The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX




CLUTCHING TWO LARGE VOLUMES TO HIS CHEST, ROBERT ROWLAND, record-keeper to successive spymasters, entered his chamber with a bowed head as though he had a lifetime’s problems balanced on his shoulders. The lines on his forehead were stark against his sallow skin, his face muscles sagging so he looked as if he had suffered a palsy.

Chests and towers of books, bundles of documents tied with black ribbons and dog-eared charts covered the floor of the cramped, dusty chamber. The stale air smelled of vinegary sweat, the rushes unchanged in days.

‘Master Rowland. We feared we might miss you.’ Almost hidden behind a pile of books and parchments on the trestle, Carpenter lounged in the record-keeper’s chair. Launceston stood at the window, his back to the room, looking out over the inner ward.

In shock, Rowland cried out and dropped the two books.

‘We offer our apologies for this intrusion,’ came the Earl’s monotone from the window. ‘But matters are pressing, and politeness must wait its turn.’

‘What do you want?’ the record-keeper stuttered, gathering up the volumes and heaving them on to the only remaining space at the edge of the table. ‘Did Secretary Cecil send you?’

Carpenter gave a faint smile, hidden quickly. ‘Of course. Would we be here for any other reason?’

The Earl turned, tracing one finger through the silvery dust on a large volume. ‘We seek to inspect the records of our former master, Sir Francis Walsingham, in particular those pertaining to the work carried out by Christopher Marlowe. Our interest lies in any task where he may have been accompanied by one Griffin Devereux. I understand accounts were kept of every matter of business carried out under instruction from Sir Francis?’

‘They were.’ Distracted, Rowland searched through a heap of parchments for a quill. ‘Every piece of business conducted at home and on foreign soil. But you cannot inspect them.’

Carpenter jumped to his feet, knocking over a set of leathery books. Two silverfish scurried out from a spine. ‘You would deny us?’

‘I would deny you nothing, of course,’ the record-keeper replied, unsettled by the scarred man’s threatening demeanour. ‘But I no longer have those records. They went missing on the day of Sir Francis’ death.’

Launceston prowled around the table to take Rowland by the shoulders. ‘Who took them?’ he demanded.

‘I do not know. I came to put them in order after the body had been interred and there was no sign of them. I could only imagine that Lord Burghley had ordered them to be removed for safe-keeping, but when I asked him, he had no knowledge of it.’ Rowland pulled gently away from the Earl’s grasp. ‘I am sorry. I would help you if I could.’

Launceston exchanged a glance with Carpenter. ‘Will was right. This plot has been in motion for years, and the track has been well covered.’

Raised voices echoed from the ground floor, punctuated by angry shouts and the cries of women. Exchanging a silent glance, Carpenter and Launceston bolted from the record-keeper’s chamber. Outside the door, the two men ran straight into a concerned Nathaniel.

As they hurried along the corridor towards the source of the disturbance, the assistant slipped between the spies without meeting their gaze and hissed from the corner of his mouth, ‘Will’s chamber has been ransacked. Everything of value has been taken, including the play. I saw Roger Cockayne, one of Sir Robert Cecil’s advisers, leaving with the sheaf of papers.’

‘Damn them,’ Carpenter growled. ‘You must do whatever you can to retrieve that play. The information it contains could well be crucial, especially now.’

The raised voices rang off the stone walls. Inquisitive servants and curious ladies and gentlemen of the court streamed from chambers on either side, eager to discover what was causing the outcry.

‘If you value your life you will not fail,’ Launceston whispered.

‘You do not need to threaten me,’ Nathaniel replied. ‘I am driven by my duty to Will, not fear.’ The assistant slipped into the flow of curious people as they neared the top of the broad stone staircase that swept down into the entrance hall.

Standing at the back on tiptoes was Alice, her cheeks still flushed from the heat of the ovens, her apron white with dust from that morning’s baking. Her face lit up when she saw the scarred spy. His own face fell.

Carpenter eased in beside his love and whispered, ‘Alice, you must stay away from me from now on. I am a liability that will cost you your life.’ Although he knew it was right to distance himself, he still felt heartsick and couldn’t bring himself to look her in the face.

Yet when Alice turned her head slightly to whisper in his ear, her voice was defiant. ‘I will do as I please. You may think yourself my master, but that is not the case. Yes, I will take care – I know the work you do is dangerous – but I survived my last brush with adventure, John, and I will survive the next. That is what love means.’

Afraid for her, Carpenter returned his attention to the commotion unfolding near the large, iron-studded door in the entrance hall. With Launceston beside him, he edged forward until he glimpsed a battered Will. Two of Essex’s spies gripped his arms and the point of Strangewayes’ rapier was pressed over his heart. Carpenter began to despair.

Hands clasped behind his back, the Earl of Essex strutted around his men, a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes held a note of triumph as he gazed at the shorter, black-gowned figure of Cecil cowering on the edge of the group. For the first time the spymaster looked uneasy, if not frightened, Carpenter thought.

