‘Alas, were that so. I have heard the decision of the Privy Council has already been made. You will be judged of sound mind and taken directly from this place to the Tower for execution.’
Will grew serious. ‘You have heard?’
‘I keep my eyes and ears open, Master Swyfte.’
‘To learn that kind of information, you must keep them open in strange places. Bedchambers, perhaps.’
The woman did not flinch.
With the candlelight limning her flowing auburn hair, Will followed the line of the curls, considering their colour for the first time, the pale complexion, the flashing green eyes. ‘I have heard tell of a spy operating in Tyrone,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Some of my fellows who have had the pleasure of working in that green island call her Scarlet Mary. Her blade, they say, is as sharp as her tongue, and she is the equal of any man.’
The woman’s face gave nothing away. ‘I have heard those tales too. I believe she is also known as Red Meg O’Shee. Spies are everywhere, Master Swyfte, but no one is ever the person they appear to be. Surely you must know that by now?’
‘No more games, then,’ he said, dabbing at the blood trickling from his lips. ‘Why are you here?’
‘To offer you aid.’
‘Why? We do not know each other. And by all accounts Red Meg O’Shee would be more likely to slip a dagger between my ribs than reach out a helping hand.’
The Irish woman laughed, a hard and humourless sound. ‘In other times that would indeed be the case. But this plot threatens all. Not just England. My country, and all of Europe, could go down in flames should the Unseelie Court have their way.’
In her warning, Will heard the echo of the taunts whispered by his own private devil in that very cell. A great plan unfolding. The world of men turning towards night.
‘You are the very least of my concerns, Master Swyfte,’ Red Meg continued, ‘but a good man suggested you would make a formidable ally. That you understood the ways of our mutual Enemy better than anyone.’
‘A good man?’
‘The King of France, though not yet crowned as such.’ The Irish woman shrugged. ‘Only a matter of time.’
Will had heard the French monarch had taken many lovers, and from the glint in the Irish woman’s eye the spy guessed she had been one. ‘Henri? Our paths have never crossed,’ he said.
‘Nonetheless he knows of you, Master Swyfte, and the blow you struck against the Unseelie Court. All the crowned heads of Europe have heard of the unprecedented execution of one of the High Family, here, in England, after the failed Spanish invasion.’ She flashed a surprisingly respectful glance at Will. ‘I hear the Unseelie Court hate you, Master Swyfte, and not only for the murder of one of their kind; yes, and fear you too.’
Scarlet Mary prowled around the edge of the small cell, still keeping one eye on the door. Watching her graceful movements, Will tried to reconcile the brutal stories he had heard about the spy with the woman in front of him.
‘But that is a conversation for another time. First we must get you out of this predicament.’ The Irish woman gave an amused laugh seeing his disbelieving reaction to her words.
‘A bribe may have got you into my cell but the Keeper will not be so accommodating, given the importance the Privy Council have placed upon my incarceration,’ the spy replied. ‘Or will you carry me away with the help of your angel wings?’
Red Meg lifted up her skirts, without the slightest embarrassment at revealing the shapely line of her legs. From the inner folds, she produced a woollen pouch.
Pressing one long finger to her lips, she gave a lop-sided smile and said, ‘There is only one way out of Bedlam for you, Master Swyfte. You have to die.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Shielding his eyes against the June sun, sir Robert Cecil clambered awkwardly down from the black carriage into the windswept yard of the Hospital of St Mary of Bethlehem. The cobbles still gleamed from the night’s great storm that had torn tiles from the roofs of many of the houses he had passed on the journey from Nonsuch.
As the spymaster let his gaze wander over dismal Bedlam, he gritted his teeth. It was a day of judgement that he would inevitably regret, but it was necessary.
Eschewing his workaday black garb, the Secretary of State had opted for clothes that he felt befitted the momentous occasion, a smart doublet of silver-grey with padded sapphire breeches and a matching blue cloak, cut so it did much to conceal his hunched back. Nothing, however, could hide the rolling gait that always revealed the curse of his twisted form. He hated the way everyone at court stared at him as if he were weak in mind as well as body, someone to be pitied, when his wits were sharper than any of theirs.
Looking around, Cecil saw the familiar loathsome stares were there too. Five other members of the Privy Council had gathered by the great oak door of Bedlam for the day’s business, a meagre feast of funereal garb and wintry expressions.
Glowering, the spymaster avoided his secretary’s helpful hand, and strode over. ‘Let us be brave in our decision,’ he urged the waiting council members, ‘and keep God in our hearts and minds at all times. It has been decided that an agreement by the six of us on the state of William Swyfte’s mind will be accepted by the full council later.’
Nodding, the other men muttered their agreement. All of them had skittish, unsettled eyes at the prospect of setting foot in Bedlam.
Cecil’s secretary, a pale, intense young man with the demeanour of a preacher, grabbed the iron ring on the door and pounded on it three times. A moment later, the Keeper appeared, bowing and fawning and then spitting in the palm of his hand and smearing it across his sleep-tufted hair to flatten it. Excited by the reverberations of the secretary’s knock, the inmates of the Abraham Ward clamoured wildly.
‘Ignore them, my lords. They’ll quieten down soon,’ the Keeper muttered, sweeping one chubby hand towards the newly whitewashed corridor that led to the ward.
‘Let us be done with it, then,’ the spymaster said, leading the procession of councillors behind the grubby man. ‘We have important business when we are done with this distraction.’
By that important business he meant ensuring he quickly regained favour in the eyes of the Queen, and that swaggering jackanapes Essex was consigned immediately to the shadows of Nonsuch. The spymaster was sickened by how much advantage this whole affair had cost him. Her Majesty would barely meet his eye, and his rival’s spies blustered around the palace as if they owned it.
Fresh straw had been scattered across the dirty floor of the Abraham Ward and bunches of newly cut purple lavender had been hung above every door. The sickly-sweet aroma did little to dispel the stink of the vault, but at least the Keeper had made some effort for his honoured guests, Cecil accepted grudgingly.
Their sweaty guide led the way to a locked door halfway along the gloomy ward. The spymaster hated losing an operative with the skills of Swyfte, but the spy was expendable, like all the men in the secret service. Yes, Cecil thought with a nod, the over-confident, smug, drunken, fornicating rake had certainly outlived his usefulness.
Selecting one large iron key from the huge ring he carried, the Keeper unlocked the cell door and swung it open. With another fawning bow, he raised an arm to direct the Privy Councillors inside.
Stepping across the threshold, the Little Elf took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. It was quiet, and he could just make out the dark shape of the spy lying on the floor near the far wall. The hunchbacked man was surprised. He had expected to be greeted by mockery, perhaps one of the caustic comments that he had tolerated for too long. Had the experiences in Bedlam been so terrible that the cell’s occupant had been broken, his wits gone, like the other unfortunates who resided in that foul place?
‘Master Swyfte,’ the spymaster said in a firm voice.
There was no response.
Impatiently, Cecil beckoned to the Keeper, who passed a candle in a wax-encrusted holder. With one hand to protect the wavering flame, the small man held the light in front of him. ‘Swyfte,’ he barked.
Shadows danced across the wall. Still the spy did not move. Just as he had started to believe he had been
