The Devil's Looking-Glass

Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT





STREAMS OF TORCH-FIRE blazed through the dark of the London night. Alarmed cries rang off the high stone walls of the Palace of Whitehall as the guards raced across the courtyard, their boots clattering, weapons clanking as they ran. In the flickering light of the brands worried white faces were caught, eyes urgently trying to pierce the deep gloom around the Lantern Tower.

‘Find it!’ Sir Robert Cecil bellowed. A sheen of sweat glistened on the spymaster’s forehead despite the wintry chill that had reached long into spring. ‘Slay it without a moment’s thought.’

He whirled as a low snarl rumbled out from a corner of the courtyard, a sound that would not have been out of place in the Queen’s menagerie but which he knew came from something that walked like a man. A moment later the growl echoed from the other side of the square. So fast, he thought, quaking.

The torches whisked around in confusion. In the gloom, stars of ruddy light danced off burgonets and cuirasses. The spymaster glimpsed a pale face frozen in the wavering flames, mouth ragged with horror, but it was gone in an instant. Another man dashed past him, yelling in fear. Round and round he spun, caught up in the visions flashing before his eyes – a stabbing pike, a guard staggering back, clutching his head, a blood-spattered burgonet bouncing across the cobbles – until he grabbed at his chest where his heart was pounding fit to burst.

Those inhuman snarls seemed to be echoing all around, as if there were a host of the things and not just one.

Another face flashed by, torn and bloody. The guard stumbled in the dark and lay still.

Cecil cried out in a fury born of fear, demanding his men do something, anything, to end this slaughter.

And then, as the snapping and snarling reached a new pitch, the bestial cry was cut off with a strangled gurgle.

‘To me,’ the spymaster bellowed. As the surviving guards gathered around him, their combined torchlight lit a chaotic scene. Fallen bodies, gleaming pools of blood and scattered cordwood where the intruder had attempted to tear through the towering bonfire surrounding the Lantern Tower to free the Faerie Queen. ‘Is it dead?’ he barked. He needed to show that he was not afraid, but his hands would not stop shaking.

‘’Tis gone.’ The voice floated out of the dark. Cecil snatched a torch and stalked towards the sound. The flames lit a man dressed in a costly sapphire doublet and breeches, the face half turned away. He gripped a rapier dripping black blood and his cloak covered a still form on the cobbles. ‘Send your men away. They should not see this.’

The spymaster recognized the intruder and waved the unnerved guards away. Once they had gone, Sir Walter Raleigh stepped out of the shadows into the circle of light from Cecil’s torch.

‘If Her Majesty knew you were here . . .’ Cecil began.

‘And will you tell her, so that I can relate how I achieved what your impotent band could not?’ The adventurer stooped to wipe his blade on the already bloodied cloak. ‘A foul thing,’ he said, turning his nose up at the twisted shape beneath the folds. ‘There have been many of them?’

‘In recent times, too many.’ Cecil pressed the back of his quivering hand against his mouth, steadying himself. ‘The Unseelie Court may not be able to set foot upon this still protected part of England, but that does not prevent them from sending their agents in to engineer disaster.’

Raleigh sheathed his rapier. ‘But the Faerie Queen still resides in her tower-prison and the bonfire is still piled high to roast her like a suckling pig. All is well in the world.’

Cecil snorted, his laughter bitter. ‘How much longer can we go on? Those fiends whittle us down by degrees. And now you are here.’

Raleigh bowed, sweeping one arm out with ironic flamboyance.

‘Your secret society, your School of Night, seeks to use this calamity to your own ends,’ the spymaster continued with contempt. ‘While the Queen’s government is distracted and out of joint, you step in and seize power. Is that how it is?’

‘Sirrah, you wound me. We in the School of Night are all good Englishmen, loyal to the Crown.’

Cecil paced around the other man, looking him up and down. ‘Then why are you here, risking the wrath of the Queen? You have not yet earned your way back into her favour.’

‘In these darkest hours, the School of Night will stand shoulder to shoulder with you—’

The spymaster laughed again. ‘To worm your way into the heart of government. To learn our secrets, things that you can put to good use should we survive this catastrophe.’

Raleigh tapped the form under his cloak with the toe of his shoe. ‘And that matter of survival is still in doubt. For now, can you refuse our aid? We have knowledge, we have wealth, when the coffers of England are near empty. And we have some skills you may be able to use.’

Cecil’s eyes narrowed. ‘Go on.’

‘Dr Dee is one of our number—’

‘I knew it!’ The spymaster clenched his fist.

‘Some of his occult knowledge was passed to other members – not all of it, by far, but enough perhaps to be of use in keeping the Unseelie Court at bay. This will buy Her Majesty . . . and England . . . time for Swyfte to succeed in his quest.’

‘You know of that?’ Cecil turned away, pretending to examine the huge pile of kindling in the wavering torchlight. ‘Of course you do! Yet how can I ever trust the School of Night when you have been secretly working against us for so long?’

Raleigh gave a tight smile. ‘How can you trust us? We believe in the power of knowledge, sirrah, in natural science and the occult arts coming together for the good of all men. And a new way in this never-ending war with the Unseelie Court, one that will not tarnish our integrity and may yet save the lives that are so regularly sacrificed. And we believe in honour above all. Can you say the same?’

Cecil refused to meet his gaze.

‘I have heard tales,’ Raleigh continued, lowering his voice. ‘If they are true, you would do well to hope Master Swyfte does not discover what happened to his lady love. He is a man of some fame with a powerful voice . . . and a powerful temper. His rage would be a fine thing, if he were to learn the truth. I would not put money on any man standing in his way . . . or upon the survival of those responsible.’

This time Cecil whirled, a cold anger lighting his eyes. ‘You have the luxury of honour, sirrah. You hold no power. You are not faced with harsh decisions on a daily basis, where choices must be made in sacrificing one life to save two, or ten to save a hundred. Do you think my life peaceful? Do you think my soul remains untainted by those choices? Forget Master Swyfte. He will never be allowed to foment rebellion here. He will die on foreign soil once his quest has been accomplished, or he will die when he sets foot back in England. Either way, there will be an end of it.’