The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN




ON THE FAR HORIZON, A SPECTRAL GLOW LIT UP THE BLACK waves washing into the horseshoe-shaped bay. Amid that pearly luminescence, the outline of a ghostly galleon rocking gently on the swell could just be discerned. A smaller craft made its way steadily towards the shore.

In villages along the Kent coast, candles would be extinguished as storm-hardened sailors and their wives turned away from the windows, whispering prayers against the haunted vessel, or denying its very existence.

The night was warm, the salty breeze licking the surf into a gentle symphony where it met the sand. Beyond the whisper of the waves, owls hooted in the trees that ran down to the shore, and the marram grass on the edge of the dunes rustled as if small things moved among it.

On the beach, looking out to sea, Deortha stood with one hand high on a staff carved with black runes that resembled no human writing. Braided with trinkets and the skulls of field animals and birds, his hair glinted gold and silver in the moonlight. Despite the heat, he wore thick grey-green robes, faintly marked with a gold design of the same symbols that were on his staff.

The Unseelie Court’s magician fixed his attention on the approaching vessel, his contemplative nature set alight by satisfaction as a long-forming pattern fell into place.

An ending was coming.

Squatting, baleful and brooding like one of the gargoyles on the great cathedrals of Europe, Xanthus drew patterns in the sand with one long finger, occasionally laughing humourlessly to himself. On his shaved, pale head, the blue and black intersecting circles stood out starkly.

‘The seasons turn slowly, but a change was always coming,’ wise Deortha said, his gaze fixed ahead. ‘The king-in-waiting arrives this night and nothing will be the same again.’

The squatting thing grunted in reply.

Beside the magician, waiting like a statue of cold alabaster, was the one who passed for Lord Derby, a minor member of the Privy Council who rarely raised his voice in opposition to more outspoken characters such as Cecil and Essex, but who was always heeded when he did speak. Dressed in a black gown, a black velvet cap on his head, the Scar-Crow Man had a long, grey beard that glowed in the moonlight.

Deortha paid him no attention. Nor did the other grey shapes flitting around the fringes of the beach like moon shadows.

The small craft sped across the chopping waves in complete silence; not even the constant, rhythmic splashing of the six oarsmen could be heard. A lantern swung from a pole at the stern. And at the prow stood Lethe of the High Family, hands pressed flat against his belly, unmoved by the undulations of the craft on the waves. A long, grey cloak swathed him, the hood pulled back to reveal his silver hair, black-streaked along the centre, and a fierce expression that was tinged with both triumph and the flush of violent passion. Around his feet, a small creature gambolled. Sophisticated London folk would have thought it like the little apes that the foreign merchants sold in the market on Cheapside, but it was hairless, its ears pointed and its golden eyes held a disturbing intelligence.

When the boat reached the shore, the oarsmen jumped out into the white-licked surf and hauled it a way up the sand. Lethe stepped out into the backwash and strode up the beach to Deortha, his pet rolling and tumbling in front of him.

‘These mortals, this cattle swaying stupidly towards slaughter, have woken us.’ The faint sibilance in the new arrival’s voice echoed the sound of the sea. ‘They have gained our attention. And that is a good thing, Deortha, for we had grown complacent. The human beasts do not know what they have done.’

The wise one nodded in response. ‘We are close. England hangs by a thread. But there is one matter that demands our notice.’

Lethe’s eyes narrowed. Deortha explained about the English spy, Will Swyfte, who had seen glimpses of what was unfolding – but far from all – and who was now abroad in England and beyond control.

‘Beyond the watch of our Scar-Crows?’ Lethe asked with a note of irritation. He cast a supercilious eye at the emotionless man who stood nearby.

‘For now,’ the Lord Derby figure replied.

‘This spy is known to the High Family. But he is one man, as weak as the rest of them, and he cannot be expected to cause any interference with our work.’ Deortha chose his words carefully. He was not concerned, but in his divinations he had often seen how the smallest and seemingly most inconsequential matter could drastically change the greater pattern. ‘Still,’ he began, ‘he is resilient, and driven by demons that we would all understand. He will not rest until he has uncovered truths that he hopes will salve his secret dreads, and in so doing he may sow confusion or cause difficulties in the construction of our grand design. For all to be thrown awry at this late stage would be …’ He tapped one finger on his lower lip in reflection. ‘Unfortunate.’

‘Then let us ensure this mortal is destroyed. I would see him struck down, his body torn open and his internal workings laid bare for the ravens to feast upon,’ Lethe said. He held his left arm out for his pet to scramble up his body and nestle in the crook of his elbow. Its golden eyes fell upon the Scar-Crow Man and it bared its needle-sharp teeth and hissed. ‘And it should be done in plain view, so all his own kind will see and learn.’

‘We have played him in times past,’ Deortha replied, looking beyond his master to the dark horizon, ‘thinking he might be suitable to advance our plans. Like all mortals, he is riven with weakness, his strengths made ragged by emotions. Love, yearning, dashed hopes, despair. There may still be a part for him to play.’

‘England falls before this summer turns. What need for him then?’

‘Very well.’ Deortha gave a faint bow of his head.

Lethe pressed the tips of his fingers together and turned his attention to Xanthus, who still squatted like a beast beside them. ‘This spy killed your brother, a Hunter like yourself,’ he said. ‘He has troubled you too, I understand.’

The shaven-headed thing gave a low, contemptuous growl deep in his throat. Looking up at his master with hollow eyes, he nodded. ‘I will find him.’

Lethe pursed his lips. ‘Of course you will, for no quarry ever escapes you. Your brother could never be driven off course, pursuing his prey with the cold, relentless force of a winter storm. But you are better. This spy is already as good as dead. But I would have more.’

Deortha gave another slight bow and turned to Lord Derby. ‘Let the word travel out to every corner of this land: William Swyfte is no longer England’s greatest spy and garlanded hero of all Albion. He has betrayed his Queen, his country and his fellow men. This traitor is now an outlaw, who must be hunted down and given up to the authorities. His name, his reputation, mean nothing. All England now stands against him. Do you understand?’

The Scar-Crow Man nodded, emotion springing to his face – at first concern, then righteous fury as he searched for the correct response. ‘I will return to Nonsuch this night and summon a meeting of the Privy Council for the morrow. The Queen will be advised forthwith. Will Swyfte will be shunned by all God-fearing Englishmen and brought to justice in no time at all. Traitor. Outlaw. His days are numbered.’