The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE




STANDING ON THE HILLTOP IN THE BUFFETING WIND, WILL LOOKED down at the twinkling lights of Paris and felt the stress of the last nine days’ hard travel begin to ease. The running could stop; now the fighting would begin.

A sparkling island in the night-dark sea, the city was alight with lamps on all the municipal buildings and candles glimmering in the windows of the houses that faced the streets. Contained in its old walls, Paris squatted on the plain of the river that flowed through its heart. The spy had first considered the river to be the best route into the capital, but Maximilien, the King’s adviser, had warned him that the Unseelie Court had ‘set things roaming there to slaughter the unwary’.

‘And so we reach the end of the road,’ Meg said, brushing back a strand of her damp red hair. She loosely held the reins of her horse. The animal frothed at the mouth from its exertions.

‘Not in more ways than one, I hope,’ the spy muttered.

Grinning, the King strode over and clapped his hands. Will was impressed by the monarch’s seemingly inhuman good nature in the face of the last few days’ hardships. ‘Hup-hup, no time to rest! You have nations to save. And, of course, lives to risk.’

‘I thank you for reminding me,’ Will replied. He was distracted by the bulk of the great cathedral rising up from the island in the centre of the river. His gaze followed the walls around the city’s perimeter, but he could see no way of slipping into Paris unnoticed. Waiting until dawn and hiding in the back of some cart was not an option. Xanthus was an hour behind, possibly less.

The spy glanced back at all that remained of the King’s men. They were exhausted and scared. Night after night soldiers had stayed behind to try to slow the Hunter’s progress, and now, Will guessed, their bodies littered the countryside all the way back to Reims.

At least Grace was safe and on her way to the waiting galleon, with two of Henri’s most trusted men for company.

With thunder rumbling like distant cannon-fire and spitting rain caught in the wind, they rode down the hillside to the city. Moving along winding, dusty tracks, the riders came to the remnants of an abandoned quarry not far from the city walls, where yellow grass and lichen covered mounds of extracted rock. Dismounting, Maximilien ordered the King’s men to guard the path and then led Henri, Will and Meg through the quarry to a ragged black hole in the hillside.

‘Paris sits on the edge of an abyss,’ the monarch explained, peering into the dark. ‘Quarriers have dug mines here for three hundred years, perhaps more. Most of the stone was removed outside the city walls, and few know of the old tunnels that stretch deep under the city.’ He turned to Will and grinned. ‘I promised you safe passage and here it is.’

‘Keep to the left in the first cavern and the tunnel will present itself to you,’ Maximilien growled. ‘Were it more spacious it would have been of use during our siege, but only one man may pass through it at a time.’

The spy glanced up at the black clouds rolling overhead. ‘No time to lose. Your dancing ape thanks you for your aid, Your Majesty, and I hope we will meet again in this life.’ He bowed deeply.

Meg allowed the King to kiss her hand while feigning a lack of interest. ‘Enjoy the arms of your love, but remember the times when your passion reached its true heights,’ she told him.

Maximilien handed Will one of the torches he had brought from the cart containing the tents. The spy lit it with his flint, and as the rain began to pound he led the Irish woman into the dark cave. Before they disappeared into the underworld, he glanced back. For the first time since they had met, the King’s face was grim.

Through the dusty-dry atmosphere, the spy and his companion moved into low-ceilinged caverns supported by columns of stone left by the long-departed quarrymen. The rasp of the two cautious travellers’ feet made whispering echoes rustle around the edges of the vast space.

‘Keep four paces to my right and one pace ahead,’ Will said, holding the hissing torch in front of him. ‘Where I can see you.’

‘I walk where I choose,’ the Irish woman snapped. ‘And fear not, I have no wish to be by your side.’

‘Then I presume you will keep your mind on the task at hand, especially as there are no men down here to distract you.’

‘Says the one who has bedded every woman in London, if the stories are to be believed.’

‘Do I hear the merest hint of jealousy? Or is it simply regret?’ he asked.

‘Only in your dreams.’ Meg threw her red hair back, refusing to give Will even cursory notice.

The spy skirted the left-hand wall of the cavern until he found a tunnel carved into the rock, so small he had to stoop to enter. It gave way to rough-hacked caves and tiny rooms before continuing like an arrow into the heart of Paris. Will imagined passing beneath the old city walls, under the cobbled streets and the rough, filth-strewn lanes, the pale-faced men and women cowering indoors, away from the Enemy that now existed among them.

When Will heard a change in the quality of their echoing footsteps, he knew their underground journey was coming to an end. The golden glare of the torch dappled the timber that barred their way. Gently rapping on the wood, Will considered the hollow response and then glanced back at Meg. Her face looked serious and determined, her eyes glinting in the dancing flames.

‘I would step back. I may have to kick this down,’ the spy said.

‘Pray use your head and keep the damage to a minimum.’

Once she had retreated a few paces, Will gave two sharp kicks and the timber burst into a dark cellar. Raising one hand, he listened for a moment and then stepped into the cool space.

The torchlight revealed barrels and glinting bottles in a vaulted stone chamber, the air thick with the aroma of sour wine. Once he had satisfied himself that no one was coming to investigate, Will led the way up stone steps to an arched door that opened on to a wood-panelled corridor. Extinguishing the torch, he darted through the still house, the swishing of Meg’s skirts close behind.

