Leicester turned to Will and said quietly, 'We could transport him back to the Tower. I gather Walsingham has men there who could loosen his tongue.'
'If we delay, the Enemy will be far from here and their prize with them,' Will said. 'The stakes are high, I am told. We cannot risk that.' He hesitated a moment as he examined the man's face and then said, 'Let me speak with him. Alone.'
'Are you sure?' Leicester hissed. 'He may be dangerous.'
'He is dangerous.' Will eyed the pink scars from knife fights that lined the man's jaw. 'I am worse.'
Leicester's men manhandled the prisoner back into his house, and Will closed the door behind him after they left. It was a stinking hovel with little furniture, and most that was there looked as if it had been stolen from wealthier premises. The prisoner hunched on the floor by the hearth, pretending to catch his breath, and then threw himself at Will ferociously. Sidestepping his attack, Will crashed a fist into his face. Blood spurted from his nose as he was thrown back against a chair, but it did not deter him. He pulled a knife from a chest beside the fireplace, only to drop it when Will hit him again. As he scrambled for the blade, Will stamped his boot on the man's fingers, shattering the bones. The man howled in pain.
Dragging the man to his feet, Will threw him against the wall, pressing his own knife against his prisoner's throat. 'England stands on the brink of war. The queen's life is threatened daily. A crisis looms for our country,' Will said. 'This is not the time for your games.'
'This is not a game!' the man protested. 'I dare not speak! I fear for my life!'
Will pressed the tip of his knife a shade deeper for emphasis. 'Fear me more,' he said calmly. 'I will whittle you down a piece at a time-fingers, nose, ears-until you choose to speak. And you will choose. Better to speak now and save yourself unnecessary suffering.'
Once the rogue had seen the truth in Will's eyes, he nodded reluctantly.
'You saw what happened out there?' Will asked.
'I was woken by the sounds of a brawl. From my window, I saw a small group of cloaked travellers set upon by a gang of fifteen or more.'
'Cutthroats?'
The man nodded.
'Fifteen? At this time? They cannot find much regular trade in this area to justify such a number.'
'It seemed they knew the travellers would be passing this way. They lay in wait. Some of them emerged only after the battle had commenced.'
This information gave Will pause, but his prisoner was too scared to be telling anything but the truth. 'Who were these cutthroats?'
The man shook his head. 'I did not recognise them. But if they find I spoke of them they will be back for me!'
'I would think they now have more important things on their minds. What happened?'
'They surprised the travellers.' He hesitated, not sure how much he should say. 'The travellers ...' He swallowed, looked like he was about to be sick. 'They turned on the cutthroats. I had to look away. I saw no more.'
'The faces of the travellers?'
He shook his head. 'They moved too fast. I ... I saw no weapons. Only the slaughter of three victims. It was madness! The other cutthroats fled-'
'And the travellers continued on their way?'
'One of them was different ... his head glowed like the moon.'
'What do you mean?'
The man began to stutter and Will had to wait until he calmed. 'I do not know ... it was a glimpse, no more. But his head glowed. And in the confusion, two of the cutthroats grabbed him and made good their escape into the alleys. He went with them freely, as though he had been a prisoner of the travellers.'
'And the travellers gave pursuit?'
'Once they saw he was missing ... a minute, perhaps two later. By then, their chances of finding him would have been poor.'
The frightened man had no further answers to give. Out in the street, Will summoned Leicester away from his men's ears.
'The prize the Enemy stole from the Tower was in turn taken from them by a band of cutthroats,' Will told him. 'Put all your men onto the streets of London. This threat may now have gone from bad to worse.'
CHAPTER 3
ill clung on to the leather straps as the sleek black carriage raced towards the Palace of Whitehall, a solitary ship of light sailing on the sea of darkness washing against London's ancient walls.
Lanterns hung from the great gates and along the walls. From diamondpane windows, candles glimmered across the great halls and towers, the chapels, wings, courtyards, stores, meeting rooms, and debating chambers, and in the living quarters of the court and its army of servants. At more than half a mile square, it was one of the largest palaces in the world, shaped and reshaped over three hundred years. Hard against the Thames, it had its own wharf where barges were moored to take the queen along the great river and where vast warehouses received the produce that kept the palace fed. Surrounding the complex of buildings were a tiltyard, bowling green, tennis courts, and formal gardens, everything needed for entertainment.
The palace looked out across London with two faces: at once filled with the sprawling, colourful, noisy pageantry of royalty, of a court permanently at play, of music and masques and arts and feasting, of romances and joys and intrigues, a tease to the senses and a home to lives lost to a whirl that always threatened to spin off its axis; and a place of grave decisions on the affairs of state, where the queen guided a nation that permanently threatened to come apart at the seams from pressures both within and without. Whispers and fanfares, long, dark shadows and never-extinguished lights, conspiracies and open rivalries. The palace was a puzzle that had no solution.
The carriage came to a halt under a low arch in a cobbled courtyard so small that the buildings on every side kept it swathed in gloom even during the height of noon. Few from the court even knew it existed, or guessed what took place behind the iron-studded oak door beside which two torches permanently hissed. The jamb too was lined with iron, as was the step.
The door swung open at Will's knock and admitted him to a long, win dowless corridor lit by intermittent pools of lamplight. The silent guard closed the door and slid six bolts home. Will's echoing footsteps followed him up one flight of a spiral staircase into the Black Gallery, a large panelled hall. Heavy drapes covered the windows, but it was lit by several lamps and a few flames danced along a charred log in the glowing ashes of the large stone fireplace.
A long oak table filled the centre of the hall, covered with maps, and at the far end sat Mayhew, one louche leg over the arm of his chair. His head was tightly bound in a bloodstained cloth and his left arm was in a sling. He was taking deep drafts of wine from a goblet, and appeared drunk.
Will always found Mayhew difficult. He was hard, in the manner of all spies forced to operate in a world of deceit, and had little patience for his fellows, more concerned with the latest courtly fashions. He liked his wine, too, when he was not working, but he was a sullen, sharp-tongued drunk.
Walsingham emerged at the sound of Will's voice, his features drawn. He listened intently as Will told him about the attack on the Enemy and their loss of the mysterious prisoner from the Tower, but he passed no comment.
'The queen has been informed?' Will asked once he had finished his account.
