The Scar-Crow Men

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX




WILL CAME ROUND ON HIS KNEES IN THE DARKENED NAVE OF THE church, amid the faint scent of old incense and with the moonlight breaking through the stained-glass windows. His wrists ached from where he had unconsciously chafed them against the ropes binding him to a roughly constructed timber cross-frame. His head throbbed, more with anger that he had allowed himself to be taken like a novice than from whatever potion had been used to still his senses. And that failure would undoubtedly cost him his life, for Marlowe’s killer – or killers – would never allow him to walk free. He yanked hard at the bonds and rattled the frame furiously, but they held tight.

When the spy looked down, he saw a circle had been inscribed around him with some kind of pigment the colour of blood. Magical symbols were scrawled on the outside and four stubby, unlit candles had been placed at what he presumed were the cardinal points.

Peering into the dark, he thought he glimpsed movement. ‘Reveal yourself,’ he shouted, his voice laced with cold rage.

Footsteps echoed off the flagstones. A figure emerged into a moonbeam, the familiar face dappled by the reds, greens and blues of the stained glass. Dressed in a black half-compass cloak over a fine black doublet embroidered with silver crosses, Thomas Walsingham, second cousin to the old spymaster, Sir Francis, bowed. When he rose, he tugged at the tip of his beard and gave a lopsided grin. Will had not seen him since they had stood together beside Kit’s grave on the day of the funeral in Deptford Green.

‘You are a long way from your grand new home in Chislehurst,’ the spy noted.

‘Needs must when the devil drives.’

Will could contain his anger no longer. ‘You were Kit’s friend,’ he spat.

‘Yes, I was. And patron too, as you well know.’ In the flicker in Walsingham’s eyes, Will saw the hint that this rich, elegant man had been more than a friend.

‘Do ye still need us?’ a voice called from somewhere near the font. Three figures emerged from the gloom. After the patron’s appearance, the spy was not surprised to see any of them.

Sullen-faced and grey of hair, Ingram Frizer would not meet Will’s eye, as he had refused to do in that warm room when he made his claim of self-defence at the inquest into Marlowe’s murder. Beside Frizer were the other two key players in that mockery of an investigation: the moneylender Nicholas Skeres in a shabby brown doublet, and Robert Poley, the spy and cunning deceiver. Poley wore an old black cloak that hung down to his ankles.

‘Take yourselves back to your business. This matter is near an end.’ The patron dismissed the three men with a flutter of his hand.

‘There are too many spies,’ Will muttered, unable to hide his bitterness.

Walsingham nodded. ‘We are good at our deceits. Sometimes so good we can even forget what is real and what is a lie.’ A shadow crossed his face.

‘So, a conspiracy, then.’ Will strained at his bonds.

‘A conspiracy indeed. There is no other way to describe the School of Night.’

‘You are one of them?’

Tugging his beard once more in thought, the patron replied, ‘We are many. Though we are not all known to each other, so there are mysteries and secrets among us, too. Raleigh and the others at Petworth had no idea of our involvement in this matter. It had to be that way. We could not risk word of our plans leaking out.’

‘I see that clearly. They would be less than pleased to know you had murdered one of their own.’

Walsingham gave a sad smile. ‘You think poorly of me. Understandable under the circumstances, but it still stings. I always admired you, Master Swyfte. You were a good friend to Kit. You made his life richer and provided a light to guide him through the darkness. For that, I thank you.’

Will was stung by the incongruous tenderness in the patron’s voice. There was love, certainly, a confirmation of what the spy had seen in the man’s eyes earlier.

Clapping his hands together, Thomas gave a silent laugh at the spy’s expression. ‘You have questions. Of course you do. But they are not for me to answer.’ He gave another bow accompanied by a flamboyant sweep of his arm. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, Master Swyfte, in another place.’

‘In hell?’ the spy growled.

‘Hell is all around us. I aspire to somewhere greater.’ And with that, Walsingham swept down the nave and disappeared into the dark.

The spy returned to his attempts to break his bonds, but they were tied too tightly. Gasping for breath after his exertions, he did not hear another figure approach.

‘Hello, Will.’

He was so shocked by the gentle voice that he was convinced his heart would stop. In front of him stood a ghost. Wrapped in a hard-wearing cloak, Christopher Marlowe sported the same sad smile that Will recalled from the last time they had met. His brown hair was a little longer, but the fuzz on his chin still resembled that of a youth. The spy gaped, trying to find words that could express his whirlpool of emotions and thoughts.