The spy led them out on to a small cobbled street glistening in the rain. Water sluiced from the roofs into black puddles where the reflected candlelight from the windows sparkled and swam.

Meg followed Will’s gaze up to the roiling black clouds overhead. ‘The Hunter’s manipulation of the elements grows more intense with his frustration. Let us hope these magics drain him.’ The Irish woman paused. ‘Though I fear his hatred for you is now so great he would risk everything to see you destroyed.’

‘That is less of an unusual occurrence than you might think.’

Slipping in and out of the shadows close to the walls of the houses, Will tried to get his bearings. At the corner of a broad thoroughfare, he smelled the foetid river and glimpsed the silhouette of the great cathedral rising up against the sky. He brought up an arm to hold Meg back.

‘Hide.’

Ducking back around the corner, they pressed themselves against the wet wall. A faint light washed over the houses on the other side of the broad street. Within a moment, a bone-white carriage drawn by two colourless horses splashed through the pools of black water. Both beasts and vehicle emitted the ghostly light. It was soundless, a ghost-carriage, though clearly it had substance. There was no driver, but Will glimpsed two of the Unseelie Court through the window, a male in a broad-brimmed hat and a woman with hair piled high on her head, both equally leached of colour.

‘They travel so openly,’ the Irish woman hissed once the carriage had disappeared from sight.

‘It is their city now. I hope your former lover sleeps peacefully.’ The spy looked around at the streets devoid of human life, and the houses where nothing moved. Paris was not as populous as London, but it still contained almost two hundred thousand people, even without the many who had died of starvation during Henri’s siege. Many more refugees had fled to the city from the fighting in the countryside. Did they now all quake in fear beneath their beds?

‘Henri must make choices where there is no easy answer, ofttimes no winners, and only the extent of each side’s losses is the deciding factor,’ Meg replied, adding sharply, ‘and that is why he is king and you are not.’

‘I would think birth and blood had some part to play in it, but be it as you will.’ Once he was sure the street was empty, Will ran in the direction of the cathedral.

As they neared the river, the two spies ducked into an alley. Another Fay man rode past on a grey horse, his silver-mildewed doublet almost matching the tone of his bloodless face. Four other pale figures stalked by before Will and the Irish woman could leave their hiding place, and then they were running as fast as they could through the driving rain to the edge of the vast, stone-arched bridge that led to the island in the flow.

As they crouched out of sight, their attention was caught by a spectral glow from the river downstream. Peering over the small stone wall, the spy felt a chill. On the grey, choppy water, a fleet was moored, more galleons than Will could count, disappearing into the rain and night. They strained at anchor, their sails furled, no colours flying on their masts, but they needed none, for that eerie luminescence told him all he needed to know of ownership. There was no movement on deck that he could see, no frantic activity as the crews prepared to sail, and that gave him some comfort. But here, without doubt, was the Enemy’s invasion force, ready for England whenever the order was given.

From the hills above the city, the ships had been invisible, hidden by the Fay’s magics. And he felt no need to question how seagoing vessels could sail in the shallows of a summer river, nor how they could navigate the impassable sections of the Seine upstream. The Unseelie Court made their own rules.

Seeing the scale of the fleet, feeling the icy power that washed off it, Will was fearful of what lay ahead. If those ships were free to sail upon England, all would be lost.

Turning his attention back to the bridge, the spy saw that like London Bridge across the Thames in London, Pont Notre-Dame was lined on both sides by tall stone and brick houses, their pitched roofs topped with orange-brown tiles. In the daylight, at any other time, it would be bustling with merchants, the road across the centre of the span packed with carts and livestock. Now it was deserted apart from three pale figures waiting in the rain-drenched gloom halfway across.

‘There is no way past them,’ Meg whispered.

‘There is always a way.’

Studying the bridge, the spy saw only one perilous route open to him. Turning to the Irish woman, he whispered, ‘Despite my doubts about your loyalty, I acceded to your request to accompany me on this dangerous mission. But you must now wait here—’

‘I am no weak and cowardly woman. Do not treat me like your bloodless, flower-loving Grace. I will not be dismissed, abandoned, discarded. Ever.’ Her anger simmered.

Softening his tone, Will said, ‘Mistress Meg, you have proved yourself to have the heart of a lion and the skills and ferocity of any man. I would be proud to have you at my side in any battle. Although,’ he added with a tight smile, ‘not at my back. But this work now requires the stealth that can only be accomplished by one alone. You know this business well. See it with the eyes of a spy.’

Her anger faded, but she still surveyed him with hard eyes. ‘Very well then. But I will watch for your return. Do not try to leave me here.’

‘Though I am loath to say this, I need you.’

Her brow furrowed, her gaze becoming uncertain.

‘If I die here, I need you to take up this fight.’

Meg nodded. ‘If you die, I will carry the fight back to them. So do I now vow.’

Swinging one leg over the low wall, the spy paused again and, turning quickly, stole a kiss.

The Irish woman recoiled in surprise.

Will gave a rakish grin. ‘If I go to my grave, I would do so with a happy memory.’

And then he threw himself over the edge of the wall and was gone.