The Devil's Looking-Glass

About the Book

1593: the Queen’s alchemist and master of the dark arts Dr John Dee is missing . . .

. . . and in his possession is a mysterious obsidian mirror, an object of great power that, legend has it, could set the world afire.

The call goes out to celebrated swordsman, adventurer and rake Will Swyfte: find Dee and his feared looking-glass and return them safely to London before disaster strikes. But Will learns that the mirror may help him solve the mystery that has haunted him for years – the fate of his lost love, Jenny – and suddenly the stakes are intensely personal.

With a frozen London under siege by supernatural powers, time is running out. Will is left with no choice but to pursue Dee across the ocean, to the devil-haunted lands of the New World and the terrifying fortress home of mankind’s ancient enemy, the Unseelie Court.

Facing an army of these unearthly fiends, with only his sword and a few brave friends at his back, England’s greatest spy must be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice – or see all he loves destroyed . . .

For Elizabeth, Betsy, Joe and Eve

Go, Soul, the body’s guest,

Upon a thankless errand;

Fear not to touch the best;

The truth shall be thy warrant:

Go, since I needs must die,

And give the world the lie.

Sir Walter Raleigh, The Lie

PROLOGUE

THE MERCILESS SUN boiled in a silver sky. Waves of heat shimmered across the seething main deck of the becalmed galleon where the seven sailors knelt, heads bowed. As blood dripped from their noses on to their sweat-sodden undershirts, they muttered prayers in Spanish, their strained voices struggling to rise above the creaking of the hull timbers flexing against the green swell. Harsh light glinted off the long, curved blades pressed against each of their necks.

At the sailors’ backs, the grey men waited in silence. Ghosts, they seemed at times, not there but there, their bone-white faces wreathed in shadow despite the unremitting glare. Oblivious of the sweltering heat, they wore grey leather bucklers, thick woollen breeches and boots, all silver-mildewed and reeking of rot. As still as statues, they were, drawing out the agony of the whimpering men before the swords would sweep down.

Captain Juan Martinez de Serrano knelt on the forecastle, watching the row of seamen from under heavy brows. Even now he could not bring himself to look into the terrible faces of the ones who had boarded his vessel. Aft, the grey sails of the other galleon billowed and the rigging cracked, although there was no wind and had not been for three days. Serrano lowered his head in desolation. How foolish they had been. Though they knew the devils of the Unseelie Court were like wolves, the lure of gold was too great. The captain cast his mind back to that night ten days gone when his men had staggered out of the forest with their stolen hoard. Barely could they believe they had escaped with their lives, and their laughter had rung out across the waves as they filled the hold and dreamed of the glory that would be lavished upon them by King Philip in Madrid. They had set sail with a fair wind and all had seemed well, until the grey sails appeared on the horizon, drawing closer by the hour.

The steel bit into his neck and he winced. They should have known better. Now, save for the last eight of them, blood soaked into the boards of the quarterdeck where they lay, each one slaughtered within moments, though they were among the fiercest fighters upon the Spanish Main.

A rhythmic rattling stirred him. Raising his eyes once more, he watched a strange figure approach. The sound came from trinkets and the skulls of mice and birds braided into long gold and silver-streaked hair. Hollow cheeks and dark rings under his eyes transformed his features into a death’s-head. He wore grey-green robes covered with unrecognizable symbols outlined in a tracing of gold that glistered in the midday sun, like one of the gypsy conjurers who performed at the fair in Seville. Sweeping out his right arm, he addressed Serrano in a voice like cracking ice. ‘You are honoured. Our King.’

Serrano swallowed. He sensed the new arrival before he saw him, in a weight building behind his eyes and a queasy churn in his stomach. He closed his eyes. How long would this torment continue? A steady tread crossed the main deck and came to a halt in front of him. Silence followed.

When he had mouthed a prayer, the captain squinted. A pair of grey boots fell into view, and the fur-lined edge of a shimmering white cloak. He heaved his shaking head up, following that pristine cloth until he reached the head of the one who looked down on him. But the brutal sun hung behind the figure and the features were lost. Serrano was glad of that.

‘I am Mandraxas, of the High Family, and until my sister is brought back to the land of peace, I hold the Golden Throne.’ The voice sang like the wind in the high branches. Serrano could not believe it was the voice of a cruel man, until he remembered that this was not a man at all, but a creature with no understanding of compassion or gentleness or the kindnesses that tied mortals together. ‘Who are you?’

The captain muttered his response, his mouth so dry he could barely form words.

‘Your name means nothing,’ the King replied. ‘Who are you, who dares to trespass on our land and steal our gold? Who thinks you are our equal?’ When Serrano failed to reply, Mandraxas continued, ‘You were damned the moment you insulted us with your arrogance. Let Deortha show you what you truly are to us.’ He waved a languid hand towards the main deck where the robed intruder waited. The robed one nodded, the skulls clacking in his hair, and the nearest swordsman whipped his blade into the air and plunged it into the sailor who knelt in front of him.

Serrano cried out as the seaman pitched forward across the sandy boards. Deortha knelt beside the unmoving form, his lips and hands moving in harmony, and a moment later the slain sailor twitched, jerked and with a long shudder clawed his way upright. He swayed as if the ship rolled in a stormy sea, his dead eyes staring.

‘Por Dios,’ Serrano exclaimed, sickened.

‘Meat and bones,’ Mandraxas said. ‘No wits remain, and so these juddering things are of little use to us apart from performing the most mundane tasks.’ He waved a fluttering hand towards Deortha. ‘Over the side with it,’ he called. ‘Let it spend eternity beneath the waves.’

The captain screwed up his eyes at the splash, silently cursing the terrible judgement that had doomed them all. ‘Let this be done with,’ he growled in his own language.

Mandraxas appeared to understand. ‘There will be no ending for any of you here,’ he said in a voice laced with cold humour. ‘You, all of you, will join your companion with the fishes, never sleeping, never dreaming, seeing only endless blue but never understanding.’ His words rang out so that all the sailors heard him. ‘But, for the rest of your kind, their ending is almost upon them. Listen. Can you hear the beat of us marching to war? Listen.’

A sword plunged down; a body crashed upon the deck. And another, and another, the steady rhythm moving inexorably towards Serrano. He sobbed. It was too late for him, too late for all mankind if the cold fury of these fiends was finally unleashed.

‘In England now, the final act unfolds,’ Mandraxas said above the beat of falling bodies. ‘And so your world winds down to dust.’

Serrano looked up as the shadow fell across him.

CHAPTER ONE

BEDLAM RULED IN the eight bells inn. Tranquillity was for landmen who sat by warm firesides in winter and took to their beds early, not for those who braved seas as high and as hard as the Tower’s stone walls. Here was life like the ocean, fierce and loud and dangerous. Delirious with drink, two wild-bearded sailors lurched across the rushes, thrashing mad music from fiddle and pipe. With shrieks of laughter, the pockmarked girls from the rooms upstairs whirled around in each other’s arms, their breasts bared above their threadbare dresses. The rolling sea-shanty crashed against the barks of the drunken men clustered in the shadowy room. In hazy candlelight, they hunched over wine-stained tables or squatted against whitewashed walls, swearing and fighting and gambling at cards. Ale sloshed from wooden cups on to the boards, and the air reeked of tallow and candle-smoke, sweat and sour beer. The raucous voices sounded lustful, but underneath the discourse odd, melancholic notes seemed to suggest men clinging on to life before they returned to the harsh seas.

When the door rattled open to admit a blast of salty night air, the din never stilled and no eyes turned towards the stranger. He was wrapped in a grey woollen cloak, his features partially hidden beneath the wide brim of a felt hat. Behind him, across the gleaming cobbles of the Liverpool quayside, a carrack strained at its moorings, ready for sail at dawn. The creak of rigging merged with the lapping of the tide.

The new arrival closed the door behind him and demanded a mug of ale from the innkeeper’s trestle. A seat in one of the shadowy corners called to him, away from the candlelight, where he could watch and listen unnoticed. If they had not been addled by drink, some of the seamen might have recognized the strong face from the pamphlets, the close-clipped beard and black hair curling to the nape of the neck, the dark eyes the colour of rapier steel.

Will Swyfte was a spy, England’s greatest spy, so those pamphlets called him, the bane of the Spanish dogs. Only the highest in the land knew his reputation was carefully constructed for a country in need of heroes to keep the sleep of goodly men and women free from nightmares of Spanish invaders and Catholic plotters, and other, darker things too. Swyfte cared little. He did his dark work for Queen and country without complaint, but kept his own machinations close.

He sipped his drink and waited. As the reel of the shanty ebbed and flowed, he caught snatches of slurred conversation. Tall tales of haunted galleons and the clutching hands of dead sailors. Of cities of gold hidden in the lush forests of the New World. Of a misty island that came and went as if it were alive. Of golden lights glimmering far out across the waves and far down in the black deeps. Through the eyes of the sailors, the world was a far stranger place than their land-locked fellows believed; and Will Swyfte knew the sea-dogs were correct. They had sailed to the dark shores of life, where the truth lived, and had paid a price for their wisdom. The spy noted the leather patches over missing eyes, the lost legs and hands, the scars that drew maps of the world across their skin. He felt a kinship. Like him, they were cut off from the peace and order that most experienced, although his own wounds were not so easily seen.

He thought back more than a week to Nonsuch Palace, a day’s ride to the south-west from London’s fetid streets. While the Queen recovered her strength in her bed, under the observance of the Royal Physician, turmoil reigned throughout the grand building. Servants scoured the chambers and searched the grounds. The Privy Council had been cloistered in the meeting room for more than an hour when the knock had come at Will’s chamber door.

His assistant, Nathaniel Colt, had been waiting on the threshold, flushed from running through corridors warmed by the late autumn sun. His dark green doublet was stained with sweat under the armpits and his brown hair lay slick against his head. ‘Sir Robert sent word from the Privy Council meeting to summon you to his chambers,’ he gasped. ‘There was fear in his eyes, and his voice wavered. Is this it, then, Will? Invasion? Our enemies are marching towards us?’

The spy hid his true thoughts with a grin. ‘Nat, you worry like an old maid. Do you see me rushing to arms?’ Enemies, yes, but not the ones Nat feared. Not the Spanish, nor their Popish agitators. No, he meant the true Enemy – those who lived by night, and treated men as men did cattle.

‘I do not see you rushing to a flask of sack, and that worries me more.’

Will rested a reassuring hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘England lurches from crisis to crisis, as always, but we stand firm and we abide. This will pass.’

His words seemed to reassure Nat a little. Will left him resting by the open window and made his way through the noisy palace. Lucky Nat, who slept well at night. He saw only glimpses of the greater war. Will sheltered him from the worst horrors for the sake of his wits, and would continue to do so while there was breath left in him.

The spymaster’s door was hanging open when Will arrived. Fresh from the Privy Council meeting, Sir Robert Cecil was firing orders at a clutch of scribes and assistants as he marched around the chamber. The Queen called him her Little Elf because of his small stature and his hunched back, but his sharp wits and cunning were more than a match for any other man at court. He had a feel for the games of high office, and his ruthlessness made him both feared and powerful.

When the black-gowned secretary saw Will, he dismissed the bustling aides and closed the door. ‘Gather your men,’ he snapped, feigning calm with a lazy wave of his hand. ‘You ride north today in search of Dr Dee.’

‘You know his whereabouts?’

‘A carriage was seen travelling along the Great North Road. I received word back this morning that it has taken a turn towards Liverpool.’

‘You are sure?’

‘Yes.’ Unable to contain the apprehension he felt, the spymaster turned away to calm himself. ‘Dr Dee was seen in the company of that Irish whore, Red Meg O’Shee. They must be stopped before she spirits him away to her homeland. If they reach that land of bogs and mists, we will never see Dee again. And then . . .’

England will fall, Will completed the unspoken thought. Dee was the architect of the country’s defences. He worked his magics to keep at bay the supernatural forces that had tormented England for as long as men had walked the green fields, and the Irish chieftains had long envied that protection; they had suffered long and hard under the torments of the Fair Folk. But whatever wall Dee had constructed around England with his ancient words of power and candles and circles had been crumbling. Dee was the only man who could repair those defences. Without him, the night would sweep in.

‘The threat is greater than you know.’ Cecil bowed his head for a moment, choosing his words carefully. ‘The mad alchemist has in his possession an object of great power. For years he denied all knowledge of it. But shortly before he was spirited away, he confided in me that he had used it to commune with angels.’

‘Angels?’ Will laughed. ‘I have heard those tales, but Dee is most definitely not on their side.’

‘This is a grave matter,’ the spymaster snapped, a twitching hand leaping to his flushed brow. ‘Should this object fall into the hands of our enemies, there will be no laughter.’

Will poured himself a cup of romney from a jug on a trestle table littered with charts and documents. ‘Then tell me the nature of this threat.’

‘It is a looking glass.’

The spy peered over the rim of his cup, saying nothing.

‘No ordinary glass, this. An obsidian mirror, supposedly shaped by sorcerers of an age-old race who once inhabited the impenetrable forests of the New World.’

Will furrowed his brow. He remembered Dee showing him this mundane-looking object at his chamber in Christ’s College in Manchester, where he had, no doubt, been tormenting the poor brothers. ‘Brought back to Europe in a Spanish hoard?’

Cecil’s eyes narrowed. ‘Legend says it could set the world afire, if one only knew how to unlock its secrets.’

The spy drained his cup. ‘Very well. I will take John Carpenter, the Earl of Launceston and our new recruit, young Tobias Strangewayes. We will ride hard, but Red Meg has a good start on us.’

The spymaster narrowed his eyes. ‘You allowed Mistress O’Shee into your circle. You trusted her, though you knew she was a spy—’

‘I would not use that word. Tolerated, perhaps. I understood her nature, sir, and I am no fool.’

‘Is that correct? I heard that you were more than associates. I need assurances that this woman has not bewitched your heart or your prick. If that were so, I would despatch another to bring her back.’

‘There is no one better.’

‘You have never been shy in trumpeting your own achievements, Master Swyfte,’ Sir Robert said with pursed lips. ‘Nevertheless, I would rather send a lesser man I can trust to succeed in this most important . . . nay, utterly vital . . . work than one who will be led by lust to a disaster that will damn us all to Hell.’

‘I am no fool,’ Will repeated, setting aside his own uncertainty regarding his feelings for the Irish spy. ‘There is too much at stake here for such distractions.’

‘I am pleased to hear you say it.’ The spymaster ran the gold-ringed fingers of his right hand across his furrowed brow. ‘If Dee leaves our protected shores, he will be prey for the Unseelie Court, and the repercussions of that are something I dare not countenance.’

Will left the cold chamber with fire in his heart. Within the hour, he and his men were riding north as hard as their steeds could bear. Red Meg would expect him to be on her trail – she was as sly a vixen as he had ever known – and she would not make it easy to recover Dee. He had seen her kill without conscience. Even the affection she felt for him would not stand in the way of her carrying such a great prize back to her homeland.

Braying laughter jolted Will back to the Eight Bells. The musicians had put away their instruments and were swigging malmsey wine in great gulps. The girls flopped into laps or draped themselves over shoulders in search of the night’s earnings. Arguments sparked. Punches were thrown.

Dee’s knowledge was dangerous and he needed to be returned to London at all costs, that was certain. But the alchemist revelled in misdirection and illusion, the spy knew. Was this mirror truly the threat Cecil feared? Or in this time of uncertainty had the spymaster simply given in to superstition and fear? Will shrugged. The world was filled with worries, and the truth would present itself sooner or later.

Once he had drained his ale, he selected his subject, a balding seaman with wind-chapped cheeks and a scrub of white hairs across his chin. Nursing a mug, the man leaned against the wall next to the stone hearth, eyeing the flames with the wistful look of someone who knew it was a sight he’d not see again for long weeks. He looked drunk enough for his guard to be low, but not so inebriated that he could not provide useful information. Keeping the brim of his hat down, the spy demanded another drink and walked over.

Will rested one Spanish leather boot on the hearth and watched the fire for a moment before he said, ‘I have never met a man of the sea who was not interested in adding to his purse. Are you that rare creature?’

‘Depends what you need doing,’ the man slurred.

‘All I require are words.’

The sailor’s gaze flickered over Will. He seemed untroubled by what he saw. ‘Ask your questions.’

‘I seek news of two new arrivals in Liverpool who may be requiring passage to Ireland. A woman with hair as fiery as her nature and a tongue that cuts sharper than any dagger. And a man . . .’ The spy paused. How to describe Dr Dee in a way that would do the magician justice? ‘White hair, blazing eyes, a fierce temper, and a slippery grip on the world we all enjoy. He may have been wearing a coat of animal pelts.’

‘I have heard tell of them, an Abraham man, mad as a starved dog, accompanied by his daughter,’ the sailor grunted. ‘The woman cut off the ear of Black Jack Larch, so I was told. His only crime was to lay a hand upon her arm and ask for a piece of the comfort she promised.’

‘That would be Red Meg.’

The seaman smacked his lips, watching Will’s hand. The spy unfolded his fingers to reveal a palmful of pennies. Snatching the coins the man continued, ‘They bought passage to Ireland on the Eagle, sailing at dawn. Wait at the quayside and you will see them.’

‘I would prefer to surprise them before sunrise. Where do they stay?’

‘The woman took Black Jack’s shell outside Moll Higgins’s rooming house. You could do worse than to seek them there.’

‘You have earned yourself another drink. Go lightly on the waves.’ Will gave a faint bow of the head and turned towards the door. He found his way blocked by three men, hands hanging close to their weapons.

‘What ’ave we ’ere, then? A customs man come to spy on us?’ the middle one growled. His left eye was milky, a jagged scar running from the corner to his jaw. He wore an emerald cap and his voice had the bark of authority; a first mate, perhaps, Will thought.

‘Why, you are good honest seamen. I could find no rogues or smugglers here,’ Will replied, his tone as laconic as his gaze was sharp. ‘Step aside. My business here is done and I will disturb your drinking no more.’ He knew any sign of weakness would only encourage the drunken men further.

The sailor’s one good eye flickered from left to right, and in an instant strong hands gripped Will’s arms. Someone tore off his hat. The sailor whisked a dagger from the folds of his dirty linen shirt and pressed the tip under the spy’s chin, forcing his head up. A blast of ale-sour breath washed over Will as the man searched his features. Silence fell across the rest of the inn. The other drinkers crowded round.

One of the women leaned in, her eyes narrowing. ‘I know ’im,’ she said in a broad accent. ‘That’s Will Swyfte, that is. England’s greatest spy.’ A lascivious smile sprang to her lips. ‘I would see the length of your sword, chuck.’

‘Later, in the privacy of your chamber, perhaps. Let us not point up how dull are the blades of these fine men.’ He held her gaze and her smile broadened.

‘The great Will Swyfte,’ the one-eyed man mocked. ‘The dewy-eyed women and the witless fieldworkers might be easily dazzled by your exploits, but here you are just another sharp nose poking into our business.’

‘Your business concerns me less than the contents of your privy. I am troubled by greater matters: the security of this realm.’

‘Stick ’im now. We’ll dump him in the drink and no one’ll be the wiser,’ another sailor said. ‘Let ’im walk out and we’ll be swarming with tax collectors like rats on the bilge deck.’

Will’s dark eyes flickered over the leering, grizzled faces pressing all round him. He had been here before, too many times, and whether he was looking into the eyes of Spanish pikemen or Kentish cut-throats, he knew the signs; there was no point in further talk.

Wrenching his shoulders back, he unbalanced the two men gripping his arms. With one sharp thrust, he planted a boot in the gut of the sailor wielding the knife. The milky-eyed seaman doubled over with a forced exhalation. Will saw that the drunken sailors were taken by surprise by the suddenness of his movement, and smiled. Sober, they would be a formidable army of cutthroats. Soaked in ale, they wheeled around like small children.

Tearing his arms free, the spy lashed one foot under a three-legged stool and heaved it into the face of his former captor. Bone shattered, blood sprayed. A roar rang up to the rafters. Squealing whores ran for the rickety stairs at the back of the inn. The seamen drew daggers and hooks, each weapon glinting in the candlelight. The men surged forward.

