He caught up with Walsingham briefly as he paused in deep contemplation, looking out of an open window across the peaceful grass running down to the slow-moving river. Whatever was on Walsingham's mind, it caused a troubled cast to his expression. He started when Will appeared at his side, and was inexplicably angry at being disturbed. Will knew from experience he had only a moment to ask his question.
'In Edinburgh, I was questioned at length by the Enemy. I gave nothing away-
'As I would expect.'
'-but my interrogator was under the mistaken belief that I was kept informed of all that happens in England. He asked me what I knew of Dartmoor.'
'What did he mean?'
Will watched Walsingham's face for any sign that he knew more about the subject than he was saying, but his face remained a clean slate, with only a faint knot of puzzlement in his brow.
'All I know of Dartmoor is that it is a bleak, inhospitable place.'
'I will discuss this matter with Doctor Dee. He may bring some sense to it, though I doubt it. Dartmoor?' He shook his head slowly, and then continued on his way. Despite Walsingham's seeming ignorance, Will knew from Cavillex's tone and manner that Dartmoor was important to the Enemy. He resolved to make further enquiries.
Nathaniel and Christopher Marlowe waited lazily in the sun by the carriage, where Will had left them on his arrival, once he had received news of Grace's disappearance. Nathaniel appeared close to tears.
'Is it true?' he asked.
Will nodded. 'Grace is gone.'
'How could the Spaniards have stolen her from within the palace?' he cried.
'They have their ways,' Will replied flatly, 'and nowhere is truly safe.' Marlowe caught his eye, understanding the truth.
'It seems the Enemy wishes to cause you pain, for the suffering you have inflicted upon them,' Marlowe said. 'I have not heard of the struggle being made so personal before.'
'It shows that what I do is working, then, Kit.' Will held open the carriage door for them to climb inside.
'That does not help poor Grace.' Nathaniel wrung his hands.
'Then it is a good job I have a plan to rescue her. Do you think I would leave her to the torments of the Enemy? I would go to the very gates of hell to bring her back.'
'I understand your affection for Grace,' Marlowe began hesitantly, 'but would this plan be a wise one?'
'I have decided to sail rapidly away from the shores of wisdom into the vast, heaving oceans of foolhardiness. Do not worry about me, Kit. Save your condolences for the Enemy.' Will kept the mood light, but he could not prevent an edge creeping into his voice, and he saw they both recognised it. 'Bankside,' he called to the driver as he climbed in behind the others.
'How can you even think of dallying with doxies and drunkenness when Grace is gone?' Nathaniel asked, his voice breaking. He gave Will a brief, fractured look of betrayal.
What could Will tell him? That it was the only way he could numb the pain he felt, and the fears of what might be happening to Grace at that very moment? Nathaniel deserved better.
'There is always time for drink and women, Nat,' he replied. Nathaniel wouldn't look at him for the rest of the journey.
Will was aware Marlowe was filled with questions about the Enemy, but could not raise any of them while Nathaniel was there. But what concerned Will the most was the odd cast to Nathaniel's face. He had seen it many times before, the ghost of doubt, the spectre of fear, the dawning recognition that the world was not the way it appeared. Soon he would be faced with a dilemma: to break his vow and send Nathaniel away, into the dangers that his father always feared, or to risk a fate that mirrored Miller's, once the infection of the Unseelie Court finally struck him hard.
Will knew he was responsible for the change that had come over Nathaniel, but even now he could not leave him alone. 'I must go away for a while on Lord Walsingham's business,' he said, trying to make light of what lay ahead. 'While I am gone, there is still much to do here.' As the carriage came to a halt at Bankside, he paused and searched Nathaniel's face, unsure if he should continue. Finally, he said, 'I have work for you both.'
CHAPTER 32
he sun was low on the horizon and a scarlet path flowed across the white-plumed waves. As the dark began to press in, the lights of Cadiz blazed along the harbour, outside the taverns and in the squares, in the convent windows and the castle.
With sails billowing, the Tempest ploughed across the swell towards the town. A legend among seafaring men, some considered the vessel a harbinger of doom.
Captain John Courtenay stood on the forecastle, unfeasibly tall and powerfully built, tanned from the sun and the salt, his brown hair and beard wild in denial of the urbane, sophisticated style of the day. His untamed appearance was magnified by two ragged scars that marked his face in an X from temple to jaw, the result of torture at the hands of the Spanish in the New World. Beside him, Will watched the nearing lights.
'You have recovered well, Master Swyfte. You have a powerful constitution.' Courtenay understood exactly what Will had endured in Edinburgh.
'A few scratches. We put these things behind us.'
Courtenay nodded thoughtfully. 'Aye. We would be poor men if we shed tears over every pinprick.'
Although the wounds of Will's torture had healed, the memory had not. Every time he stared down into the green waves, he recalled the horrific sensations of drowning burned deeply into his mind. He kept it close to him, a stoked furnace providing the heat that drove him on. With every new blow struck, the Unseelie Court raised the price they would have to pay sooner or later.
Courtenay trawled the deck, inspecting his crew at work with a sharp eye and a salty tongue, readying them for what was to come. He had been inducted into Walsingham's band of spies only a few months ago when he had been given the captaincy of the Tempest, the private galleon set aside for the affairs of England's secret service. Kept off all official records and secure within its own well-shielded mooring at Tilbury, the stories of supernatural prowess were only encouraged by Walsingham, who knew that fear was a powerful weapon.
In truth, the Tempest was England's most advanced warship, a race-built galleon of the new design developed by John Hawkins, longer and with a reduced forecastle and poop deck that made them faster and more stable than any other at sea. Three-masted, with an advanced rigging system, it could easily be navigated by only a skeleton sailing crew.
And Courtenay was the perfect captain for such an advanced vessel. He had been at Francis Drake's side during his expedition against the Spanish in the New World, and had helped claim Nova Albion for the Crown. When war broke out between Spain and England in 1585, Courtenay had once again accompanied Drake to the New World, to sack the ports of Cartagena and Santo Domingo, and then to capture the fort of San Agustin in Spanish Florida. Bloody John earned his name there, tearing out the throat of a Spanish soldier with his own teeth; his wild beard was stained red with blood for days after, Will had heard, and he now dyed it red as an affectation whenever he sailed into battle.
Will watched him prowl the deck barking at his men. Though everyone on board presented an air of calm detachment, beneath the surface tension grew.
It was April 17. A fierce storm sweeping out of the Bay of Biscay had delayed their progress, but they had still reached their destination in just over two weeks out of Gravesend, at a good speed of seven knots an hour once the high winds had passed. In the billowing black clouds, Will had seen a premonition of what was to come. It didn't deter him. Somewhere ahead, across the sun-baked Spanish countryside, Grace was being held, he was sure of it, a lure designed to draw him in. Against his own desires, this part of the war had become personal.
At his back, the people of England were relying upon him. Since Mary's execution, it had felt as if the clock at
