The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE




‘WHAT DO YOU KNOW? DO NOT KEEP IT TO YOURSELF, DAMN YOU,’ the sapphire-masked Carpenter growled to Launceston as they eased through the shadows on the edges of the Great Hall. The audience’s attention was gripped by a beautiful blonde-haired young woman sleeping on a bed of red roses and blue forget-me-nots while masked children dressed as elves gambolled around her. Among the gnarled trees, a tall man in a black cape and a white beak-nosed mask watched the sleeping maiden with an air of menace. Low, tremulous notes from a pipe-player added to the scene’s unsettling feel.

‘When I have something to say, I will say it,’ the Earl replied, thoughtfully looking up at the staring eye of a pale moon constructed out of candles, mirrors and white gauze.

‘Over these past years I have learned all your deep currents. You saw something on Swyfte’s man. What was it?’

‘In good time. These thoughts must settle on me like the morning dew on the meadows. Only then will I know if there is any value to them.’

Riddled with impatience, Carpenter cursed under his breath.

The Earl looked across the sea of bizarre masks until his gaze fell upon the short, hunchbacked figure of Cecil standing alone, familiar even in disguise. His black robes were topped by the face of a grinning ape.

‘Where is Sinclair?’ the sallow-faced spy mused.

‘That slab of beef? Probably roughing up some poor soul for a handful of pennies.’

Pausing beneath an unfurled banner of silver stars against a midnight-blue background, Launceston slowly searched the audience.

Carpenter snorted derisively. ‘You are a strange little man. Those beady eyes, always watching, watching, worming your way inside heads to chew on brains.’

The Earl gently touched the forehead of his yellow mask. ‘Because all men are governed by those deep currents you claim to see in me. Some are beyond my understanding, however much I strive to know them. Young lovers. The fathers and mothers of children. The men I understand see little value in compassion. They do not comprehend love, or faith, or the softer emotions. They are hollowed out. Or mares, ridden by devils.’

Carpenter watched the Irish woman and that red-headed clot-pole Strangewayes slip out of the Great Hall, having completed one circuit. Off to search the deserted palace, he presumed. When he noticed his companion was still gazing intently around the hall, he snapped, ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Patience, thou flap-mouthed ninny. Let us consider what we have learned. The killer of spies is a man who perceives his victims as less than human, for who could commit such atrocities if the victims were seen as father, brother, son?’

Carpenter felt unsettled by his companion’s perception. He knew the mind of the butcher too well. ‘Yes, a God-fearing Catholic perhaps, who has let his beliefs drive reason from his mind. Who believes he is doing God’s work.’

‘Hence the angel’s wings.’ Through the eyeholes, Launceston’s eyes flashed. ‘A Catholic who has been forced to deny his faith. Who lives a secret life.’

‘Many do.’

The yellow-masked spy continued to look purposefully around the entranced audience. Searching for someone in particular, the scarred man thought. ‘In the wrong man, these things build, like barrels filled with still-fermenting beer that blows the lids right off. Why, to contain such heartfelt beliefs can drive a man mad. And where, in all of England, would such a man most have to hide his beliefs?’

‘Here, in the heart of government.’

Launceston nodded. ‘Amid the very persecutors of his faith. Such a person would show the world the visage he saw on those he hated.’

‘A devil’s mask.’

‘A man who pretends to be a devil, but thinks himself an angel.’

The play paused for the moment with the maiden awoken by her menacing suitor, the elves scattering in fear. With the excitement deferred, the musicians teased the members of the court with another lively dance. The fiddles began, the hautboy rang out.

‘But who would be capable of such things?’ the scar-faced man asked.

‘Who, indeed?’

While the Earl studied the lines of men and women forming on both sides of the hall, Carpenter noticed a woman in pale yellow skirts and bodice waving from the doorway leading out of the Great Hall. Even in her mask and in the half-light, he recognized his love, Alice Dalingridge. She had clearly seen through his disguise too. Yet something in her frantic waving alarmed him. The sapphire-masked spy thrust his way through the throng. When he reached the door, he was troubled to discover Alice was no longer there.

Stepping outside the hall, he heard the scuffle of footsteps in the stillness ahead. He ran through the antechamber and up the four steps into the long corridor. Anxious, he noticed all the candles had been snuffed out. At the far end of the corridor, the scarred man glimpsed a ghost, a whirl of pale yellow skirts, gone in an instant.

‘Alice?’ Carpenter called. His voice rustled along the walls and disappeared into the dark.