Will felt the familiar heart-rush. He drew his rapier, enjoying the familiar feel and weight in his hand. With one bound, he leapt from a bench to the innkeeper’s cluttered trestle. Cups flew. Coin jangled on to the boards.

‘Who will be the first to feel the bite of my blade?’ he called, kicking the barrel. The wooden tap burst free, the honey-coloured ale gushing out. The keg spun off the table and into the path of the onrushing seamen.

The spy felt no desire to kill any of these rogues; he wished to save his steel for more deserving blood. But they swarmed around him like angry bees, eager to sting him to death. It was as he searched for a route past them that the flagstones began to vibrate as though the trestle were being dragged over cobbles. The sailors came to a sudden halt, eyeing each other with unease. Across the inn, the candle flames sputtered and shuddered as one. Shadows swooped. Breath clouded as a winter chill descended. The sailors murmured, casting anxious glances all around. One by one they put away their weapons.

Through the small, square windowpanes, distorted lantern-light danced in an unnatural manner from the carrack. A moment later, the door crashed open. The master of the quay lurched into the space, his hat askew, his face drained of blood. ‘Take up your weapons and any light you can find,’ he croaked. ‘The devil has come with the fog.’

CHAPTER TWO

THE THICK FOG muffled even the creaking of the sign above the entrance to the inn. Nothing of the quayside was visible, nor any of the lights of Liverpool beyond. Never had Will known such a dense mist to sweep in so quickly. In the time it had taken him to push his way past the quay master and find a hiding place outside, the grey folds had billowed in from the west, consuming all in their path.

He crouched behind the dank-smelling rain butt at the edge of the stone frontage, watching the sailors flood out of the inn and clatter across the cobbles with pitch-soaked brands to light their way. The fog swallowed them in an instant. Distorted calls and responses floated back, before they too were lost. They were simple men, easily frightened by things beyond their understanding. But Will suspected that whatever it was that accompanied the unnatural mist would dwarf their present fears.

Moisture dripped from the inn sign. An angry cry rang out from near the water’s edge. A dull querying rejoinder from somewhere further afield, the splintering of breaking wood: odd sounds, incomprehensible in their muted isolation. Will waited, his fingers clenched round the hilt of his rapier.

He sensed the strangers long before he saw them. His head throbbed, his stomach churned. Blood bubbled around his left nostril. Familiar signs, all of them. They were coming, those foul things that had thrown his entire life off its course. Cold anger burned in his chest as his thoughts took him back from that misty autumn night to the hot summer day in Warwickshire that he could never escape. Jenny was there, then, as she was always in his heart, waving to him across the cornfield, her dress the pure blue of forget-me-nots, brown hair tied back with a matching ribbon. One moment, frozen for ever, along with all the promises of shared summers yet to come. In the blink of an eye, she had vanished. No trace remained behind, no path through the corn to show where she had gone, no footprints. No body. Gone as if she had been whisked up to Heaven by a choir of angels.

Will peered round the water butt at the figures emerging from the folds of grey. No, it was these devils who had stolen Jenny away, he knew now. For what reason, he had no idea, and the mystery of it still sickened him. But never would he give up hope that she was still alive, whatever his friends said. Over the years he had learned enough to convince himself that she did still live, that she was a prisoner somewhere – perhaps across the sea, in the New World where men said the Unseelie Court made their home. Everything he did, every battle he fought, every sacrifice he made, was to find some way to bring Jenny home. She was all that mattered. Not his life and not, though he would never give voice to it in public, his Queen or country.

Four figures swooped forward with near-silent tread, at first almost as insubstantial as the fog that enshrouded them. But when a sailor sprawled across the glistening cobbles, they appeared to coalesce, and take on flesh and bone. Dread crept across the still quayside. Despite himself, Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Here they were, the sum of all human fears since the days of the Flood: the grey men, the Fair Folk, the Fay; their names seemed endless, a way for mortals to skirt around the essential horror that lay at their heart. Three were swathed in grey cloaks and hoods, cold faces as pale as the first snows of winter and eyes black as coals. The fourth was the leader, Will was certain. He sported a beard and moustache waxed into points, and his black hair was long and sleek. His eyes were lost to shadow, but hard lines edged his mouth and when he smiled he revealed sharp teeth.

‘My name is Lansing,’ he murmured, looming over the fallen figure. ‘Others are the wits of the High Family, or the cunning. I am the blade.’ And he whispered into the terrified man’s ear, whispered words that were poisonous and corrupt, words that piled horror upon horror – words that would drive a man mad. Will clenched his fingers round his sword-hilt tighter still, so that his knuckles grew white. He wished he could drive his blade into Fay flesh to ease his anger, though he knew he could never defeat four of them.

When the sailor curled on the cobbles whimpered, the spy recognized the balding man he’d talked to at the Eight Bells. At the same time, he heard the Fay lord say, ‘Tell me now, while you can, where I will find this man, the sorcerer John Dee. Once we have him, there will be an end to this long strife and you will know peace. All of you.’

Will cursed under his breath. The words were comforting, their true meaning deeply disturbing. If the Unseelie Court hunted the alchemist so brazenly, then the matter was more grave than he had been led to believe. He could not afford to allow the hidden Enemy to reach Dee ahead of him, for then he would have seen the last of Elizabeth’s conjurer, and most likely the last of England.

As Lansing continued to question his prisoner, Will lifted down the iron lantern beside the inn door, and wrapped his cloak around it to shield the moving light. He crept along the wall to the cover of the mounds of bales and spice-scented boxes that had been unloaded before sunset.

Running feet echoed close by. Orange light flared across the wall above his head, and he dropped to his haunches just in time. He could smell the acrid pitch-smoke and hear the sputtering of the brand. Three drunken sailors argued about what devils were loose in Liverpool. They would find out soon enough, Will thought.

Sneaking to where he could hear water lapping in the shadow of the great vessels at anchor, he used his nose to find the reeking barrel of pitch the shipwrights used to seal the hulls. He heaved the heavy butt on to its side and flung the lantern into the slopping contents. As the pitch ignited and the flames roared out, he rolled the barrel hard. The blazing keg hurtled across the quayside to where the Fay were cloaked by the fog.

Cries of alarm rang out along the water’s edge. Blazing brands flickered in the dense bank of grey cloud like fireflies on the wing, circling back to where the burning barrel painted the fog orange. The Unseelie Court worked their cruelties best in the shadows. No doubt they would melt away long before the fear-filled sailors discovered them. But had he done enough to disrupt their interrogation before they discovered Dee’s whereabouts?

As the tumult swept towards the crackling fire, Will raced into the rat’s nest of narrow streets leading away from the dock. The ghost of the Unseelie Court still lingered, a cold breath on the neck in a midnight churchyard. The town was dark, but his mood was darker still.

CHAPTER THREE

LIVERPOOL TUMBLED AWAY down the hillside towards the River Merse where the thick fog bank held its breath, waiting. Yet above the town the night was clear, the Everton Beacon stark against the starry sky. Moonlight limned the blue-tiled rooftops. Candle flames glowed in diamond-pane windows. Here was life, grubby and bloody and loud. Down on James Street, not far from the black bulk of the Old Castle, packs of sailors roamed like dogs from stew to tavern, lured by the fresh meat calls of the competing whores displaying their breasts in the lamplit doorways. Snarls and snapping punctuated the drunken laughter. Bruised knuckles crashed against jaws as rivals brawled, rolling among the contents of emptied chamberpots to the baying of their yellow-toothed fellows.

Liverpool stank of brine and cesspits and smoke.

One desperate doxy keen to earn her bed for the night ventured into the shadowed alley where she had glimpsed three men lurking. From the gloom, John Carpenter watched her approach. Pulling down the front of her dirty emerald dress, the rouge-smeared woman put on a seductive smile. ‘Come hither, lads,’ she called, hands on hips. ‘The comfort of these thighs will give you sweet dreams when you’re tossing away on the waves.’

When she saw one of the men step from the enveloping dark, she breathed a relieved sigh. Carpenter knew her thoughts: a few moments of grunting was a small price to pay for a good night’s rest. And the well-cut grey doublet and grey woollen cloak, free of stains and wear, suggested a gentleman, no less. Then a shaft of light from the lantern over the door of the White Hart struck his companion’s face and she all but cried out. His skin was bloodless, and his dark eyes held a hellish glow.

‘Away, you pox-ridden whore,’ Robert, Earl of Launceston, ordered in a voice like autumn leaves. ‘Trouble us no more or feel the prick of my dagger – and not the kind you are used to.’

Realizing it was a man after all and no grim spectre, the doxy cursed at the shock she had been given. She turned to summon the sailors to teach this elf-skinned scut a lesson. Before she could cry out, Carpenter leapt from the shadows and placed one hand on her mouth to stop her. His hazelnut doublet was of a rougher cut than his fellow’s, but still clean, and though his long, dark hair fell oddly across the left side of his face, he eased a charming smile on to his lips to soothe her. He pressed a silver coin into her grimy palm and released his hand from her mouth.

‘My friend has poor manners, mistress. He knows not what it is like to work hard for a living,’ he said, with a bow. ‘Take this and buy yourself a night off your back.’

The woman giggled and curtsied, flashing one fleeting murderous glare at the Earl as she darted towards the inn to spend her earnings on drink. Once she had gone, Carpenter turned on the noble and hissed, ‘Sometimes I think you are more of a threat than our enemies.’

‘I am heartened to learn that you think. ’Twas my assumption that you had the wits of a hound, running round in circles yapping and baring your teeth before hunting for food and sleep.’ The Earl peered past his fellow spy with studied disinterest, searching the passing faces for the missing Dee. He was a gaunt man, slim but powerful, yet even those who did not know him recognized that there was something askew, something strange about the way his cold gaze penetrated as though he were peering through skin and muscle to see the sticky organs within, or the manner in which his hand twitched towards his hidden dagger with unsettling regularity.

‘I should give thanks that you did not slit her throat there and then,’ Carpenter sneered. He pulled his black cap low over his eyes. ‘One full day without you trying to skewer an innocent. Let us celebrate!’ He felt weary from the effort of restraining his companion’s murderous instincts and exhausted by the lonely, unceasing work of the spy. He wanted to be free of that world; even the mundane life of a book-keeper held its attractions, or that of a tailor. Anything. Unconsciously, he scratched the scars that marred his face beneath the fall of his hair, the mark of the thing that had attacked him in Muscovy and a constant reminder of the price this business exacted from him.

‘You bicker like old women,’ the third man in the alley whispered. Tobias Strangewayes was new to their band, as raw as a country apprentice. Red-headed and wiry, the younger man had fancied himself as good a spy and swordsman as Will Swyfte. But when he discovered the true nature of the threat they faced, his arrogance was blunted. Strangewayes still thought highly of himself; he proudly showed off the blue silk lining of his cloak, like some fop parading in Paul’s Walk, but Carpenter knew he could be relied upon in a fight.

‘And you keep a civil tongue in your head or else I will cut it out,’ Launceston breathed. Strangewayes scowled in response.

The strain was taking its toll on all of them, Carpenter could see, those wearying hours in the saddle riding north from Nonsuch Palace, and then the futile search for Dee through Liverpool’s dingy streets. They were starting to tear at each other like caged curs. Blades needed to be drawn and traitors carved, blood stirred and thoughts that fed upon themselves driven out.

‘We are all defined by our nature,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Since dawn we have watched these streets without any reward,’ Strangewayes complained. ‘That Irish slut has taken to her rooms, wherever they might be, and she will stay there until she can board the ship with her prize and gain the protection of a crew of cock-led apple-johns.’

‘And then it will be too late,’ Carpenter snapped. ‘We will never see Dee again, and this land will be overrun by the things that walk with printless feet and cast no shadows on this earth. And then you, you red-headed puttock, will know what it is like to thrash in the throes of a nightmare from which you can never wake.’

‘I am a good Christian man, and I have the shield of God above to protect me,’ the younger spy announced, his chin raised in defiance of his seasoned companions.

Launceston and Carpenter exchanged a glance and each gave a dismissive shrug.

‘You have no faith in anything,’ Strangewayes continued, his cheeks growing red. ‘You drink to excess, you gamble, you dally with whores . . .’

‘The world is harsh and you must take comfort wherever you find it,’ Carpenter said, secretly wishing he had the other man’s spirit.

‘My heart is only for Grace. I need no other woman.’ The red-headed spy pushed past the two other men and strode to the edge of the reeking alley. ‘I believe there is more to this life than the filth and the misery we see around us. A higher purpose, hidden yet in plain sight, if we only had eyes to see it.’

‘You are a true spy,’ Launceston mocked in a dry tone, ‘always seeing a face behind the one presented to the world.’

‘The plan has not yet been revealed to us, but that does not mean it is not there. And, yes, we are spies and we should be used to peering beneath the surface for deeper truths. But you two have been worn down by the meagre diet of deceit and death. You turn your eyes away from the light and see only shadows.’

Carpenter could not disagree.

‘Hrrrm.’ The familiar breathy sound, like a death rattle, rolled along the alleyway; Launceston had seen something that had struck him as curious.

‘What is it?’ Carpenter asked.

The Earl was looking up at the thin sliver of night sky between the eaves where a few stars sparkled. ‘Someone passed overhead,’ he said.

‘On the rooftops?’

Launceston nodded.

Carpenter joined Strangewayes and the Earl at the edge of the alley and craned his neck up. The rooftops were a jumble of thatch and tile and plain wood, a silhouetted confusion of angular shapes against the lighter sky. Conditioned by years of strife, the spy feared the worst. The three men spun in a slow gyre, searching the eaves. ‘Nothing,’ Carpenter said after a moment. ‘You were mistaken.’

‘I am never mistaken.’ Launceston stepped out into the muddy street to get a better look. ‘There,’ he said, pointing.

Carpenter gazed along the line of his companion’s arm and glimpsed fleeting movement along the pitch of a tavern roof in the buttery glow of the moon.

‘There, too,’ Strangewayes asserted, waving a hand towards the roofs on the other side of the street.

Carpenter could see them clearly now. To the casual eye they could have been moon-shadows. What those flitting shapes truly were, he was in no doubt. ‘The Unseelie Court are abroad in force,’ he said. The cold of that long-gone Muscovy night reached deep into his bones once more.

‘Here?’ Strangewayes whispered. ‘Though England’s defences have weakened in recent times, they risk too much by being out in such a populous place.’

‘Like any man, they will risk anything if the stakes are high enough,’ Launceston murmured.

His words disappeared into a clamour exploding along the street at the three men’s backs. Men and women rushed towards a swelling crowd near the entrance to one of the rat-runs cutting through the jumble of houses.

‘What now?’ Carpenter growled, his skin prickling with suspicion. As he edged towards the churning crowd, he heard the curious queries from the front turn to fearful cries, then yells of alarm. Shadows crossed faces caught in the flickering pale light from the iron lanterns over the stew doors. Eyes widened. Lips drew back from stained teeth. At the front of the crowd, heads spun away from whatever had been discovered. The ripple of concern broke into a wave of horror, the men and women in the first ranks driving the others away from the black entrance to the alley. Crying to God, they sheltered in doorways where they watched with frightened eyes.

Carpenter and Launceston thrust the last stragglers aside and drew their rapiers. Strangewayes unhooked the rusty chain of a lantern from the wall beside the White Hart door and raised the wavering light aloft. The night swept away, but the black mouth of the rat-run remained impenetrable. The three men stood for a moment at its edge. Silence fell across the street.

Carpenter advanced with a measured step, his blade held for a quick thrust. Launceston was at his shoulder, and the younger spy loomed behind, the lantern swaying from side to side.

From the dark echoed a strangled sound that a man might make with a hand clamped across his mouth.

‘Step into the light,’ Carpenter called.

The snuffling grew more intense, but no man ventured out where he could be seen.

‘It tries to draw us in,’ Strangewayes whispered.

Carpenter wavered. A trap, perchance? Steeling himself, he stepped into the dark.

Rats scampered away from the tread of his leather shoes. He smelled urine and rotting food scraps. Deep in the dark, a pale shape shifted. The animal noises grew louder still, almost drowning out Strangewayes’ ragged breathing.

‘Raise the lantern,’ he ordered.

He flinched as the light danced over two forms pressed against the wattle wall. They were locked in an embrace, a seaman, his wiry hair flecked with grey, his breeches round his ankles, and a whore, her skirts pulled up, her pale legs wrapped around her partner’s waist. In the midst of their coitus, their lips were forced together in an open-mouthed kiss. Creeping horror turned Carpenter’s skin to gooseflesh. The man and the woman were fused together, their flesh melting into each other where he thrust into her, and where his hands gripped her white arms. And their mouths, Carpenter thought, realizing the source of the snuffling noise. Two heads, joined as one; their kiss would now never end. Wide eyes ranged in wild panic, pleading for help. Their combined grunts sounded more beast than mortal, but he heard their desperation clearly.

There was no helping them, he knew. The Unseelie Court left no hope in their wake, only suffering.

‘Put them out of their misery,’ Launceston breathed.

Carpenter raised his rapier, but could not bring himself to strike.

‘I have no qualms.’ The Earl pushed the other man aside. With two thrusts of his dagger, he completed his task, then stood over the fallen shape. ‘The beast with two backs,’ he breathed. ‘They like their sport, our Enemy.’

‘We will be wanted for murder now,’ Strangewayes protested.

Launceston looked at him through slit eyes. ‘You would have left them to their agonies? We are honourable men, despite all appearances.’

‘You saw the onlookers,’ Carpenter muttered. ‘The beadle will not be informed. They will burn the bodies and pretend this atrocity never happened, though it haunt their sleep for evermore. Now, come.’ Sheathing his rapier, he prowled out of the rat-run and along the street. He felt the eyes of the silent seamen and doxies upon his back, all of them at once despising him yet relieved too.

‘I see no movement now,’ Strangewayes said, looking around the rooftops.

Carpenter grimaced. ‘Our Enemy wished to divert prying eyes from their true intentions. We have already fallen behind.’

CHAPTER FOUR

A GLITTERING CONSTELLATION danced across the worm-holed ceiling beams. The silver-bearded old man squatted on a stool by the empty hearth, watching the shifting stars with a childlike wonder etched into his wrinkled face. It looked as if he were seeing through the upper storeys of the rooming house and out into the vast unknown. Dr John Dee, alchemist, inventor, sorcerer and astrologer to the court of Queen Elizabeth of England, wore a cloak stitched from the pelts of woodland animals, every head still attached so that he appeared to be swarming with wildlife. Beneath it, skulls of birds and mice hung from silver chains looped across the chest of his purple gown. Every time he shifted, their rattle broke the stillness of the room. His slender fingers cupped a circular mirror made of polished obsidian. As he turned it back and forth, the glass caught the flames of the candles and threw pinpricks of light across the damp plaster of the bedchamber.

From the small, square window overlooking the dark rooftops of Liverpool, Meg O’Shee studied her companion’s entranced expression. Soon the herb-inflicted stupor would begin to wear off. She would need to administer another dose of the potent concoction that had kept Dee supine since she had spirited him away from Nonsuch Palace more than a week ago. She felt uneasy about stealing a man’s wits for so long – she had seen others never regain them – but Dee with a clear head was too dangerous a prospect for her to consider.

The Irish spy was dressed in a bodice and skirt of black and gold, the more easily to disappear into the shadows of the filthy town’s dark alleys. She hated it there, but she had suffered worse places. As she combed her auburn hair, Meg dreamed of her home, a short journey across the turbulent waters. Too long had it been since she had walked in the fields of her youth, but prices aplenty had been demanded of her since she had set out to steal England’s greatest treasure. And once Dee had built his magical defences and Ireland was free of the predations of the Unseelie Court, there would be such a celebration! No more death and misery, no more crops blighted and cattle stricken for mere sport. No more children stolen from their cribs and replaced by mewling straw things. Peace, for the first time in generations.

