The Devil

we set it alight and burn their Queen alive in her prison.’

‘And watch her die as we ourselves go down in flames?’

‘The Unseelie Court would not risk losing the only thing of value to them. It is a balance-’

‘It is a foolish notion!’ The Queen’s eyes blazed. ‘Do you think we can keep the Unseelie Court at bay for ever while our men stand by with brands? Once the defences collapse, they will be working their magics in every corner of the land. They will attempt to steal me out from under your nose, Sir Robert, and place me on a pyre, tempting you to blink first.’

Cecil bowed his head for a moment, allowing the monarch to calm, and then he replied in a quiet voice, ‘It is all we have, Your Majesty.’

Elizabeth slumped back in her throne, her chin falling to her chest.

‘This may not hold for ever, Your Majesty. In the end, we may all go down in flames, though knowing we have inflicted a wound that will burn our Enemy for all time. And yet, the Unseelie Court are cautious. Time, as their representative told me, means nothing to them. They will not take rash action. And so we may earn respite for a day, a week, a month, a year, while we search for some new defence.’

‘And live in dread? Never knowing if each night will be our last? I would rather. .’ The Queen caught the word in her throat and shook her head. ‘While there is life there is hope. But only Dr Dee has ever found a way to shut out those foul creatures. Where will we turn in this hour of need?’

Cecil knew he had no answer, but he was spared a hollow reply. Outside the door, argumentative voices could be heard. Elizabeth scowled at the disturbance. ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ the spymaster called. With a flamboyant sweep of his white cloak, Essex strode over and threw the door open. The two pikemen who guarded the entrance to the chamber had crossed their weapons to bar a young man. It was Swyfte’s assistant, Nathaniel Colt, flushed and sweating, his forehead streaked with the dirt of the road. Behind him, the spymaster glimpsed the young woman Grace Seldon. The news of her friend’s death had clearly sloughed off her with surprising speed, for her face had hardened and she looked to have recovered her fire. She pressed the assistant forward against the pikes. The young man saw the Queen on her throne and bowed his head. ‘Your Majesty,’ he murmured, playing with his cap.

‘Have you lost your wits?’ Cecil demanded. ‘Do you wish to call the Tower home?’

‘Sir. .’ Nathaniel stuttered, ‘I. . I must speak to you.’ He glanced back at Grace and found new strength in her determined look. ‘On a matter of great urgency,’ he continued with a deep bow. ‘I have a message from my master.’

CHAPTER TWENTY

The rising sun had set the sky ablaze. Gulls wheeled in the salty wind blowing from the east, greeting the morn with hungry cries. The forest of masts silhouetted against the red glow swayed as the great vessels strained at their anchors in Tilbury docks on the wide, grey Thames. The slap of sailcloth and the crack of rigging accompanied the shanties of the sailors on the only galleon abuzz with activity. To most of those who crowded into the taverns lining the quay, the Tempest was a ship of mysterious purpose. None knew the vessel had been set aside long ago for use by the secret service, a ghost in the ledgers of the quay master and the Queen’s tax men, often coming and going under cover of the night with a crew that rarely mixed with the other sea-dogs.

Shielding his eyes against the brassy dawn light, Will Swyfte allowed himself a tight smile of approval. His black and silver doublet was still smeared with ashes and soot from the fire aboard the Gauntlet, and the ends of his hair were singed. A small price to pay, he knew. ‘You have done us proud, Sir Walter,’ he said with a nod.

‘And you are a cunning dog, Master Swyfte, and a man after my own heart.’ Raleigh clapped his hands together, grinning at the success of the deception. In his lime-green doublet and ochre cloak, he looked out of place on the quayside with its barrels of stinking pitch, dusty piles of ballast and heaps of dung from the merchants’ carthorses. ‘Two ships provisioned, one by the Queen and one by the School of Night, one in full view and one in secret.’

