The flurry of a black cloak on a pile of barrels drew the Earl’s attention, gone by the time he turned. But a rope tied loosely in a noose fell around the neck of one of the stalking cut-throats. It was yanked tight and the poor soul flew up, feet kicking, before his breaking neck cracked like a musket shot across the wharf.
While Devereux’s gaze was on the corpse falling back to the cobbles, more blood gushed away to his left. One rogue dropped to his knees, hands pressed tightly against his stomach, a second grasped at his slit throat, and a third was already face down in a growing pool when Essex’s gaze fell upon him.
‘’Swounds,’ the Earl muttered in horrified awe. Throwing aside caution, he ran towards the carriage, the spies bolting all around him. By the time he reached the safety of the coach roof, three more bodies littered the wharf.
Across the quays, sailors, merchants, doxies and labourers crowded, cheering. Through the bobbing heads and raised arms, Devereux glimpsed a whirling shadow and the flash of steel. He felt a chill run through him. Another dying scream rang up to the screeching gulls.
Pale-faced, Leeman clambered on to the seat. The spies gathered all around, fearfully glancing at Essex in case he sent them into the fray. But the Earl was caught fast by the unfolding drama. Through a gap in the bodies, he saw Swyfte thrust his rapier through the heart of the final cut-throat, and then the spy leapt on to the back of a barrel-laden cart. He gave a flamboyant bow to his audience, his right arm thrown wide.
‘This is not some stage,’ Essex stammered, barely able to contain his outrage.
A roar went up from the assembled throng and hats were thrown high.
‘Why are they cheering him? He is a traitor. The word has gone out to all parts of our nation,’ the Earl gasped. ‘Master Leeman, Swyfte must not escape or the Queen will have all our heads. Find him.’
Torn between two potential deaths, the one-eyed spy lurched away with three chosen men, but he returned in a few moments with a gap-toothed boy wriggling in his grasp. Leeman gave the youth a rough shake and barked, ‘Tell your betters what you saw.’
Snarling like an animal, the youth wrenched himself free. ‘For a penny!’
‘Pay the boy, Leeman,’ Essex said through clenched lips.
Once the exchange had been made, the boy calmed and said, ‘Sir, the man in black stole a horse and rode away.’
Closing his eyes, Devereux threw a hand to his forehead. ‘To Nonsuch,’ he muttered.
‘No, sir,’ the boy said. ‘I heard ’im say to his mount, “Away, to Tilbury.”’
Essex stared at the youth, his thoughts racing. ‘Tilbury?’ The blood draining from his face, he turned to the one-eyed spy and gasped, ‘Bloody John Courtenay is an old friend of Swyfte’s and he is captain of the
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
‘I did what you told me, sir,’ the gap-toothed boy said, holding out a filthy hand.
Will slipped a penny into the youth’s palm. ‘Money well spent. You did the country a great service, lad.’
‘The country? Bugger that. You are Will Swyfte, England’s greatest spy. My father read me all your stories from the pamphlets.’ The boy’s eyes were bright with awe as he clasped the penny and bolted into the dispersing crowd of seamen and merchants.
The thunder of hooves and the rattle of carriage wheels echoed across the wharf. The spy allowed himself a smile at the fulfilment of his plan before slipping away to find a horse. Essex and the bulk of his local spies would spend the next day or two at Tilbury trying to prevent a plot that would never happen. That would make Will’s monumental task at Nonsuch a little easier, with fewer swords to get in his way.
Within half an hour, the spy was merging into the flow of heavily laden merchants’ carts trailing out of the legal quays towards London Bridge or routes to the south. His mind drifted back across the long, exhausting journey. After he had climbed down the vertiginous walls of Notre Dame in the dying storm his sight finally returned with a euphoric rush on the banks of the Seine. Stealing a small boat, they made their way to the coast. Meg had remained at his side throughout, but never once did they mention their feelings, though he was sure it was on both their minds.
At Le Havre-de-Grace, Meg joined Grace aboard Henri’s galleon and sailed first to make arrangements back in England. Will meanwhile sought out an English merchant, a tall, serious-faced man by the name of Carrington, whom Raleigh had identified as a ‘close associate’ of the School of Night. The spy was surprised how quickly he was provided with safe passage on a ship bound for England, and more, how easily Carrington had acceded to Will’s strange request — a ship-to-ship transfer midway across the Channel to thwart the plans of Cecil or Essex, who, Will knew, would have spies watching for him in France. They would be waiting for one caravel, while the spy arrived a little earlier on another.
And when Will had discovered one of the Earl’s spies aboard the first vessel, the crew had been quick to follow his directions, which had resulted in the poor soul’s death at the legal quays.
Yet for all the help he had received, he was troubled by the influence of the School of Night. Their power and reach were greater than he had ever imagined, and Will wondered if they had hidden aims, perhaps great ones, beyond what he had heard at Petworth. But that was a matter for another day.
Following the lane east along the river, he came to a thick bank of oak and elm, directly opposite the grey stone mass of the Tower, just visible through the masts of the ships queuing for the legal quays. Dismounting, he led his horse under the cool canopy of the trees to an apple orchard. Beyond it were meadows, pools and gardens and beyond those lay Bermondsey House, where the Queen had accepted hospitality on many an occasion. The grand hall had been constructed from the stones of the Benedictine abbey, knocked down under the orders of Old Henry, and it was in the abbey grounds he now stood.
As Will searched among the trees, a piercing whistle drew his attention. Carpenter beckoned him over to where a seductively smiling Meg waited with the grim-faced Earl, Launceston, and four horses. One other was there: Essex’s man. Strangewayes.
Meg saw Will’s face darken and she stepped forward to block the spy’s path. ‘Leave him be, my sweet,’ the Irish woman said. ‘Master Strangewayes has suffered enough in recent days. The lash of your tongue is one punishment too many.’
Eyes cast down, the red-headed man looked deflated.
‘You can be trusted?’ Will demanded. ‘Or will you go running back to your master at the first opportunity?’
‘I stand with you,’ Tobias said flatly.
Carpenter cast a sideways glance at their new companion and whispered, ‘He has had a brush with dark forces. Not the Unseelie Court, yet, but he will need to be inducted into our understanding of their ways soon, or his wits will be at risk.’
Will felt a note of compassion for Strangewayes. He had seen more than one spy destroyed by the realization that the world was a truly terrifying place. ‘Very well. We will not turn away a strong sword-arm. And how goes the search for our killer of spies?’
‘We have failed to find him,’ Launceston replied in his whispery voice. ‘The last name on the list was crossed out, despite our best efforts.’ Carpenter looked away, his cheeks flushed.
‘And yet the defences of England still stand,’ Will mused. ‘He searches for one more victim, then. An unknown.’ He looked around the group. ‘It may be one of us here who will fulfil his task, and unleash all hell upon this land. We must be on our guard.’
‘And now?’ Meg asked, already knowing the answer.
Will swung himself into the saddle and proclaimed, ‘And now to Nonsuch, and blood, and vengeance.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
‘PRAY DRAW NEAR, GENTLEFOLK, FOR THIS SPECTACLE BEGINS. Witness now, a tale told, in homely verse