And then all her sacrifices would be worthwhile. She repeated those words in her head, but still they did not catch fire. Her thoughts spun back to Will Swyfte, and the merry jig they had danced together while calamity unfolded on every side. Annoyed with herself, she tossed the comb aside. Why was she so loath to leave their wild courtship behind? Her life would be so much easier – and certainly much safer – if she put him out of her mind.

Lightning flashed on the horizon. The church bells clanged in the rising gale. First fog, now an approaching storm? Meg peered out of the window and murmured a prayer that the inclement weather would clear before the dawn’s sailing. The end of this lethal business could not come soon enough.

She noticed that the flickering lights around her had come to a halt, and she turned back to her prisoner. Dee now sat immobile, peering deep into the looking glass. His wondering expression had grown taut. Meg felt a flutter of apprehension. Moving to the corner of the room, she opened the sack in which she kept her herbs and balm, her mortar and pestle, her lock-picks and the knotted cord she had once used to throttle the life from a man twice her size. She could have the concoction ground into paste in a matter of moments, ready to apply to the inside of Dee’s cheek. One stray thought troubled her: what if Dee had been feigning his bewitchment and the effects of the potion had long since started to wear off? The alchemist was cunning, but could even he control the ebb and flow of the fading enchantment?

The sorcerer began to murmur as if speaking to his reflection, the unintelligible susurration rustling out into the corners of the chamber.

Meg tensed. Once, in a dirty tavern in some forgotten village in the Midlands, she had used her charms to encourage him to teach her simple magics, and he had shown her how to use a glass to commune with another, miles distant. She closed her fingers round the dagger hidden in the folds of her skirt. If the alchemist was using this mirror to call for help, she would take off a finger or an ear or a nose if she had to.

After a moment, Meg decided Dee was no threat. She delved into her sack and withdrew a bunch of wilting herbs and the mortar. When she looked up again, her breath caught in her throat. Dee had stood silently and was peering at the wall as if he could see through it. The looking glass lay upon the bed.

‘Stay calm, my love,’ she whispered in honeyed tones, ‘and I will stroke your brow and soothe away all your worries.’ Usually the alchemist fell under the spell of her voice and returned to his dazed state, but this time he dropped to his knees and brushed aside the rushes on the floor with a feverish intensity. Meg watched him at work, wondering what strange thoughts were running through his head. He seemed oblivious of her presence. In all the time she had administered her concoction, never had she seen this reaction before.

Dipping into a hidden pocket in his cloak of furs, Dee withdrew a piece of chalk and began to draw a circle on the boards. His feverish fingers flew across the familiar design, inscribing inexplicable symbols at points along the arc.

Meg stroked his long hair. ‘You are troubled, my love,’ she pressed, her tone a little more insistent than she had intended. ‘Put aside these things and return to the bed. Enjoy the pleasures of my thighs one final time before sleep.’

Dee ignored her, the first time he had refused her charms. She felt worried by the alchemist’s actions now. He seemed possessed, his eyes glinting with an inner fire.

Finally he stopped his inscribing, squatting in the centre of the chalk circle. Her hand felt for her dagger once more. If she had to, she could wound him enough to incapacitate him until she had him aboard the ship bound for her homeland.

Before she could move, Dee’s head jerked up and his eyes swivelled towards her. His lips unfurled from his yellowing teeth and he uttered one word, one sound that made no sense to her, but it made the heavens ring.

CHAPTER FIVE

THUNDER RUMBLED AWAY to the west. Will paused at the end of the urine-reeking alley and glanced along the deserted high street. If the Unseelie Court were abroad there near the centre of Liverpool, they were keeping away from candles and lamps. He darted through the deep shadow under the overhanging eaves until he saw the grim faces of Launceston, Carpenter and Strangewayes. They waited for him at the assigned spot, in the lee of the silent stone bulk of the town hall.

‘Good news, lads,’ he said, forcing a cheery tone. ‘Or not. Our Irish vixen has made her lair in one Moll Higgins’s rooming house. Now the moment we dreaded must be addressed. Can we bear the lash of Dr Dee’s sour tongue all the way back to London, or should we leave him to his fate? Make your case now, and be quick about it.’

‘We have friends in Liverpool,’ Launceston said in his familiar monotone. ‘The kind of friends who would turn our bones to straw and mount us on sticks to scare the crows till Judgement Day.’

Will nodded. ‘I encountered those pale fiends too. They also search for Dee. The risks here are doubled, men. We must fly like arrows if we are to prevent this from becoming a disaster.’ He looked round the solemn faces. Not one of them, not even the raw Tobias Strangewayes, gave a hint that a mere four spies was a poor force against the supernatural might of the Unseelie Court. Will felt proud of them. ‘Come, then, good lads. There will be wine and doxies aplenty once this work is done.’

The spies weaved through the deserted streets back towards the jumble of stews and inns near the quayside. The night-time drunken revelry had started up again. Shouts and singing and the calls of women rang over the rooftops. Carpenter demanded directions from a whore pissing in the street and within moments they were picking their way among rat-infested rubbish heaps in pitch-black alleys where the eaves almost closed over their heads.

Moll Higgins’s rooming house squatted on the edge of the dockside squalor. It was the perfect hideaway for the Irish spy and her charge, Will thought: close enough to reach the ship speedily, but far enough away from the bustle of the port to maintain a degree of anonymity. It was a tall house of four storeys, leaning in a precarious manner down the slope as if it were about to skid towards the water. Spice-smelling merchants’ stores jammed hard against it.

Will looked up at the dingy whitewashed walls. Most of the small windows were dark, but a candle flickered in one on the second floor and another in the roof. The storm rolled around the town, throwing off spears of lightning and clashes of thunder. The wind tugged at his hair, slamming shutters and unlatched doors.

Beside him, Launceston and Carpenter were watching the rooftops for any sign of the Unseelie Court. Strangewayes stood a few paces down the slope, watching for an attack at their backs.

‘They are here,’ Carpenter said in a flat, low voice. Blood dripped from his nose, and Will could feel the familiar knot in the pit of his stomach as his senses rebelled against the alien presences that drew near. Across the roofs, grey shapes began to flicker against the night sky, circling, like wolves.

‘No time to lose now,’ he whispered, drawing his rapier. He felt comforted by the weight of the steel in his hand. ‘In and out with Dee. Cut down any who stand in our way.’

‘And that includes the Irish woman?’ Carpenter asked with a pointed stare.

Will hesitated for only the briefest moment. ‘If she stands in our way.’ Meg will not sacrifice her life for even a treasure like Dee, he thought; he hoped.

The moon chose that instant to break through the roiling clouds, and as Will glanced up one last time he glimpsed a sight that chilled his blood. With arms and legs spread out, grey figures crawled across the tiles and down vertiginous walls like spiders, drawing in upon the rooming house from all directions.

‘I wish I had a fire to burn out this infestation,’ Launceston hummed, ‘even if it took down all Liverpool.’

Will snatched open the door that backed on to the alley and led the way into a small scullery that smelled of lamb fat and cheap beer. Dirty cooking pots from that evening’s meal were stacked on a trestle to one side. Instantly, the spy recognized an unnatural feeling to the house. A chill hung in the air and intermittent tremors ran through the walls and floor under the old, dry rushes.

‘What is wrong here?’ Strangewayes hissed as he darted in behind the others and closed the door. He drew the bolt with a resonant clank.

Will sifted through his impressions for some clue to whatever was unnerving him. His face hardened, his eyes flickering around for any sign of threat. Raising his arm, he flicked his fingers forward and his men followed him without question, into a silent, cold kitchen and then into a hallway that smelled of damp. Everywhere was dark. A passage ran alongside a flight of ramshackle stairs. Though the gale whistled around the eaves, inside the house was so still it seemed devoid of life. Will felt troubled by the quiet – any rooming house was filled with a symphony of creaks, footsteps, snores and conversation for most hours of the day – and he could see from Carpenter’s darting eyes that his companion felt the same.

‘We go up,’ he said.

The first board protested like a wheezing old man. They all halted, listening. When no response came, they continued to climb.

Halfway up the first flight, a throaty laugh rolled out just above them, low and resonant. Behind him, Will felt his men bristle, their rapiers at the ready. Will’s eyes narrowed. He searched the dark at the top of the stairs for any sign of movement, and listened for a soft tread on the boards. After a moment of quiet, someone began to hum an old sea-song, a man’s deep voice, the melody punctuated by another laugh.

The four spies looked at each other, curious.

Will bounded up the remaining steps and rounded on to the second flight. A man in a dirty undershirt and stained breeches slumped halfway up the rise, his head against the wall. His greasy brown hair hung lankly around his unshaven face, but his eyes had rolled back so only the whites were visible. He waved one hand in front of his face as if in time to music, and then hummed the sea-song once more.

‘Has he lost his wits?’ Carpenter whispered. ‘The Unseelie Court have already ventured within?’

‘If not yet, then soon while we waste our time here gabbling,’ Will hissed. He dropped low in front of the man’s face until he smelled the ale-reeking breath. ‘An Irish woman and an old man,’ he demanded. ‘Where are they?’

After a moment the man appeared to hear and raised one finger. ‘The third,’ he said. As Will made to push by, the man grabbed his arm and whispered, ‘The eyes are afire. Say your prayers.’ Will shook him off and looked up the stairs into the dark.

At the top of the second flight, he heard a clatter on the roof high overhead. Movement flashed past the small window beside him. A crash echoed from the cobbles below; a tile had been dislodged. He raised his eyes, listening, then signalled to the other men with his eyes that the Enemy had reached the rooming house.

‘They go down as we climb up,’ Launceston said without a hint of fear, ‘and where in the middle shall we meet?’

At the top of the third flight, Will found a plump, pink-faced woman crumpled on the floor beside a younger man with the marks of the pox on his cheeks: Moll Higgins, perhaps, and the man another lodger. Both lived, but spittle drooled from the corners of their mouths and they looked right through him when he shook them.

‘What has happened here? These are all fit for Bedlam,’ Strangewayes whispered. He knelt beside the woman and took her hand.

Will had no answer. The Unseelie Court still sought entry; this was the work of another. He wondered what terrible thing had happened here to drive the wits from the occupants. In the silence, dread seemed to drift down the stairs like the unnatural fog along the river.

Mistress Higgins and her lodger began to convulse, crying out in a language that no one recognized. As he climbed the stairs, Will frowned, forcing himself not to look back. Launceston held up a hand to bring them to a halt, but Will had already felt it: a cool draught sweeping down the stairs, smelling of the smoky night air. A window had slid open. The boards overhead creaked.

Catching a glimpse of uncertainty in Strangewayes’ eyes, Will whispered, ‘If we walk away and leave Dee to the Enemy, all will be lost; for England, for us. There will be no coming back for a second chance. We must do what we can, though our lives be forfeit.’

On the third floor, they searched the first two rooms, small and cramped, with beds that had not been slept in. The third was larger, but also empty. ‘This is the place,’ Will whispered, recognizing Meg’s crimson taffeta dress hanging over the end of an unmade bed. While Carpenter crouched to peer underneath, Strangewayes moved to the window and glanced out. He shook his head: the Irish woman and her prisoner could not have escaped over the nearby rooftops.

Another creak echoed above them. Will imagined grey figures prowling around the darkened top floor. Soon those things would begin to descend. He stilled his thoughts and looked around. Ropes that had clearly been used to restrain the astrologer were coiled in one corner with a blue silk gag on top. The rushes had been brushed aside and a circle had been chalked on the floor with mysterious signs scrawled around the perimeter. Had Meg allowed Dee to cast a spell, he wondered? Surely she would not have taken such a risk. But there was a fat candle, half burned, and the sweet scent of incense hung in the air.

His gaze fell upon the obsidian mirror, lying on its side beside Meg’s bag. Such an object of power would never have been discarded so easily. He pushed past Carpenter to snatch up the looking glass. It was insignificant enough; few would have given it a second glance. But as he stared into the surface, cold prickled down his spine. He felt the weight of a presence looking back at him. Before he could dismiss the sensation, the glass misted, and a face began to form in the depths. A part of him wanted to hurl the mirror away, but he felt strangely gripped by what was revealing itself. And then the face formed and the shock jolted him.

It was Jenny, his Jenny, staring at him with wide, frightened eyes.

Carpenter jerked up, half raising his rapier in concern, but Will was caught in the grip of that vision. No illusion, this. So many years had passed since he had seen her, and yet it was Jenny as he remembered her, from that last day in the cornfield, brown hair tied back from her pale face. He reeled from the rush of emotions that accompanied the sight, the memories of quiet conversations at dusk, the sensation of her hand in his. And yet somehow he knew that this was Jenny now, and that she could see him as clearly as he saw her. Her eyes grew wider still when they took in his face, but if he expected a smile of relief, or love, he saw only worry in her features.

She vanished as quickly as she had appeared. Will almost cried out, pleading with her to return so he could see her for one moment longer, a moment that felt richer than any he had lived in the last ten years.

‘What ails you?’ Carpenter growled in annoyance.

Will began to explain, then caught himself. ‘At least we have the mirror now,’ he whispered, slipping it into the leather pouch at his side. ‘Now, let us find Dee and be away from this haunted place.’

The window rattled in the grip of the gale that now buffeted the house. ‘Perhaps they are long gone, and already aboard their ship,’ Carpenter ventured.

Will eyed the taffeta dress and flashed a reassuring smile. ‘Perhaps.’ Raising his rapier, he stepped out of the chamber and prowled towards the final flight of stairs.

For one moment, he stood, looking up into the dark. All was still.

His breath locked in his chest. He levelled his rapier, twirling the tip once, then placed his foot upon the first step.

A high-pitched whine screeched across the upper floor. Will reeled against the flaking plaster of the wall, clutching his ears in agony. Steel barbs plunged into his head. He half glimpsed the other three men stumbling back with contorted features, hands pressed against their own ears.

A moment later, a boom resounded across the floor upstairs, bringing down a shower of dust. White light flared so brightly, Will wondered whether the house had been struck by lightning or a keg of gunpowder had exploded. Bedlam erupted before he had a chance to gather his thoughts. Throat-rending shrieks ripped through the house, sounding unnervingly like the cries of ravens. More flashes of light, a billow of acrid smoke. The very foundations of the house seemed to shake.

Will grabbed the rocking banister to keep his feet. The violent tremors threw the other three men across the landing. A body burst out of one of the rooms on the final floor and wheeled down the steps to crash in a broken-limbed heap at the foot of the stairs. Fearing it was Dee, or Meg, the spy wrenched himself round.

Will felt his chest tighten in shock. The figure crumpled in front of him wore a grey shirt and breeches silvered with mildew, the cut echoing a fashion of a time long gone. The skin was bone-white, the cheeks cadaverous. The eyes had been burned out so that only charred black sockets stared back at him. He struggled to comprehend what had happened. Never had he seen one of the powerful Unseelie Court despatched so easily, so brutally. He yanked his head back to peer up the stairs through the swirling smoke, wondering what force wreaked havoc up there.

Another figure lurched from the open doorway at the top. Will glimpsed a flash of auburn hair, a pale face, a bodice and skirt of black and gold. Red Meg O’Shee clutched on to the banister, casting one wide-eyed glance back into the room she had left. Her mouth formed an O of horror. Will felt another wave of disbelief. This spy, so hardened by the fight against the English in her homeland, who had suffered all manner of threat to her life and well-being, gripped by terror.

Before he could call out to her, she propelled herself down the stairs in desperation to escape what lay at her back. In a flurry of red hair and skirts, she crashed into him, fleeting surprise lost to mounting panic. ‘Leave!’ she screamed. ‘Leave or lose your soul!’

As they turned, another tremor hurled them to one side and they crashed through the splintering banister on to the flight of stairs below. Will took the brunt of the impact, pain lancing through his ribs. Meg landed on top of him, already craning her head in fear to see what followed.

Strangewayes was pointing and crying out a warning lost beneath the booming that now sounded like a cannon barrage. Cloaked in the swirls of acrid smoke, a figure was descending the stairs at a steady pace. Will felt gripped by the sight, and by the terrifying power he sensed in that apparition. It seemed he was in the centre of a storm, with lightning crashing all around and thunder breaking overhead.

And then the figure loomed out of the cloud, and Will saw a cloak made from the pelts of many woodland creatures, the still-attached heads swaying gently. White skulls of birds and mice rattled on a silver chain to the rhythm of each step. Wild silvery hair, a wrinkled face that mapped a life lived in the shadows.

‘Dee?’ Will gasped.

The alchemist turned his terrible gaze upon the spy. The eyes flickered with blue fire, and in them Will saw nothing that was human.

CHAPTER SIX

BLACK PEBBLE EYES watched from the high Branches. Hunched like old men, the crows perched in silent attention, so great in number it seemed the stark winter trees were flourishing with sable growth. Sweating with fear, Tobias Strangewayes wrenched his head round as he ran. Their unnatural stares chilled him. Why had they gathered? Why were they silent? Why were they watching?

Relief flooded him when he burst from the great Kentish forest and saw the large, brick-built merchant’s house on the edge of the village, the family home, safe and secure. His father had made no little money, buying up the woodland to feed the endless demand for timber for the great seagoing vessels that had made England such a power across the world. His breath burning in his chest, Tobias scrambled up to the door, his only thought, odd yet somehow right, The crows shall not get me now.

And then he was in the bright morning room and his brother was there, good Stephen, strong and wise, sitting by the cold ashes in the hearth. Tobias felt a yearning that he couldn’t explain. But then Stephen turned his broad, rosy-cheeked face to him and gave a sad smile, and Tobias realized that his brother was dead, overseas, as so many of his family had died.

‘There is no reward in killing a King,’ Stephen said.

Tobias felt a cold reach deep into his bones, but before he could respond the vision shattered, the glittering shards falling away into the dark.

He jolted awake. The floor where he had been lying was cold. His mouth felt as arid as if he had swallowed a hogshead of ale the night before. A shaft of early morning sun fell through the open door of one of the rooms and caught a constellation of drifting dust motes. All was still. In the autumn chill, he pushed himself into a sitting position. Launceston and Carpenter were stirring behind him, and beyond them he saw the woman they had guessed to be the rooming house owner, Moll Higgins, sitting against the cracking plaster on the wall. Though dazed, she looked as if her wits had returned.

Strangewayes struggled to think clearly. Though the unsettling dream about his brother still had its hooks in him, fragments of the previous night emerged. He recalled Dee coming down the stairs, and the terror he felt, an unnatural terror as if all his senses were warning him of something he could not see. He remembered the flashes of light, and the smoke and the booming, like the swell of the ocean against a hull heard on the bilge deck. And the last thing that sprang into his mind was Will grabbing hold of the Irish spy and hauling her down the stairs.

Strangewayes heaved himself to his feet and made his way unsteadily down the creaking wooden treads. Swyfte was slumped next to the open front door, the woman nowhere to be seen.

‘Dee?’ Strangewayes gasped as his companion stood up. ‘The mirror?’

Will shook his head, running a hand through his tousled black hair. Gathering his wits, he spun out into the cobbled street. Liverpool was lit by a thin orange light as the sun edged up over the horizon. Across the still streets, a hum rose up from the direction of the docks.

‘Zounds, what happened last night?’ Strangewayes demanded. ‘Dee was filled with fire and brimstone. Never have I seen him that way. Was he possessed by devils?’

‘Possessed, aye, that is a good enough explanation,’ Swyfte replied, distracted. ‘When I looked in his eyes, I saw no sign of the man I knew. Something dark has been awakened within him.’ His tone was measured, his words free of shock or unease, and Strangewayes guessed he had already started to reach some understanding of the alchemist’s transformation.

‘He laid low those night-things as if they were drunken apprentices. Where did he get such power? And why did he only reveal it this past night?’

‘These are questions for another time,’ Will replied, dismissing any debate with a wave of his hand. ‘For now, we must hope we still have an opportunity to prevent a greater disaster. Let us to the docks, and pray that we are not too late.’ He threw himself down the cobbled slope towards the crack of sailcloth and barked orders, the cries of the gulls and the dank smell of the wide, grey river.

