tell you now that I will be gone from here, sooner or later. I deserve a life of my own, and by God I will take it, if I have to cut my way through a hundred colleagues to get it.’ He rounded on Will, his eyes narrowing. ‘See to the girl. Do not let her days be blighted as mine have been.’ He stalked away from the rail, clattering down the steps to the main deck where he shoved aside any who crossed his path as he made his way to his berth.

  Before Will could consider whether he truly was betraying Grace, a cry rang out from the topman. Looking up to the top of the mainmast, he saw the lookout pointing towards the north-east where lightning crackled from a looming black cloud. Captain Courtenay bounded up the steps to the poop deck.

  ‘Storm’s coming,’ he barked, clapping his large hands together. ‘In these waters, that could be good or ill. It’ll blow some much-needed wind in our sails and speed us on our way. But in the tropics, storms can come down like a hammer on an anvil, with us caught between the two.’

  ‘I will gladly take our chances, captain. I have had my fill of stewing here waiting for something to happen.’

  ‘Be careful what you wish for, Master Swyfte.’ Courtenay laughed, his eyes reflecting the crackles of lightning. Before he had even roared his orders, his men jumped to their posts, as eager to return to activity as Will. The spy watched them scramble up the lines, ready to react to any sudden change in the elements. He knew that if the storm struck hard, a full sail could tear off the mainmast and drag them all down to the bottom of the drink. Yet if they were not ready to take advantage of glancing winds, the weather could turn just as quickly and leave them becalmed once more.

  He raised his head to the roiling clouds and felt the first hint of a breeze on his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying the relief.

  ‘Will?’

  Grace waited at the top of the steps, her hands clasped in front of her. Her skirts flapped in the strengthening wind and her brown hair whipped around her face. He thought how much she had grown in confidence in recent months, no longer the young girl he had played with in Warwickshire. Yet he still saw only Jenny, in her eyes, her smile, her bearing. That had always been the problem.

  ‘Return to the cabin, Grace,’ he said, not without warmth. ‘It will be safer there.’

  ‘I shall, soon. But Tobias and John both insist that I speak to you, though neither will say why. Even Robert urged me to come, and normally he acts as if I am a dog yapping at his heels. They seem angry with you.’

  Will set his jaw, wishing the others would leave well alone. ‘This is not the time, Grace, but, yes, we must have words about a matter of great importance.’

  ‘Is it about Jenny?’

  He hesitated, watching the hope light in her dark eyes. ‘In part.’

  She forced a wan smile. ‘Our friendship has been tempestuous since Jenny disappeared,’ she said. ‘We have fought and bickered, though I . . . I always looked on you fondly, Will, you know that.’

  They both knew her feelings had been deeper than she implied. She was confused, he had always recognized that. In truth, she had seen him as the only pillar of stability in a world gone mad. He had felt proud to offer her the protection she needed, and he would never have abused that position. And he had always believed he could save Grace as he had been unable to save Jenny.

  She seemed to sense some of the thoughts that passed through his head, for her brow furrowed. ‘I have never thanked you for all that you have done for me,’ she said, grabbing hold of the rail as the ship began to heave beneath them. ‘But more than anything, I would thank you for keeping the promise of Jenny alive when it would have been so much easier to let her go and return to your life.’

  ‘Jenny has always been my life,’ he replied, feeling all the pain wrapped in those few words.

  ‘We will talk soon,’ she said, ‘but tell me one thing before I go: do you truly believe we will ever find answers to any of the questions that have haunted us these past years?’

  ‘I believe we will find an ending, Grace, for good or ill. Whichever it may be, I hope there will be peace.’

  That seemed to satisfy her. She gave a faint smile, then skipped down the steps and fought her way across the rolling deck. He watched her until she disappeared from sight into the captain’s cabin beneath him.

  As the clouds marched overhead, the sky darkened until it felt like dusk aboard the rolling galleon. The sullen sea began to protest, low waves turning to a heaving swell the colour of old ivy. Sails boomed and the rigging cracked. The wind howled, tearing at hair grown too long and wrenching men from side to side with every step. When lightning flashed, the world turned white.