‘Keep a door open for a quick exit, that has always been my code.’ Will closed his eyes and saw once again the wall of orange flame that had engulfed the Gauntlet. But they had been ready. The rowing boat towed along behind the galleon had always been their planned escape route should they come under concerted attack. While the other seamen leapt into the river, only to be consumed in a white-water frenzy by the ferocious creatures swimming there, he had battled through the flames with the other three spies. At the sterncastle, he, Launceston, Carpenter and the young spy, Strangewayes, had slid down the oiled rope into the dinghy and rowed away, an insignificant speck beside the blazing ship. The fast current had swept them towards Tilbury where Nathaniel awaited them, ready to be despatched to the Palace of Whitehall.

Raleigh eyed the other man askance. ‘You knew the Unseelie Court would be lured by the Gauntlet. And once that vessel was destroyed, they would have no reason to believe you had prepared a second ship. A strong plan, a winning one.’ He paused. ‘Have you made your peace with the loss of the good men who died in the attack?’

Will raised his head to watch the sailors climbing the lines like monkeys, as if he had not heard. ‘Every war has its casualties. Their sacrifice will not be forgotten,’ he said after a moment. Though Raleigh nodded, the spy could hear the unspoken codicil: the men had not been asked to give up their lives, and would not have accepted if they had. With each day, it seemed he made another accommodation with his conscience. How far was he prepared to go to bring Jenny home; how many lives was he prepared to sacrifice? He had no answer, though he wondered if the Unseelie Court’s bleak judgement of human nature was true. He cast an unsettled glance back along the winding Thames. ‘I fear I must take my leave. Time is of the essence. Our Enemy will not be blind to my guile for much longer and we must reach open water before they give pursuit. But I thank you for your aid. I am in your debt.’

Raleigh tugged at his beard and smiled. ‘You are indeed, Master Swyfte. Do not forget our agreement.’

Raleigh played a long game, not so far removed from the machinations of the Unseelie Court, Will realized. The information he brought back from the New World — should he ever return — would be more valuable than gold to the School of Night. The great men who made up the numbers of the secret society could translate knowledge into power with ease. But what were they plotting? Why was the New World so important to them? Raleigh would certainly never tell. With a smile and a nod, the explorer slipped into the shadowy alley beside the shipwright’s workshop where he had tethered his horse.

Turning back to the Tempest, Will pushed past the queue of men carrying the last of the provisions up the plank. At the poop deck rail, he searched the broad river to the west where the grey fug of London’s home fires tainted the sky. No sign yet of any pursuit, but it would come. The wolves of the Unseelie Court would sniff the wind and know their prey was loose.

‘Master Swyfte. We are ready to sail.’ The booming voice cut through the raucous singing of the labouring sailors. Captain John Courtenay was a giant of a man, seasoned by the sun and the salty wind, his brown beard and hair proudly untamed. No other could be trusted to lead the expedition into the dangerous uncharted waters that lay ahead. A veteran of the New World, he knew all that had yet been learned of that mysterious place. He knew of the trade routes where they might encounter heavily armed Spanish galleons bringing their rich hauls of silver and spices back to Europe, and of the river inlets bristling with fleets of small boats filled with Indians with blowpipes. He knew, too, of the plants that brought sickness and death, and of those that supplied bountiful fruit; of the taste of the wind that heralded a tropical storm. He had helped claim Nova Albion for the Crown and had been at Sir Francis Drake’s side during the sacking of Cartagena and the capture of San Augustin in Spanish Florida.

And yet there were some who believed him quite mad. Bloody Jack, they called him, the sea-dog who tore out the throats of his enemies with his teeth and dyed his beard blood-red before every battle. Will wondered if that wild nature was the result of the torture the captain had received at the hands of the Spanish, his mind as scarred as his face, which was marred by a ragged pink X that ran from temple to jaw. Yet for what lay ahead, a madman was the sanest choice of all.

‘Unfurl your sails, captain. We cannot depart soon enough.’