Strangewayes shielded his eyes from the bright morning light as they emerged from the shadowed alley on to the quayside. The dock-workers were already hard at their labours, grunting and sweating as they heaved bales on to the backs of carts. The horses stamped their hooves and snorted, the apple-sweet scent of their dung caught in the sharp wind off the water. The steady beat of wooden mallets echoed from the shipwrights’ dens. To that rhythm of seagoing life on the Merse, merchants waved their arms in the air as they auctioned their wares, haggling over prices, and sailors sang their work-shanties on board the great vessels at anchor.

Tobias followed Will’s gaze along the forest of masts large and small. His heart fell when he realized the carrack had already sailed.

‘We have lost Dee,’ he said with bitterness, ‘when we were so close. What now for us all?’

‘Keep your spirits up.’ Swyfte seemed oddly unmoved despite the desperate situation in which they found themselves.

‘What do you suggest? That we steal a boat and sail for Ireland? We will feel the sharp edge of a chieftain’s broadsword if we trespass into the interior of that benighted land.’

He felt another spike of annoyance as his companion ignored him, striding out to the edge of the quay where a black-bearded seaman knotted the frayed ends of a net. ‘Tell me, friend, the carrack that sailed for Ireland,’ Will asked, ‘how much of a head start does it have?’

‘Ireland?’ The sailor’s eyes sparkled. ‘It’s bound for farther shores now.’

‘What say you?’ Swyfte’s eyes narrowed.

The seaman drew the final knot on his net and admired his handiwork. ‘A new course was ordered before dawn, so I ’eard,’ he replied, glancing out across the glassy water. ‘They’ll be putting in somewhere or other to take on provisions. But then they’re bound for the New World.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

RED MEG SHIVERED, pulling her Crimson cloak Tighter around her. The autumn wind bit hard, lashing her auburn hair, as she leaned against the oak rail and watched Liverpool disappear into the hazy distance. How easily she had sailed into uncharted waters, with Will Swyfte once again steering the new course of her life. She smiled. Though danger awaited, better a life of adventure and romance than a slow march to a grey death. She turned, looking towards the forecastle. Ahead lay the Irish Sea with its wild storms and soaring cliffs of black water. And beyond? She pushed aside all the questions that assailed her, unable to stare into the furnace of her true motivations. Time would judge if she were fool or not.

Captain Nicholas Duncombe emerged from his cabin. He was a strong man, tall and broad-shouldered, with a quiet nature that seemed more suited to scholarly pursuits than to command. He was kind, too, kinder than any other man of the sea she had encountered, most of whom always had a lustful look in their eye when they spoke to her.

The captain saw her watching him and strode over. He kept his eyes down, his features tense. ‘Mistress O’Shee,’ he murmured, not wishing to draw attention to their conversation, ‘I fear for all our souls. This vessel is bewitched.’ He glanced towards the helmsman who stood as rigid as an oak, oblivious of the wind pummelling his face. Meg followed his gaze across his crew, who moved as if in a dream. ‘Your companion is the devil’s own. I know not what spell he has woven over my crew, but only disaster can come of this.’

‘I cannot control Dr Dee, captain. If you would keep your life, ’tis best to do as he commands.’

‘I am a seasoned traveller on these waves, mistress, but the New World? Such a journey requires careful planning and men prepared for the rigours that lie ahead.’ The captain furrowed his brow, his fears both imagined and real. ‘We sail into the haven of pirates and Spanish warships and the Lord knows what else. Perhaps Hell itself, if your companion is any indication.’

‘But there will be good men coming to our aid, and soon. You must trust me on this.’

Duncombe searched her face, wanting to believe her words. ‘Then I will delay the taking on of provisions for as long as possible when we put in to port in Ireland, and pray to God that your good men will have a fair wind at their backs.’

Meg smiled with confidence, but she fervently hoped they could wriggle out of Dee’s grasp before they reached whatever destination the alchemist had in mind. She had seen the fire in the old man’s eyes and had no doubt that whatever he planned was terrible indeed.

‘I have little experience of sorcery, save the dark stories sailors tell each other on the waves,’ the captain went on as his fingers closed on the hilt of the dagger he wore at his hip, ‘but I fear our lot on board the Eagle can only get worse. Find some comfort in the knowledge that if you are threatened in any way I will defend you with my life.’

Meg winced at the captain’s kindness, but quickly offered her thanks. Here was a man who valued honour above all, far removed from the duplicitous and treacherous world of spies that she knew. When she peered into his weathered face, she found herself thinking of her father, though he had been gone for years now, and she felt a wave of sadness. At that moment, she feared for Duncombe more than he did for her. Could men so good ever survive in such a world?

The door to the cabins clattered open. She sensed Dee’s presence before he stepped from the shadowy interior as if he blazed with the white heat of a forge. His hair was wild, his eyes drained of all humanity. ‘And so we leave this world behind,’ he called to the wind. He looked at Meg, and through her to the dim horizon, and gave a lupine smile.

CHAPTER EIGHT

NONSUCH PALACE ECHOED with the sound of feet moving through vast chambers and down winding stairways. Candles threw swooping shadows across the stone walls as breathless servants hauled wooden chests between them, and dragged well-stuffed sacks, and staggered under the weight of bales. In the moonlit inner ward, horses stamped their hooves upon the cobbles. Blasts of hot breath steamed in the chill air. Cart after cart creaked under the weight of loads waiting to be transported along the highway to the Palace of Whitehall just beyond the city walls. The Queen and her court were returning to London.

In the ruddy glare of hissing torches along the walls, guards watched the hasty exodus, their furtive eyes flickering from the frantic activity to the darkness that suffocated the surrounding countryside. Make haste, make haste, the orders rang out, every voice trembling with unease. The bitter reek of sweat born of dread hung in the air.

Grace Seldon paused in the long gallery leading from the Queen’s chambers to peer through the diamond-pane windows at the confusion in the yard below. Her arms ached from the weight of the Queen’s sumptuous dresses, each one jewelled and heavily embroidered. She was wearing her plain yellow travelling skirt and bodice, and a matching ribbon held her brown hair away from her face during her labours. Since sunset had she carried garments to the other ladies-in-waiting in the courtyard, and there would be no respite until all the monarch’s chambers were bare. She had heard the tales of nameless enemies marching upon Nonsuch, the mutterings of blood and thunder and impending doom, as she had heard them so many times before. She raised her chin in defiance. These were dangerous days and she would not jump at shadows.

The murmur of familiar voices rustled along the gallery, and Grace pressed herself back into a darkened chamber before she could be seen. She bristled as she heard the arch tones of that duplicitous little man, Sir Robert Cecil, the spymaster, who had often turned his poisonous words against Will. The other was the Earl of Essex, a self-important braggart who swaggered through the palace in his white doublet and hose as if all eyes must ever fall upon him. She peered through the crack in the door as they neared.

‘Too many rumours swirl around this palace. Threat, danger, death, drawing closer by the hour,’ Essex was saying in a grim whisper.

‘You think we should speak true?’ Cecil exclaimed with contempt. ‘Better by far that they have their imagined fears.’

‘Though the spectre of the plague still haunts London, I will feel some comfort once we are behind the walls of Whitehall. The defences still hold there?’

‘For now.’

Plotting as ever, Grace thought. Never could a word be trusted that came out of either man’s mouth. And upon their shoulders rested the future of England. As they neared, she stepped back a pace, still watching. What an odd pair they made, the tall, muscular Essex looming over the shorter, hunchbacked Cecil. Yet power resided with the smaller man, she knew.

‘And have we news from Swyfte?’ the Earl asked.

Grace’s ears pricked and she leaned closer once more.

‘As yet, no word. It sickens me to have to put our faith in such a coxcomb.’

‘Elizabeth favours him.’

Clenching his fists, Cecil ground to a halt only a step away from Grace. She held her breath. ‘Will our Queen hold such a high opinion of that rake if he fails to return Dee and she is tossed into a burning pit with all of England?’

‘Swyfte—’

‘Speak to me of Swyfte no more,’ the spymaster snapped. ‘He has always been one step away from turning upon us, and only his effectiveness has kept his head upon his shoulders.’

‘If he learned the truth about the woman he lost—’

Cecil ground his teeth, his voice falling to a whisper. ‘He will not. If he fails to return Dee to us, his life is forfeit. If he succeeds . . . He has brushed close to the truth too many times and we can tolerate it no more. Too much is at stake.’

The spymaster grunted his distaste and set off along the gallery at a fast pace. Essex hurried to keep up. Once the two men had disappeared from view, Grace eased out of her hiding place, chilled. She heard herself hailed and turned to see Will’s young assistant Nathaniel Colt, red-faced and sweating, with a large sack thrown over his left shoulder and another gripped in his right hand.

‘Nat!’ she exclaimed, relieved to see a friendly face. Clutching the monarch’s dresses to her chest, she hurried up to him and whispered, ‘I fear Will’s life is in danger.’

‘Will’s life is always in danger,’ Nathaniel sighed. ‘Rogues, cuckolded husbands, poor card players, jealous rivals . . . and that is even before we discuss the Spanish.’ He saw her worried expression and softened. ‘Tell me what you know, Grace.’

She glanced over her shoulder, repeating in grim tones what she had overheard. ‘And what did Essex mean, the truth about the woman he lost – about my sister Jenny?’ she asked as she finished. She felt a tremor of unease run through her.

‘These spies would find a plot in the contents of their evening stew,’ Nathaniel replied with irritation. ‘They can as much trust their own as the foreign agents they presume to fight.’ He set his jaw, thinking, and then replied, ‘There is nothing we can do but wait until Will returns. He will be grateful for this information, I am sure, and will know the right course to take. Come, let us talk as we walk. I have a chamber full of chests and bales to empty and I would catch one wink of sleep this night.’

Together they carried their individual burdens along the gallery towards the stairs. ‘Will never lost faith that Jenny still lived, never wavered even once,’ Grace said, feeling the weight of this new mystery, ‘and that alone was a beacon of hope in those dark moments when I feared she could only have been taken by rogues and killed that summer’s day in Arden. Even after all these years, Will loves her very much.’

‘More than life itself,’ Nathaniel replied. ‘I have seen him reading through old letters that she wrote to him in the days of his youth. He keeps them locked away in a chest beside his bed.’

Grace paused at the top of the stairs, looking down into the dark. ‘I was but a girl when Jenny disappeared. That night I was woken by a sound at the well, and I ventured out to find Will returned from his long search, washing his hands. I can never forget his expression. Haunted, he looked. Broken, as if his life would never be well again.’ Her chest tightened with grief at the memory. ‘Will was a changed man after that night.’

‘He has searched high and low for her. He will never relent.’ The young assistant struggled with his sacks down the creaking wooden steps.

‘Has he ever spoken of any knowledge he might have of where Jenny might be,’ Grace asked, adding quietly, ‘if she yet lives?’

Nathaniel shook his head. ‘Will is a man of secrets. He shows one face to the world, a carefree gentleman who likes his wine, good sport and laughter, but behind that mask there are many chambers, all of them dark.’ He leaned against the wall to catch his breath. ‘Despite what many here think, he is a good man. I see him in his private moments, when the mask falls away, and I know the truth. And yet I fear he does not believe it himself.’ Nathaniel’s brow furrowed.

‘What are you saying?’

‘Part of his darkness is that he believes he is as base as the enemies he faces.’

Grace could not disagree. They continued down the steps in silence. Crossing the echoing entrance hall, they stepped out into the night, enjoying the cool air on their flushed faces. Nathaniel dumped his sacks upon the cobbles and grinned, attempting to lighten the mood. ‘You will be awaiting the return of Master Strangewayes eagerly, I would wager.’

She blushed. ‘Why, he had never entered my thoughts until you mentioned his name,’ she lied. She felt surprised by her growing affection for the young spy. At first his gloating manner had only served to irritate her until she realized that, like Will, he too wore a mask.

Servants streamed around them, muttering curses under their breath as they heaved their heavy loads on to the backs of the carts. The hard work was near done. Soon the long journey through the dark countryside would begin.

‘You are pleased to return to Whitehall?’ Nathaniel gasped as he threw one of his sacks on to the nearest cart.

‘If I call anywhere home now, it is there.’ She pursed her lips, trying to identify the prickle of unease she felt. Then she had it. ‘Would that I never had to venture near the Lantern Tower, though.’

The young assistant laughed. ‘What have you against it?’

‘It scares me.’

Nathaniel shook his head in disbelief. ‘The monument our Queen built to remind her of her father? No wonder, no awe, no reflection on the achievements of old Henry?’

‘What is in it?’

He shrugged. ‘It is empty.’

‘The other ladies-in-waiting say that all roses planted in its shadow wither and die,’ Grace said. ‘And Charity Gomershall declares she heard a strange sound one evening, like a mournful song, rising from the summit. Ghost-lights flicker around it—’

‘Superstition,’ Nathaniel chuckled.

‘It is haunted,’ she replied emphatically, ‘and I will have nothing to do with it.’

As she handed the dresses to one of the other ladies-in-waiting for storage on the Queen’s own carts, her gaze fell upon the spymaster and the Earl of Essex, still deep in grim-faced conversation in the shadows by the palace wall. She felt her unease grow stronger still.

Across the inner ward, the grinding of the opening gates echoed. Eager cries rose up from the crowd, keen to leave Nonsuch for the safety of Whitehall. But Grace couldn’t help but wonder if worse things lay ahead.

CHAPTER NINE

GOLDEN SHARDS OF moonlight flickered across the black water of the River Thames. Oars dipped and splashed, hauling the tilt-boat past the glinting lamps of London along the north bank. The night was clear and still and cool. In the back of the long, low vessel, Launceston and Carpenter nestled on crimson cushions, woollen blankets pulled over their legs. Will listened to them bickering as they continued to debate what could have transformed Dee into the horrifying vision they had witnessed in the rooming house near two weeks ago.

‘Faster, lads,’ Will called to the oarsmen, his voice taut. ‘Time is short.’

Strangewayes brooded on the bench in front of them, his thoughts no doubt dwelling on the threat that now loomed over all England. Whenever he glanced back, Will saw the red-headed man’s eyes searching the shadow-shrouded banks for what they all knew waited in the night, only a whisper away. How long before the Unseelie Court broke the last of Dee’s defences? How long before they never saw another dawn?

Will turned away from his companions. His plan, so insubstantial only days ago, was growing stronger. And he would see it through to its end though he brought down the Crown, the country, even all of this world, into damnation’s flame.

When the black bulk of the Palace of Whitehall loomed up out of the night, the call of the guards along the river wall echoed over the water. The master oarsman responded with a piercing three-blast whistle and guided his vessel in to the short jetty. Candles glowed in the palace windows. The Queen and her court had returned from Nonsuch in search of shelter from the approaching storm. Grasping at straws.

Strangewayes caught Will’s arm as he climbed out of the tilt-boat. ‘Tell me you can see a way out of this predicament. Or are prayers my only hope?’ Fear flickered behind the younger spy’s eyes. The new recruit had come far in the short time since he had discovered that the world was not the way he had been told since he was a child. Few coped easily with such a dark revelation, and with each passing day Strangewayes clung more tightly to God to guide him out of the horrors. Will hoped madness was not a few steps away.

‘When life appears at its darkest and most desperate, Tobias, then it is time to gamble everything.’ Will flashed a reassuring grin. ‘Caution is our enemy, coz. We will shake this matter up, one way or another.’

He beckoned for Launceston and Carpenter to follow. He felt a responsibility to his men. Though they did not yet know it, their lives were the stake in his gamble. Was he, then, any better than the Unseelie Court?

The four men passed through the River Gate, across the echoing cobbled courtyard in front of the silent palace and into the maze of narrow passages among the towering brick and stone halls. Entering another gloomy courtyard, they came to an iron-studded oak door behind which lay many secrets. Torches burned on either side of the entrance so there would always be light even in the darkest night. Will hammered on the door with the hilt of his dagger. While the other men went in search of beef and ale after their long journey from Liverpool, a guard in a burnished cuirass led him inside and up a spiral staircase to the Black Gallery. The walnut-panelled room echoed to the rhythm of his leather heels. Shadows danced away from the light of the logs burning in the stone hearth.

At a long, heavy table in the centre of the hall, Sir Robert Cecil looked up with a startled expression as if he feared he was about to be attacked. His features were drawn, the result of long nights without sleep, Will suspected. The Queen’s Little Elf took his work as spymaster seriously, but not as seriously as his personal advancement. He was a humourless man, who spent his days weaving webs and his nights dreaming of what life would be like if his hunched back were straight and true.

When the spymaster recognized his guest, he scowled and covered the charts before him with a book. Always a keeper of secrets, Will thought. Cecil wheeled around the table with his rolling gait and peered up at the spy. ‘’Tis true, then?’

‘It is. I am adored by all.’

Cecil bared his teeth. ‘Swyfte, what others think charm, I think callow. So, you have failed? Dee has been spirited away under your very nose?’

Will perched on the edge of the creaking table and pushed the heavy tome to one side so he could eye the charts. With an incensed snort, the spymaster snatched the stained and creased maps and rolled them up.

‘Dee is gone, yes, but not to Ireland,’ the spy said with a bored shrug. Cecil had a temper much larger than his stature, and Will knew how to play him to achieve the best advantage.

‘Then he was taken to the New World?’ With a trembling hand, the Little Elf tapped an insistent finger on the table to gain the spy’s attention. ‘To what end? Hugh O’Neill needs Dee now, to protect Ireland from our great Enemy.’

‘It seems that Red Meg O’Shee bit off more than she could chew when she stole Dee from under our noses. This detour was not planned by the Irish.’

‘And the mirror?’

‘Gone too,’ Will lied. Before any further questions came, he moved on to describing the alchemist’s dreadful transformation in the rooming house, and watched the blood drain from the spymaster’s face.

Cecil prowled to the fire and watched the flames for a long moment. ‘Is this the work of the Unseelie Court or of some other agency? Or has Dee himself finally gone mad?’ he uttered in a low, strained voice.

‘The doctor always skirted the edge of sanity. Whatever the cause, this matter is not yet over.’

The spymaster spun round, his eyes narrowing. ‘Have you lost your wits?’ His hands flew to his head. ‘We stand on a precipice. Without Dee, what hope do we have of fending off the bloody revenge of the Unseelie Court?’

‘You and I are not alike.’ Will sauntered from the table to pour himself a flask of sack. ‘You surround yourself with shadows and see only the dark. But the more I move into this night-shrouded world we have created for ourselves, the more I look towards the light.’

Cecil snorted. ‘Then you are a fool. Or you are ignorant of the true state of England in those days before our Queen encouraged Dee to build his defences, when our Enemy had full, brutal rule over all corners of this land.’ He perched on a stool, a hand across his eyes, looking like a child at prayer. ‘When I was a boy of no more than seven years, I travelled with my father and three servants to Child’s Ercall in Shropshire, where we had family.’ His hoarse voice rustled out in the still room. ‘While my father was at business, the woman who cared for me, a kindly soul, Jane . . . Jane . . . I cannot recall her full name! Oh, how poor are my wits! How broken am I.’

As his troubled memories rose, Cecil seemed to have forgotten Will was there. The spy thought how sad and small his master now looked, all the hardness of the court manipulator stripped away to reveal the infant that lurked at the heart of everyone.

‘Jane, goodly Jane, she never once mocked my misshapen back, never raised a hand to me or called me fool or jester or . . . or Little Elf. She would tuck me up at night and brush the hair from my brow and whisper “Sweet angel” . . .’ The words choked in his throat for a moment, but then he gathered himself and rose, turning back to the fire in the hope that Will would not see him blinking away tears. ‘There is a pond on the edge of Child’s Ercall, surrounded by willows and reeds, the water black as night. The local people say there is no bottom to it. Indeed, that it reaches down to Hell.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Despite the warnings of the villagers, I played along the edge of that foul place, chasing dragonflies in the sun. Jane, who was wiser and more fearful than I, came to fetch me back to the house. At once there was music in the air, pipes and fiddle, a reel that tugged at the heart and spun the head. I saw Jane stop and stare and her face freeze in terror, and I followed her wavering gaze to a beautiful woman with hair like the sun and skin like milk, rising from the water. A part of me knew, even then, that it was not a woman, and that that face was not the one Jane saw. A dreamy state came upon me, all sun on water and lazy, buzzing flies, but I recall as clear as day Jane’s visage as she walked towards that woman. She looked as though she made her way to the executioner’s block. The one in the water spoke with a voice that rang through my mind like a bell, though I understood not a word. And Jane continued to walk, into the pond, sinking deeper with each step until the black waters closed over her head. The woman who had summoned her turned to me and nodded slowly, her face growing paler by the moment, her eyes darker, her cheeks hollow, and she reached out her arms to me. I ran crying back to my father, and told him all that had occurred. But there was no comfort for me. He chastised me and sent me to bed, because he believed every word I said and was afraid of it.’

