Miller, hanging from the rafters, slain by a whispered word. Some slight comfort came to him as he stepped out into the queen's chamber. Echoing along the passageway from the secret rooms came Cavillex's agonised cry, continuing unbroken until Will had left the rooms far behind.
They scoured the palace grounds, but they could find no sign of the Unseelie Court. It was as if Cavillex's invading force had vanished with the coming of the dawn.
While Carpenter went to liaise with Courtenay and his men who had sealed off the palace from the rest of London, Will returned to the Lantern Tower where he found Grace slowly coming out of her daze. She blinked and looked around, not knowing how she had come to be there.
Will was relieved, for it meant she would not recall her time with the Unseelie Court. There was still hope for her sanity. He had protected her, as he had vowed, though as much by good fortune as by his own actions.
'Every fighting man needs luck,' he whispered. Confused, she made to ask him what he meant, but he took her in his arms and held her tightly. She nestled into him, and he could feel her emotions acutely, but all he could think of was jenny and how it should have been her he saved.
After a moment, he pulled away to examine Mayhew, lying dead on the floor. The Key had been taken, and without it the Skull and the Shield were worthless. He felt oddly relieved. Cavillex's words returned to him: if they could not act to some higher standard, they would deserve to be destroyed, as the Unseelie Court deserved it.
'Oh,' Grace said. 'He has left a message.' She indicated the wall, where Mayhew had used the last of his life to carve an inscription in the plaster with broken, bloody fingernails.
'Bury my mother,' she read. 'What does that mean?'
CHAPTER 59
cross London, the church bells were ringing. In the dead August heat, Will waited in the shade of a soaring elm, trying to ignore the powerful stink of the filthy slums that sprawled along the Thames to the east of the Tower. Majesty and vileness, side by side; that was London, that was his life.
Nearby, Leicester strutted back and forth, revelling in the attention of the thousands of men waiting in their ranks or on horseback, playing the hero in his mind, though he had not been called on to fight. On the ridge overlooking the river, the camp at West Tilbury was a splash of colour, red, gold, and blue pennants fluttering on the slight breeze, flags flying proudly above the white pavilions erected to shield the nobility from the noonday sun.
Eschewing the crowds lining both banks of the river and hanging from the windows of the houses with the best views, Will had opted for a period of quiet contemplation while he waited for the queen to arrive. There was much to consider.
Somewhere in the far north, the Spanish were drowning, fighting devastating seas, ships sunk and torn apart, men washed up on beaches to be slaughtered by the local people. The price that nation had paid-and would pay-for the poor judgment of their leaders was great. But here at home, the English ships were returning to port lauded, every man aboard a hero. A new day was dawning.
As the queen's barge arrived in a blare of trumpets on its triumphant journey along the river from the Palace of Whitehall, the sense of anticipation mounted. Following the causeway across the foul-smelling marshes where clouds of flies buzzed, she made her way to the camp on a white gelding. Cannon fire proclaimed her arrival.
Led by the Earl of Ormonde carrying the sword of state, and with two pages dressed in white velvet, one carrying her helmet on a cushion the other leading her horse, she strode along the ranks, a silver breastplate shining over a white velvet gown, her auburn wig a blaze of fire, sparkling with diamonds and pearls. The men cheered loudly, and shouted their devotion to Elizabeth and to England.
Will was not moved. Whatever he saw, he knew there was always another face beneath. Walsingham had already given him a glimpse of the carefully rehearsed speech the queen planned to deliver at Tilbury the following day. It was designed as much for the ears of the Unseelie Court as it was for her own people, or Spain. The Enemy would be listening. They were always listening.
'My loving people,' she would begin, 'we have been persuaded by some that are careful for our safety to heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes for fear of treachery, but I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects.
'Therefore, I am come amongst you, as you see at this time, not for my recreation and disport but being resolved in the midst and heat of the battle to live or die amongst you all and to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour and my blood even in the dust.
'I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm; to which, rather than any dishonour shall grow by me, I myself will take up arms. I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already for your forwardness you have deserved rewards and crowns and we do assure you, in the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you.'
Let tyrants fear.
The Unseelie Court would never rest, but a gauntlet had been thrown down. England would meet them head-on.
Will was soon joined by Walsingham, who had travelled on the second barge with the queen's closest advisors, out of place in his sombre black gown yet seemingly untouched by the oppressive heat. He stood beneath the elm next to Will, hands clasped behind his back, and watched the queen inspecting her loyal soldiers with an air of gentle pleasure.
'I would say it went well,' he mused.
'Apart from the death and the suffering.'
Walsingham sniffed. 'There is always that.'
Relenting, Will nodded. 'Yes, we won a great victory.'
'And you played a great part in that, Master Swyfte.'
'And the others: Carpenter, Launceston.' Pausing, he remembered the young man who had joined Walsingham's band so proudly only to encounter things he never dreamed existed and which stole his life from him. 'Miller. They should not be forgotten.'
'Oh, they will be. As will you.'
Will eyed Walsingham askance.
'Your task is to move behind the skin of history, not upon its surface.' Walsingham continued to follow the queen's progress, nodding approvingly whenever the cheers rose up again. 'Your work is by design invisible, and it will remain that way. If it were made public, it would detract from the glory of the queen and the true heroes of England.'
'I have a public face now.'
'Yes. We created the great William Swyfte to provide comfort for the people of England, so they knew they were always cared for, protected from the many hardships that assail this world by someone greater than them. But that will only continue in stories told by the fireside or in the taverns, and soon those stories will die. There will be no public record of the part you played this day, you or any of your band.'
'The pamphlets-'
'Will be destroyed, one by one, over time. When the accounts of these days are written in years yet to come, it will be a story of the heroism of honest Englishmen. It will not be a story of deceit and trickery, however great the sacrifices made. That would not do justice to the legend of England. It is your destiny to be forgotten. You must come to accept that.'
Will shrugged. 'I care little what happens when I am gone.'
