Within moments, guards raced to their positions under Osborne's direc tion. Venturing to the gate, they peered beyond the curtain wall to where the string of lanterns kept the dark at bay.
"Nothing," Osborne said with relief, his voice almost lost beneath the screams of the animals.
Mayhew kept his attention on Saint Thomas's Tower in the outer curtain wall. Beyond it was the river, and beneath it lay the water entrance that had become known as Traitors' Gate, after the enemies of the Crown who had been transported through it to imprisonment or death. The guards had disappeared inside, but there was no clamour.
After five minutes, Osborne's relief was palpable. "A false alarm, then. Perhaps it was only Spanish spies. With the country on the brink of war, they must be operating everywhere. Yes?"
A guard emerged from Saint Thomas's Tower, pausing for a moment on the threshold. Mayhew and Osborne watched him curiously. With an odd, lurching gait, he picked a winding path towards them.
"Is he drunk?" Mayhew growled. "His head will be on the block by noon if he has deserted his post."
"I ... I do not ..." The words died in Osborne's throat as the guard's path became more erratic. His jerky movements were deeply upsetting, as if he had been afflicted by a palsy.
Mayhew cursed under his breath. "I gave up a life at court for this."
As the guard neared, they saw his hands continually went to his head as if searching for a missing hat. Despite himself, Mayhew reached for the knife hidden in the folds of his cloak.
"I am afraid," Osborne whispered.
"Do you hear music?" Mayhew cocked his head. "Like pipes playing, caught on the breeze?" As he breathed deeply of the night air, he realised the foul odour of the city had been replaced by sweet, seductive scents that took him back to his childhood. A tear stung his eye. "That aroma," he noted, "like cornfields beneath the summer moon." He inhaled. "Honey, from the hive my grandfather kept."
"What is wrong with you?" Osborne demanded. "This is no time for dreams!"
Mayhew's attention snapped back to the approaching guard. As he entered a circle of torchlight, Mayhew saw for the first time that something was wrong with the guard's face. Revolted yet fascinated, he tried to see the detail behind the guard's pawing hands. The skin was unduly white and had the texture of sackcloth. When the hands came away, Mayhew was sickened to glimpse large dark eyes that resembled nothing so much as buttons, and a row of stitches where the mouth had been. An illusion, he tried to tell himself, but he was left with an impression of the dollies the old women sold in Cheapside at Christmastime.
"God's wounds!" Osbourne exclaimed. "What has happened to him?"
Before Mayhew could answer, a blur of ochre and brown burst from the shadows with a terrible roar, slamming the guard onto the turf. Claws revealed bones and organs, and tearing jaws sprayed viscera around the convulsing form. But the most chilling thing was that the guard did not utter a sound.
He could not, Mayhew thought.
The lion's triumphant roar jolted Mayhew and Osborne from their shock.
"The beasts have escaped the Menagerie!" Mayhew thrust Osborne back towards the White Tower, where they ordered the guards who remained within to bar the door and defend it with their lives.
On the steps, Osborne rested one hand on the stone and bowed his head, fighting the waves of panic that threatened to consume him.
Mayhew eyed him contemptuously. "When you volunteered to become one of Walsingham's men, you vowed to deal with the great affairs of state with courage and fortitude. Now look at you."
"How can you be so hardened to this terror?" Osborne blinked away tears of dread. "When I stepped away from my quiet halls of study, it was to give my life in service to England and our queen, and to protect her from the great Catholic conspiracy ... and the ... the Spanish . . ." He swallowed. "The threats on her life from those who wish to turn us back to the terrible rule of Rome. Not this! I never foresaw that my soul would be placed at risk, until it was too late."
"Of course not," Mayhew sneered. If the common herd knew the real reason why England has established a network of spies the envy of all other nations, they would never rest in their beds. Do not fail me. Or the queen."
Osborne steadied himself. "You are right, Mayhew. I act like a child. I must be strong."
Mayhew clapped him on the shoulder with little affection. "Come, then. We have work to do."
They had only climbed a few steps when a tremendous crash resounded from the great oak door through which they had entered the Tower. Flashing a wide-eyed stare at Mayhew, Osborne took the steps two at a time. As they raced along the ringing corridors, Osborne asked breathlessly, "What is coming, Mayhew?"
"Best not to think of that now."
"What did they do to the guard? I knew him. Carter, a good man, with a wife and two girls."
"Stop asking foolish questions!"
The scream of one of the guards at the door below echoed through the Tower, cut short mercifully soon.
"Let nothing slow your step," Mayhew urged.
In the most secure area of the White Tower, they came to a heavy oak door studded with iron. The walls were thicker than a man's height. After Mayhew gave three sharp bursts of a coded knock, a hatch opened to reveal a pair of glowering eyes.
"Who goes?" came the voice from within.
"Mayhew and Osborne, your Lord Walsingham's men."
While Osborne twitched and glanced anxiously over his shoulder, the guard searched their faces, until, satisfied, he began to draw the fourteen bolts that the queen herself had personally insisted be installed.
"Hurry," Osborne whined. Mayhew cuffed him across his arm.
Once inside, Osborne pressed his back against the resealed door and let out a juddering sigh of relief. "Finally. We are safe."
Mayhew didn't hide his contempt. Osborne was too weak to survive in their business; he would not be long for the world and there was little point in tormenting him further by explaining the obvious.
Six guards waited by the door, and another twenty in the chambers within. Handpicked by Walsingham himself for their brutality and their lack of human compassion, their faces were uniformly hard, their hands rarely more than an inch from their weapons. At any other time they would have been slitting the throats of rich sots in the stews of Bankside, yet here they were in the queen's most trusted employ.
"The cell remains secure?" Mayhew asked the captain of the guard. His face boasted the scars of numerous fights.
"It is. It was examined 'pon the hour, as it is every hour."
"Take us to it."
"Who attempts to breach our defences?" the captain asked. "Surely the Spanish would not risk an attack."
When Mayhew did not respond, the captain nodded and ordered two of the guards to accompany the spies. A moment later they were marching past rooms stacked high with the riches of England, gold seized from the New World or looted from ships from the Spanish Main to the Channel.
Beyond the bullion rooms, one of the guards unlocked a stout door and led them down a steep flight of steps to another locked door. Inside was a lowceilinged chamber warmed by a brazier in one corner and lit by sputtering torches on opposite walls. Two guards played cards at a heavy, scarred table. On the far side of the room was a single door with a small barred window.
"I do not see why he could not have been kept with the other prisoners," Osborne said.
"No, of course you do not," Mayhew replied.
"The Tower's main rooms have held two kings of Scotland and a king of France, our own King Henry VI, Thomas More, and our own good queen. What is so special about this one that he deserves more secure premises than those great personages?" Osborne persisted.