index finger along his right eyebrow, the Earl sauntered towards the hearth. ‘Who could possibly know the identities of those spies? Why, Sir Francis Walsingham, of course. But Sir Francis is dead. His records? They are missing. Who could have stolen them? Who would have access to them? Who would know their content?’
‘The record-keeper,’ the secretary exclaimed.
From behind his back, Rowland brought the curved ritual knife and waved it towards the Earl.
Launceston was unmoved. ‘But there was also the matter of the black marks upon the bodies of the murdered spies. The final piece of the puzzle. And then, this evening, I saw the ink upon the fingers of Will Swyfte’s young assistant and I began to wonder: what kind of man would have fingers stained with ink that he could smear, by accident, upon the bodies of his victims? A man engaged in constant scribbling. In accounting. In the keeping of records.’
‘You would be wise not to threaten me,’ Rowland growled, stepping back.
‘If I were wise, I would not be a spy.’ The Earl glanced towards the secretary, but still spoke to his prey. ‘You failed this night to murder my friend, and instead slew his love, but not in any ritual way that would serve your purpose. And you ran, and as you did, you imagined a new plan, did you not? You thought, who would make the greatest sacrifice, if this pattern were to be concluded? Why, the greatest spy of all. The master of spies.’
Cecil blanched.
‘You murdered my friend’s love at a time when he had discovered a spark of hope in his dismal, troubled life. You shattered his heart into a thousand pieces.’ A single tear trickled from the corner of the Earl’s eye. He touched it with his bloodstained finger, the two liquids mixing. He examined it with wonder. His first tear. ‘My friend!’
Launceston’s dispassionate face exploded into terrifying fury. Transformed into a storm of emotion as if all the lost feelings of an entire life had rushed back into him, he threw aside the trestle and thundered towards Rowland. A whirl of papers flew through the air. The blood drained from the record-keeper’s fear-torn face.
But then a glimmer of the devil-masked killer flared in his mad eyes and he lunged forward, driving his knife into the Earl’s arm. Launceston did not flinch. He gave no sign that he felt any pain. And with the blade still protruding from his flesh, he advanced.
With one fluid sweep from left to right, the sallow spy slashed open the neck of his victim. Blood gushing from his wound, Rowland fell to his knees, clasping his hands in prayer.
The Earl did not stop there.
Launceston hacked and chopped and sliced and thrust and slit until he was slick with gore and what lay in front of him was barely recognizable. And with each blow, a little of the rage left him until his usual dispassionate expression returned.
The Earl took a long, deep breath.
Cocking his head to one side, he examined the mess at his feet as if he was considering from where it came and what it might have been.
‘May God have mercy on your soul,’ Cecil croaked, clutching on to the wall for support.
Launceston pulled the knife from his arm and threw it. The blade spun, glinting in the candlelight, until it rammed into the panelling, singing for a moment before falling still.
‘I have no soul,’ the Earl said.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
‘The scar-crow men are surrounding the queen,’ Strangewayes hissed from the door to the Great Hall, his hood pulled up around his forest-green mask. ‘At least, I think they are those monstrous constructions. Who can tell?’
Will Swyfte pulled the young spy aside and peered into the vast chamber. Centre-stage, the figure menacing the maiden tore off his mask to reveal another beneath, this one a hideous concoction of animal fur and leaves. A cry rose up from the audience, and many of the women turned away, their hands covering their eyes.
‘I will protect you from yon fiend,’ the peasant called out, drawing a wooden sword.
While most of the court and the palace workers were held rapt by the players, a few circled away from the crowd, moving from different directions towards the Queen. On her throne, Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered and her head sagged. She seemed oblivious to the masque playing out for her benefit. Beside her, Elinor whispered gently in the monarch’s ear.
‘We must defend Her Majesty. Quickly, now.’ Will turned back to the antechamber where the other spies waited with Dee and Raleigh. Although he had replaced his yellow mask, Launceston looked a nightmarish sight, his grey cloak, doublet and breeches sodden and black, and a bloody trail across the flagstones behind him. Beside the Earl, Carpenter stood in his sapphire mask, despair and determination fighting for supremacy.
‘You may leave us,’ Will said to Meg, who looked disconcertingly innocent in her doll’s mask. ‘You will find it too much of a conflict to protect a monarch so reviled by some of your countrymen.’
‘You mean you cannot be sure which way my blade will turn.’ The Irish woman pulled her scarlet hood over her red hair. ‘But I will play my part.’
From under his cloak, Will drew the Corpus-Scythe and thrust it into the alchemist’s hands. ‘Here, doctor. Do what you can with this. Its magics appear mysterious to me, but the Unseelie Court believe it can withdraw the spark of life that animates the Scar-Crow Men.’
Dee’s eyes glowed with an insane glee. His cloak of animal pelts swirling, the magician clutched the bone artefact to his chest and ran into a shadowy corner of the antechamber.
‘Now we make our stand.’ Will swung open the door into the Great Hall. ‘But take care where you point your rapiers,’ he added, casting an eye towards Launceston. ‘We shall not be thanked for skewering good, upstanding members of the court.’
‘How do we tell who is friend and who is foe, then?’ Carpenter snapped.
‘We have no friends, John. Only those who will harm us, and those who merely despise us. Let them make the first move and then act accordingly.’
Immaterial but oppressive, Mephistophilis settled on Will’s back, hooking his invisible talons into flesh. The spy sensed the devil’s disappointment at the repeated failures to oversee a horrible death. Perhaps this was the time, finally.
Will pushed his way into the throng in the Great Hall with the others close behind. Those he presumed to be Scar-Crow Men were approaching the Queen slowly, so as not to draw attention to themselves.
Mournful pipe music floated through the trees under the fake moon. The players had frozen into a tableau, the peasant disarmed, the unmasked beast-man looming over the maiden. The audience applauded.
Darting around the edge of the hall, the spies reached the Queen before the Scar-Crow Men. With a serpent- like hiss, Elinor dipped a hand into the folds of her skirts.
Red Meg, who was nearest to the maid of honour, struck like a viper, grabbing the woman’s hair and yanking back her head so that her own dagger could flash across the exposed throat. The female spy contemptuously dumped the dying Scar-Crow behind the throne, its skin growing mottled and black with the marks of the plague.
For one long, ringing moment, horrified silence fell across the court. When the furious cries erupted, Will and the other spies had already surrounded the stupefied monarch, their rapiers drawn and ready to repel any attackers.
‘Treason!’
‘Murder!’
‘A plot!’
‘They seek to kill the Queen!’
The voices were drowned by the ringing of cold steel. All around the circle of spies, the men of the court raised their swords to protect their monarch. Will surveyed the array of freakish masks — dogs, pigs, harlequins, wolves, glittering ensembles of jewels and gold — and realized it was impossible to tell the Scar-Crow Men from their human counterparts.
‘Should they come as one we will be overwhelmed,’ Tobias whispered aside.
Will was impressed by the resolve he heard in his former rival’s voice. ‘The great and good of the court are
