The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE




DEVEREUX PULLED HIMSELF FREE FROM WILL’S GRIP AND RETREATED to the centre of the cell where he squatted like an ape, his breath deep and rumbling. For long, silent moments, his head on one side, he levelled an unblinking gaze. Will felt as if it was delving deep into his thoughts.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. He shivered. The room appeared to have grown colder.

‘Your friend called me Mephistophilis.’ The squatting man’s voice was hoarse, strained and crackling like an old man’s, the words formed as if he was unused to speaking. Chilled, Will felt it was as if some beast had slipped beneath Devereux’s skin and now wore his appearance like clothes.

‘Is that your name?’ he demanded.

‘There is power in naming, and power in words. A word turns something into what the word says it is, not what it is in essence. That is a form of magic, is it not? To shape the world without by a conscious thought within?’ With a long thin finger, Devereux traced an arc in the straw. He looked as if he was preparing to pounce, desperate to tear Will limb from limb.

‘I am angel or devil, whichever you choose to call me,’ the prisoner added.

‘I could never imagine you an angel.’

The slow rumble of Devereux’s breath was the only reply. Will could now see the cloud of his own breath.

‘Then I will address you as Mephistophilis, if that is your wish,’ the spy said, ‘though I wonder if you are truly a devil, or some terrible part of Devereux himself, released from the depths of his mind by the atrocities he committed.’

‘A good question. You must decide upon the answer for yourself.’ Its black eyes did not blink.

‘You came to Devereux after he murdered all those poor souls in Norfolk?’

‘How could I not answer when the summons was so loud and clear?’

‘And now you ride him like a mare.’

‘I am always with him. Sometimes near, sometimes afar, but always there. To the end. And beyond. Once summoned, we cannot be dispatched until the deal is complete.’

Devereux continued to trace a pattern in the dirty straw with the tip of his index finger, but his intense gaze never left Will’s face. Still biding his time, the spy thought. Waiting for him to take a step too close to the bars, to drop his knife or bare his neck. ‘Then I know you, and I can weigh the value of your words,’ Will said.

‘Oh, you do not know me,’ the crouching figure mocked. ‘You will never know me.’

‘Who killed Kit Marlowe?’

‘He killed himself, through his actions.’ The beast-like figure continued to breathe heavily, the rumbling echoes rolling around the cell.

Holding Devereux’s gaze, Will rested a hand on the cold hilt of his rapier. ‘So, we are to play games with words.’

‘Words are nothing but games,’ the prisoner growled.

‘Kit came to you to learn an incantation for summoning a devil. Why?’ the spy demanded.

‘To aid you, his most beloved friend. Even in the face of his own death, he thought of you.’

Will knew Devereux’s words were designed to sting, but that didn’t lessen their impact. ‘To guide me towards the one who has been killing England’s spies, and the plot now unfolding. And his final act was a success, which I would imagine troubles you greatly. There would be no joy for you in a selfless act. But there is a greater mystery here than murder, and it involves the Unseelie Court. You have knowledge of the nature of that plot?’

‘Before they wanted only their revenge for England’s grand betrayal and the capture and imprisonment of their beloved Queen. Now their ambitions have grown.’

‘How so?’

The beast smiled.

Will closed his fingers around his dagger, but kept it hidden from view for the moment. ‘I see I am not to get answers out of this conversation. Perhaps it would be better if I finished it now, and ended your own miserable life in the process.’

‘It is possible to learn without gaining answers. If you listen with care.’

‘Clues, then. Hints.’

‘Here is a hint, little man. This time you cannot stop the Unseelie Court until you find them. They are as close as a whisper and as far away as the stars. Close enough to step into the place you consider safest when the time is right. Sometimes you even look into their eyes and do not know.’ Devereux gave a low, mocking laugh.

‘I thank you. I will reflect on your hint at my leisure.’ Will noticed the prisoner’s breath did not cloud like his own, even though the temperature had fallen so steeply there was now the sparkle of hoar frost on the cell walls. ‘And the murders of England’s spies – it is by the hands of the Unseelie Court?’ he added.