The playwright held up a hand, his face darkening. ‘I have been a poor friend to you. I put you through great suffering, but it was all necessary, if you will only let me explain—’

‘I saw your body.’

‘You saw a body.’ Kit sat on the edge of a splintered pew. ‘A poor soul, a seaman, beaten to death outside an inn on the river and transported to Mrs Bull’s house by my good friend Thomas Walsingham and his associates. The sailor had the great misfortune to resemble me in size and shape if not in features. But once his brains had become a caul across his face, none was the wiser.’

Will flashed back to the hot room on that June morning, remembered glancing at the body on the floor when the blanket was thrown aside to reveal the wound to the jury. His grief had prevented him from lingering upon the gruesome sight, and who else in that place would have paid it more than cursory attention? None of them knew Marlowe personally. They might have seen rough engravings in pamphlets, perhaps, but who would remember the features? In the end, it had come down to Frizer, Skeres, Poley and Mrs Bull to confirm the identity of the victim.

The spy grinned. ‘It was a conspiracy.’

Marlowe’s features lit up as he saw the warmth in his friend’s face. ‘It was. A conspiracy to save my life. And what better place to hide than here, in haunted Wykenham, desecrated by my good friend Griffin Devereux, where no man dare set foot.’

‘To escape the death planned by your enemies.’

‘The Unseelie Court had placed me on their list for the killer of spies. I had seen and knew too much of their plot to live. And the Privy Council had decided I was a threat to the very stability of the nation and had to be removed forthwith. Execution was only a matter of time. I have always been skilful at making enemies, less so at conjuring friends. But then the ones I have are worth more than any man could want.’

Will shook his bonds, grinning. ‘Set me free. I would knock you on your arse, and then drink your good health.’

With clear sadness, the playwright shook his head. ‘I cannot do that.’

‘Why not? Set me free, you coxcomb.’

Marlowe leaned forward so he could look his friend full in the face. ‘The consequences of my actions must play out. There is no going back from here. If your presence in Wykenham tells me the Unseelie Court have been defeated, as I hoped once I had alerted you to the plot, then well and good. But the Privy Council, and Cecil in particular, will not rest until I am dead and gone.’

‘I will not let him harm you. I will petition the Queen—’

Shaking his head, the playwright smiled dolefully. ‘My only hope for peace is to leave my old life behind.’

Will thought for a moment. ‘A new identity?’

Marlowe nodded.

‘Kit, what about your reputation?’

‘My reputation.’ Laughing, the playwright jumped to his feet, declaiming like one of his players, ‘That is like the air. But my writing, Will, that means the world to me. If I could not write, I could not live.’ Bending down, he held out a hand passionately towards the spy. ‘But I have made plans, coz. I have a friend, a good man, a playwright of some talent. We will collaborate on many great plays, and though they will be published and performed in his name, I will still have had a part in that grand creation and that is enough for me.’ Spinning around on his private stage, he glanced over his shoulder and smiled shyly. ‘Look out for them, Will. You will know them when you see them, wise and cultured friend that you are. And I will hide in them many clues and messages in wordplay and in code. And I will even give mention to my saviours and the future salvation of this nation, the School of Night. See if I don’t.’

His arms aching, the spy settled back against the wooden cross-frame. ‘Then you will tell me where you live, under what name, and we can meet on dark nights, and drink, and—’

‘No, Will.’ Serious-faced, Marlowe squatted on his haunches so he could look his friend in the eye once more. ‘Cecil knows of our friendship. If there is even a hint I am still alive, he will get to me through you. Or he will, at the very least, punish you … torture you … for knowing my whereabouts. I will not see you suffer.’ He swallowed. ‘Suffer more.’

‘The devil.’

‘Believe me, Will, I would not have inflicted such a terrible thing ’pon you if it had not been the last recourse. To risk your very soul … what kind of monster am I?’ In the grip of self-loathing, the playwright wrapped his arms around his head.

