The Irish woman gave only an enigmatic smile.
Before he could question the woman further, Nathaniel hurried up, clutching the sheaf of papers that was Marlowe’s play. ‘Will,’ he began breathlessly, ‘I have deciphered the final section of Kit’s hidden message. It is as obscure to me as that business with roses and fathoms, but you may make sense of it.’ The assistant handed his master an ink-spattered parchment.
Will read the final part of the playwright’s secret communication. The meaning was indeed curious, but one word leapt out at him:
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
The full moon turned the meadows of North Norfolk into silver pools and limned the oaks and elms lining the winding lane. Guiding his horse at a steady trot, Will searched the lonely countryside for any sign of danger. The hooves beat a steady rhythm on the hard-baked mud. Dusty and tired from the road, he could smell the tang of the nearby sea in the salt marshes and thought he could hear the dim crash of the waves. An owl hooted, low and mournful, in the dark slash of wood to his right. A russet fox loped across the nearest field, pausing briefly to look in the spy’s direction. There was no sign of human life.
It had been a slow journey north from Norwich along poor tracks and through areas roaming with footpads ready to rob the unwary traveller. Will had broken his trek at an inn where he had been warned repeatedly not to venture anywhere near Wykenham. Haunted, the locals said. The ground still wet with blood. The cries of the dying heard in the quiet of the night.
But Will had to know the meaning of the final cryptic comment hidden in his friend’s play.
Was Griffin Devereux, Bedlam’s most terrible resident, responsible for Kit Marlowe’s murder? Was that death linked to the scores who had been slaughtered in Wykenham, or to the devil that the poor, mad soul appeared to have conjured?
Nothing good could surely come of a journey to that haunted village, but he had to know the truth to put Kit to rest in his heart.
Will felt the spectre of his old friend creep back into his mind, as it had repeatedly since that evening at Nonsuch when the Unseelie Court had been forced into retreat. In the thin grey light of the following morn, the spy had stood over Marlowe’s grave in Deptford Green listening to the wind from the river singing in the branches of the churchyard yews. Memories had surfaced, of drunken nights and intense debates about God and politics, but mostly Will had thought about the mysteries that had been threaded through the playwright’s life. Though they had been the best of friends, there was so much that the spy had never seen in Kit. In truth, Will wondered, had he been a poor companion? Had he been obsessed by his own troubles and ignorant of the deep currents that had swept Marlowe into the arms of the School of Night?
And was that why the playwright had cursed Will with a devil that tormented his thoughts and drove him towards an early grave? The spy had thought it an aid, but as Mephistophilis gripped him tighter by the day, he began to wonder otherwise. It would not be long until an end came, he was sure, and his soul would be damned.
Even if that were the case, Will missed his old friend deeply, missed the kindnesses, missed the only man who had understood his life. He could never blame Kit.
As the spy followed the rutted lane around a bend, he saw the silhouette of a church steeple against the starry sky and the low outlines of what appeared to be houses. All was dark.
His horse trotted on.
The trees thinned out as he neared Wykenham, but on one great gnarled oak on the outskirts the spy noticed that a piece of timber had been roughly nailed. Dismounting, Will led his steed over and struck a flint to a handful of dry grass and twigs. The flames fanned up, the orange glow illuminating his brooding face as he leaned towards the timber and read what had been marked there in pitch.
As the spy climbed back on his horse and rode the last length of lane into the village, his skin began to prickle. He felt unseen eyes upon him and an unsettling atmosphere, like the tension before a storm. On the soft night breeze, what sounded to Will like whispers were caught and distorted, but it might have been just the wind in the eaves. A door banged. The shriek of the hunting owl floated across the still street from the yews in the churchyard.
Where to begin the search for clues? The spy tied up his horse and strode into the middle of the street, turning slowly. Long, yellowing grass grew against the timber and daub walls. Panes were shattered and doors hung ragged.
Investigating the nearest home, Will smelled damp and mildew. Pieces of furniture remained in place, stools, benches, a trestle spattered with bird and rat droppings, and flasks and knives stood ready for a meal never to be completed.
Only ghosts lived in Wykenham.
Moving from silent house to silent house, he neared the church where rumour said the greatest atrocity had been committed. The wind moaned through the yews as if to welcome him.
Standing at the lychgate, Will was caught by a movement on the edge of his vision back along the moonlit street. Whirling round, he searched the shadows. All was still. Yet he was sure he had seen someone dash across the way, keeping low.
A door banged, and again, and again, the rhythm matching the beat of the spy’s heart.
At the far end of the village, near where he had left his horse, a shadow bobbed from an open door and was gone in the blink of an eye. Another appeared at the edge of a house on the opposite side of the street. Now he was seeing movement everywhere, as if the dead of Wykenham were gradually waking.
Drawing his rapier, the spy counted at least seven figures slipping in and out of the shadows along the street, all of them converging upon him.
Will’s blood thundered in his head as the shapes crept nearer. He was ready for a fight. Looking around for a place to make a stand, he sensed someone behind him. Turning, he was confronted by another shadow stepping free from the gloom beneath the lychgate.
The last thing the spy heard was a low voice saying, ‘You have found hell.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Will came round on his knees in the darkened nave of the church, amid the faint scent of old incense and with the moonlight breaking through the stained-glass windows. His wrists ached from where he had unconsciously chafed them against the ropes binding him to a roughly constructed timber cross-frame. His head throbbed, more with anger that he had allowed himself to be taken like a novice than from whatever potion had been used to still his senses. And that failure would undoubtedly cost him his life, for Marlowe’s killer — or killers — would never allow him to walk free. He yanked hard at the bonds and rattled the frame furiously, but they held tight.
When the spy looked down, he saw a circle had been inscribed around him with some kind of pigment the colour of blood. Magical symbols were scrawled on the outside and four stubby, unlit candles had been placed at what he presumed were the cardinal points.
Peering into the dark, he thought he glimpsed movement. ‘Reveal yourself,’ he shouted, his voice laced with cold rage.
Footsteps echoed off the flagstones. A figure emerged into a moonbeam, the familiar face dappled by the reds, greens and blues of the stained glass. Dressed in a black half-compass cloak over a fine black doublet embroidered with silver crosses, Thomas Walsingham, second cousin to the old spymaster, Sir Francis, bowed. When he rose, he tugged at the tip of his beard and gave a lopsided grin. Will had not seen him since they had