‘It is by the hands of a man who serves the purpose of the Unseelie Court, although he may or may not be aware of that.’

‘And they kill the spies who know of their existence, the soldiers in this long war, to hide their path.’

‘Very clever, Master Swyfte. You have pieced together some parts of this great puzzle with no little skill. The very essence of the Unseelie Court’s plot is that they become, once again, invisible and unknown,’ the threatening figure replied. ‘But a death is not always simply a death.’

‘A riddle. I am told children and fools enjoy them.’ When the spy took an unconscious step towards the bars, he saw Devereux’s muscles tense. Quickly, he stepped back. ‘So they have not been killed simply because they are spies. Their deaths serve another purpose for the Unseelie Court.’

‘Three purposes, in fact. One: the murders mask the larger trail of those Good Neighbours. Two: they mask a smaller trail that may, perhaps, lead to the heart of their plot and the way to bring it all crashing down. And three …’ Halfway between grin and snarl, Devereux’s lips curled back from pointed teeth.

‘Three?’

‘The Fay, as they have been called and sometimes call themselves, destroy England’s hard-won defences by degrees. Soon there will be nothing to keep them out in the night. And then …’ The prisoner clapped his hands with dark delight.

Will shuddered. He pictured Gavell’s flayed body in the deadhouse, the strange mark upon his back. Now he understood. The Unseelie Court were using the deaths of the spies in some ritual that would peel back the magical defences the court astrologer Dr Dee had put in place all those years ago. That was why Carpenter and Launceston had encountered that vile thing in Bankside in broad daylight. As the defences yielded, the Enemy would be able to move more freely, until they could strike with impunity anywhere, at any time, liberate their Queen … The spy had a terrifying flash of the beautiful, terrible Fay monarch walking free from the Lantern Tower at Whitehall, boiling with anger after years of imprisonment, fire and blood and destruction blooming in her footsteps like summer flowers.

‘How many more murders before it all falls apart?’ Will whispered.

‘Three. Only three. Each life must be taken at the right time, in the right place.’

Will clenched his fist in defiance. ‘Then we must stop more blood being spilled. I suppose you could not tell me the identity of the face behind the devil-mask?’

‘In his appearance you already know his nature, and through nature one can divine a man.’ The hunched prisoner levelled his gaze at a scurrying rat. It stopped in its tracks, held fast by the glare. After a moment, it fell on its side, dead. Devereux tossed it into a corner where it landed with a dull thud. ‘I know many things, but I have little to gain by telling you,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘You are scared of them, then. The Fay,’ Will taunted, hiding his frustration.

The prisoner gave a broad, dark grin. ‘Their agents dare not come near here,’ he whispered.

‘Who are their agents?’ Will’s eyes narrowed. He felt his anger grow at each of Devereux’s new obfuscations and deceits.

‘There is a play, performed in recent times at the Rose Theatre—’

‘If it was staged in recent times, how do you know of it?’ the spy interrupted sharply.

Devereux huddled even closer to the stinking, straw-covered floor and intoned in a low, resonant voice:

‘Here, said they, is the Terror of the French

The Scar-Crow that affrights our children so.

Then broke I from the officers that led me,

And with my nails digged stones out of the ground,

To hurl at the beholders of my shame.

My grisly countenance made others fly,

None durst come near for fear of sudden death.’

‘More riddles,’ Will said scornfully. ‘You waste my time.’

‘Do I?’ The prisoner began to crawl around the cell, flashing occasional glances back at him. ‘There is a school that meets at night, wise men, artists, thinkers, and your good friend Kit was one of them. Yes, he had a secret life you never knew about. And they plot and they plan and they know more than you. And the writer of those words had heard of these agents, though he likely did not know the full truth, or he would have run screaming from his room and created no more fictions.’

Will laughed. ‘These are your fictions.’

‘Mine? No, all true.’ Devereux pressed his hands together in a mockery of prayer. ‘And here is another: if you would stop the agents you must find the Corpus-Scythe.’

‘And what is that?’

‘A tool, a weapon, a way for the Unseelie Court to control their puppets. For if the agents ever turned they could destroy all things, even the Fay.’

