Mark Chadbourn - The Scar-Crow Men

‘I am sorry to say, John, I fear you will be kept very busy in the coming days. No time for rest or private thought,’ he said, trying to appear blithe. ‘In my rush to get to Norfolk, I have not yet discussed matters with Sir Robert, but I learned some troubling news during my time in France.’

When he caught Launceston looking at him, the ghost of a smile appeared to be playing on the man’s pale lips. Puzzled, Will presumed he must be mistaken.

‘The Unseelie Court are in the process of unveiling an even greater plot than the one we defeated this past summer. It is no longer their aim simply to punish England for our transgressions. Their ambition now extends to all the countries of the world.’

Carpenter brought the other two men to a halt and grasped Will’s arm. ‘Is this true? We are on the brink of a war that could destroy all of human endeavour?’

‘I am sorry to say it is, John. The Fay are like the hydra in the stories Kit Marlowe liked to spin. Cut off a head and two more grow. We have seen them extend their influence into Spain and France. Now they plot to move on many fronts, to control their puppets on thrones, to manipulate others, to seize control wherever they look.’

The scarred spy’s grieving expression was replaced by one of righteous anger. ‘Alice is dead because of their hand. Nothing will stop me from fighting those bastards wherever they might raise their heads. From now on, that is my purpose in life.’

Pumping one fist into an open palm, Carpenter marched ahead, filled now with fresh incentive. Launceston held Will’s gaze for a long moment, but the spy could not read whatever moved behind the Earl’s eyes. The sallow man gave a curt nod, of thanks, perhaps, and moved on.

Cecil was not in his own chamber. The three spies found their master in the room that had belonged to Robert Rowland, a hand pressed to his forehead. Instead of the heaps of records that had belonged to the killer of spies, there were now charts of the night skies, great volumes, their creaking leather bindings inscribed with magical symbols, small glass bottles, powders and potions, all of which Will guessed had been transported from Dee’s old library in Mortlake.

‘What matter is so pressing that a man cannot change his doublet?’ Will asked.

The secretary pointed a wavering hand to the boards where the rushes had been brushed aside to reveal a magical circle marked out in pitch — or half marked, for the line trailed away next to a dripping brush. Around it were scattered shards of glass from smashed potion bottles and a book with the pages torn by an errant shoe.

‘Dee has been taken,’ Cecil raged, shaking a fist at the gods, ‘before he could complete our magical defences.’

‘How do you know the old man didn’t stagger away in one of his rages?’ Carpenter sneered as he looked around the chamber. ‘Or that he is not pursuing one of the maids, as is his wont?’

‘Because one of those very maids saw him lurch from this room and collapse outside the door, his eyes rolling back in his head,’ the hunchbacked man said bitterly, prowling around the cramped room. ‘And when that maid returned with help, the alchemist was gone.’

‘And the defences were not yet repaired, you say? How much work had he done?’ Will asked.

Cecil fixed a gimlet eye on the spy. ‘Enough to stop the Queen being stolen from under our noses, I would wager. But we will see more incursions from the Enemy. More Englishmen tormented, murdered in their homes, corrupted. This must not stand!’

Launceston stroked a long finger down his chin, staring into the middle distance. ‘But what enemy could get into Nonsuch and take the alchemist from his very chamber? Have we no guards ’pon the gates?’

Without another word, Will walked out of the door, and once he was out of sight of the other men he ran to his own room, a slow anger burning in his chest. On the trestle, by the open window, lay a scroll tied with a red ribbon. With feverish hands, he tore it open and read what had been written in a florid script.

My sweet,

By the time you read this, there will be miles between us. It pains me to leave you so, without at least a kiss, but I fear you would demand more of me than I can give before you would let me depart!

This is a fine and valuable prize indeed. The hinges need oil for it creaks and groans, but I am certain it will serve its purpose and keep all manner of things. I imagine you must miss it dearly. Why, if I did not know better, I would be looking over my shoulder night and day.

Until we meet again, think kindly of me.

Your Meg

Will laid the parchment on the trestle and tapped it with the tip of his index finger in thought. A smile sprang to his lips, despite himself. The letter’s intention was clear to him: part taunt, part tease, a kiss blown before the candle was snuffed out, but most importantly an encouragement to follow.

And that was undoubtedly what Cecil would want too. Will could almost hear the spymaster’s barked orders to bring Dee home and lay waste to any who stood in the way. There was so much at stake — England’s defences, the safety of the nation’s men and women.

But what of the spy’s own plans?

Red Meg had played her final hand well. She had gained the prize she sought so dearly to protect her countrymen, and she had left Will with a dilemma. Knowing full well he was determined to sail in search of Jenny, she had laid her trail to entice him into her own arms.

Will tapped the parchment once, twice, a third time, and on the final beat he had decided his course of action.