The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX




SWEATING AND SCOWLING, THE TWO LABOURERS LEANED ON THEIR shovels beside the sea of trampled earth now covering the plague pit. Nearby, at the fence, the five armed men smoked as they watched the sun sink past the chimneys of the surrounding houses. The job was done. Will Swyfte was dead and buried.

Clutching on to the brick wall in the small street across the way, Grace fought the urge to sob. She felt numb, as if a part of her had died with every shovelful of earth that fell into that black hole. She had wanted to run to the grave and attack the men with her bare hands, digging Will out herself if it was necessary. But she knew it was a foolish girl’s dream that would only lead to harm for Nat, who would undoubtedly have rushed to help her.

And now, a grown woman, she had been forced to watch the man she loved die.

‘You said they would break off from their digging. You said we would be able to help Will,’ Nathaniel raged. His hands shook as he fought to control himself. ‘Your plans have come to naught. You killed him.’

‘If he had not died here, he would have died in the Tower. I gambled on a slim chance that we might be able to save him,’ Red Meg replied quietly, her hands clasped in front of her, her face emotionless. ‘But it was not to be.’

‘And that is all you can say?’ Nat turned on her. ‘William Swyfte is more than my master – he is my friend. He saved the life of my father, and he helped me when I needed it most, even at cost to himself.’

A crack appeared in the Irish woman’s mask, and her green eyes flashed.

Grace confronted Nathaniel. ‘Do not risk your life when the situation is hopeless,’ she pleaded. ‘Will would not want you to die needlessly.’

‘Where there is life, there is hope. That is what the preachers say, is it not?’ He glanced over his shoulder at the men standing around the plague pit in the ruddy light of the setting sun. ‘I have Will’s sword that we were due to give him after we …’ The words caught in his throat. ‘After we rescued him.’

‘Nat, you are not a fighting man!’ Grace said incredulously. ‘You are as likely to fall over your sword as to kill with it. I would not lose you too.’ She couldn’t hold back the tears any longer.

‘Nevertheless, I must do what I can.’ Without another word, Nathaniel strode out into the street, keeping his head down but allowing one hand to fall on the rapier that hung incongruously at his side.

‘Fool!’ Red Meg snarled. Hesitating for a moment, she looked back along Lombard Street, weighing her decision. But just as Grace became convinced she had given up on them, the Irish woman stepped out after Nat, a broad, seductive grin leaping to her lips.

A better player than Kit ever had on the stage, Grace thought.

As Nathaniel closed on the burial site, the five men threw aside their clay pipes and turned to face the new arrival.

‘Keep moving, stranger,’ the steely-eyed leader of the group said.

‘On whose authority?’ Nat called, vaguely recognizing the man. Was he in the employ of Lord Derby?

‘The Queen’s.’

‘You do not do the Queen’s work.’

As she neared, Grace could see Nathaniel’s hand shaking above the rapier hilt. The five armed men were sure to have spotted his inexperience and doubt.

‘The papers I have from the Privy Council say otherwise,’ the leader said with a faint sneer. He walked to the gate, his hand resting on his own rapier as a warning to Nathaniel.

‘Boys! How handsome you all are.’ Red Meg’s rich voice rang out across the street. ‘It makes my heart beat faster to see hard-working men sleeked in sweat.’ She drew the attention of the five men with the swing of her hips and a flourish of her crimson skirt as she danced across the cobbles. Her right eyebrow was arched, her eyes and her broad smile promising much.

Four of the men turned their attention to the Irish woman, unable to prevent the hint of a leer reaching their lips. Sensing trouble, the leader remained grim, his eyes darting between Red Meg and Nathaniel.

‘Step aside,’ the young man called. ‘I do not wish to find trouble here.’

‘You will find it if you do not move on.’ The leader’s fingers clenched around the hilt of his sword.

‘Let us have no fighting,’ Red Meg trilled. ‘We can put those passions to better use, I am sure. Come here and help a maid find her way about a strange city.’

‘Away with you, doxy,’ the steely-eyed man snapped.

Grace flinched at the slur, but the Irish woman appeared unmoved. Drawing her bodice a little lower, she continued to advance on the burial site.

Her actions unnerved the leader. He drew his rapier and pointed it from Red Meg to Nathaniel. ‘Away with you both, now,’ he growled.

With a fumbling action, Nat unsheathed his own sword. It wavered as he brandished it at the five men.

The leader gave a humourless laugh.

‘Stand aside!’ Nathaniel shouted, stepping towards the gate. Still smiling seductively, Red Meg advanced too.

The leader’s cheeks flushed with anger. Throwing open the gate, he levelled his blade.

By the plague pit, one of the labourers let out a fearful cry and pointed at the newly filled grave.

In the deepening twilight, Grace could not see what the labourer was indicating, but the two dirt-smeared men threw themselves backwards, shrieking. Stumbling and flailing, they scrambled out of the plot and away down the street.

