Devereux made a circle with his forefinger and thumb, a sign the countryfolk used to ward off the evil eye or the attention of witches.
‘Or devils?’ Will continued.
‘Do not speak of such things!’ Crouching, the prisoner wrapped his arms around him and glanced furtively into the dark corners of the cell. ‘If you say the Devil’s name he will appear.’
‘Tell me-’
‘No! I will tell you nothing!’ He thrust a hand towards Will as if he were wielding a knife. His face contorted in an animalistic grimace before he dropped his head, rocking gently.
Will weighed if it was worth questioning Devereux any more. Before he reached a conclusion, the man in the cell stood up suddenly. Another change had come over him. Now he held his head at a proud angle, and there was a touch of cruelty at the edge of his mouth. Where as before he had exhibited the discomfort and rough edges of a labouring man, he now had the bearing of an aristocrat.
‘You have a changeable nature,’ Will said.
‘We are all many things, Master Swyfte. Thinker, worker, lover, student.’
‘Killer?’
‘That too. And I would wager you know as much about it as I.’ Tugging gently at his beard, Devereux gave a knowing smile.
Reflectively, the spy paced along the small space between the bars and the chamber wall. ‘I would ask my question again, then,’ he said. ‘Why did Kit visit you?’
‘For the same reason any stranger seeks out another. To learn. Although,’ the prisoner added thoughtfully, ‘Master Marlowe was not so much of a stranger.’
Will glanced at Devereux. ‘When did you first meet Kit?’
‘I met several of your associates before, Master Swyfte. Sadly, many of them are now, and recently, deceased.’
‘You speak of spies.’
‘That I do.’
‘You were a spy?’ Will came to a halt in front of Devereux, now eyeing the prisoner as he would a predator.
The cell’s occupant tugged at his beard thoughtfully. ‘After a fashion. In that I did the work of spying, on a particular occasion, at the behest of my distant cousin, the Earl of Essex, who in turn was charged by Sir Francis Walsingham. But it was not my employment as such. I agreed to aid my country, and was paid handsomely. It changed my life in a great many ways, for good and ill.’
The revelation that Devereux had been a spy had a queasy inevitability, Will felt. Their business burrowed into the flesh of life like ringworm, corrupting and destroying everything. His anger flared, but he was brought up sharp when he saw the prisoner observing him with a sly smile as if his inner thoughts were laid bare. ‘And this was when you first met Kit?’ the spy demanded.
‘It was. He was a different man, then. He had hope, and his future lay ahead of him, long and bright. That changed, of course, as it did for all of us.’
‘Tell me of this occasion on which you met Kit.’
Smiling, the prisoner clasped his hands together. ‘You move too quickly, Master Swyfte,’ he said with a shake of his head. ‘Let us savour our time together. There are things I would speak of. I receive little news within these four walls, less entertainment, no joy. Allow me some simple pleasure.’
This incarnation of Devereux had a sly wit about him that the other two did not exhibit. Will tried to understand the origins of these characters; they were each undoubtedly Devereux, sharing many of the same mannerisms, yet each also definably different. Had the original Griffin Devereux been shattered by his experience in Norfolk into fragments of his true self, each with a life of its own? Was it some product of the magic he attempted? The curse of seeking to achieve forbidden wisdom?
Certainly, this third incarnation had the part of Devereux that was dangerous, black depths hidden beneath shifting surfaces.
‘I hear you are a man forged by your own hardship,’ the man said.
‘We are all shaped by the obstacles we encounter in our life.’ Leaning against the wall with studied nonchalance, Will folded his arms.
‘Shaped, yes, but not made. Your experience created a new man. You are not the Will Swyfte you once were, I hear.’
‘From Kit?’
‘No.’ Devereux paused playfully. ‘I hear whispers that never reach the ears of most men.’ Cocking his head to one side curiously, he appeared to be listening to those whispers there and then. ‘A woman, hmm? Stolen from you. For a long time you hoped she was still alive, despite all evidence to the contrary, and now you are sure. But you still do not know where she is, or how you can reach her. You do not know if she is suffering at the hands of her captors, and that question torments you. Perhaps it destroys you a little with each passing day? Am I correct?’
Ignoring the question, Will responded, ‘There is only one source that could have provided you with that information, and they are masters of lies.’
Devereux flicked the toe of his leather shoe towards an inquisitive rat. It scurried away. ‘Why, I thought that was the work carried out by you and your kind, Master Swyfte. Untruths. Deceit. Subterfuge. Are you saying I heard this talk from one of your own?’
‘You twist words and thoughts deftly,’ Will noted. ‘You know of whom I speak.’
‘The Unseelie Court.’ The prisoner gave a faint, teasing smile. ‘The ones who have tormented Englishmen since the Flood. Shadows on the edge of all we do, guiding us, shaping us, running us for sport. Slaughtering us. Stealing the babies from their cribs, and poisoning the cattle in the fields, as they crawl out from beneath their hills or lakes, or wander from the deep, dark forests, or dance like ghosts in the stone circles thrown up by the giants of long ago.’ Devereux traced one long finger along his chin thoughtfully. ‘Those?’
Refusing to play the man’s game, Will waited patiently.
‘But they have not been heard from for long months, Master Swyfte?’
‘And that absence is as worrying as if they were here with us. More so. The Unseelie Court never leaves us, Master Devereux. If they are not actively destroying lives, then they are planning to do so.’
‘Ah.’ The prisoner’s tone was mocking.
Will’s voice hardened. ‘Now, I have had my fill of your games. Kit Marlowe has been murdered. I will not rest until I find who was behind that crime, though I have to hunt down the highest in the land.’
‘The highest in the land? The Queen herself?’
‘I will follow the trail of blood to its source.’ Will fought to keep the emotion out of his voice. ‘I care not for my own safety. Justice for my friend is my sole motivation. You know more than you say. Speak now.’
‘Or what? Where is the gain for me?’ the prisoner replied, holding his head at a haughty angle.
Will’s eyes narrowed. ‘The gain? When I leave this foul-smelling cell you will still be alive.’
With snake-like speed, Devereux sprang close to the bars. Will stood his ground. Though the mercurial man’s smile remained, his eyes darkened in response to the threat. The spy realized it was the first sign of honesty this incarnation had exhibited, the briefest glimpse of the true, chilling nature that hid deeply beneath layers of distraction.
‘You think you could kill me?’ the prisoner growled.
‘You make a play of black magic, but a blade would loose your blood as it would that of any other man.’
Devereux searched the spy’s face for a hint of weakness, and found none. ‘But I have powerful friends.’ His true nature slipped beneath the surface once more.
‘I told you. In this instance, I care little for the powerful, and what they can and cannot do to me,’ Will replied.
‘You ride towards the edge of a cliff, Master Swyfte,’ the prisoner cautioned, ‘and I fear you do so wilfully.’
In anger, Will lunged, gripping Devereux’s worn doublet and yanking him forward so hard his head crashed against the bars. The iron rang gently with the impact. With his left hand, the spy whipped out his dagger and pressed it against the other man’s pale neck. ‘If you cannot give me the answers I require, delve into yourself and pull out one of the shadows that can,’ Will snarled, his forehead pressed against the cold iron bars so his eyes were
