‘Your brother died as he lived, a coward,’ the spy snarled, drawing his own rapier. ‘I ran him through as if I were spearing fish in the pond on Whittington Green, and thought even less about it.’
Raging, the Hunter lunged wildly. With a flick of his wrist, Will parried the thrust easily, the force of his response almost unbalancing his opponent. Steadying himself on the edge of the giddy drop, Xanthus saw what the spy intended. He calmed himself, his eyes narrowing.
‘You appear weaker,’ Will said, pulling a snapping spider from his bloody left cheek and tossing it away. ‘You have allowed your hatred for me to get the better of you.’
‘I have strength enough for you.’
The Hunter thrust again, his sword-stroke more refined this time, and faster. Will clashed his blade against his foe’s, and returned the thrust. Xanthus deflected it with a twirl of his rapier.
They were only testing each other, the spy saw. Both of them had been weakened and each wanted to see the limits of the other’s resolve.
As the spiders swarmed across his chest, Will’s clothes were being eaten away. Through the tatters, he glimpsed bloody bites on his pale, wet flesh. He could feel his time on earth leaking away.
He thrust his rapier towards the Hunter’s heart, followed up with a slash towards the neck and then struck low, driving the pale figure back along the edge of the roof. Lost to the storm and the burning bites, Will sensed his world retreat to the small circle of his vision, and to Xanthus’ fierce face. Their swords clashed to the rhythm of the thunder.
The spy’s foot slipped on the wet stone and for one moment he thought he was about to plunge over the edge. For an instant, he teetered. The Hunter swung his sword in an arc, the steel shimmering in the fading glare of a lightning strike.
At the last, Will dropped to his knees, gripping the coping while he regained his spinning senses. His Enemy’s sword flashed over his head.
Seizing his moment, the spy thrust his rapier upwards into Xanthus’ exposed stomach.
Crying out, the Hunter fell back, clutching at his wound. As he lay, half hanging over the edge, Will tore off the last few spiders with shaking hands. In the corner of his eye, he spied pale figures moving in both the cathedral’s towers: the Unseelie Court had found him.
Retrieving the grapnel, Will affixed it to the mass of decorative carvings that cascaded from the small spire. As he wound the rope around his left wrist, he saw Xanthus was back on his feet, holding one hand over the blood-pumping wound.
‘If I am to die this night, I will take you with me,’ the Fay spat.
His strength draining from him by the moment, Will knew he had but a slim chance to survive another fight. Propelling himself up the pitch of the roof, he turned to swing towards his foe.
And in that instant the world went black.
The spy’s thoughts rushed through his head in that frozen moment, and he knew exactly what had happened. During the flight to Petworth House, Mephistophilis had demanded a payment in return for his aid.
His sight.
The devil had chosen his moment well.
Unseeing, Will felt his feet sliding on the slick tiles. He would continue down the slope, directly on to the end of Xanthus’ blade, and thus Mephistophilis would have claimed what he set out to achieve those long weeks ago in the Rose Theatre.
Yanking the rope taut, the spy leapt with all the force he could muster. His head spun as he flew.
In the dark of his head, Will felt the wild wind in his hair, rain drenching his face. His feet crashed into a solid mass, what could only be the Hunter. Pain seared his side. His foe’s blade, tearing his flesh.
A cry rang out, and then spiralled away from him.
In his mind’s eye, Will pictured Xanthus propelled over the edge of the roof, blood trailing from his stomach wound, his face contorted in impotent rage. And that pale figure falling away, down into the dark, and death.
Will continued to fly, off the roof and out into the void. When he reached the limits of the rope, his arm almost tore from its socket. Tumbling back, he crashed against the stone of the cathedral wall for the third time. His wits near knocked out of his head, he hung, too weak to descend. Every fibre of his being burned, and he could feel hot blood slicking his torso.
‘I die on my own terms, devil,’ he croaked.
With the Hunter’s passing, the rain slowly stopped and the thunder rolled away. In the silence that followed, Will could hear familiar chilling music and smell the syrupy scent of honeysuckle caught on the wind. The Unseelie Court were making their way across the cathedral roof.
He considered letting go of the rope and plunging to his death, rather than letting himself fall into the hands of those foul creatures. Yet even then, at the end, he found it impossible to relinquish life.
‘And are ye going to keep hanging there like a slab of meat in a butcher’s?’
‘Meg?’ The spy pictured the red-headed woman leaning over the edge of the roof. ‘My sight has been stolen from me, for now. I cannot climb down, but there is a way.’
There was silence for a moment and then she hissed, ‘Our Good Neighbours will be with us soon. You must trust me.’
Will laughed.
‘You must trust me,’ the woman repeated. ‘I will climb down. Take your hand off the rope and wrap your arms around me.’
‘So you can fling me into the void and be done with me?’
Ignoring him, she replied, ‘I am stronger than you think and I have a head for heights like no other. I can support your weight for a little while.’
Fading in and out on the breeze, the music of fiddle and pipes drew nearer.
‘Trust me,’ she whispered.
‘Very well,’ he heard himself saying.
As Meg grasped the rope, Will felt her breath on his ear. ‘This is the moment when everything changes,’ she whispered.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Sir Robert Cecil paced anxiously outside the council chamber, his hunchbacked form throwing off his gait so that it appeared he was on the deck of a seagoing galleon. Hands clasped behind his back, his face set, he looked the model of brooding contemplation. Nearby, the mercenary Sinclair and his shadow, Rowland the record-keeper, waited.
The Secretary of State’s concentration was broken by echoing, urgent footsteps and he glanced up to see Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, striding into the gloomy antechamber, blinding in white doublet with gold embroidery, white breeches and white cloak.
‘You,’ the Earl said, jabbing a finger at the black-gowned secretary. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘The same as your good self, I would wager,’ Cecil replied with a false smile. ‘Summoned to appear before Her Majesty, who has been ensconced for this past hour with the Privy Council.’
The flamboyant man blanched. ‘The council? Meeting without either of us in attendance?’
The secretary noted cruelly that his rival’s face and clothes now merged into one single pool of insipidity. ‘Perhaps we are both on our way to the Tower. It appears your cunning manipulations — some would say deceit — have not earned you the advantages you so fervently desired.’
The door to the Council Chamber swung open and Cecil shuffled in. Essex hastened to catch up, ensuring that he arrived in the Queen’s presence at the same time as his rival.
The throne stood with a row of arched windows behind it so that Elizabeth was always perceived in a halo of