Her breath catching in her throat, Grace hurried to the fence. The dying rays of the sun cast an infernal glow across the stinking waste. In the centre, the newly turned earth was churning like the gushing river water that flowed around the columns of London Bridge. Clods of soil shifted amid a wave of writhing brown fur as the rats rushed from the grave in all directions.

One filthy hand burst from the midst of the disturbed soil. It was followed by a second, and then a monstrous figure levered its way out of the plague pit, smeared black from head to toe, bright eyes ranging across the assembled group.

Hands flying to their gaping mouths, the five armed men stumbled backwards.

The resurrected figure grinned. ‘And now,’ it croaked, ‘let all hell break loose.’

Grace felt giddy with the rush of emotion and made to call her love’s name, but Nathaniel pushed by her. ‘Your sword,’ he called, tossing the rapier over the fence.

Though Grace could see he was close to exhaustion, Will snatched the glinting blade from the air and instantly found his balance. The steely-eyed man darted forward, thrusting his rapier towards the spy’s chest.

Will hooked his bare toes under one of the scurrying rats and, with a flick, hurled it through the air. Writhing, the hungry rodent hit the attacker full in the face. Needle-sharp teeth tore into flesh. Blood spattered and hands clawed, to no avail.

‘I made new friends,’ the fearsome apparition said, ‘and they are hungry.’ As the man shrieked in pain, the spy ran his opponent through.

Stunned by the attack on their leader, the other four men advanced slowly, rapiers drawn. With a cry, Nathaniel barrelled into the nearest man, knocking him to the dried mud of the burial site. The next man turned on him, but Red Meg was already there, still swaying her hips, still grinning. Up from nowhere she brought a gleaming dagger, drawing a thin red line across her foe’s neck. Blood spurted. Gurgling, the dying man fell to his knees and then pitched face down on the black earth.

The death caught the attention of the remaining two men. Lunging, Will drove his rapier through one. With a flamboyant twirl, Red Meg slammed her dagger into the eye of the last, pushing the blade deep into the man’s brain. The final attacker died under Will’s blade as he wrestled with a ferociously flailing Nathaniel.

Grace realized she wasn’t breathing. Sucking in a huge gulp of evening air, she struggled to understand how so many deaths could happen in what seemed the blink of an eye. The swarming brown rats were already feasting on the blood-spattered bodies.

Caked in the filth of the grave, Will staggered as he stepped forward. He looked as if he could barely stand. Nat rushed to help him through the gate with Red Meg a step behind, her smile now wry, her brow knitted thoughtfully.

Grace made to speak, but her voice broke and tears stung her eyes.

‘Hush,’ the spy said with an affectionate smile, his voice hoarse. ‘I survived. And I am stronger for it. It is remarkable the things you can learn when you are close to death, things that can turn your life in a different direction. And I have learned to embrace my devils.’

His smile, his bright eyes, his expression, were so enigmatic the young woman wanted to ask what he meant, but his legs buckled again and Nathaniel had to take his full weight.

As Will recovered, Grace recounted all that had transpired at Nonsuch while he rotted in Bedlam. When she had finished, he said, ‘London is no place to be right now. It is only a matter of time before the Enemy will come looking for me again. My destiny lies beyond this city.’

‘Where?’ Grace asked with a disbelieving shake of her head.

‘Our Enemy may think this war already won. It is not. A few good men can turn the tide. You and Nat have work to do at Nonsuch. John and Robert, should they have survived, have their own task. And there is one man who has always proved himself formidable in our struggle, and who is needed now more than ever: Dr John Dee.’

‘Even in Ireland, I have heard tell of that powerful court magician,’ Red Meg said. ‘Then I will accompany you. God help you, you will not walk ten paces on your own.’

‘No. You cannot trust her,’ Grace protested.

Will eyed the two men killed by the Irish woman. ‘You may be right, but our friend has shown herself an effective ally.’ He nodded. ‘Very well. But I will watch you very closely, Mistress O’Shee.’

A high-pitched cry like that of a gull at dawn echoed across the rooftops. Yet there was another quality to that unsettling sound, a deep rumble as if two opposing voices were calling at once, that made it unlike any bird they had heard before.

A shadow fell across Red Meg’s features. She looked around urgently until her attention lighted on a tall stone hall along the street to the west near where Lombard Street met Corn Hill. On one of the large chimney stacks, a figure was silhouetted against the darkening, star-sprinkled sky. It was unnaturally tall and thin with long slender limbs, but protruding from its head was what appeared to be a long, curved beak. As they watched, it put its head back and emitted that strange, troubling cry once more, and this time it was picked up by another, across the city to the south. More cries followed in quick succession.

‘Who is that, up there so high? And why does he wear a mask?’ Grace asked, disturbed, though not sure why.

‘The Corvata,’ the Irish woman said under her breath. She had grown pale, her features taut. ‘Your survival has already been noted. There will be no rest now.’