The spy listened to the cryptic comments Devereux made – the Terror of the French, the school that meets at night – and while they all hinted at a greater mystery, he felt only anger at the elusive nature of what he had been told.

Will stepped close to the bars.

The beast-like man turned suddenly, leaping like a cat towards the spy, mouth torn wide, spraying spittle and rat-blood. A rolling, ferocious snarl echoed off the brick walls. Will stood his ground, watching the prisoner rush towards him, hands like claws to tear out his throat.

At the very last, the spy stepped back. As both of Devereux’s hands reached through the bars, Will grabbed the wrist of one with his left hand, and with his right drove his dagger through the protruding palm. He continued his thrust, forcing the blade through the palm of the hand he gripped and continuing upwards with all his weight behind it until he had both of the prisoner’s hands impaled high over his head.

Roaring in agony, the creature realized he couldn’t escape, but still he writhed and tore until the blood rushed down his arms.

Will pressed his face close, smelling his opponent’s meaty breath. ‘I care nothing for you, or your life,’ he growled. ‘I have no time for your games. I seek only revenge for my friend’s death, and I will not be deflected.’

Those hideous black eyes loomed ever closer. ‘I will tell you nothing,’ Devereux snarled.

The spy twisted the knife.

Though he convulsed in pain, the possessed man remained silent, and when the agony passed he was eerily calm.

‘Who are the Unseelie Court’s agents?’ Will asked, just as calm.

Defiant, Devereux held his gaze for a moment, and then replied, ‘The Scar-Crow Men, and they are everywhere.’

‘How do I know them?’

‘You do not. They look like people you know, perhaps your own friends. But they are not. They are made of straw, or clay, or this, or that. You can trust no one. No one.’

Suddenly Will understood Kit’s exhortation in the note that accompanied his play. Trust no one. And suddenly he glimpsed some of the meaning behind the vision the devil had given him in the Rose Theatre.

A faint smile told him that his opponent had revealed the information only to cause further distress, unease, perhaps fear, or despair.

The black eyes narrowed. ‘Torture me all you will, but you harm only Devereux.’

‘What are you?’ Will asked with quiet intensity.

‘You know. In the dark of the night, when you fear the worst there is of life, you know.’

The spy ripped out his dagger and the prisoner fell away from the bars, rolling back across the dirty straw to coil like a beast once more. ‘I would tell you one more thing, given freely,’ he said, ‘for the more you progress into the heart of this thing, the more misery awaits you. And I would see you suffer.’

‘Tell me,’ Will said icily.

‘All you seek springs from one event.’ Devereux crawled forward to press his face against the bars, distorting his features monstrously as he peered at Will through the gap. ‘Follow the marsh-lights back through time. Follow that small trail. You will find it for yourself.’ His mouth split in a grin that was more hunger than humour, the teeth yellow and stained with blood.

‘You think you drive me towards destruction. You do not,’ the spy said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

‘You are already on the road and you do not see it. But you will. And soon.’ Devereux looked just past Will’s left shoulder and said, ‘Ride him well, coz, when the time comes.’

The hairs prickled on the nape of Will’s neck. Despite himself, he glanced back to see if the Keeper had entered the cell silently. There was no one behind him.

‘You are no longer alone,’ Devereux taunted. ‘You have a companion now, always there, one step behind, guiding, whispering, waiting. Your own devil. For as your friend saved you, he also damned you.’

‘This time your lies are too crude,’ Will snorted.

‘Your ending is already written, Master Swyfte, by the man you trusted most, and the final word is damnation.’ Devereux’s fat, shining tongue flicked out like a snake’s. He still had not blinked.

‘I choose my own ending,’ Will stated emphatically.

As he left the cell, the door closed firmly behind him, he heard Devereux begin a keening wail, desolate and haunting like hungry birds over a lonely moor. It followed Will up to the Abraham Ward where the crazed patients watched him in eerie silence, their eyes oddly fixed a pace behind his back, and the sound only ended when he was out of the gloomy building and into the hot sun of the new day.