‘Kit …’

‘But I knew your name was on that self-same list, and that the killer of spies would claim your life soon.’ Marlowe looked up, his eyes rimmed with tears. ‘If I had got to you first, I could have explained everything. But there is no doubt I would have been murdered in the process by that foul Hunter that has stalked me half my life. No, I had one gamble and I had to risk all. Griffin and I had talked about the conjuring of devils, and I knew that through that spawn of hell I could both warn you and protect you, if only for a short while. The devil was your servant as well as your curse, was he not?’

Will nodded, stung by the pain his friend was feeling.

‘Good, good.’ The playwright wiped his tears away with the back of his hand and put on a bright grin, though his eyes still told the spy another story. ‘And here you are! Alive and well!’

‘And damned. But I have survived to see you again—’

‘And you will continue to live, free of your curse.’ Marlowe jumped to his feet and pulled out his flint, lighting each one of the four candles in turn. ‘I conjured the devil and I can free you from him.’

The spy laughed heartily. ‘Then all’s well that end’s well.’

Marlowe paused behind Will’s back, his voice growing hollow. ‘But no devil will return to hell without a prize.’

Straining to look round, the spy asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I must take your devil upon myself. ’Twas always my plan.’

Will felt a chill reach to the very heart of him. ‘It will force you to an early grave and drag your soul to hell. You cannot!’

‘I must.’ Marlowe danced back in front of the spy. He looked as if a weight had lifted from his shoulders. ‘This is my gift to you. A free life, and a long one, if any spy may have such a thing. And a chance to make your own mistakes, not carry the burden of mine.’

‘No, Kit. I shall not allow it,’ Will shouted.

‘In this, you have no say.’ The playwright cast one sad, sideways glance at his friend and then walked along the nave into the shadows.

Will raged and cursed, and in the spaces between his oaths he heard Marlowe muttering some incantation, his voice rising and falling in a rhythmic cadence. The world spun around him and he thought he glimpsed angels and demons swooping out of the darkness, and heard the haunting music of a pipe player. Smells came and went – strawberries, rose petals and then the suffocating stench of brimstone. Choking and coughing, his skin prickling, he felt a burden drop from his back, and his heart sang. He was free. A shadow moved beyond the red circle.

His face drained of blood, Marlowe stumbled back up the nave weakly, but he was smiling.

‘Damn you, Kit,’ Will croaked.

They both laughed at that, despite themselves.

‘Tell me,’ the playwright asked, ‘did you see your Jenny?’

The spy nodded.

‘The devil takes the form of a heart’s desire that we consider unattainable. And in this way it inflicts the greatest pain.’ Though the shadow appeared insubstantial to the spy, Kit was smiling at it, tears stinging his eyes once more.

‘What do you see?’ Will whispered.

Marlowe looked from the shadow to Will, but his smile did not alter. ‘I see my heart’s desire,’ he replied quietly, ‘but as unattainable as ever.’ Throwing his arms wide, he waited. The shadow crossed Will’s vision, and his friend gave a deep shudder.

‘Kit, why did you do this thing?’ the spy croaked.

‘’Tis no sacrifice, my good friend. I see you well. And that is all the reward I would ever need.’ The playwright walked around his friend one final time, snuffing out each candle in turn. The darkness swept back in. It felt colder, though Will knew it was only his heart.

‘Then this is where we say goodbye. For all time?’

‘Who knows? Fate plays strange games.’ Marlowe walked to the edge of the moonbeam falling through the stained-glass window. For a moment, he was jewelled. ‘But you know I live. And I know you live. And though we may never speak again, our friendship crosses the gulf in our dreams.’

‘Do not go, Kit. Let us find another solution.’

Marlowe stepped beyond the moonbeam. Now he was grey, a ghost once more. ‘Make the most of this world, Will, for life is fleeting, and the jewels you see around you disappear in a twinkling.’

Will felt waves of emotion rushing through him until he thought he would drown. There was joy that his friend was alive, and at the powerful bond they shared. And there was a terrible ache at the suffering Marlowe had taken upon himself so that Will could be free. Will felt the depth of that sacrifice burn into his heart.

The dark swallowed Kit up.

‘’Tis unseemly to quote oneself, but there is a time and place for all things,’ the playwright said from the shadows, his voice laced with playful humour borne of relief that this dark game was over.

‘Thinkest thou heaven is such a glorious thing?

I tell thee, ’tis not half so fair as thou,

Or any man that breathes on earth.

‘Goodbye, my friend, and live well.’

And then Christopher Marlowe was gone.