He felt his skin prickle with apprehension.

His chest tightening, the scarred man raced along the inky corridor to where he had seen the pale form. He skidded to a halt next to the steps down to the kitchens, smelling the spicy aromas of that evening’s pork.

Grasping a candle in its iron holder, Carpenter lit it with his flint. Apprehensively, he watched the flame dance as he held it in front of the draughts rising up from below. He could hear no sound. Drawing his rapier, he descended.

He wanted to call Alice’s name, but resisted. Better to go stealthily, he thought. Refusing to think about what might be ahead, he settled into his five senses, the grip of cold steel in his hand, the echoes of his footsteps, the dancing shadows, the rising scents of baked bread and strawberry wine, and the taste … the iron taste of fear in his mouth. But not for himself.

In the caverns of his mind, her name rang out: Alice … Alice … and the echoes of promises made in the dark.

Waves of heat from the crackling ovens washed up the stairs. With sweat beading his brow, the spy eased into the echoing kitchens, looking all around. Shadows drifted across the brick-vaulted ceiling. A row of trestles ran down the middle of the chamber, still streaked where they had been wiped down by the kitchen workers after the meal. Sacks of flour lined one wall. Fragrant cured hams hung from hooks overhead. One swung gently from side to side.

At first the spy refused to accept what his eyes told him. ‘Let her go,’ he whispered. Tossing the candle to one side, he tore off his blue mask and set it on the end of the trestle.

In front of the ovens, the black-cloaked man in the devil mask held Alice with one arm around her waist, the other holding a dagger to her neck. His angel wings cast a grotesque shadow on the orange bricks behind him. Alice’s mask had fallen away, and she stared at the spy with wide, terrified eyes.

‘It is me you want,’ Carpenter urged. ‘You have used Alice to draw me out, and now you have me. Set her free so you can complete your vile business and loose all hell upon this place.’

‘No, John!’ the woman cried, tears burning her cheeks.

His head spinning from fear for his love, the spy forced himself to remain calm. Making a show of it, he sheathed his rapier, but inside his cloak his left hand closed on his dagger unseen. ‘See, I am unarmed,’ he said. ‘Set her free.’

Carpenter’s eyes locked intently on Alice’s.

Keeping the dagger pricking the woman’s neck, the devil-masked man unfurled his other arm and beckoned for the spy to step forward. With a shudder, Carpenter saw a droplet of blood appear on his love’s pale skin.

The scar-faced man stepped forward, presenting his chest for the blade. ‘One final time: set her free now, or so help me I will carve you like those hams above.’

‘John, go now,’ Alice cried. ‘If you die, I do not want to live.’

‘Hush. Your life has more value than mine.’ Carpenter fixed his gaze on the slits in the devil mask. The eyes within were tinged with madness.

Sobbing, Alice was barely able to catch her breath.

For one long moment, two pairs of eyes were locked in concert. Then, fluidly, the devil-masked man hurled the woman aside, thrusting his dagger towards the spy’s chest.

Alice screamed.

Lurching away, Carpenter sought to bring his own blade out from beneath his cloak, but he was an instant too slow. He sensed death’s cold breath on his neck.

And then the spy felt Alice’s hands thrust him aside.

Stumbling to one knee, Carpenter jerked his head up to witness the devil-masked man’s blade plunge into Alice’s heart. The black stain spread too fast across her pale yellow dress. For one moment that seemed eternal, Carpenter was locked in hell.

Alice had given her life for his.

His love’s startled eyes fell on the spy, and a final, sad smile sprang to her lips. As she slipped to the floor, pulling the dagger from the hands of her murderer, the spy caught her and cradled her in his arms. Tears seared his eyes.

Seeing his advantage was gone, the devil-masked man ran, the crack of his footsteps echoing off the brick walls.

In the silence that followed, Carpenter thought the world had tumbled into darkness. His heart felt like it was going to burst. Tears burning his cheeks, he held Alice while the last of her life drifted away and then his body was racked with sobs.

After a while his wits returned and he looked up to see Launceston watching him with an unsettlingly placid expression. The Earl held his mask in his left hand and his head was half-cocked, as if he was trying to grasp something beyond his comprehension.

‘You can never understand!’ Carpenter raged. ‘You feel nothing! And, God help me, I wish I was like you!’

Screwing his eyes tight shut, Carpenter allowed his head to drop to his chest, so broken he was sure he would never heal again.

And when he looked up, Launceston was gone.