'What did they do to the guard? I knew him. Carter, a good man, with a wife and two girls.'
'Stop asking foolish questions!'
The scream of one of the guards at the door below echoed through the Tower, cut short mercifully soon.
'Let nothing slow your step,' Mayhew urged.
In the most secure area of the White Tower, they came to a heavy oak door studded with iron. The walls were thicker than a man's height. After Mayhew gave three sharp bursts of a coded knock, a hatch opened to reveal a pair of glowering eyes.
'Who goes?' came the voice from within.
'Mayhew and Osborne, your Lord Walsingham's men.'
While Osborne twitched and glanced anxiously over his shoulder, the guard searched their faces, until, satisfied, he began to draw the fourteen bolts that the queen herself had personally insisted be installed.
'Hurry,' Osborne whined. Mayhew cuffed him across his arm.
Once inside, Osborne pressed his back against the resealed door and let out a juddering sigh of relief. 'Finally. We are safe.'
Mayhew didn't hide his contempt. Osborne was too weak to survive in their business; he would not be long for the world and there was little point in tormenting him further by explaining the obvious.
Six guards waited by the door, and another twenty in the chambers within. Handpicked by Walsingham himself for their brutality and their lack of human compassion, their faces were uniformly hard, their hands rarely more than an inch from their weapons. At any other time they would have been slitting the throats of rich sots in the stews of Bankside, yet here they were in the queen's most trusted employ.
'The cell remains secure?' Mayhew asked the captain of the guard. His face boasted the scars of numerous fights.
'It is. It was examined 'pon the hour, as it is every hour.'
'Take us to it.'
'Who attempts to breach our defences?' the captain asked. 'Surely the Spanish would not risk an attack.'
When Mayhew did not respond, the captain nodded and ordered two of the guards to accompany the spies. A moment later they were marching past rooms stacked high with the riches of England, gold seized from the New World or looted from ships from the Spanish Main to the Channel.
Beyond the bullion rooms, one of the guards unlocked a stout door and led them down a steep flight of steps to another locked door. Inside was a lowceilinged chamber warmed by a brazier in one corner and lit by sputtering torches on opposite walls. Two guards played cards at a heavy, scarred table. On the far side of the room was a single door with a small barred window.
'I do not see why he could not have been kept with the other prisoners,' Osborne said.
'No, of course you do not,' Mayhew replied.
'The Tower's main rooms have held two kings of Scotland and a king of France, our own King Henry VI, Thomas More, and our own good queen. What is so special about this one that he deserves more secure premises than those great personages?' Osborne persisted.
'You have only been assigned to this task for two days,' Mayhew replied. 'When you have been here as long as I, you will understand.'
Crossing the room, Mayhew peered through the bars in the door. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom within, he made out the form of the cell's occupant hunched on a rough wooden bench, the hood of his cloak, as always, pulled over his head so his features were hidden. He was allowed no naked flame for illumination, no drink in a bowl or goblet, only in a bottle, and he was never allowed to leave the secure area of the White Tower where he had been imprisoned for twenty years.
'Still nothing to say?' Mayhew murmured, and then laughed at his own joke. He passed the comment every day, in full knowledge that the prisoner had never been known to speak in all his time in the Tower.
Yet on this occasion the light leaking through the grille revealed a subtle shift in the dark shape, as though the prisoner was listening to what Mayhew said, perhaps even considering a response.
Mayhew's deliberations were interrupted by muffled bangs and clatters in the Mint above their heads, the sound of raised voices, and then a low, chilling cry.
'They are in,' he said flatly, turning back to the room.
Osborne had pressed himself against one wall like a hunted animal. The four guards looked to Mayhew hesitantly.
'Help your friends,' he said. 'Do whatever is in your power to protect this place. Lock the door as you leave. I will bolt it.'
Once they had gone, he slammed the bolts into place with a flick of his wrist that showed his disdain for their security.
'You know it will do no good,' Osborne said. 'If they have gained access to the Mint, there is no door that will keep them out.'
'What do you suggest? That we beg for mercy, or run screaming, like girls?'
'Pray,' Osborne replied, 'for that is surely the only thing that can save us. These are not men that we face, not Spaniards, or French, not the Catholic traitors from within our own realm. These are the Devil's own agents, and they come for our immortal souls.'
Mayhew snorted. 'Forget God, Osborne. If He even exists, He has scant regard for this vale of misery.'
Osborne recoiled as if he had been struck. 'You do not believe in the Lord?'
'If you want atheism, talk to Marlowe. He makes clear his views with every action he takes. But I learn from the evidence of my own eyes, Osborne. We face a threat that stands to wipe us away as though we had never been, and if there is to be salvation, it will not come from above. It will be achieved by our own hand.'
'Then help me barricade the door,' Osborne pleaded.
With a sigh and a shrug, Mayhew set his weight against the great oak table, and with Osborne puffing and blowing beside him, they pushed it solidly against the door.
When they stood back, Mayhew paused as the faint strains of the haunting pipe music reached him again, plucking at his emotions, turning him in an instant from despair to such ecstasy that he wanted to dance with wild abandon. 'That music,' he said, closing his eyes in awe.
'I hear no music!' Osborne shouted. 'You are imagining it.'
'It sounds,' Mayhew said with a faint smile, 'like the end of all things.' He turned back to the cell door where the prisoner now waited, the torchlight catching a metallic glint beneath his hood.
'Damn your eyes!' Osborne raged. 'Return to your bench! They shall not free you!'
Unmoving, the prisoner watched them through the grille. Mayhew did not sense any triumphalism in his body language, no sign that he was assured of his freedom, merely a faint curiosity at the change to the pattern that had dominated his life for so many years.
'Sit down!' Osborne bellowed.
'Leave him,' Mayhew responded as calmly as he could manage. 'We have a more pressing matter.'
Above their heads, the distant clamour of battle was punctuated by a muffled boom that shook the heavy door and brought a shower of dust from the cracks in the stone. Silence followed, accompanied by the cloying scent of honeysuckle growing stronger by the moment.
Drawing their swords, Mayhew and Osborne focused their attention on the door.
A random scream, becoming a sound like the wind through the trees on a lonely moor. More noises, fragments of events that painted no comprehensive picture.
Breath tight in their chests, knuckles aching from gripping their swords, Mayhew and Osborne waited.
Something bouncing down the stone steps, coming to rest against the door with a thud.
A soft tread, then gone like a whisper in the night, followed by a long silence that felt like it would never end.
Finally the unbearable quiet was broken by a rough grating as the top bolt drew back of its own accord. His eyes frozen wide, Osborne watched its inexorable progress.
As soon as the bolt had clicked open, the one at the foot of the door followed, and when that had been drawn the great tumblers of the iron lock turned until they fell into place with a shattering clack.
'I ... I think I can hear the music now, Mayhew, and there are voices in it,' Osborne said. He began to recite
