‘Hide.’
Ducking back around the corner, they pressed themselves against the wet wall. A faint light washed over the houses on the other side of the broad street. Within a moment, a bone-white carriage drawn by two colourless horses splashed through the pools of black water. Both beasts and vehicle emitted the ghostly light. It was soundless, a ghost-carriage, though clearly it had substance. There was no driver, but Will glimpsed two of the Unseelie Court through the window, a male in a broad-brimmed hat and a woman with hair piled high on her head, both equally leached of colour.
‘They travel so openly,’ the Irish woman hissed once the carriage had disappeared from sight.
‘It is their city now. I hope your former lover sleeps peacefully.’ The spy looked around at the streets devoid of human life, and the houses where nothing moved. Paris was not as populous as London, but it still contained almost two hundred thousand people, even without the many who had died of starvation during Henri’s siege. Many more refugees had fled to the city from the fighting in the countryside. Did they now all quake in fear beneath their beds?
‘Henri must make choices where there is no easy answer, ofttimes no winners, and only the extent of each side’s losses is the deciding factor,’ Meg replied, adding sharply, ‘and that is why he is king and you are not.’
‘I would think birth and blood had some part to play in it, but be it as you will.’ Once he was sure the street was empty, Will ran in the direction of the cathedral.
As they neared the river, the two spies ducked into an alley. Another Fay man rode past on a grey horse, his silver-mildewed doublet almost matching the tone of his bloodless face. Four other pale figures stalked by before Will and the Irish woman could leave their hiding place, and then they were running as fast as they could through the driving rain to the edge of the vast, stone-arched bridge that led to the island in the flow.
As they crouched out of sight, their attention was caught by a spectral glow from the river downstream. Peering over the small stone wall, the spy felt a chill. On the grey, choppy water, a fleet was moored, more galleons than Will could count, disappearing into the rain and night. They strained at anchor, their sails furled, no colours flying on their masts, but they needed none, for that eerie luminescence told him all he needed to know of ownership. There was no movement on deck that he could see, no frantic activity as the crews prepared to sail, and that gave him some comfort. But here, without doubt, was the Enemy’s invasion force, ready for England whenever the order was given.
From the hills above the city, the ships had been invisible, hidden by the Fay’s magics. And he felt no need to question how seagoing vessels could sail in the shallows of a summer river, nor how they could navigate the impassable sections of the Seine upstream. The Unseelie Court made their own rules.
Seeing the scale of the fleet, feeling the icy power that washed off it, Will was fearful of what lay ahead. If those ships were free to sail upon England, all would be lost.
Turning his attention back to the bridge, the spy saw that like London Bridge across the Thames in London, Pont Notre-Dame was lined on both sides by tall stone and brick houses, their pitched roofs topped with orange- brown tiles. In the daylight, at any other time, it would be bustling with merchants, the road across the centre of the span packed with carts and livestock. Now it was deserted apart from three pale figures waiting in the rain- drenched gloom halfway across.
‘There is no way past them,’ Meg whispered.
‘There is always a way.’
Studying the bridge, the spy saw only one perilous route open to him. Turning to the Irish woman, he whispered, ‘Despite my doubts about your loyalty, I acceded to your request to accompany me on this dangerous mission. But you must now wait here-’
‘I am no weak and cowardly woman. Do not treat me like your bloodless, flower-loving Grace. I will not be dismissed, abandoned, discarded. Ever.’ Her anger simmered.
Softening his tone, Will said, ‘Mistress Meg, you have proved yourself to have the heart of a lion and the skills and ferocity of any man. I would be proud to have you at my side in any battle. Although,’ he added with a tight smile, ‘not at my back. But this work now requires the stealth that can only be accomplished by one alone. You know this business well. See it with the eyes of a spy.’
Her anger faded, but she still surveyed him with hard eyes. ‘Very well then. But I will watch for your return. Do not try to leave me here.’
‘Though I am loath to say this, I need you.’
Her brow furrowed, her gaze becoming uncertain.
‘If I die here, I need you to take up this fight.’
Meg nodded. ‘If you die, I will carry the fight back to them. So do I now vow.’
Swinging one leg over the low wall, the spy paused again and, turning quickly, stole a kiss.
The Irish woman recoiled in surprise.
Will gave a rakish grin. ‘If I go to my grave, I would do so with a happy memory.’
And then he threw himself over the edge of the wall and was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
RUSHING TO THE WALL, MEG FEARED WILL HAD PLUMMETED INTO the churning grey water below. Plucking her wind-whipped hair from her eyes, she peered into the dark. She could just discern the spy edging along a rain-slick ledge barely as wide as the span of a hand with only a cornice at head-height for support. Beneath him, the river eddied around the stone columns of the arches, calling for him to plunge into its lethal currents.
‘You are a fool, Will Swyfte,’ she breathed, with a grudging respect for her companion’s courage.
As she watched him disappearing into the gloom, an unsettling confusion of feelings washed through her. Ever since she was a child standing over the bloodied bodies of her elder brothers, she had felt she knew herself, and that she understood the strict rules of life. Survival was paramount. Freed of weak emotions, she had learned her trade well. She had needed for nothing. There were small joys to be had, here and there. And she had aided her countrymen well in the bitter wars they had fought, among themselves, against the English and, in secret rebellion, against the Unseelie Court. The loneliness that had crept up on her like an assassin in the night had troubled her only intermittently and she had succeeded in keeping it at bay through the diamond-hard edge of her will.
She had been able to maintain her life of red blades, and joyless coupling, and heart-rending deception, with the conviction that only one solitary path was open to her, and that no one else could ever understand her oceanic depths. But now she realized everything had changed.
Hammering one small but strong fist upon the stone wall, Meg let out her unfocused rage for one moment and then tore her gaze away from the bridge. Swyfte was lost to the night.
The wind blasted along the river, stinging her pale skin with stone-hard rain. Her skirts and bodice were soaked through and she was filled with a bone-deep chill that belied the summer warmth. The storm was getting stronger. Lightning flickered around the hills as if the gods were circling the city.
Further along the road that bounded the river, she glimpsed movement, pale figures flitting here and there. At a distance the Unseelie Court had all the substance of moon shadows. It was only up close that they took on the lethal presence of hunting beasts.
Eyeing their comings and goings, she decided there was not enough cover there at the edge of the river and she turned and ran back to the shelter of the tall merchants’ houses on the other side of the street. Though candles still gleamed in the windows, she saw no comfort anywhere. The Enemy were all over Paris, wherever she looked: carriages rolling silently along the street on the far side of the Seine, the spectral fleet bobbing on the choppy waves, riders emerging from the winding, narrow streets on to the large riverside thoroughfare and groups locked in conversation here and there, oblivious to the downpour. Secure in their control of the city, the Unseelie Court were not looking out for enemies. Perhaps there was hope the two spies could escape France with their lives.
But as Meg eased into the shadowy depths of a rat-infested alley, lightning flashed and she saw the silhouette of a figure on the roof of the first house on the Pont Notre-Dame. It was Xanthus, hunched on the edge of the house like a gargoyle, peering down into the street.
He had seen her.
Her heart thumping, Meg gripped her dagger tightly though she knew it would be useless.
Seemingly untouched by the tearing winds, the ghostly stalker raised himself up, balancing on the balls of his feet. As the Irish woman prepared herself for his descent, he turned and bounded like a wolf up the orange tiles and
