While the other priests fled, Hugh waited with Grace. ‘Where now?’ she gasped.
‘Where now, indeed?’ Will replied. ‘If I could take you straight to England, I would. But it is Paris that calls me, a city I now fear is in the grip of our greatest enemy.’ Sheathing his rapier, he turned to the young priest. ‘You are a good man, Hugh, and do not deserve to be wrapped up in this terrible affair,’ he said. ‘I have little love for priests who plot the end of my Queen, but warn your fellows to stay away from the spaces beneath the seminary. I do not think the forces that lurk there can remain now they have been uncovered, but it would be best not to take any risks.’
‘Who are you?’ Hugh asked, awed.
Will gave a deep bow. ‘Why, I am England’s greatest spy, my friend. I have been on a long journey to hell, but now I am back and determined to take some of damnation’s fire to my enemies.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
Reclaiming his horse from the seminary stables, will was soon galloping through the narrow streets of Reims, with Grace clinging to his back. At the walls, a sleepy guard in a padded leather doublet opened the gates for them. As much as the spy hated passing through the lonely vineyards and meadows by night, he knew he could not remain in the town until daybreak. Fabian’s warped compassion for the human race would be tested to the limit in the coming hours.
‘Were you harmed?’ he asked. ‘You spoke of being battered and-’
‘It is nothing. I am well,’ the woman replied with a brusque tone that surprised him. He felt that he had offended her in some way.
For a while, he questioned Grace on the circumstances of her capture at Nonsuch and how she was brought to Reims, but her memory was addled by potions. He was, however, concerned to hear of the mounting fear and repression at the palace. But when Grace noted that she feared for Nathaniel, he added, ‘Nat has survived far worse. I would trust him to win through in any situation.’
‘Then you should tell him,’ she snapped, ‘instead of criticizing him at every turn.’
‘Grace, if there is something wrong-’
‘Nothing is wrong.’ The woman gripped the spy’s back as tightly as his devil.
Will rode on in silence. But as the dusty track passed from the vineyards into the woods, he noticed a light glimmering away in the trees. Two more appeared as he trotted on. Had Xanthus found him at last? The spy frowned. Reining in his steed, he considered riding back to the vineyards.
In silence, two musketeers stepped out from the trees and trained their weapons upon him. Their moustaches and beards waxed and pointed, they wore felt hats, short leather jerkins and bandoliers. From the well-tended weapons and clothes, the spy could see they were not roadside bandits.
In French, Will tried to explain that he and Grace were simply poor travellers who could not afford to pay for a night at an inn in Reims. The men’s cold eyes didn’t waver. With a thrust of their weapons they silently ordered the two travellers to dismount.
The spy could not risk injury to Grace. His anger simmering, he allowed the two of them to be marched through the trees.
On the other side of the small wood, canvas flapped in the breeze. Moths performed intricate dances in the pools of light thrown by lanterns at the entrances to a huddle of grey tents. The smell of roast pork still hung in the warm air around a crackling camp fire, and Will could hear horses snorting and stamping their hooves nearby. From the men sitting around in groups holding quiet conversations, he guessed it was a small fighting force.
As they neared the largest of the tents, a tall, balding man stepped out to greet them. His beard flecked with white, he wore a black gown, but he carried himself with the strength and grace of a fighting man. ‘My name is Maximilien de Bethune, duc de Sully. Follow me,’ he said in English, his voice deep.
‘There is some mistake. I am just a lonely traveller,’ Will began.
Maximilien gave a knowing smile. ‘No, you are not. You are England’s greatest spy, William Swyfte.’
For once, Will was silenced.
‘We are not fools here, sir. Our spies are as proficient as your own,’ the gowned man continued, holding open the tent flap for them to enter. ‘You have been under observation since you disembarked at Cherbourg.’
‘Then I apologize for my deceit,’ Will replied, stooping to enter the warm golden glow of the lamplit interior. ‘I doff my cap to fellow practitioners of the great art.’
Behind his wry exterior, the spy was instantly on his guard, his eyes darting around in search of any threat. A trestle stood to one side covered with charts, a flask and a half-eaten knob of bread with a knife stuck in it. But his attention was drawn to a tall, tanned man standing with his hands folded behind his back. He was expensively outfitted in a gleaming sapphire doublet, the buttons jewelled, the ruff extravagantly folded. His beard was well tended, his smiling face suggesting a man of good humour.
‘The King,’ Maximilien boomed.
‘Your Majesty.’ Will gave a deep bow. Grace curtsied at his side, her gaze fixed shyly on the ground. Henri let his eyes linger on her for a moment, his smile becoming playful.
‘The King indeed,’ he said in heavily accented English. ‘The word is still strange to my ears after this long, hard struggle. There were times when I thought I would always remain Henri de Navarre.’
‘The Catholic League now support your claim to the throne?’ the spy asked, puzzled.
Henri chuckled. ‘Why, I am a Catholic these days, Master Swyfte. Had you not heard? On the twenty-fifth of July I renounced my old faith completely. Now I am a committed Papist,’ he tweaked his waxed moustache, his eyes gleaming, ‘the resistance in Paris will eventually crumble and I will finally be allowed to ride into my capital city. And so, all things fall into place.’
The spy recalled Cecil’s suspicions at the Rose Theatre almost three months earlier. ‘And the Huguenots?’ he enquired.
‘After the bitter religious strife that has torn this country apart for so long, they are understandably distressed that I appear to have crossed to the other side. But they will come around. What other choice do they have?’
‘I imagine my Queen is not best pleased that you have renounced her faith.’ It was an understatement. Will imagined Elizabeth flying into one of her incandescent rages when the news was delivered to her.
‘Once I am crowned in Chartres, she will understand that I am still the same Henri.’ The King strode to the trestle and took a sip from his flask of wine. ‘Perhaps I will even be more useful to her. I see myself as a bridge, Master Swyfte, like the one I plan to build across the Seine when I am finally allowed into Paris, to unite the right and left banks. There will be peace in Europe only when our two religions can live side by side. When we achieve that, then we can join together against our common Enemy.’ His eyes flickered from Grace to Will, and he nodded to indicate that he would not elucidate while the woman was present. ‘For now,’ he continued, ‘Paris remains beyond my control.’
The spy inwardly winced. It would be difficult enough to spend time in the Unseelie Court’s midst without also having to deal with a city that had only recently survived Henri’s siege and would suspect any stranger of being one of the King’s spies.
‘There are other matters afoot, of which we will speak more in a short while.’ Draining his flask, the King smacked his mouth.
The tent flaps were furiously thrown open and in a flurry of skirts a woman stormed in.
‘You!’ Grace exclaimed.
Red Meg O’Shee cast only a fleeting glance at her. ‘I hear the buzzing of a fly,’ she sniffed.
Grace fumed, but the Irish woman had already turned her attention to Will, a cold fire in her green eyes.
With a hand to his high forehead, the King exclaimed, ‘Mistress, if Gabrielle finds you here-’
‘Do not worry, Your Majesty. Your
In Meg’s disrespectful attitude towards the monarch, Will saw the deep currents that run between old lovers.
‘Did you not find my blade sharp enough the last time, Master Swyfte?’ she asked scornfully.
