Free The Scar-Crow Men by Mark Chadbourn

my doubts.’
    ‘Oh?’ The other man glanced at him askance.
    ‘Come. We are all taught to accept nothing is ever as it appears in our world.’ Will paced around the grave to face the other man across the dark hole.
    ‘True. But it is wise never to delve beneath the surface too publicly,’ Walsingham said with a dismissive shrug. ‘None of us knows who can be trusted. And that is worse now than it ever was when my cousin Sir Francis was spymaster. His poor replacement, Sir Robert Cecil, has ambitions, as does his rival, the Earl of Essex. Why, I would not be surprised if there were a civil war. Fought quietly and behind the scenes, in the manner of spies, of course.’
    ‘And which side would you be on?’ Will asked with a cold smile.
    Walsingham’s own smile was a mask. ‘I am loyal to the Queen, as always.’
    ‘Perhaps the war has already begun.’ Will glanced towards the gravediggers waiting impatiently to fill in the hole.
    ‘Spies die all the time. No one cares.’ The other man plucked a piece of lint off his fine doublet. ‘Their work is all that is important, and it is noted in files and stored away, paid for in blood and often forgotten before the blood is dry. Do you not find that our work is all like one of Kit’s plays?’
    ‘How so?’
    ‘Declamatory statements, blood and thunder, words and images.’ Walsingham threw an arm into the air as if he were on stage. ‘Then the play ends and the audience goes home and life continues, and all that went before is forgotten. Do we pretend to ourselves that what we do has some meaning, when it is really just entertainment?’
    Will pointed into the grave. ‘In entertainment, men do not end there.’
    ‘True. But Kit, like all who love art, knew that there is more to this world than the games we set for ourselves. We lose sight of what truly matters.’
    ‘Spoken like an educated man. Some do not have the luxury of such reflection, when their life is a daily struggle to stay one step ahead of the reaper,’ Will replied.
    Walsingham laughed. ‘You have me there, Master Swyfte. I am fortunate, I know that. Still, I would think you miss the easy certainties of the time when Sir Francis oversaw these great affairs.’
    ‘He is gone, and we have all moved on. There is nothing to be gained by looking back.’ Will felt a brief pang at the irony of his statement.
    ‘There are some who may not agree with you. Sir Francis’ grave was defaced only the other day.’ The other man pursed his lips to show his distaste.
    ‘Oh? When?’
    ‘On the night before Kit’s death. Who would do such a thing?’
    The question was rhetorical, but Will’s thoughts raced. Who would deface the grave of Sir Francis Walsingham, and several years after his death? Someone who knew him and the work he did, perhaps? That was a small group.
    ‘I must return home to Chislehurst,’ Walsingham continued. ‘Important matters call to me, and a clear head is required. This business saddens me, though. I will miss Kit greatly.’ He walked around the grave to shake Will’s hand. ‘I know he was important to you too. Kit always spoke of his good friend warmly. Do not let his death lie on you. He is in a better place now, and finally at peace.’
    Will watched him walk through the gravestones to where his companions waited by the lychgate. Walsingham clapped his fellows across the shoulders as if he were on a jaunt to the nearest inn. There was no sign of the grief he professed.
    ‘Will?’ Grace questioned, taking his arm.
    ‘I would have one moment alone with Kit and then I will join you,’ Will replied gently. Her eyes moist, the woman nodded and made her way towards the lychgate.
    A sudden breeze brought with it the stink of the Isle of Dogs and the sound of hammers from the shipyards. Will felt eyes upon him again. The gravediggers were already collecting their shovels and inspecting the pile of soil.
    ‘Leave me alone,’ Will snapped, looking into the dark hole in the