impression that it continued around the entire house.
Pausing in front of the nearest skull, the alchemist bowed his head and muttered a few words. With a deep sigh of relief, he beckoned Will and Meg across the threshold.
‘Henry Percy, the Wizard Earl, has strange tastes,’ Will said, eyeing the alchemist. ‘Most prefer quaint hedges of box and lines of perfumed lavender.’
Dee chuckled to himself.
At the door, the alchemist was greeted by a servant who appeared aware of the elderly man’s identity. The three travelling companions were admitted into the stone-flagged hall while the servant hurried away to find his master.
‘You will find surprises aplenty here,’ Dee muttered, ‘but whether it is all to your liking is another matter.’
The servant returned and ushered them into a chamber on the west side of the house. In the ruddy glow from the dying flames in the wide stone hearth, Will discerned the outline of chairs placed around the fire. Tapestries hung on the walls, the design lost to the dark, and a trestle stood near the window.
‘Dee!’ A black-gowned figure rose from his chair. ‘This is a great surprise and I’ll wager not a pleasant one.’
The man strode forward. He had not yet turned thirty, and was tall with brown hair and beard and dark, intense eyes. Will recognized Henry Percy, the eighth Earl of Northumberland, known at court as an elegant, studious man. They had spoken on a few occasions, but the peer kept a small circle of friends and was not known for making merry.
‘And Master Swyfte,’ Henry continued with a note of surprise. ‘You are much in demand, sir, though for once not for your adventurous exploits.’ He appeared unmoved by the treasonous allegations made against the spy.
‘My lord.’ Will gave a deep bow. ‘And may I introduce my companion, Mistress O’Shee.’
Northumberland bowed deeply too, extending his left arm behind him and taking the Irish woman’s hand and brushing it with his lips. ‘I am honoured.’
‘These are dangerous times, and they call for extreme measures,’ the alchemist said, roaming the room in a burst of wild activity. He peered into the corners, shaking his fist at things no one else could see. ‘I am asking for your forgiveness, for I have broken the bonds of secrecy we agreed should surround our cabal. But Master Swyfte here needs the urgent help only we can give.’
‘Not just I, my lord, but all of England,’ Will said, taking up Dee’s plea. ‘A plot moves close to the Queen herself. Indeed, it may already be too late. Agents of our enemies now exert an influence within the Privy Council and may soon have full control of the government.’
Northumberland looked to the alchemist, who strode to the fire, running his hands frantically through his white hair. ‘He speaks truly, Henry. The things we have long feared have come to pass and we can no longer afford to stand idly in the shadows.’
Tugging his beard, the Earl thought deeply for a moment and then said, ‘Your wisdom has always been much in demand in our circle, Dr Dee, and if you vouch for Master Swyfte then I can do no more than trust him implicitly. Besides, Kit Marlowe always spoke highly of him.’
Will flinched at the mention of his friend. Henry beckoned, and as the spy stepped close to the fire he was surprised to see the chairs were all occupied, their owners silent and thoughtful. Looking round, he was shocked to recognize many of the faces he saw there.
‘Welcome,’ Northumberland said with a sweep of his arm, ‘to the School of Night.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
At Northumberland’s command, the servant brought Will a goblet of good sack. Meg flashed him an irritated glance as she was ushered out to a bedchamber the Earl was having prepared for her.
The spy feigned a sympathetic nod, but he took some pleasure from the Irish woman’s fury at her exclusion from a source of vital information. Once she had departed, he flopped into a chair next to the fire and for the first time was acutely aware of his exhaustion.
He eyed the great men sitting around him. There was George Chapman, the playwright and scholar, his bald pate glinting in the light of the candle that Northumberland now carried over to set beside the fire. He had just turned thirty and was an acquaintance of Marlowe through his patron, Sir Thomas Walsingham. Beside him sat Thomas Harriot, almost the same age as Chapman and a student of the stars and numbers. Dressed in a black gown with a white ruff, his hair receding, Harriot had a sensitive cast to his features. There were two other men Will did not know, but the spy was struck most by the final guest.
In his jewelled doublet of green and red, Sir Walter Raleigh cut a dashing figure, strong of jaw, dark-eyed, with a well-tended brown beard and moustache and curly hair. He studied Will with a wry smile, the heel of one Spanish leather boot resting on his knee.
‘Master Swyfte, it has been a while since we met. But despite the threats currently emanating from London, I remember only the great things you have achieved … and, of course, those drunken nights in Liz Longshanks’. I would have you on one of my expeditions to the New World and soon,’ he said in a strong, rich voice.
‘Perhaps that can be arranged, if we survive the coming weeks.’
The spy knew Raleigh would not succumb to the lies issued by the Privy Council, for the soldier and explorer had been on the receiving end of them himself. Only a year ago, the Queen had appointed him Captain of the Yeomen of the Guard and rewarded him with houses and estates after the success of his expeditions to the New World. He had been Elizabeth’s favourite. But then he fell from grace when the Queen discovered his secret marriage to one of her ladies-in-waiting, young Bess Throckmorton. Her Majesty’s temper had been incandescent, Will recalled. Raleigh had been imprisoned and Bess dismissed from court. Though the adventurer was now a free man, he had still not been pardoned by the monarch.
‘You will forgive me, but this is a strange and surprising collection of fellows,’ the spy said, sipping his sack.
‘Come now, Master Swyfte,’ Northumberland laughed. ‘As a spy you should know of many hidden connections that exist in modern life.’
‘Still,’ Will said, ‘I would be hard-pressed to define what you all had in common.’ He eyed Dee, who still ranged around the room, whispering to invisible companions. The alchemist had nothing in common with anyone.
‘The School of Night,’ Raleigh began, taking a goblet of sack from the Earl, ‘is a name we use to hide our identity, though Marlowe always threatened to insert it into one of his plays.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘That will not now come to pass.’
‘A secret society, then.’ Will laughed. ‘I sometimes wonder if there is a man in London who is not a member of some hidden clique or other. Perhaps we are all members of many and in the end we are working against ourselves unbeknown.’ He shrugged and sipped his sack. ‘Or perhaps this business of spying has made me a cynic.’
Dee prowled over to the fire and roared, ‘You are a fool, Swyfte, but a wise one. Indeed we plot because everyone else plots. There are secret wars raging all the time in this world. Nothing is as simple as it seems at first glance.’
Raleigh leaned forward and said, ‘In a world of lies it is easy to dismiss everyone, but I would say this to you: Kit Marlowe sided with us. Indeed, he was there at the very beginning.’ He held the spy’s gaze until he was sure his meaning had been understood. And it was: if Kit believed in this School of Night then it surely had value.
Will called for more sack, and then looked to the alchemist. ‘Dr Dee suggested you plotted against the Queen and England itself. Can this be true?’
A chill had grown in the room despite the season and Northumberland tossed another log on the fire. A shower of gold sparks shot up the chimney. ‘Not England. Never that,’ he said. ‘We do what we do
‘That sounds very much like treason,’ the spy said quietly.