Cecil fell silent, watching the flames dance. Will felt moved by the intensity of his master’s feelings. Cecil had always seemed cold and untouched by the suffering of others, but perhaps they had more in common than he had come to believe.

‘Jane’s body was never found,’ the spymaster continued. ‘No search was made of that pond for her drowned form. Three nights later, I woke from sleep and went to the window. Jane stood below, her dress sodden, her hair plastered to her head and filled with rotting pond leaves, and she reached up her arms and silently called to me. And I wanted to go, God help me, for I knew from that moment I would be alone in the world. But then I saw the shapes dancing in the night beyond her, and I was filled with such dread that I thought I would die. I ran back to my bed, but for nights after I sensed her out there, calling to me, and I thought how could one so kind become so cruel. And that notion told me all I needed to know about this world.’

He turned back to Will, his face drawn. ‘We have all had our lives blighted by the Unseelie Court in some way. You . . . it was some village girl, was it not?’

‘A childhood friend,’ Will replied, feigning disinterest, but the vision of Jenny in that haunted cornfield blazed across his mind.

Cecil stalked forward, his hands raised and clutching in the grip of his passion. ‘Think, then, sirrah, what England will be like without Dee to offer a modicum of protection against those night-terrors. When the Unseelie Court have freedom to do as they wish, my nightly visits from Jane will be nothing compared to the horrors foisted upon every man, woman and child.’

The spectre still visited Cecil? Will reflected on the scars that must have been inflicted upon his master through that relentless haunting by the only one who had ever been kind to him. ‘Yes, for the Enemy will want even greater revenge for England’s betrayal,’ he snapped, surprised by his own rush of emotion. ‘For stealing their Queen and holding her prisoner when they thought we were offering the hand of peace.’

Cecil gulped like a codfish. ‘You are never to speak of that thing!’

‘Why? We are among friends, are we not?’ Will swigged back his sack and tossed the flask aside. Cecil squirmed under his cold gaze. ‘Despite the play you make to the world, there are no heroes here. We are all tainted.’

‘England had no choice, you know that. Our “betrayal”, as you define it, was a matter of survival—’

‘And that is justification?’

‘Yes!’ Cecil roared. ‘The survival of our Queen, of England, of us all, a life free from the shackles of fear. That is worth any action. And you know, too, that the Faerie Queen is the heart of Dee’s defences. The power that rages within her like a furnace burns the night away from this land.’

Will’s thoughts returned to the story as he had been told it, his own Queen Elizabeth meeting the Faerie Queen on windswept Dartmoor to seal a pact that might end the long years of conflict between the two races who lived side by side on England’s green land, though one in day and one in night. The meeting had been hard-won, the mistrust both sides felt barely overcome. But after that night the Unseelie Court would never trust the mortals again. England’s forces emerged from their hiding places among the gorse and granite, slaughtered the Fay cohort and took their Queen prisoner. And in her meagre cell she had resided for more than thirty years, her miserable incarceration keeping England safe. Will shrugged, fighting to contain his simmering anger. ‘Let us not squabble,’ he said, pretending he cared little when in truth he found it harder by the day to tell friend from foe.

Cecil rested both arms on the table and released a weary sigh. ‘Oh, for your simple world, Swyfte, where the only concerns are fresh wine, doxies and a bowl of the ordinary.’

The Secretary of State searched through the heap of yellowing charts until he found the one he wanted. Will recognized the outline of Europe stretching to the far Orient. ‘We now know the Unseelie Court have been planning for this moment for many a year. Word has reached me of the Enemy’s maintaining positions of influence in the great courts. One of those fiends advised the rebel leader Severyn Nalyvaiko as he led his Cossacks through Galicia, Volhynia and Belarus in his struggle against the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth. Another has the ear of the Doges in Venice and Genoa. Philip of Spain, I fear, is still troubled by Malantha of the High Family. The story is the same in Hungary, in the whispers that prompt the Serbs to rebel against the Ottomans, in Tuscany, Austria, Malta, even in Rome itself. All around us, they move their pieces.’

‘Their aim?’

‘To burn this world. After the indignities they have suffered – yes, at our hands – they have decided the time of man has passed.’

‘Then all of humanity will pay for England’s grand betrayal.’

‘Leave it be!’ Cecil’s spittle flew across the stained chart as he roared. ‘If I did not know better, I would think you revel in the suffering about to be inflicted ’pon us. That is treason.’ The spymaster sagged. The hopelessness he had tried to contain rose in his features and he flapped a feeble hand towards Will. ‘Enough. This tires me. I do not know why you wish to provoke me in this dreaded hour, but . . . enough.’

Calming himself, Will walked round the table to the fire, remembering all the times he had seen Dee trying to warm himself but never being able to drive the cold from his bones. ‘I hear plenty about the monstrous acts of the Unseelie Court,’ he murmured, prodding a log with the toe of his Spanish leather shoe, ‘but never anything about what manner of beings they are.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What is their true nature? Their essence? What do we know of them?’ Will turned back to the spymaster, tugging at his chin hair in thought, but he kept one eye fixed on every subtle movement Cecil made. ‘Do they love? Do they care for their children? Do they have children? Or art and poetry and learning—’

‘They are monsters who wish us all dead,’ Cecil interrupted. ‘That is all we need to know.’

‘And you are aware of nothing more? They are what they seem, these pale creatures of the night?’ Will narrowed his eyes, watching the faint muscle-tremor around his master’s mouth.

‘I know nothing more.’ The spymaster looked away at the last, unable to hold Will’s unflinching gaze. He turned back to his charts and pretended to sift through them while he sought to change the subject. ‘For all your many flaws, you have a sharp wit, Swyfte, and you have played your public and private role well in service to the Queen. Tell me your thoughts, for at this moment I would clutch at even a thread to draw me out of the dark.’

Will felt the weight in his chest lighten. Everything was unfolding as planned. ‘We feared Dr Dee had been stolen by the Irish. We came close to losing the mad alchemist to the Unseelie Court, but his transformation saved us from that fate, while at the same time denying us the opportunity to reclaim him. But we must not lose sight of the fact that, at the moment, Dee is free—’

‘Yes, somewhere in the wide Atlantic!’

‘Nevertheless,’ Will replied, throwing his arms wide, ‘he is, for now, at large, and with a fair wind at our backs and the will to achieve it, we can bring him back.’

‘How so?’ Cecil snorted. ‘Do you know where in the New World he travels? Or why?’

Warming to his performance, Will smiled. ‘I know we are in a race, Sir Robert. The Unseelie Court will be in pursuit. Whoever finds Dr Dee first, wins.’

Cecil weighed the words, his furrowed brow revealing the hopelessness he felt.

‘Dee’s carrack will have need to take on supplies for the long ocean voyage,’ the spy continued, ‘and the vessel I saw bore no comparison to our own race-built galleons. Across the stretch of that vast ocean, we can catch up. And,’ he added, ‘I may . . . perchance . . . be able to uncover some clue as to the course Dee’s vessel takes.’

The spymaster’s eyes narrowed. ‘Even if you found the route the doctor has taken, you would have to fight off the full force of the Unseelie Court. You, and a handful of mere men. That is madness. You would be sailing to your deaths.’

‘My life means nothing,’ Will said in all honesty.

Cecil paced around the table, kneading his hands together in thought. ‘But can we prepare a galleon for an Atlantic voyage at such short notice? The cost of food and munitions – England’s coffers are already bare – the shortages of meat and grain after this long, plague-ravaged summer . . .’

‘You will be counting gold when the Unseelie Court arrives at your door?’ Will said with a wry smile.

‘The Tempest is moored at Tilbury. Our best ship—’

‘Not the Tempest. You may need her to defend London, should I fail. Requisition another ship, in the Queen’s name. After the poor trade of this year, there must be many a merchant keen to be reimbursed.’

‘I will see what I can do.’

‘One other thing.’ Will strode to the window and peered out across the moonlit roofs of the Palace of Whitehall. Not far away, a faint crackle of emerald light sparkled in the sky. ‘If I am to risk my neck, I would arm myself with any information that might help.’

‘A reasonable request. Ask of me what you will.’

‘Not you. There is one other who has all the answers I could ever need.’ Will rested an arm on the window frame and pressed his forehead against the cool glass. ‘Take me to the Lantern Tower. I would question the Faerie Queen herself.’

CHAPTER TEN

EMERALD FLAMES CRACKLED around the tiled roof of the stone tower like marsh lights. Far below, a swaying lantern echoed that glow as a knot of six men processed across the courtyard. Beneath the gentle soughing of the night-wind, the click of their leather heels on the cobbles was the only sound in the still palace. At the oak door studded with black iron, the group came to a halt. The four armoured guards gripped their pikes, their stern faces revealing that they had no notion what was contained within the Lantern Tower. Sir Robert Cecil lowered his eyes, but Will gazed up to the spectral display, his brow knitted. His great gamble began here.

‘Do not let anyone else inside the tower,’ Cecil barked at the guards, looking each man in the face in turn. ‘Defend it with your lives.’ He removed a large iron key from a velvet pouch and unlocked the heavy door. The tumblers clanked into place. Taking the swaying lantern, he stepped inside and closed the door behind Will. The candlelight illuminated stone steps spiralling upwards into the dark. ‘Dee’s magical defences have been disarmed,’ he whispered. ‘We are safe to proceed.’

‘Safe. An odd choice of word.’ Will began to climb the steps. The air was dank and smelled of tallow and burnt iron.

‘Do not concern yourself. She cannot escape.’

‘None of us can escape, Sir Robert.’

The spymaster did not query his charge’s enigmatic response. Perhaps he understood, for he was no stranger to prisons and bars and duty and fear.

They climbed through floor after floor, with the Secretary of State growing more anxious with each step. ‘Who feeds her?’ Will asked.

‘She takes no sustenance as you and I know it,’ the spymaster muttered. ‘In the early days of her imprisonment, I am told attempts were made to bring her meals, but the food rotted in the bowls and was returned untouched.’

‘She has guests?’

‘Rarely. Though Dee has ensured his sigils and spells keep her trapped in place, still all who encounter her fear her power. Sometimes . . .’ Cecil smacked his lips with distaste. ‘Sometimes you can feel her words deep inside your head, like a maggot burrowing. Only that fool Spenser has dallied here awhile, until my father sent him away for fear he had fallen to her wiles.’

Alone, in a cell, for so long. How hot must her rage burn, Will thought. How terrible would be her vengeance if she ever escaped.

The steps ended at another heavy oak door marked with mysterious whorls and symbols inscribed in red paint. Cecil hesitated, looking up at the portal with dread. Will thought his trembling master was about to fall to his knees and pray for their salvation. The silence was heavy, but it was not the silence of emptiness. Will sensed that the cell’s occupant waited on the other side of that door, listening, dangerous, poised, perhaps, for any opportunity that might arise.

‘Go, then. Ask what you will,’ Cecil whispered. He held up the lantern so that Will’s shadow swooped.

The spy leaned in, his nose almost brushing the wood. He couldn’t imagine the prisoner’s terrible beauty, though he had heard stories: a beauty that could drive a man mad or blind. But he imagined her lips parting in a dark smile.

‘Your Highness,’ he began.

Her laugh sounded like an echo in a deep well.

He dabbed the side of his right hand to his nose where a droplet of blood had formed. ‘My name is Will Swyfte,’ he continued. ‘I am in the employ of Queen Elizabeth of England, and I have dedicated the last ten years of my life to fighting your people for the tragedy you inflicted upon me.’

Another uncaring laugh punctuated by a low scraping. Will pictured her drawing her long nails over the rough oak, perhaps imagining, in her turn, his skin peeling, his eyes being drawn out.

‘I have killed your kind,’ he said.

Silence.

‘You think yourselves greater than mortals, but your lives still pass on the end of cold steel,’ he continued.

After another moment’s lull, her musical voice rolled out. Though muffled by the wood, her words were laced with humour but had a cold, cold core. ‘You speak boldly. Would you do the same if you stood beyond the protective sigils, deep within my cell?’

‘I would. For I speak truly.’

‘Very well.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Is the indignity of my imprisonment not enough, that you have come to taunt me further?’

Will reached his fingertips towards the surface of the door. Just as they were about to brush the wood, something crashed against the exact spot on the other side and he snatched his hand back involuntarily. ‘I have no interest in cruel sport,’ he replied. ‘That is the province of the Unseelie Court. I hold myself to higher standards.’

‘Indeed, you do think highly of yourself. That a mere man should speak to a Queen of the Unseelie Court like an equal,’ she mocked. ‘Were you here beside me, I could, if it suited me, peel away your flesh to the rough construction that is your essence. But we are craftspeople, delicate and skilled, and we can find subtler ways to teach harsh lessons.’

‘I have seen some of those ways. One whisper in an ear that can turn thoughts in such a way that it drives a man mad.’

‘We see the weakness in all men’s hearts. That one flaw that we can prise apart with a few words until it becomes a yawning chasm. I see into your heart.’

Will glanced back down the steps to his master, assuring himself that Cecil could not overhear the conversation. ‘I know my own heart well enough.’

‘No, you do not. No man does. You only think that is the case, and that is why the truth drives you from the illusion you all hide behind to stay sane.’ Beyond her muted words, he heard a faint scraping as if she were stroking the door. He imagined a lover’s caress and shivered, despite himself.

‘You waste your breath—’

‘I see sadness, a deep, abiding sadness.’ The Queen rolled the words around her tongue with pleasure. ‘I see the pain of loss and separation, a life that has become corrupted by mystery to such a degree that it can no longer be lived. You would rather know the truth and be destroyed than live in this twilight world any longer.’

Will raised his head in defiance. ‘And I feel anger,’ he replied in a low voice, ‘for you stole from me the only thing I ever valued.’ He shook his head and his blood spattered across the door.

‘I hear the impotent cry of the wounded child.’ Her breathy words sounded low and closer still. He presumed she had pressed her cheek against the wood. Now they were barely separated, like two lovers teasing towards an embrace, her seductive voice luring him in. The hairs on his neck tingled as if she had brushed his skin. He should break the enchantment and leave that place without a backward glance, he knew, but the rage in his heart held him fast. He sensed her smiling. Yes, she knew his weaknesses well.

‘You see sadness,’ he whispered, ‘you see rage, I know, but you do not see fear.’

She laughed again. ‘Fear is the sane response to us.’

‘Then I am not sane, and proud of it. Tell me your weakness.’

‘The very definition of insanity. You presume I would bare my throat to you.’

Will glanced back at Cecil who had retreated further down the steps. The spymaster quivered in the wan light of the guttering lantern flame. ‘You will tell me.’ Will kept the confidence in his voice, luring her in as she had attempted to ensnare him. ‘For sport. A mere man is no threat, you have said so yourself. What have you to lose by indulging my desire to seek my own destruction?’

‘You think yourself clever. Perhaps you are, by the standards of man. Yet there is much you do not know – about the Unseelie Court, about yourself, and your place in this world. Nevertheless, I agree. Our weakness is something your kind would never understand – honour. Our word is unbreakable, even though it mean pain, or loss, or defeat. Do you find any gain in that knowledge? Does your kind even understand what honour means? I think not,’ she added with cold contempt.

Will folded the information away and continued lightly, ‘Is it true that you have made your home in the New World?’

‘Would you visit my palace, O man?’ she enquired. He heard a crackle of dark humour in her voice.

‘I am sure you would offer me all the courtesies extended to every mortal who has crossed from this world of hard things into your moonlit realm.’ He waited a moment and then added, ‘Yet perhaps I could offer a few common courtesies of my own.’

The Faerie Queen laughed. ‘Oh, what sport that would be. Would you wave your sword at us? Would you rage and curse and threaten? Before we fell upon you like wolves?’

‘We have more steel in us than you imagine, Your Highness.’

‘Then I extend an invitation to you, should you wish to prove yourself,’ she replied with cruel glee. ‘Damn yourself. Sail to the New World. Cross the gulf between our realms, if you can find a gate, to the place where both lands exist as one, and then follow the great Orinoco until you reach the confluence with the Caroni. Along that river you will discover the fortress of the Unseelie Court.’

Will felt a squirming sensation deep in his head. He reeled away from the door as his mind’s eye was flooded with a vision of startling richness. At first he struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. A monstrous black spider as big as Hampton Court Palace squatting on a verdant landscape, where green hills rose above the treetops of a mighty forest. Iron cartwheels wider than the grey Thames, revolving within a sphere. And then he found himself looking down on a grim fortress with soaring walls of black basalt and gold.

The Fortress Crepuscule, the Faerie Queen’s voice echoed in his skull. Your kind will always find our home, should that be your wish. But it is much harder to leave.

His gaze drifted down a vertiginous cliff, across a stone labyrinth set in the forest to a high tower with a soft white glow emanating from the summit. He heard himself murmuring, ‘What is that?’

The Tower of the Moon. The beacon that illuminates the way between our worlds. As long as the light shines, the paths remain open.

‘Swyfte!’ Will heard Cecil’s strained voice as if it were rising from a deep well. ‘Take your leave now before she steals your wits!’ The spy snapped out of his delirious vision into the cold grey of the Lantern Tower.

The Queen of the Unseelie Court scraped her nails down the door. ‘While you mortals are base lead, my people are gold.’ For the first time Will heard a hint of yearning in her voice. ‘And our home is gold. A golden city, which the men of that hot land call Manoa. The wonders you would see there, mortal. It would drive you mad.’

‘One day, Your Highness. One day I will sail there and bring the vengeance of the English to your doorstep.’

‘And as your life ebbs away, try to read some meaning in the entrails of your suffering. There will be none.’

Will forced himself to break her spell and turned away from the door. ‘I have purpose in my life, Your Majesty. I will never be deterred from finding the truth.’

‘Truth?’ she repeated with dark humour. ‘Would you know the greatest secret of all? We are all in cells, to greater or lesser extent. This world you see around you is a prison, though the bars and locks are hidden. But who is the gaoler, ask yourself that? And what does it take to escape?’ Her voice grew fainter. Will imagined her drifting away from the door into the confines of her dismal cell. ‘Even as we speak my people rise from their silent chambers under hill and under lake. I hear them in my heart, drawing nearer. One vow is on their lips: to stop you recovering the mad magician, who is your final hope. You will never set sail from this city. You will die here, all of you. The end is close. Say your prayers. Kiss your loved ones. The end is close.’

A laugh, like cold crystal, fading away into the lonely dark.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE MAN SURGED through the sea of bodies flowing along Cheapside in the wan morning sunlight. Furious servants heading to the market yelled curses and apprentices searched for stones to hurl at his back, but still he ran, casting anxious glances over his shoulder. He was swarthy-skinned, the wide-brimmed felt hat he had used to hide his identity long since lost.

Will thundered in the running man’s wake. ‘Queen’s business,’ he bellowed. The crowd peeled away on either side. He was lighter on his feet than the other man, stronger and faster, though he had barely slept since his haunting conversation with the Faerie Queen.

Sensing his pursuer was closing the distance, the fugitive threw himself into a flock of geese, kicking wildly until he drove them into a frenzy of honking and beating wings. The birds scattered across the street in Will’s path. Without missing a step, the spy vaulted on to the back of an apple cart trundling through the flock, scrambled over the seat beside the startled carter and leapt across the flapping obstruction, allowing himself a tight smile. His prey was oblivious of what lay ahead. As they passed the towering five-storey houses near the Great Conduit where apothecaries sold herbs and spices, he watched the runaway glance round in shock. At the eastern end of Cheapside, at the Stocks Market confluence of three great thoroughfares, an army of labourers was milling around with armfuls of cordwood for the ring of beacons that were to be built beyond the city’s northern wall, while men in sun-burnished burgonets and cuirasses looked on.