  Will began to fight his way through the grim-faced sailors swirling across the deck, each one concentrating on his own well-rehearsed task. They danced to Courtenay’s tune, his orders booming like the thunder tearing through the half-light. Hands on hips, he threw his head back in insane laughter as he felt the first spatters of rain on his face.

  ‘This is a contest, Master Swyfte,’ he roared, ‘between men and the gods of the storm. Shall we see who wins?’ If any man could battle the elements and win, it would be Bloody Jack, Will agreed. It took a madman to face a tropical storm without a flicker of fear in his heart.

  The spy gripped the slick rigging as the deck bucked beneath his feet like an unbroken Barbary steed. The rain was starting to come in harder on the gusts. Wiping his eyes clear, his gaze flickered out to sea as a bolt of lightning lanced down. In the flash, he glimpsed something that should not have been there. Wrapping one arm through the rigging to steady himself, he pulled out the tele-scope and attempted to place it to his eye. The view through the lens danced across the green ocean and darkening sky. Cursing under his breath, Will moved the tele-scope in incremental steps until a dark shape appeared before him. A galleon. The grey cloud bank that had followed them across the Atlantic was dissipating in the storm, and the ship sailed out of its billowing depths like a shark. A row of white diamonds had been painted along the castle. On a standard flapping from the mainmast was a black bird – a crow, Will thought. The galleon surged towards them, sails full.

  Our Enemy are revealed, Will thought, and they have skilfully chosen this moment of confusion to attack.

  Cupping his hand to his mouth, he yelled for Courtenay. The captain saw the spy’s urgency and bounded over. Snatching the tele-scope, he studied the ship for only a moment and then turned to Will, his features dark. ‘I know that flag. All sailors do, and they would sell their own mothers to avoid the misfortune of encountering it across the Spanish Main. The ship is the Corneille Noire, the cursed barque of that cut-throat Jean le Gris.’

  Will knew well the bloody reputation of the French pirate who had plundered the trade routes for five years now.

  ‘And he is not alone,’ Bloody Jack added, answering the spy’s unspoken question. He handed t
he tele-scope back.

  Will frowned, looking once more. This time he alighted on the galleon quickly as it bore down on them. When the crew swam into view, shock flooded him as he saw the haggard faces of the men, the hollow cheeks, the grey skin; each one looked dead apart from a tall, sinewy man with an eye-patch and a wild black beard whom he took to be the captain. Other, shadowy figures drifted in the half-light, pale spectres, like fish from the deep. Will held his breath as he watched Lansing and the Fay overseeing the ship like a court from Hell. A part of him had expected no less, but the evidence of his eyes still felt chilling.

  ‘The question now, Master Swyfte,’ Courtenay boomed, ‘in the middle of this godforsaken storm, is do we run like dogs and pray for the best, or stay and fight and risk a slow death in the deep?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE STORM ENGULFED the Tempest in a hell of fierce wind and driving rain and walls of black water. Cresting mountainous waves, the galleon plunged into deep, midnight valleys where the sailors feared they would never see the sun again. Barbs of lightning lanced down. Booming thunder throbbed into the roar of the sea. Will clung on to the rigging for dear life, barely able to keep his legs from the deluge sluicing across the deck. He glimpsed Carpenter, and Strangewayes with one hand gripping a stay, sodden and gasping, and Launceston, seemingly unmoved by the terror of the gale, one hand twirled around the rigging as he observed the fearful antics of the crew.

  Courtenay, too, looked untroubled by the elements as he barked his orders. Though the ship was tossed this way and that, he strode through the ankle-deep brine on the deck as if on dry land. ‘Those that can, man the guns,’ he roared. ‘We have a fight on our hands, lads.’

  Will craned his head to look over the crew with even greater respect. He knew the risks of opening the gun ports in a storm; the waves could flood in and take the ship to the bottom. But there was no choice. Putting aside their fear, seamen scrambled down to the gun deck, obeying their captain without question. Though it was hell above, he wondered how much worse it was below in the confined night-dark space, deafened by the hammers of the waves, thrown around by the pitching and yawing and fearful that every plunge would end on the seabed.