The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE




SIR ROBERT CECIL PACED ANXIOUSLY OUTSIDE THE COUNCIL chamber, his hunchbacked form throwing off his gait so that it appeared he was on the deck of a seagoing galleon. Hands clasped behind his back, his face set, he looked the model of brooding contemplation. Nearby, the mercenary Sinclair and his shadow, Rowland the record-keeper, waited.

The Secretary of State’s concentration was broken by echoing, urgent footsteps and he glanced up to see Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, striding into the gloomy antechamber, blinding in white doublet with gold embroidery, white breeches and white cloak.

‘You,’ the Earl said, jabbing a finger at the black-gowned secretary. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘The same as your good self, I would wager,’ Cecil replied with a false smile. ‘Summoned to appear before Her Majesty, who has been ensconced for this past hour with the Privy Council.’

The flamboyant man blanched. ‘The council? Meeting without either of us in attendance?’

The secretary noted cruelly that his rival’s face and clothes now merged into one single pool of insipidity. ‘Perhaps we are both on our way to the Tower. It appears your cunning manipulations – some would say deceit – have not earned you the advantages you so fervently desired.’

The door to the Council Chamber swung open and Cecil shuffled in. Essex hastened to catch up, ensuring that he arrived in the Queen’s presence at the same time as his rival.

The throne stood with a row of arched windows behind it so that Elizabeth was always perceived in a halo of light. Even so, she looked old and withered, her chin falling to her breast, her white make-up and red wig serving only to exacerbate the cadaverous quality of her hollow cheeks and eye sockets.

The secretary was immediately struck by the presence of Her Majesty’s maid of honour, Elinor, erect and beady-eyed at the Queen’s left arm. A woman? Here? he thought, forgetting the gender of his monarch in a manner that would have made Elizabeth proud, were she aware of his thoughts.

But the Queen seemed unaware of almost everything in the room. Her lids hung heavily as though she were on the brink of sleep, her stare deadened.

Behind her, the Privy Council stood, black robes, grey beards, sallow skin, their expressions too emotionless for Cecil to read the intent of the gathering.

‘Robert. And Robert,’ the Queen drawled. ‘In these dark times, I find your rivalry … tiresome.’

Essex shuffled uneasily and then gave a deep bow. ‘Your Majesty, may I offer my profound apologies.’

Cecil tried not to show his contempt.

‘You must put aside your differences, for there is a matter so pressing it demands all your abilities,’ the monarch continued. ‘It has been brought to my attention that the traitor William Swyfte is returning to England, from France, even as we speak.’

How has it been brought to your attention? the secretary thought, casting a sideways glance at his rival’s baffled face. The two masters of all England’s spies are here before you, and we are both unaware of this development. He saw no advantage in raising this question and instead gave a studied, thoughtful nod.

‘Our disgraced spy sails on a merchant’s vessel from Le Havre-de-Grâce and will dock at the legal quays between the Old Bridge and the Tower on the morrow.’ With an unblinking stare, Elizabeth shifted her gaze between the two men in front of her. ‘Swyfte plans my death, and the overthrow of this government. He must be prevented from reaching Nonsuch at all costs. You must prevent him reaching here. From this moment on, my two favoured councillors, you must work together. Use all the spies at your disposal, united in intent for the first time, and seize Swyfte the moment he sets foot on English soil. Then bring him before me, alive if possible, dead if necessary.’

Cecil flashed a quick glance at Essex’s slow-moving face and seized the moment to make his own deep bow.

‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ the Little Elf said in a confident tone. ‘I have a plan forming already.’