The swarthy man put his head down and tried to weave his way through the confusion without drawing attention, but the towering heap of firewood blocked most of the trivium and the three streets were choked with jumbles of carts and frustrated merchants. As the fugitive stumbled, trying to force his way through the throng, Will called out again, ‘A traitor to the Queen! Stop that man!’

Three pikemen swung their weapons towards the runaway. When he veered away from them, Will sprinted the last few yards and hurled himself forward. The two men crashed across the cobbles. Will leapt up in an instant, drawing his knife and pressing the tip against the fugitive’s neck. The man snarled in Spanish. Will only grinned.

Through the gathering crowd, Cecil barged his way from where he had been overseeing his hastily planned gathering of fuel. ‘What have we here?’ he snapped.

‘A Spanish spy.’ Will sheathed his blade as the pikemen levelled their weapons at the prisoner. ‘Our earthly enemies see an opportunity to make mischief while we are so distracted.’

The spymaster leaned in close and whispered, ‘Prompted by the Unseelie Court, no doubt. That witch Malantha of the High Family is working her wiles upon Philip of Spain.’

‘Threats wait in all quarters. We must never lower our guard.’ Will’s attention was caught by Grace and Nathaniel pushing their way through the throng. Grim-faced, they stopped beside the labourers unloading the wood from the carts, their eyes urging him to come over.

‘To the Tower with him,’ Cecil barked. ‘We will see how loose his lips are after he has rested ’pon the rack.’

As the spymaster directed the pikemen, Will made his way over to his two friends. ‘Grace, I know I have not seen you since my return from Liverpool, but now is not the time—’

‘This is not a social visit,’ she interjected, clasping her hands together against her emerald skirt. ‘I have grave news.’

‘Give her a moment of your time, Will,’ Nathaniel put in. ‘You will not regret it.’ The spy had rarely seen his assistant looking so serious.

‘Speak, then,’ he said.

Grace glanced towards Cecil, still strutting along the ranks of pikemen. ‘When I was at Nonsuch, I overheard your master speaking . . .’ she paused, blanching, ‘of Jenny.’

Will furrowed his brow, remembering Cecil’s mention of Jenny the previous night. ‘He knows little about her.’

‘Not so.’ Grace recounted what she had overheard as the court fled Nonsuch. Will felt his pulse quicken. Could this be true? Cecil had some knowledge of what had happened to Jenny that day so long ago? The spy looked over to where the Queen’s spymaster bustled about, gesticulating at the assembled troops. He felt a cold nugget of anger form in his stomach. Were that so . . . should the spymaster have kept such information from him . . . he could not be held responsible for his actions.

Always the voice of caution, Nathaniel said, ‘Perhaps Grace misheard. And it is often hard to divine the truth from eavesdropping.’

‘Perhaps.’ Will continued to watch Cecil, now in deep conversation with the commander of the pikemen. He knew the nature of the man, and all the things of which he was capable.

Grace leaned in and whispered, ‘This business you are involved in in Liverpool, and here in London, does it concern Jenny?’

‘I cannot say,’ Will replied truthfully, for anything involving the Unseelie Court was linked to his love’s disappearance.

‘Do not treat me like a child.’ Grace raised her chin in defiance. ‘She is my sister, and I would know what you know.’

Will could barely draw his gaze from Cecil. He felt the anger starting to burn through him. ‘You know you must not ask me these things,’ he said, more sharply than he intended. ‘We will talk later.’ Unable to contain himself any longer, he strode over to the spymaster. ‘I would have words,’ he said curtly.

Cecil began to dismiss him, until he saw the cold look in Will’s eyes. The spymaster edged to the lee of a cart where they could not be overheard, and nodded.

‘I am told that you have information about my Jenny’s disappearance,’ Will said, as calmly as he could.

Practised at revealing nothing of his innermost thoughts, Cecil only pursed his lips in thought.

‘Last night you feigned ignorance of her,’ the spy snapped. ‘You know more than you are saying.’

‘I know nothing.’

‘Do not lie to me!’

‘Or what, pray tell?’ Cecil blazed. ‘Are you doubting my word?’

Will steadied himself. This was not the time. ‘If you know anything of what happened to Jenny, tell me now.’

Cecil snorted. ‘What has come over you? You conjure these suspicions out of thin air. Why should I know anything about your woman? Walsingham was spymaster when she disappeared, was he not?’

Will searched his master’s face for a long moment. Grace had been adamant in her assertion of what she had overheard, and Cecil was a man enveloped in secrets. There was a mystery here, for sure, but Will could see he would get no joy from the other man. He frowned, weighing his options, his suspicion of the spymaster grown a hundredfold.

‘I know no more than you,’ Cecil pressed through gritted teeth. ‘Why would I?’

Will felt queasy at the thought that his masters might have known something about Jenny’s disappearance for all these years and told him nothing. What reason could they have? Unsure of his ground, he stalked away, though a part of him wanted to drag Cecil to one side and beat the truth out of him.

Beside the pile of cordwood, he glanced back. The spymaster was watching him intently. Will knew that look and realized he should be on his guard from now on. He pressed on into the crowd, his shoulders heavy, and didn’t stop until he rested in an alley beside a grocer’s shop. Leaning against the damp wall, he closed his eyes, trying to calm his churning thoughts. If Cecil kept many secrets, he had a few of his own. Dipping into the leather pouch at his hip, he pulled out Dee’s obsidian mirror, which he had wrapped in a thick velvet cloth to keep safe. He studied the glass for a long moment. He would find the answers he needed whatever the cost.

CHAPTER TWELVE

AN ARC OF fire blazed across the night-dark fields surrounding London. Spirals of gold sparks, whipped up in the breeze, rose from the beacons enclosing the city from the marshy western reaches by the grey Thames to the riverside woods beside the eastern city wall. Carpenter leaned on the battlements at the top of the White Tower and felt the acrid smoke sting the back of his throat.

It had been four days since the Faerie Queen had issued her hate-filled warning, four long, wearying days of organizing the militia, spinning a web of deceit to sustain the rumour that the suspected attack came from Spanish agents, surreptitiously spreading a long line of salt and protective herbs among the beacons to bolster Dee’s failing defences. Four days of hope and worry.

‘Will our preparations be enough?’ he asked, rubbing at the scar tissue under his hair. It was an unconscious tic in moments of anxiety, harking back to that bitter night in Muscovy when the bear-thing had left him for dead.

‘Hrrrm,’ Launceston murmured, acknowledging the question without answering it. He looked across the slow-moving river towards an orange glow in the east. Another ring of beacons surrounded the docks at Greenwich where men laboured through the night to provision their requisitioned galleon, the Gauntlet, for its long ocean crossing.

‘Can you not offer me even a crumb of comfort?’ Carpenter snapped. He fought down his bitterness.

‘What good would that do?’ the Earl breathed, his dry voice almost lost to the wind.

Carpenter prepared to give a barbed response, then thought better of it. What was the point in wishing his companion could comprehend such trifles as human feelings? Instead he muttered, ‘We are modern men, not superstitious fools like the country folk, and I have long since discarded the Bible’s cant. But sometimes I hope . . .’ The word caught in his throat. ‘Tell me, Robert, do you think there might be a God?’

‘If there were a God, would He allow a thing like me to exist?’

Carpenter heard no self-pity in his companion’s voice, only an acceptance of his unnatural urges. For a moment, he recalled the diabolic vision of the Earl drenched in blood. He felt surprised that the emotion it stirred in him was not disgust, but sadness. ‘I have had my fill of this business,’ he sighed. ‘It wears me down by degrees, and seals me away in a dark place where I fear I will never see the sun again. I would break away . . . and soon.’

‘Where would you go?’ The Earl drew his grey woollen cloak around him and stepped beside his companion to look out over the jumbled roofs of the city. ‘This business has stolen your life. No family, no woman, no friends, no trade. We company of travellers are all you have.’

Carpenter gave a bitter laugh. ‘This is it, then? You are my family, and Swyfte, and that red-headed maggot-pie Strangewayes? Kill me now and be done with it.’

‘The Enemy will come soon enough,’ Launceston said, looking up to the billowing smoke from the bonfires. ‘Even when Dee’s defences were strong, they still wandered across our territory. The alchemist only kept them from attacking in force. Now not all our charms will hold them at bay for long. We must hope that we can be at sea before they strike. At least if we can regain Dee we stand a chance of repelling them.’

And without Dee there is no hope at all, Carpenter thought.

Cries of alarm rang up from the dark of the water’s edge far below them. Frowning, Carpenter stifled his pang of anxiety as he peered over the battlements. Some waterman in distress, he tried to tell himself. The sound of running feet echoed. More cries.

‘The river is protected by the charms on the wherries working their way back and forth between the banks,’ Launceston said, as if he could read the other man’s thoughts. ‘All is as Dee prescribed.’

‘I can see nothing,’ Carpenter snapped. ‘Come.’

He wrenched himself away from the battlements and ran down the winding stone steps, Launceston only a few paces behind. In the ward he shouted to the guards to open the gates. Out of the fortress they raced, and along the grey walls to the river’s edge. The cries of fright had ebbed away. Only the lapping of the Thames broke the silence.

Struggling to see in the thin light of the crescent moon, Carpenter found the muddy path by the black water. It was low tide and the river reeked from the stink of offal dumped unlawfully in the flow by the city’s butchers after night had fallen. On a small stretch of gravelly shore, he glimpsed the flare of torches bobbing in the dark. He cast an uneasy glance at his companion, but the Earl’s sallow face was impassive.

Carpenter crunched across the slick stones, feeling colder by the moment. His hand searched for the hilt of his rapier for security. Nearing the crackling torches, he made out a group of six watermen in caps and thick woollen cloaks to keep them warm in the chill of the open river. Their attention was gripped by something he could not see. The Earl had drawn his dagger and was keeping it hidden in the folds of his cloak.

‘We are on the Queen’s business,’ Carpenter announced with a snap in his voice, grabbing the shoulder of one of the watermen and easing him aside. ‘What is the meaning of this outcry?’

Six faces turned towards him in the dancing light of the torches, each one etched with fear. One of the men stretched out a trembling arm to point. The spy followed the line of his finger.

Hunched on the edge of the cold, black water squatted a man clad in the filthy corselet of an old soldier. His breeches were coated with river mud, his hair and beard wild, his face drawn from a life lived in hedgerow and street. He had the thin frame of a man who went too long between meals. Beside him, a rod and line was set in the mud and gravel and a small fire had been built with driftwood, ready to be lit. The figure didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the eddies lapping against the shore.

Dead, Carpenter thought. But even as the notion crossed his mind, he found himself unsettled by a faint shimmer across the man’s body.

Launceston must have seen it too, for he grabbed one of the torches and held it over the still form. The old soldier all but glowed, like some apparition.

Carpenter took an unconscious step back. The dead man was rimed with frost, his hair and beard white, his skin gleaming with ice crystals as though he had spent a night out in a Muscovy winter. ‘What is this?’ the spy exclaimed. An autumnal chill hung in the air, but nothing that could account for such a state.

Launceston squatted beside the soldier, moving the torch around so he could examine the frozen face for some clue as to what had occurred.

A murmur washed around the huddling watermen as if a dam had broken. One blamed the devil, another the Fair Folk, a third some curse or other.

The Earl withdrew his dagger and jabbed the point against the man’s cheek. A clink echoed above the gentle lapping of the river. ‘Solid,’ he mused. ‘Like ice.’ He jabbed harder and the side of the soldier’s face shattered. Shards of frozen flesh rattled on the gravel. The squatting body teetered for a moment, then fell back, cracking into a hundred hard fragments.

The watermen cried out as one and fled back along the river’s edge towards their boats.

‘Zounds! What evil is this?’ Carpenter gasped.

‘I fear it is the beginning of something,’ Launceston breathed, rising to his feet. He waved the torch over the glistening remains one final time and then turned to the water. ‘Of what, I am not entirely sure.’

‘Would the Unseelie Court attack a starving soldier fishing for his supper? There must be some other answer.’

‘If you leave this work, if you flee into a new life, I will come with you,’ the Earl murmured in a distracted tone. Gripped by the sight of the shattered body, Carpenter barely realized what his companion had said before the Earl added, ‘In this mystery lies the key to what we will face in the days ahead, if we can only divine it.’

‘And if we cannot?’ Carpenter asked.

‘Then winter comes early for all of us.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CANDLES SUMMONED GLITTERING Jewels from the Stained glass window above the altar. The Lady’s Chapel in the Palace of Whitehall had heard the whispered devotions of monarchs, lords and ladies, but this night it was Strangewayes’ low voice that rustled up into the shadows. Head bowed, he knelt on the cold flags, hollowed by too much doubt and fear.

‘Dear Father, hear my prayers,’ he entreated, his pressed palms shaking. ‘Deliver us from the evil that draws nearer by the day.’

The only answer did not come from God. ‘Tobias?’ His name echoed from the dark at the back of the chapel.

The young spy stumbled to his feet, running one trembling hand through his auburn hair. ‘Who goes?’ he snarled, shock adding a crack to his voice.

A hooded figure stepped into the candle glow. His heart leapt when he saw that it was Grace, wrapped in a thick woollen cloak against the growing chill. She folded back the cowl and forced a weak smile. ‘Come back to the fire. You have been here in the cold for too long.’

‘Soon,’ he said. ‘I find some peace here in the midst of all this turmoil. And if God hears my pleas, then we have hope in the struggle that is to come.’

Her brow furrowed. ‘We have defeated the Spanish before. Surely we can again.’

Strangewayes felt a pang of regret that he had to lie to her. It seemed a betrayal of the love they shared. And yet how could he not deceive her, when her sanity, perhaps even her life, was at stake? Swyfte had warned him time and again how many others had been driven mad by knowledge of the Unseelie Court. ‘You are the voice of reason, Grace. I worry for naught, I am sure,’ he replied, putting on a confident smile. ‘It is in my nature to grow anxious before a battle.’

‘Then you must listen to Will,’ she said with a warmer smile. ‘He is always as calm as a millpond.’

The spy flinched, but he nodded politely. ‘’Tis good advice. I will be along once I have finished my devotions.’

Her face darkened. ‘We have only been close for a matter of weeks, Tobias. I miss your gentle words, and I would enjoy your company before the Queen’s business calls you away once more.’

Once she had left, his heart grew heavier. All his sacrifices were for her alone. He would do anything to keep her safe in the face of the supernatural threat that circled all their lives. After a moment, more footsteps disturbed his thoughts and he was surprised to see Sir Robert Cecil emerge from the gloom. The spymaster gave a faint nod of greeting. Tobias, as always, found his master’s eyes unreadable.

‘Sirrah, I must apologize,’ Cecil said. ‘It was only my intention to pray awhile here. Like you, I am a godly man. I could not help but overhear your exchange with your woman.’

‘Grace and I have nothing to hide.’

‘I would think not.’ Cecil knelt before the altar and made the sign of the cross upon his chest. ‘Pray with me,’ he said, beckoning the other man to join him.

Strangewayes knelt, his uneasiness in his master’s presence giving way to the churn of his own troubles.

‘You have been a loyal and trusted servant since you joined my band, sirrah,’ Cecil said, his head bowed. ‘That has not gone unnoticed.’

‘I do whatever is required of me in service to the Queen.’

‘Of course, of course.’ The spymaster nodded. ‘And I would be remiss if I did not reward you for that service.’

‘A job well done is its own reward. That and the knowledge that I serve God.’

‘You would do well to accept this reward, Master Strangewayes, for it is only a small thing. A warning.’ He paused for one moment, allowing the weight to build. ‘I fear for the safety of Mistress Seldon.’

Tobias jerked his head towards the spymaster. ‘Grace? What are you saying?’

‘You must beware of Swyfte. He is always scheming to his own ends, and he cares little who gets hurt in the process.’

‘What do you know?’

Cecil closed his eyes, muttering a prayer.

After a moment, Strangewayes shook his head. ‘There is no love lost between Swyfte and me, but I cannot believe he would allow Grace to suffer unnecessarily. Indeed, he has protected her since her sister, Jenny, was lost.’

The spymaster shrugged. ‘If you are certain—’

‘You must tell me. If Grace is in peril, I will do whatever is necessary to protect her.’

A small smile flitted across Cecil’s lips, gone before Strangewayes could be sure he had seen it. ‘All I can say for now is that you must keep close watch on our friend, Master Swyfte,’ the older man repeated. ‘At this time of greatest threat he is at his most dangerous, and he will do aught to save his own neck. Even sacrificing those closest to him. Never let him out of your sight. Listen to his weasel words. Judge him. You do not have to accept my account. Trust your own heart. And if you feel he is about to betray us to save himself, you must be prepared to act in an instant, for to tarry for even a moment could cost us all dearly, including the life of your woman.’

Strangewayes bowed his head. A part of him had always feared that Swyfte could not be trusted. ‘What should I do?’ he whispered.

‘There is only one course. You must slay him before he drags us all down to Hell.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

GREY MIST ROLLED across the river. The night-sounds of sleeping London whispered through the fog like the breath of a child at sleep: the calls of the beadles, the hoots of owls from the wooded shores, the splash of oars and creak of rigging. Along the quayside at Greenwich, pikemen in burgonets appeared to glide out of the folding cloud. Darting eyes searched for the foreign agents they had been told were preparing to attack. They glowered at the boys heaving cordwood to the beacons, hurling abuse to mask their fear. Beyond the circle of light cast by the sizzling lantern over the inn door, two men huddled together in intense conversation. Both kept their heads down to obscure their identities.

Will Swyfte glanced suspiciously at a merchant’s cart further along the quay. The horse snorted and stamped its hooves as the bleary-eyed driver nodded in his seat. Two bickering labourers heaved an oak cask of salt beef off the back of the cart. Cursing, the men lowered the barrel to the cobbles and then trundled it to the winch beside the Gauntlet. The provisioning of the galleon was almost complete, salt fish, biscuit, wine, water and rice all stored in the hold. They would be set to sail at dawn, as planned. Will hid his unease. It had been seven days since the Faerie Queen’s warning, three since Launceston and Carpenter had discovered the frozen soldier on the river bank, with nary a sign of the Unseelie Court.

‘Then we have agreement?’ the other man enquired. Sir Walter Raleigh was many things – explorer, occasional spy, soldier – and famed at home and abroad, yet since he had fallen from the Queen’s favour he had spent his days skulking away from attention. Under his cloak, his fine midnight-blue doublet with jewelled buttons showed he had not lost his taste for flamboyance, Will noted, but his refined features had hardened.

‘You have met your side of the bargain. It seems your secret society can achieve great things, and with speed.’

Raleigh turned his face away as one of the labourers strode towards the inn. ‘In the ranks of the School of Night we have many men of wealth and influence,’ he whispered. ‘Your request was difficult at such short notice, but not impossible.’ He held his hands wide. ‘See, Master Swyfte. Together we can achieve great things.’

Will’s mind swam with the faces of the men he had learned were part of Raleigh’s conspiracy: Henry Percy, the Wizard Earl, and Dr Dee himself; George Chapman, the playwright, Thomas Harriot who studied the stars and numbers, and good Kit Marlowe. Raleigh had hinted that there were many more besides, men of good standing who showed one face to the Queen and another in their private meetings, nobles and educated commoners, and the brave explorers who had uncovered the darkest secrets of the New World. The School of Night wished to chart a course away from the never-ending war between England and the Unseelie Court, but Will suspected the conspirators had a further agenda that had grown out of their love of forbidden knowledge. But that was a consideration for another day.

‘And your aid is given freely and without obligation?’ he asked with a wry smile. He did not wholly trust Raleigh, nor feel any desire to be indebted to him. Indeed, at that moment, he felt there was barely a man in the world that he could trust.

‘I am a genial fellow, Master Swyfte, but I did not achieve my place in the world by being naive. Quid pro quo. That is how every man does business.’

