rounded up the collection of rogues in one corner of the courtyard, where they were being held at sword point. Several bodies of those who had resisted lay on the cobbles as a lesson to the others.
Grace ran over and grasped Will's hand tightly. 'You are safe,' she said with relief. 'I prayed for your return.'
'You should not be here Grace,' he scolded. 'But I am glad to see you well.' He motioned to Nathaniel to take Grace to one side.
'She only wished for knowledge of her sister,' Nathaniel said quietly. 'Do not treat her harshly.'
The weight of what he had witnessed lay heavily on Will. With the weapon in the Enemy's hands, time was rapidly running out. He sought out Marlowe and said, 'Kit, I thank you for coming to my aid. Now, bring me Pickering, the King of Cutpurses. I have some hard questions for him.'
Marlowe motioned to Pickering's costume topped by the bird mask lying in a heap on the cobbles. 'Mistress Seldon tells me this was his disguise.'
'Then once again he hides among his people.' Will eyed the sullen mass of rogues.
'If you do not know his looks, then you will never find him among that rabble, Will.'
Will considered his options, and then said, 'Bring the men to me one at a time.'
As the pageant of glowering men trailed past, Will studied the size, the gait, and most importantly the eyes: Pickering's unwavering stare was unforgettable. Many he dismissed immediately, too squat, too large, too grey. A few he spent a moment considering. But there was one who at first appeared wrong, until Will realised he was feigning a limp and walking with his left shoulder stooped. He kept his gaze down, until Will forced him to look up. The unblinking black eyes were coldly familiar.
'The King of Cutpurses,' Will said wryly. 'Your nobility is about to be tested.'
Pickering responded only with a defiant stare.
Will turned to Marlowe. 'Take him to the Tower.'
CHAPTER 18
lady, in Alsatia, amid the greatest rogues of London? What did you expect?' Will said angrily as he marched down the Long Corridor from the State Rooms to the wing set aside by Walsingham. 'And this is where I hear your lecture about recklessness again, I suppose?' Grace responded without flinching.
He could see her temper was hot and she would fight him every step of the way, as always. 'You risked a great many things, including death.'
'If you kept me informed, I would not have to take risks.'
'So it is my fault?' he blazed.
'Stop treating me like a little girl.'
'Then trust me. If I discover anything about jenny, I will tell you.'
She grew sullen. 'It is not simply about jenny, and you know that.'
His own anger drained away as he saw clearly the young girl who raced to him through the garden whenever he visited jenny. 'You cannot protect me in the work I do,' he said.
'And you cannot bring jenny back by protecting me. Nor can you erase the pain of her loss. But we cannot help ourselves, can we? We are both cursed to repeat our mistakes, trying to save the one person who reminds us of that time when all was right with the world.'
She looked away sharply. He knew it was because tears had sprung to her eyes, but she would not show him what she perceived to be a weakness. Much of what she said was true, he knew, but Grace was more to him than a symbol of what had been lost. In the midst of his own grief, he had been devastated to see the effect of jenny's disappearance on her. It had torn out her heart at first, and then replaced her happiness with a slow-burning bitterness. He cared for her deeply, and he would not have her suffer any more.
Grace saw him wrestling with her account of his motivations and softened. 'Jenny haunts us both. The manner of her passing ... here one moment and then gone, no body to bury or grieve, no truthful account, only guesses and hints and what-might-have-beeps ... Neither of us can find rest while there are so many questions still to answer, and no likely answers forthcoming.' She bit her lip and looked away out of the window to where the servants carried cuts of ham to the kitchens from the back of a wagon.
'This is not the life either of us would have chosen, but it is the one we have,' he said. 'You have accepted that jenny is gone for there is no evidence to show otherwise. That is sensible. I believe she is still alive because there is no evidence to show she is dead. Less sensible, perhaps, but it is all I am capable of doing. Whatever happened that day is lost to us. For now. But I have seen ...' He caught himself. 'I do not believe the world is as simple as most people accept. There are spaces in it for strange things to happen.'
'For jenny still to be alive?' she mocked.
'Perhaps.'
'You hold on to a ghost and it slowly sucks the life from you. You will never find peace, or happiness, while you look back, and while you grip tightly to fantasies, and ask question upon question. You are here, now. You must take some joy ... some love ... or all will be wasted.'
'I only ever wanted my jenny. She was right for me. There will be no other.'
Grace turned away from him, pretending to examine the servants once again.
'Whatever happened to her, she is still with me every day,' he continued, 'here and here.' He touched his temple and his breastbone. 'I would not give up that to dull what pain I feel.'
'If one of us is the child here, wishing and hoping, it is not I,' she said brusquely. 'I will continue to search for answers in my own way. And if you continue to keep secrets from me, I will be forced to go to even greater lengths.'
Watching her march back along the corridor, head down, cheeks burning, Will felt a deep sadness for what she had lost, and a determination that she would, at least, have a happier life ahead. If he failed Grace, he failed Jenny; he failed in everything.
Putting aside his emotions, he made his way to the Tryst Rooms, where Henry had attempted to woo Ann Boleyn, away from the scrutiny of his wife. They were now set aside for Walsingham's use, and lay on the second floor above the hall that Dee had christened the Black Gallery.
Nursing their wounds, Mayhew sat gloomily in one corner, drinking wine despite the earliness of the hour, while Launceston and Carpenter ate bread and sausage as they turned over the previous night's events.
'Where is Tom?' Will asked.
'Away brooding,' Launceston replied.
'I would not have him on his own after what he saw.'
Mayhew let out a theatrical sigh. 'We cannot mollycoddle the boy. He must learn to deal with these things, as we all have.'
'He did not have the benefit of a slow admission to the secrets of the world, as we have,' Will replied. 'Find him and bring him here.'
Cursing quietly, Mayhew levered himself from his chair and sloped out.
Carpenter pushed his plate away and growled, 'At least the failure of this mission left no one dead. Or scarred.'
'There are no failures, and no victories either, you know that. Just a constant shifting back and forth, with casualties on both sides. That is the true tragedy of our war: it will never be won.'
'Defeatist.' Carpenter sniffed. Then: 'I presume Walsingham will want to hold someone accountable for our failure to recover the Silver Skull.'
'Again, John, no failure, however much you want to apportion blame. This struggle continues. We have reached a turn in the road, and we must embark on another direction.'
'Yet we still do not know what this Silver Skull does,' Launceston said, or why it is so important to the Enemy.
