Nathaniel closed the door and ushered the woman to the table. ‘You will not believe this. We have the play. Finally. Master Strangewayes recovered it from Master Cockayne’s chamber.’
Grace gave a strange smile.
The door swung open. Nathaniel spun round. ‘We are uncovered.’
The spy leapt to his feet, drawing his rapier.
In stepped Grace, another Grace, her face flushed, her brow knitted. ‘Now we shall have a reckoning,’ she hissed.
Before the two men could move, the newly arrived Grace strode across the chamber and grabbed her counterpart, throwing her against the wall. Snatching a candlestick from the mantelpiece, the furious young woman swung it with force at the temple of her rival. The first Grace slumped to the rushes, unconscious.
Nathaniel and Strangewayes gaped. Before either of them could make sense of what they had witnessed, another figure slipped into the room and closed the door.
‘What a merry dance,’ Red Meg O’Shee said with a sly smile. ‘There have been fools aplenty in these fun and games, but now we start to peel away the masks.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
‘I want to see Will Swyfte’s blood washing across the quayside and into the filthy Thames,’ Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, announced from his commanding view over the legal quays. Dressed in his favourite white and gold doublet, he stood on the roof of a carriage surrounded by fifteen spies, one hand on his rapier. ‘By this day’s end, the man who was once England’s greatest spy will be dead.’
The air was thick with the stink of pitch from the barrels along the quayside, but behind it floated the sharp smell of cloves and the sticky aroma of cinnamon from the spice ships. Shielding his eyes against the morning sun glinting off the glassy, slow-moving river, Devereux surveyed the forest of masts that obscured the north bank. Only the grey Kentish stone bulk of the Tower of London loomed above the long queue of ocean-going vessels waiting for a free berth. Almost a hundred stretched prow to stern, from the shadow of London Bridge past St Katharine’s, bobbing in the gentle breeze.
Though London was still subdued under the yoke of the plague, the legal quays were throbbing with the yells and shanties of seamen and dockworkers, the slap of sailcloth and the creak of rigging, and the hammer of wooden mallets where hasty repairs were being carried out. Customs men buzzed back and forth assessing the cargo that had been landed from the foreign ships.
Swyfte had chosen his arrival point well, the Earl thought with a nod. In that hive of busyness, the spy could lose himself in the throng of sea-dogs shuffling towards the crowded ale-houses on the river bank, or in the jam of merchants’ carts, or the groups of cat-calling doxies seeking trade.
Devereux smiled to himself. Swyfte thought himself clever, but this time he had met his match.
Leeman, a plump, red-faced spy with a missing eye, clambered on to the seat of the carriage, wheezing. ‘All the cut-throats are where they need to be. I told ’em, not a penny until they brought Swyfte to us. Dead. You are still certain of that, sir?’
‘We take no chances, Master Leeman. Swyfte has proved himself a cunning dog. You would not want his sword between your shoulder blades, no?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then dead it is.’
The Earl brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, reflecting on the curious change that had come over his Queen. A passing thing, he was sure. He watched the barrels being unloaded along the wharf while the ship carrying Swyfte prepared to moor. Pedalling furiously, a man sat inside a large wheel contained within a cabin raised on poles. A rope ran from the wheel, over a pulley, along a jib and over another pulley, where it dangled to the deck of a carrack. There, three seamen attached a barrel to the rope with hooks.
Devereux allowed his gaze to wander to the carefully positioned carts and stacks of barrels along the wharf where Swyfte’s caravel was about to dock. One by one he picked out the rogues they had rounded up, all of them in place, pretending to be dockworkers in felt hats moving barrels, or smartly cloaked merchants overseeing the unloading of cargo, or bare-chested seamen resting after hard labour. Ten strong-armed men, each carrying a musket. No chances.
‘Master Leeman, give the order to get ready.’
With a nod, the one-eyed man lurched to the cobbles, hurrying among the flow of sweaty labourers to whisper to each agent in passing. Essex watched hands go to muskets hidden in the bales of straw or under sailcloth or timber.
The caravel came in. Straining, grizzled sea-dogs tied up the creaking ropes and the gangplank clattered on to the wharf. Essex studied the men moving around on deck. Where was Swyfte?
Mopping his brow, Leeman climbed back on to the carriage seat. ‘All set, sir. He will be the first to disembark?’
‘The arrangements have been made, Master Leeman.’
With nods and sly glances, the cut-throats abandoned their false tasks and picked up their muskets. Keeping their heads down, they gathered by twin rows of carts and other obstacles that flanked the gangplank and which would funnel their intended victim towards the pitch-filled barrels. The matchlocks were primed, flints ready to ignite the fuses.
Calm, patient, the Earl folded his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest. Leeman shaded his one good eye. ‘There,’ the ruddy-faced man announced, pointing towards the caravel.
In his black cape and cap, Will Swyfte stepped on to the gangplank and hurried down, eager to lose himself in the wharfside crowd.
The ten men stepped into the mouth of the funnel and levelled their weapons. Flints sparked. Devereux saw the flare of fear in the spy’s face. At the foot of the gangplank, Swyfte skidded to a halt, caught in the grip of the terrible sight confronting him, and then he turned, preparing to bound back to the ship.
Ten barrels flamed. The cracks rang across the legal quay, sending the gulls shrieking up into the blue sky. Flung up the gangplank by the force of the shots, the black-clad spy convulsed and then grew still, one arm hanging down towards the black water.
Essex hammered a fist into the palm of his hand in jubilation and leapt from the carriage, thrusting his way through the curious dockworkers and seamen. The cut-throats milled around the body, avoiding the crimson pool gathering at the foot of the gangplank.
‘Stand back,’ the Earl ordered. ‘Master Leeman.’
The one-eyed man lumbered forward and turned over Will’s body. Essex’s grin became fixed, slowly turning into a snarl of rage. ‘That is not Swyfte,’ he exclaimed. ‘It is our agent on board this vessel.’
The dead man was about the spy’s age, but his face was pockmarked and the cap hid a bald patch. Beneath the cloak, his hands were bound behind his back and he had a kerchief shoved into his mouth to prevent him calling out.
‘Find Swyfte!’ the Earl barked, whirling round. He felt a pang of fear. Though Will presented a dashing front to the world, Devereux knew the spy had no reservations about killing his enemies, whatever their status in life.
A gush of crimson splattered across the cobbles at the end of the funnel of carts and barrels. One of the rogues, a big-boned slab of meat, stumbled forward, clutching his throat, his life’s blood pumping between his fingers.
The moment he collapsed, the cut-throats and spies erupted in cries of panic. Rapiers and daggers flashed. The men circled, looking this way and that.
‘Double the pay for the man who brings me Swyfte’s head,’ Essex shouted. As the rogues overcame their fear and fanned out across the wharf, the Earl beckoned to Leeman, whispering, ‘Gather our men and retreat to the carriage. There is no point risking our own lives when we have these low men to do our business for us.’
As Leeman gathered the spies, Devereux edged along the carts, eyes darting around. Too many curious men clustered around for him to get any sight of the spy.