The spy’s attention was caught by a golden glow deep in the mist over the river. It moved steadily towards them.

‘You seem unsettled, sir. You fear the attack is imminent?’ Raleigh asked. He followed Will’s gaze, but appeared untroubled.

‘I prefer not to lower my guard at this late stage. Our defences hold for now, but the Unseelie Court are as cunning as snakes.’

The hazy light became a lantern swinging on a pole at the prow of a wherry. Two oarsmen heaved in unison. They were both bearded, in the manner of watermen, their thick woollen cloaks wrapped tight against the night’s chill.

‘The Charm Boat?’ Raleigh asked.

Will nodded. ‘It sails an unceasing course between the twin banks with Dee’s magical concoctions and amulets aboard. The Unseelie Court will not be able to use the wide Thames as a route into the heart of London.’

He thought how desperate they had all become. Dee’s protective magics had given them the illusion of security for so long, they had grown to think they were immune to the terrors that waited in the night. Now they had all been revealed as frightened children, from the lowest in the land to the Queen herself.

As the wherry eased out of the grey curtain, he saw it carried three passengers on the benches near the stern. The small, hunched shape in a hooded black cloak could only be Cecil, come to inspect the provisioning of the Gauntlet. Will watched the figure coldly. The other two men had the look of guards: implacable stares, broad shoulders, hands hidden inside cloaks where their daggers lay.

‘I must away before the Little Elf sees me,’ Raleigh said with a grimace. ‘That befanged spider squatting in the centre of his web is an echo of the Queen and she sees me as betrayer, though in truth it is more a matter of wounded pride. But quickly, our bargain. In return for the aid given to you by the School of Night, we require your loyalty.’

‘Treason, then?’

Raleigh shrugged. ‘Matters are never so bald. It is my intention to launch another expedition to the New World shortly. I would meet with the Unseelie Court. Perhaps common ground can be found. We may learn from their vast knowledge of the mysteries that underpin existence, and thereby enrich the lives of all men.’

‘Or the Enemy may eradicate you in the blink of an eye.’

‘Nevertheless, it is a risk worth taking. I would ask that if you return from the New World, you relate to me personally all that you learned there. Elizabeth does not need to know.’

Will nodded, but kept his eyes guarded. ‘I have served the Queen well for many years, but the time has come for hard choices. The ceaseless scheming of monarchs and men of power grows tiresome. There are other matters of greater import to me.’

‘Very well.’ Raleigh nodded, taking this as acceptance. ‘Then let us say farewell for now.’

The wherry crunched against the side of the quay and one of the guards called out for the oarsmen to take care. Will guessed the watermen had been drinking to numb the boredom of their repetitive journey. When he turned his attention back to Raleigh, the other man had melted into the mist.

Striding to the river’s edge, Will put aside his suspicions about the spymaster and hailed him. Cecil’s head jerked up and he glowered, anxiety drawing new lines on his face. But he took the hand offered him and clambered up the stone steps to the cobbles. ‘The Queen is safely ensconced in the Palace of Whitehall with two hundred good men to guard her,’ he said. ‘Though she is still recovering from her recent ordeal, she is determined to lead her people in the defence of England.’

‘I would expect no less. But for now she can only wait and worry. If all goes well, our sailing will take the heat away, for a while at least.’

Cecil glanced towards the men rolling barrels up the planks on to the Gauntlet and gave a relieved nod. ‘Wait and worry, indeed. Our sentries round London report that all is calm. No hint of threat, no sign of anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps the Faerie Queen sought to frighten us with lies.’

‘She has no reason to lie.’

Cecil clenched his teeth, peering into the mist over the water. ‘Let them strike, then. We will show them what fire burns within us.’

It was then that one of Cecil’s men in the wherry half stumbled as he edged towards the stone steps. He clutched on to the side to stop himself from pitching into the drink, but his velvet cap fell on to the water. ‘Steady-o!’ the older waterman called in irritation, spluttering through a mouthful of sack he had swigged from a skin. The burly guard growled a curse under his breath and leaned over the side to reclaim his sodden headgear from where it floated on the black water.

Will felt his chest tighten, though he did not know why; some instinct perhaps, honed in his constant fight for survival. ‘Leave it,’ he yelled. He felt Cecil’s reproving gaze upon him, but his own was fixed on the guard’s hand reaching towards his hat.

As the man’s fingers brushed the inky surface, the river boiled all around. The man gaped at the churning water that rocked the wherry, and then sudden, rapid movement erupted. Screaming, the guard pitched on to his back in the bottom of the boat. The senior oarsman dropped his skin of sack, whirling. Now Cecil gaped. ‘What in God’s name—’

The waters became as calm as they had been a moment earlier, but the guard continued to scream and thrash in the bottom of the wherry. The waterman leaned over him, his eyes widening in horror. Will bounded down the stone steps and leapt into the rocking boat, thrusting the oarsman to one side. He knelt beside the guard, whose struggles were easing as shock took hold of him.

The man had lost his right hand. He pawed feebly at the stump with his left, moaning. Teeth had ripped through flesh and bone, Will saw. He had heard tell of a pike in a pool in Kent that could consume a man, and of sharks, the wolves of the sea, one of which John Hawkins had brought back to a horrified reception in London after his second expedition. Yet such a monstrous creature in the peaceful Thames? Never had he heard of such a thing.

As he inspected the wound, he realized there was no flow of blood and the surrounding skin had taken on a greyish cast. Puzzled, he brushed the forearm with his fingertips only to recoil in shock. The flesh was frozen solid. He recalled Carpenter and Launceston’s account of the soldier turned to ice at the water’s edge only a few nights earlier and felt a sick realization dawn inside him.

‘What is wrong with the fool?’ Cecil barked, a faint tremor lacing his words.

Will peered over the side of the wherry, his skin prickling. The still water was black and impenetrable.

Turning to the oarsman, he said, ‘See this poor soul is cared for. I fear he will not survive this torment.’ With renewed purpose, he leapt back up the stone steps and raced past Cecil, who waved his arms in confusion. Catching hold of one of the labourers, he snapped, ‘Find Captain Prouty. Tell him the plans have changed. The Gauntlet must be made ready to sail as soon as possible. If we are short of provisions, so be it. We will have to survive with empty bellies until we reach our destination. But dawn is too late. Do you understand?’

The labourer shook off his slow-witted expression, nodded earnestly, and ran towards the inn, his shoes cracking on the cobbles. Will turned as Cecil hurried up to him, breathless and angry that he had been ignored. ‘I must take the Charm Boat back to the other bank,’ Will said before the spymaster could speak. ‘I have urgent business to conclude before we sail.’

‘Speak to me, Swyfte,’ Cecil roared, shaking his fists in the air. ‘What is happening?’

Will looked towards the mist-shrouded water but thought only of the silent night-world beneath its surface. ‘We thought ourselves untouched. We believed we had time on our side. But the war is already under way and our advantage long since gone.’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘DO YOU UNDERSTAND, nat? lives are depending on you.’ Will tried to keep the crack of disquiet out of his voice. His young assistant blinked, bleary-eyed from being woken, and turned away from Will to find his shoes at the end of the bed.

‘Riding hard, I will be at Tilbury in no time,’ he said. He glanced back at his master, stung by what he perceived to be an understated criticism. ‘I have never let you down before.’

‘I could not have wished for a better assistant. The need for urgency is more to do with the severity of unfolding events than any reflection on your abilities.’ Will softened, thinking back to how inexperienced his assistant had been when his father had entrusted him to the spy’s employ. Angry at being torn from his village life and thrust into a dangerous world where he was never allowed to ask any questions, Nathaniel had grown into the job, and learned a maturity beyond his years, though his tongue remained as sharp as ever. Will trusted him more than any other man, and took his vow to protect him with the utmost seriousness. Never had he revealed any hint of the Unseelie Court or the threat they represented. For Nathaniel, the world was still a sunny place where things happened as they ought, and in that way he was kept from a life of madness in Bedlam.

Nat perched on the edge of the bed, still eyeing his master askance. ‘It troubles me when your tongue is not sharp. Am I still lost in dreams? Or are you awash with sack and still seduced by the honeyed words of some doxy at Liz Longshanks’s?’

‘I can find some words to lash you with, if that gives you comfort, Nat.’ Will strode to the window and peered out over the palace, no longer sleeping. Candlelight gleamed in window after window, with new flames flickering to life by the moment. The fog hung heavy over the secret courtyards and maze of shadowed paths among the grand buildings, muffling the shouts of the sentries on the walls and the tread of marching pikemen preparing for a threat that none of them truly comprehended.

‘No, let me savour this moment.’ His shoes on, Nathaniel rose and took a steadying breath. ‘Yes, this must be how employment is for every other man. Apart from the being woken in the middle of the night to risk my life on rogue-infested byways without a crust to break my fast.’

Will looked back at the young man and saw the innocence that still nestled in his heart. He almost remembered how that used to feel. ‘Nat, you have been a good and loyal servant . . .’ he began.

Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘And there you go again. What, have I been consigned to the block and no one told me?’

‘Hear me out. I promised your father that I would guide you and keep you safe. In truth, I have learned as much from you and your honest, hopeful nature as you ever have from me,’ Will said, choosing his words carefully. ‘But now I have taught you all I can, and after this task is complete I release you from my service.’

Nathaniel looked as if he’d been slapped. ‘Have I wronged you in some way?’

‘You have exceeded all expectations, Nat. This is a reward, not a punishment.’ Will smiled to soften the blow, but he felt a pang of sadness that he had to turn his back on his faithful assistant after all they had shared.

‘What if I do not wish to leave your service? Do my views matter?’

Will turned back to the window to avoid his assistant’s hurt gaze. ‘I plan to write a letter of recommendation that will gain you any position in London that you would wish for,’ he continued. ‘You have lived with danger long enough. You deserve to make a life for yourself where there is some material reward. A wife, children. Peace. Not this business of sweat and blood and shadows.’

Nathaniel started to speak, but Will silenced him with a hand and sent him on his way. He knew the curt dismissal had wounded Nat, but if he had allowed any space the young man would have woven a tissue of words, of argument and protest. There was little time for that, and no point. Much as he would miss his friend, and he would, greatly, he had spoken truly; this was the best reward he could offer Nathaniel: hope, freedom and the opportunity for a fresh start.

Drawing a stool to the trestle in one corner, he took the quill and ink-pot and by the light of the candle flame wrote the letter of recommendation. His name at the bottom, alone, would buy Nathaniel a good future. Even that did not feel enough.

Once done, he put aside his regrets and raced to the Black Gallery, where Carpenter was drinking sullenly by the roaring fire. Launceston paced the room in silence like some ghastly revenant. Will told them what had taken place at Greenwich. The two spies grasped the implications without any need for explanation and together the three men made their way through the fog to the palace’s River Gate.

Kneeling on the jetty, Carpenter peered at the black ripples lapping against the posts. ‘What foulness now resides here?’ he asked.

‘Something with teeth which carries with it the bitter cold of winter,’ Will replied. ‘You would do well to keep your face away from the water if you do not wish to be left with a permanent grin. Find Strangewayes, and then make ready a wherry to take us to Greenwich. I have one final piece of business to attend to, and by then Captain Prouty should be ready to sail.’

‘Hrrrm,’ Launceston mused as he peered into the fog. ‘Is it wise to take to the water?’

‘We do not have the time to cross the bridge and ride along the bank to Greenwich. The river is faster, and no vessel has been disturbed.’

‘So far,’ the Earl replied.

Will left the two men to select one of the boats tied to the pier and went in search of Grace. But as he hurried through the still palace corridors to where the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting slept, she found him first. He saw in an instant that trouble awaited him. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes blazed. Wrapped in an emerald cloak, she strode up to him and snapped, ‘I have just seen Nat. He is concerned for you. I fear for your sanity.’

‘Grace—’

‘Do not play games with me. I am no fool.’ She thrust her face towards his. ‘Nat is a good man, and although he has spent long years at your side he has not grasped the true twisted paths your own mind follows.’

‘And you have,’ Will said, remaining calm.

‘At some level, we were joined by the tragedy of my sister’s disappearance, Will Swyfte. That terrible event set us apart from the rest of the world, yet in its shared misery bonded us. Yes, I do know how you think. I know what shapes you, what drives you, whatever face you present to the world: a hero loved by all; a drunken fool; a rake who fornicates with doxies. I see the sadness and the hardness and the determination. And when you give Nat such a glorious reward, I know it means only one thing: that you believe you are sailing off to die.’

Grace’s perception caught Will off-guard and for a moment he could not find the words to respond. A bleak smile leapt to her lips when she saw that she was right, but her expression quickly darkened.

‘Grace, do not make this more difficult than it needs to be.’

‘You have dwelt in the shadow of Jenny’s disappearance for so long that you can no longer see the light. You welcome death as a release from your pain.’

‘I sail to rescue Dr Dee, not to end my own existence.’

He saw the determination in her face, the echo of the elder sister he loved, and that only lacerated him more. ‘We have been close, you and I, and there was a time when I wished us to be closer still,’ she said. ‘And now you would come here and bid me farewell as if you were only crossing the river to drink in Bankside? I deserve better.’

‘You always did, Grace, but I gave you only what I could. Let us part in a manner that will bring us both some comfort in the weeks and months ahead, not with harsh words that we will come to regret.’ He would miss her, and Nat too, and all of London, but he had lived in the half-world for too long. He could not go on that way. For good or ill, there had to be an ending.

‘Very well,’ she said, stepping forward to kiss him on the cheek, ‘but you must vow to do all in your power to return to me—’

‘Step away from her!’

Will turned to see Strangewayes standing at the end of the corridor, his rapier drawn. The red-headed spy looked furious. Will sighed.

‘Tobias, it is not as it appears,’ Grace began, but jealousy seemed to consume the other man. He ran towards them.

Will drew his own blade and parried the younger man’s wild thrust. ‘Sheathe your weapon. You are acting like some wounded child,’ he snapped, adding, baffled, ‘Why do you behave in this manner?’

That merely drove Strangewayes to greater rage. ‘You know Grace keeps a flame for you in her heart and you trifle with her affections to swell the head of the great Will Swyfte. Do you care for no one but yourself?’

‘Curb your tongue. You will regret this outburst.’

‘England’s greatest spy,’ Strangewayes sneered. ‘What a confection that is. You are a wastrel and your time is done. I am the future.’ He thrust again, with more care this time. Will deflected the attack once again. The other spy had some skill, Will saw, but it was still raw. Given time he would be as great as he imagined himself to be now.

‘Tobias, if you love me as you say you do, end this,’ Grace demanded angrily. ‘You are mistaken in your suspicions.’

But Will saw that Strangewayes’ hurt pride would not let him back down. In a flash, he clashed rapiers, spinning the other man off-balance, and then cuffed him on the right ear. Strangewayes crashed against the wall, dazed. ‘Your heart is in the right place, if your head is not,’ Will said. ‘I am glad you love Grace enough to risk your neck, but this is a futile display. Everything we have fought for now hangs by a thread and I do not have the time to knock sense into you. If you continue to fight, I will run you through and leave you here to die, though Grace hate me for evermore. Do you understand?’

Strangewayes glared, but the defiance had been knocked out of him. Will turned back to Grace and took her hand. ‘Fare you well, Grace. I hope we will see each other again.’ Tears sprang to her eyes.

‘Tell her,’ Strangewayes pleaded when he saw her sadness. ‘Tell her what we face.’

‘Silence,’ Will snapped, allowing the threat to surface in his eyes.

‘She deserves to know the truth. No stories for children. No false comforts. Tell her, so she can put her thoughts in order if we do not return—’

‘I said silence.’ Will flicked the tip of his rapier to Strangewayes’ throat. ‘You are young. You have only just learned the secret knowledge that we share, the knowledge that can destroy good-minded people.’

‘I have considered this matter greatly while at prayer. Grace is strong enough.’

Will dug the tip of the blade deeper, raising a bubble of blood. ‘You think you are doing her a kindness, but it is only cruelty. I say one final time, silence.’

‘Very well. But now it is my turn to say goodbye.’

Will watched the other man’s face. He wondered briefly if it wouldn’t be simpler to kill him there and then, but then Grace took his wrist and gently eased his sword away. ‘He will not tell me your secrets, dear Will,’ she murmured. ‘I will not allow him to.’

Will held her gaze for a long moment. He felt a deep affection, and only wanted her to be happy. He thought that perhaps she understood. Putting up his sword, he walked away without another word. In the shadows at the end of the corridor, he glanced back. Strangewayes held her in an embrace, whispering in her ear. He was not the man Will would have chosen for her, but he loved her, and at that moment, that seemed enough.

Back at the jetty, Carpenter and Launceston argued, pacing around each other like dogs preparing to fight. They grew silent when they saw Will and clambered into the wherry, where a lantern glowed on a pole in the prow. Carpenter eyed the water with unease. The Earl hummed tunelessly as he selected an oar. A moment later, Strangewayes joined them in sullen silence, flashing one unguarded look at Will as he found a place beneath the lantern. He pulled the hood of his cloak up and kept his head down.

‘Take us out into the current,’ Will said, ‘but have a care as we ride the fast water at the bridge. A dip will bring more than a chill to our bones.’

‘Do you lie awake at night searching for increasingly elaborate ways to kill us?’ Carpenter grumbled, undoing the rope tied to the quayside ring. He grasped another oar and pushed the wherry out into the flow.

‘My intention is to keep your days interesting, John.’ Will crouched in the bottom of the wherry and peered into the dark water.

The bank faded into the fog. As the grey enveloped them, the lapping of the river grew muffled and distorted. Will cocked his head and looked around, but he could neither see nor hear any sign of the greatest city in Europe. They could have been alone in all England, drifting through a wilderness.

Carpenter and Launceston heaved slow, measured strokes, each man watching the point where his blade dipped into the river as if he expected the oar to be torn from his grasp.

When they had moved downstream in silence for a few moments, Strangewayes wrenched to one side and pointed. ‘There!’

Will felt an eddy that rocked the wherry.

‘’Twas the length of a seal at least,’ Strangewayes said with unease. ‘Perhaps larger still. I saw grey skin just break the surface.’

‘There too.’ Launceston pointed on the other side of the boat. ‘It swims fast, to circle us so quickly.’

‘No,’ Will said, looking around. ‘Not one. Many. See.’

In the circle of lantern-light round the prow, they saw repeated rapid movement at the surface. The wherry rocked more vigorously. All around, the sound of splashing echoed.

‘They are like salmon at spawn,’ Carpenter said. ‘Have we disturbed them in our passing?’

‘Not fish,’ Strangewayes whispered, leaning back.

Will moved to the prow and leaned over the edge. Grey shapes flashed past, arching their bodies and rolling near the surface before diving down. He fixed his gaze until one passed in front of him. He saw a face that was human in shape, though longer and thinner than most men’s, with hollow cheeks and huge, lidless eyes. Straggly hair, like seaweed, streamed down from the top of the skull-like head. Yet it was the mouth that burned in Will’s mind: lipless, with two rows of needle-sharp teeth forming a permanent grimace.

Sharp enough to tear off a man’s hand, he thought.

The skin was pale, merging into mottled grey. And as the unearthly creature darted from view, he caught a glimpse of an eel-like lower body ending in fins.

‘Neither man nor fish, but both,’ he said in a cheery tone that belied his unease. ‘Row a little harder, lads.’ He still could not guess what the Unseelie Court hoped to achieve with these creatures. Although they buffeted the wherry as they swam past, they made no attempt to overturn the boat.

‘In the taverns around Tilbury, seamen tell of such things swimming in northern waters. It is considered a bad omen to see one,’ Launceston informed the others.

‘It is a worse omen to see one if you are in the water,’ Carpenter muttered.

They fell silent, watching the churning river. Will began to count the number of times the creatures broke the surface, but soon gave up. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the disturbance in the water ended and the Thames was quiet again. Carpenter and Launceston bent to the oars vigorously. The wherry forged on.

When the current grew stronger as they neared London Bridge, Strangewayes shivered and said, ‘Has winter come early?’