A defiant glint in his eye, Will stood proud and erect, his smile revealing no fear. ‘I came here to warn of a plot against our Queen by our greatest enemy,’ he announced. ‘I will gladly go before the Privy Council to tell all that I know. We must be on our guard—’

Strangewayes cracked the hilt of his rapier into his rival’s face, stunning Will for a moment. ‘Enough of your lies!’ the red-headed man spat. ‘You will not wriggle out of this. Your past has caught up with you.’

Spattering blood on those nearby as he shook his head, Will reclaimed his wits. ‘I do not lie,’ he stated in a loud voice, ‘and I will risk further punishment, even death, to tell the truth of what I have discovered. We are beset by enemies on all sides.’

The red-headed spy struck Will again with the hilt of his sword.

And then Carpenter noticed something that chilled him. All around, men with faces like whips were whispering in the ears of Essex and Cecil and most of the other Privy Councillors. Danby the coroner was there, passing comment, and Lord Derby, pink, broken-veined cheeks above his grey whiskers, moved among his fellows with a nod and a quiet word. Carpenter could think of only one thing.

Scar-Crow Men.

Shaping views. Infecting thoughts with sly words. Twisting the outcome to whatever would lead to victory for the Unseelie Court.

The scar-faced spy’s heart began to pound. He glanced at Launceston and saw the grim-faced Earl was thinking the same. Carpenter began to suspect every face he looked into. How many agents were there? Who could be trusted?

A rush of urgent whispers swept through the crowd from the direction of the door leading to the palace’s long eastern range. A wave of bowing heads followed.

Rustling a cloak of gold edged with ermine, the Queen stepped into the entrance hall accompanied by one of her maids of honour. Carpenter recognized the maid’s plain looks and thick brown hair, but couldn’t place her name. Elinor somebody or other, he thought. Elizabeth’s face was a mask of white powder, but the scarred spy thought there was an odd cast to her features, a little dreamy as if she had only just woken.

‘What is the meaning of this outcry?’ the monarch demanded. Elinor stood unusually close to her mistress, her face turned towards the Queen’s left ear.

‘Your Majesty,’ Will replied before any other could speak, ‘I rode to Nonsuch this morning to warn of a plot against you, and against all of England.’

‘A plot, Master Swyfte?’ Elizabeth eyed the blood dripping from the spy’s nose. ‘Why is this the first I hear of this matter?’

‘Because we do not seek to trouble Your Majesty with outrageous lies and calumnies,’ Essex said with a flamboyant sweep of his arm. The monarch smiled at her most trusted courtier.

‘Your Majesty, I implore you to listen to what I have to say,’ Will pressed.

The Queen’s eyes flashed at his impudence; one warning was all the spy would be allowed, Carpenter knew, and that only because he had been in Elizabeth’s favour. ‘Secretary of State,’ she snapped. ‘Master Swyfte is in your employ. What do you have to say?’

Cecil cast a dark glance towards the grinning Essex while he gathered his thoughts. Carpenter could almost see his master squirming as he struggled to find a way out of his predicament.

Here is your chance, at the last, Carpenter thought. Stand up and offer your support for the man who has served you faithfully.

‘I have listened intently to the allegations of conspiracy made by this man,’ the spymaster began in a clear voice, ‘but I cannot say I find any truth in them.’

For a moment, Carpenter thought the Queen was about to dismiss the comment, but then he saw Elinor’s lips move, only slightly, her words unheard. Elizabeth cocked her head to one side, a faint expression of bafflement springing to her face. She said in a quiet voice, ‘What do you advise, my Little Elf?’

Cecil quickly extinguished the relief in his eyes and feigned thoughtfulness, one finger to his chin. ‘There is some suggestion of treason in Master Swyfte’s actions, certainly, Your Majesty, though that would be a matter for the Privy Council to consider. And the earlier charge of atheism remains, of course. For those reasons, I feel the Tower may be the preferred option, while evidence is gathered and a case prepared.’

The Queen nodded.

Launceston stepped in close to Carpenter and whispered, ‘All is well. We can free Will on the way to the Tower. There will be plenty of opportunities between Nonsuch and London for a cunning attack.’

For the first time that morning, Carpenter breathed a sigh of relief. There was still a chance to save something from the disaster that had unfolded with frightening speed.

Cockayne, the spymaster’s adviser, had been edging closer while his master spoke and he suddenly darted forward to whisper in Cecil’s ear. He was a small man, smaller even than the Little Elf, with a ruddy face and a shock of grey hair. Carpenter had seen him on the fringes of the secret service, but had never been wholly sure what he did.

The hunchbacked man listened intently for a moment and then announced, ‘Your Majesty, please excuse me, but new evidence has just been brought to my attention. Master Swyfte has been overheard raving to merchants in Cheapside about necromancy and other even wilder tales. It is my advice that he has been afflicted with the mania and should be pitied and not condemned for his actions. To that end, he should be sent to Bedlam until the Privy Council can look into his case.’

‘I hear your advice and it is good,’ the Queen said. ‘Dispatch Master Swyfte to Bedlam immediately. And may God grant him peace from his suffering.’

Reeling, Carpenter looked to Launceston, but the Earl’s face remained implacable. The Unseelie Court had won without a single weapon being drawn.