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.