Will knew what the younger spy meant. The air had become distinctly colder. His breath misted. He peered out across the water, puzzled, and thought he glimpsed something that troubled him. Strangewayes passed him the lantern and he stood in the stern and held it high. The light glinted off the river. Now he understood the purpose of the swimming creatures and why the sailor and Cecil’s guard had seen their flesh turn to ice.

‘Row faster,’ he called with urgency. ‘Ride the fastest current under the bridge, never mind the danger. Our time is running out.’

The Thames was freezing.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ICE GLITTERED AROUND the stone pillars rising from the river. In the growing cold, the fog was thinning. The narrow arch of the bridge supporting its jumble of merchants’ houses and shops began to appear out of the grey. The night was filled with the thunderous rush of water between the supports as Launceston and Carpenter heaved on the oars to guide the wherry to the centre of the flow. Will watched their labours, shouting encouragement or guidance when they drifted too far to one side or the other. He had seen more than one vessel dashed to pieces on the bridge pillars. Most watermen would not risk the turbulent currents and dropped their passengers short of the bustling bridge to walk to where they could hail another boat on the other side. The spies did not have that luxury, and now the risk was even greater. The briefest dip in the water would see them torn to pieces by the creatures that swam there, just out of sight.

Despite the chill, sweat glistened on Carpenter’s forehead. His long hair flicked back with each jerk of his shoulders, revealing the pink scarring along the left side of his face.

‘Heave to the right!’ Will yelled as he watched the wherry swirl towards the nearest pillar.

His face impassive, Launceston pulled on his oar. The boat continued to swing in the violent current. As the vessel swept into the dark beneath the bridge, Will inhaled a blast of dank air. The lantern-light flared up the stone support, the high tide mark now glistening with hoar frost.

‘Tobias! To me!’ he called.

Throwing off his hood, Strangewayes lurched along the yawing wherry to Will’s side. As the boat skewed towards the bridge, the two men swung their legs out over the side of the boat and pushed them off the pillar. Carpenter jabbed his oar against the wall, and the three of them steadied the drift. Together they heaved the vessel away. Will and Strangewayes teetered over the churning river until Carpenter snatched two handfuls of damp cloak and yanked them to safety.

The current caught the wildly rocking wherry. When it hurled the vessel across the roiling water, Will crashed on to his back on the bottom. By the time he had managed to raise his head they had shot like an arrow out at the other side.

Here the mist hung in wisps. He could glimpse candlelight in the windows of the large merchant houses that lined the northern banks. A bitter blast of air struck him. Bony fingers of ice reached out from both edges of the river, clutching for the wherry.

‘’Sblood! How fast it freezes!’ Strangewayes exclaimed.

Glancing back, Will saw that a white sheet now covered most of the Thames. The ice appeared to be spreading from upstream where they had witnessed the frantic activity of the pale fish-creatures. He imagined their ritual dance through the dark depths, drawing up the cold power as they weaved together the final strands of their supernatural masters’ scheme.

Will began to grasp the true scale of the Unseelie Court’s plan. Dee’s tattered defences were still strung out invisibly across London, reinforced by the wards Cecil had put in place round the city’s boundaries and the quay at Greenwich. But the Thames – a silver lance piercing through to the heart of London – had always proved the most difficult to protect.

As they rounded the bend of the river along the narrowing black channel, Will’s worst fears were confirmed. The Charm Boat was locked in the ice not far from the north bank. The two watermen were futilely hammering their oars on the white glaze. It cracked like dry wood, but held firm. No longer able to maintain the ritual path, the frozen wherry had left the river route open to the Enemy.

Carpenter, Launceston and Strangewayes saw the ice-bound boat and looked back to Will with unease. He nodded. ‘They will soon be here.’

The other men’s heads fell, but only for a moment. Carpenter and Launceston threw themselves into their oar-strokes, driving the wherry forward.

‘The Gauntlet will be trapped at the quay,’ Strangewayes called. ‘What chance have we of freeing it from the ice before the attack comes?’

‘We will do what we must.’ Will’s voice was grim. He pulled his cloak around him against the cold and rested one foot on the side as he searched the sky for the ruddy glow from Greenwich’s beacons.

A band of orange sky flared behind the silhouettes of trees, houses and the great bulk of the Palace of Placentia. Wrinkling his nose at the ash caught on the breeze, Will finally saw the stark outline of masts and felt a surge of hope. But only a thin black strand of water stretched out ahead. Their hair and eyebrows white with frost, Carpenter and Launceston shuddered as they struggled to get good strokes with their oars. The wherry bumped against the encroaching ice on either side time and again. Finally the boat came to a juddering halt. The keel groaned from the pressure of the rime forming around it.

‘Abandon ship, lads,’ Will called.

The shivering spies hauled themselves out of the wherry, each one gingerly testing the ice before putting his full weight on it. The frozen river crunched underfoot. Will scrubbed the white glaze off the surface with the sole of his shoe. Through the near-transparent newly formed ice, he glimpsed movement. The fish-creatures glided just beneath their feet. As if it could read his thoughts, one came to a halt in the space Will had created and peered up at him with those unblinking eyes. It gnashed its needle-teeth once and then swam away.

On the river they could have been in Muscovy in winter. Putting his head down into the chill wind, Will headed towards the silhouetted masts. The crunch of his footsteps echoed across the still waste. The other men followed, their breath clouding. After a few moments, the golden lights of the quayside inn glittered through the stark trees and Will could make out the shape of the Gauntlet leaning askew under the force of the ice that had formed around it.

Before he could take another step, Strangewayes called out, ‘The fog returns.’

Will turned to see a low wall of mist reaching from bank to bank at their backs. But this fog was a pearly white and seemed to glow with an inner luminescence. It rolled towards them as if a tailor were unfurling a bolt of cloth. Faint stars twinkled in its midst.

‘Make for the quay as fast as your legs will carry you,’ he urged.

The spies raced towards the inn’s lights, slipping and sliding with each step so that Will feared they would fall and break their necks. When he could smell the acrid stink of the pitch on the Gauntlet’s hull, he paused and looked back. Tall, grey figures were emerging from the mist, cloaks billowing behind them. They stalked towards Greenwich, grasping swords, spears and axes.

Will felt a chill sweep through him even deeper than the one brought by the frozen river. A droplet of blood fell from his nose and froze before it hit the ice. The Unseelie Court were in opposition to nature, and every sense rebelled whenever they were near. Their clothes had a timeless feel, bucklers and leather belts, breeches and boots, all of them silvery grey as if they considered colour too much of a celebration of life for things that flirted with death. Long hair lashed in the wind. Their faces were the colour of frost, shadows pooling around their eyes. Scanning the steadily advancing group, he counted around thirty, small in number yet devastating in force.

‘We have a fight on our hands.’ The wind plucked his words away. ‘And if we fall this night, England is lost.’

He turned and raced up the icy stone steps that led up to the quay where a crowd of puzzled onlookers had gathered to see the frozen Thames. At his back, the winter storm swept in.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

WILL BOUNDED ON to the quayside, calling to the pikemen Cecil had set to guard the Gauntlet, ‘Gather your weapons and prepare for the fight of your lives!’ He knew he was probably sending them to their deaths, but their sacrifice would not be forgotten if the ship could be freed from its icy prison. He caught the officer of the guard by the arm and leaned in to whisper, ‘Tell your men not to look those bastards in the eye, nor listen to their words. They will undermine you with lies and deceit. Keep your eyes on their weapons and kill without mercy.’

The captain nodded, running towards his men, barking orders. Their cuirasses rattling as they ran, the defenders hurried down the stone steps on to the ice.

‘Should we join them in battle?’ Launceston peered towards the pale figures drawing in on the quay.

‘I need you here to help marshal the crew and these labourers. We must break the ice around the Gauntlet and carve a path out to where the river remains unfrozen.’

Unsettled whispers rustled across the quayside. The crowd grew in number as attention fell upon the Unseelie Court. Will beckoned for the other spies to gather closer. ‘We must prevent these good men from having their sleep ruined for evermore – however long that might be after this night,’ he whispered. ‘Spread the word that it is Spanish agents who approach. We need all good Englishmen to do their part in standing firm against the invaders. Keep them occupied.’

‘How do we do that?’ Carpenter asked.

‘Tell them to collect all the pitch from the shipwrights in Greenwich and carry the barrels down on to the ice. One of you find Captain Prouty and order him to prepare to sail.’

‘He will think you mad,’ Strangewayes complained.

‘Mad, I am. For only one of Bedlam’s Abraham men would dare to do what I plan.’ Will grinned. ‘But this is why the Crown selected us for our work. We are all mad, and, as you well know, the gods protect fools and lovers.’

He spun round, shouting, ‘Come, lads!’ to draw the attention of the gathered crowd. Carpenter and Strangewayes followed suit, whipping the men up with shouts and cheers and sending them off to the shipwrights’ stores marked out by piles of stone ballast along the quayside. Emerging from the inn with Launceston, Captain Prouty tossed aside a mug of ale and bounded up the plank to his ship. His orders rang out through the night as he moved across the deck. At the mainmast he paused to point up towards the yards.

Will ventured to the edge of the quay. On the river, the Queen’s men edged away from the safety of Greenwich, pikes levelled and swords drawn. Before them, the Unseelie Court advanced with long, determined strides, heads down into the wind, like wolves preparing to fall on a wounded deer.

Will forced himself not to rush to the aid of the men. Their sacrifice had bought him time. Turning back to the frantic activity along the dockside, he jumped on to the plank leading up to the galleon and demanded more haste in a voice that carried across the docks. As the labourers trundled the barrels of pitch from the stores, the spy directed them to carry their casks down the steps to the ice and there lay them in a line from the ship’s prow out into the river. Carpenter and Strangewayes marshalled another group of men to collect axes and the long-hafted hammers that the boat-builders used to drive wedges to split timber.

‘Captain Prouty insisted I inform you that he does indeed think you are mad,’ Launceston murmured as he urged the men on, drawn sword in his hand.

‘Then we are all in agreement. This is not a place for sane men. Bring the others and let us wallow in our madness.’ Will eased into the flow of men trudging down on to the ice.

Once the barrels of pitch were laid out in a line, he ordered a labourer to stand beside each cask with a hammer or an axe and, on his signal, smash it open. When his arm fell, the crashes of splintering wood drowned out the clash of steel and tormented cries echoing from the battle on the other side of the galleon. The pitch spewed out across the hoar-frost from barrel after barrel, flowing stickily into a black line pointing the way to freedom.

‘Bring me the brand,’ Will called. A workman thrust the spitting torch into his hand, and he lowered the flame to the sable stream. The fire licked at the pitch, raising bubbles that spattered and crackled. After a moment the tar caught. Acrid smoke whisked up, then an orange wall of fire racing out into the middle of the Thames. Cracks like cannon-fire boomed out into the night as the searing heat met the biting cold of the frozen river.

‘Do not wait for the ice to melt,’ Will roared as he marched along the line of workmen. ‘Take your hammers and your axes and smash it to pieces. But take care not to fall into the water.’

Red-faced from the sweltering fire, the men rubbed their hands and spat, grasping their tools and swinging them over their heads. The iron came down like thunder. Chunks of glittering ice flew. Will felt a swell of hope as he saw the jagged cracks race out. Man after man repeated their strikes until the ice shattered and the spy could glimpse lines of black water.

‘Keep at it until a channel forms,’ he yelled. Twirling an upright finger, he summoned the attention of Carpenter, Launceston and Strangewayes, then flicked his hand towards the galleon. They raced for the steps. On the quay, Will glanced back as a blazing pool of pitch slid into the water with a sizzle. A cloud of steam billowed up. When it cleared, he saw a trail of broken ice reaching out to the unfrozen channel in the middle of the river.

Launceston gave a satisfied nod. ‘Let us hope that is enough.’

Cheers rose from the labourers as they swung their tools to break more of the ice. But then, with a resounding crack, a large section broke free and turned vertical like a platter tipping off the edge of a table. Three men standing upon it plunged into the water. Will closed his eyes, knowing what was to come, but still he jerked when the screams tore out.

The dark pool boiled. Labourers inched towards the edge of the cracked ice, reaching out axes towards the thrashing arms. But the limbs fell away at odd angles, and the churning water turned red. After a moment, the river calmed as the feeding ended. The surviving workmen gaped in horror.

Will stifled his dismay at the deaths and ran up the planks leading on to the galleon.

‘Master Swyfte, let us see if this wild plan has found its legs,’ Captain Prouty boomed from the quarterdeck. He was in his fourth decade, his face pockmarked, and his curly hair streaked with grey. At his barked orders, crewmen scaled the rigging to unfurl the sails.

On the forecastle, Will saw that a clear channel now reached out through the shattered ice, widening by the moment. Would the water freeze over before they could set sail, he wondered?

On the poop deck, Carpenter called out. He leaned over the rail, his mouth a grim slash in the flickering light of the ship’s lantern, pointing across the wastes upstream. Will followed the line of his arm. Bodies littered the frozen river, the white now stained with pools of blood. The Unseelie Court had torn through the resistance. The last few pikemen fought on bravely, thrusting with their weapons, but they seemed like statues against the mercury of their foes. The Fay whirled, their blades slicing open throats, lopping off hands or arms or opening up bellies. The last man fell like a strand of barley before a scythe. As one, the Unseelie Court turned towards the galleon and stood motionless for a moment, the bitter breeze whipping their long hair.

Will felt their cold gaze upon him. He sensed their contempt for lesser beings, and their urge for vengeance and hot blood.

The moment passed and the grey figures strode forward together, slow, relentless, as if they knew no prey could ever escape them.

‘Time has run out,’ Carpenter said flatly.

‘Not yet,’ Will growled. His rapier sang as he drew it from its sheath. ‘Let them earn their victory.’

With a deep rumble, the sails caught the wind and the Gauntlet jerked like a horse under whip. The hull protested, the wood flexing against the hard ice. A loud grinding echoed through the night as the vessel pulled free. Will wondered if the keel would survive its ordeal.

Launceston and Strangewayes darted to the rail. The younger man glanced up at the billowing sails and uttered a prayer.

‘You waste your breath calling to your God,’ Carpenter snapped. ‘We will not escape Greenwich without being tested.’

‘What hope do we have?’ Strangewayes replied in a small, wavering voice.

‘They die on the end of cold steel, like any man,’ Will said, trying to reassure him. ‘Whatever they are, they breathe, their hearts beat, their blood flows . . . and it can be spilled.’

Strangewayes nodded, hiding his fear. ‘I am keen to earn my first kill.’

Carpenter gave a sarcastic grunt and Launceston hummed, one eyebrow raised.

‘Let us put our differences aside,’ Will whispered, resting one hand on the youngest spy’s shoulder. ‘Tonight we watch out for each other.’

The Enemy had advanced to within a stone’s throw of the lurching galleon, which seemed to be moving through molasses. The cracking and rending of the ice against the hard oak of the hull resounded through the haunted night. At the last, the Fay warriors broke into a run.

Strangewayes was chilled by the sight of the shadowy faces and the silence of the speedy attack, Will could see, but still he grinned, believing the Fay were incapable of boarding the galleon from the frozen river. Will knew better.

‘Prepare to repel the Enemy,’ he called. ‘Hold them off until we reach open water and that is victory enough.’

Before Strangewayes could question the order, the first line of the Enemy reached the side of the galleon. Simultaneously, the Fay leapt. The thuds of the bodies hitting the wood echoed through the vessel. The next line of warriors followed. Peering over the side, Will and Strangewayes glimpsed the Fay clinging to the hull like grey spiders. Their heads swivelled up as one, their eyes glowing. Uttering an oath under his breath, the younger spy crossed himself.

The Fay began to climb.

‘For England!’ Will called, his voice rising above the shattering of the ice.

Along the rail, any crew members who could be spared drew their swords. Carpenter moved along their ranks, reassuring them with a clap on the back or a touch to the arm. Will could almost hear his quiet urgings: Do not look in their faces. Strike fast. Whatever you might think, they are Spanish agents in disguise.

And then the first head appeared above the rail, the skin near as white as the frozen river below, the face blessed with high cheekbones and a straight nose yet made like a rose rotting on the stem by the cruelty glittering in the dark eyes. Before the nearest seaman could even raise his sword, the Fay warrior lashed out with his left hand. Talons ripped through the seaman’s pale throat. Blood sparkled like rubies in lamplight.

As the gore-spattered Fay warrior leapt on to the rail, the other men rushed forward, levelling swords and swinging cudgels. Sheer weight of numbers dislodged the boarder. But then the silent Fay attack erupted in force all along the rail.

A grey figure swung in front of Will. The spy parried one strike and pivoted to ram his shoulder against his opponent. For a moment, they hung together against the rail, enveloped in the loamy odour of dark tunnels far underground. Their eyes met. Will saw no compassion there, only contempt for some rough beast that was almost beneath its notice. And then the Fay fell backwards and down towards the ice.

The cries of wounded men echoed across the deck, the iron tang of blood caught on the cold breeze. When a man fell, Will darted into the space, thrusting with his rapier as each new bone-white face heaved into view. He glimpsed Launceston, a curious expression on his face as he studied the deep wound his blade had made across the neck of his opponent: a lick of his lips, a flicker of a smile. Carpenter swung his sword like a butcher carving a cow with strong, hard blows, his lips curled back from his teeth. And Strangewayes darted fast and low, each thrust made with grim determination. Yet the wave of Fay warriors seemed as if it would never end.

Lost to the delirious whirl of swords and bodies and the cries and screams and oaths, Will barely realized the galleon was gathering speed until it lurched free of the ice with such force that it almost threw him from his feet. ‘Almost there, Master Swyfte,’ Captain Prouty bellowed from the quarterdeck. ‘Hold them off a moment longer and we will be away.’

Will caught Carpenter’s eyes and they nodded. Renewing their efforts, they yelled encouragement to the men. The Enemy’s attack appeared to falter, then die away, and the spy dared to hope. But the resonant cracking of wood signalled a new approach. Throwing himself to the rail, Will peered down the hull to where the remaining warriors clung like spiders. Another crack echoed as a Fay tore off a gun port and flung the shattered oak behind him. Twisting like a snake, he slithered through the black square into the vessel.

‘To the gun deck!’ Will cried, beckoning his fellow spies as he raced past the bewildered crew and ducked down through the door in the forecastle. He understood the cunning of the Unseelie Court. In the dark, cramped gun deck, filled with cannon, there would be little space for swordplay. The Enemy’s speed and strength would give them an even greater advantage.

He slowed as he stepped into the pitch-black of the lower deck. The steely taint of powder hung in the air. Holding his rapier in front of him, he allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark. At the far end, the lighter night intruded in three shafts where the gun ports had been wrenched off. All was still. Will waved his blade from side to side, searching for the attack he knew would come.

‘They would lure us into their midst so they can slit our throats, unseen,’ Launceston breathed at his shoulder. ‘Let them come to us.’

Though the Earl’s words made sense, Will felt a tingle of apprehension. His worry was answered a moment later by a flaring light. A flint had been struck. A candle flame flickered into life in the open door of a lantern. White faces appeared from the gloom like pale fish rising from the sightless depths. Will saw a triumphant smirk spread across the lips of the Fay warrior who held the lantern and he knew what was to come.

‘Back,’ he yelled, keeping his rapier levelled as he urged the other three up the steps. ‘We are too late.’

The powder barrel lay on its side, its granular, black contents flowing across the boards. Two of the Fay warriors darted past the cannon and wriggled out the way they had entered. The third stood against the open gun door, his gleaming eyes locked on Will. With a flick of his wrist, he released the lantern. The guttering flame arced.

Will pounded back up the steps after the others. The blast ripped through the heart of the vessel, flinging all four spies through the forecastle door and across the main deck. His head ringing, Will felt the ship lurch to one side beneath him. Grey smoke billowed out of the open door. The roar of the raging fire below deck drowned out the terrified cries of the crew.

Will hauled himself on to shaky legs. Flames were already licking up the side of the stricken vessel, curls of sparks whisking towards the sails. He reached out a hand to drag Carpenter to his feet. Launceston and Strangewayes staggered behind.