The Scar-Crow Men

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Authors: Mark Chadbourn
Tags: Historical, Fantasy
ground. His grief felt like a rock on his back, his impotent anger a fire in his heart. As he tried to make sense of all that had happened, a faint movement in the heavy shadow along the church’s western wall caught his eye. A figure was watching the grave from beyond two ancient yews, carefully positioned to avoid being seen.
    Slipping away from the graveside, Will circled the church along the eastern wall. Darting around the back of the squat stone building, he approached the watcher from behind. It was a woman in mourning dress, and from her flame-red hair he guessed it was the one Nathaniel had encountered outside the Rose.
    Will approached silently until he was close enough to prevent her fleeing and then he said, ‘Do not be shy. If you wish to pay your respects, come closer.’
    The woman let out a small cry and whirled, pressing herself back against the corbelled flint wall of the church. Her eyes flashed with recognition when she saw who had startled her.
    ‘You know me?’ The agent stepped closer so she could not slip by him.
    ‘Will Swyfte. England’s greatest spy. Who does not know you?’ Will heard clear Gaelic notes in her voice, but he couldn’t read the emotion behind her words. She raised her chin defiantly and brushed a stray wisp of hair from her pale forehead.
    ‘And yet you appear to know more than most. Like the time and place of my intended death.’ He leaned in close so their faces were only a hand’s-width apart. He could smell her heady fragrance, the notes of orange and cloves.
    ‘I came to the theatre to warn you. Would you have preferred I made no attempt to save your life?’ The woman seemed unthreatened by his forthright behaviour.
    Will stared deep into her eyes, but couldn’t see any deception. She held his gaze with confidence; there was no pretence of coyness. He realized she was used to sustaining the attention of men. ‘You must think highly of me if you would go out of your way to save me,’ he said.
    ‘You think highly of yourself,’ she sniffed. ‘I would have done it for anyone.’
    ‘A charitable woman. How charitable would that be?’
    ‘My charity is only dispensed to needful cases. I sense you are never in want, Master Swyfte.’ Her shoulders relaxed against the hard wall, and a faint smile flickered on her lips.
    ‘We all find ourselves at a loss from time to time.’
    She cocked her head wryly as if she saw something in his face that he hadn’t realized was there. ‘Then I would suggest you work on your swordplay in the privacy of your room, Master Swyfte,’ she breathed. ‘I hear you are regularly called upon to use your weapon, and it would not do to be found lacking in that area. Self-improvement is a virtue.’
    Will grew tired of the game and said firmly, ‘Perhaps we should leave discussion of virtue to a later time. Will you give me your name?’
    ‘Margaret Penteney,’ she replied, so confidently that Will was convinced it was a lie.
    ‘You are here tending the grave of a family member perhaps?’
    ‘My business is my own, Master Swyfte.’
    The spy took a step back. ‘Of course. But I am concerned for your safety. A woman abroad in Bankside, outside a theatre at night? That is not a safe place. Does your father or husband allow you to put yourself in such danger?’
    ‘You should thank me for so endangering myself to try to help you.’
    ‘And it is a happy accident that I am in a position to thank you, here in Deptford, so far from London,’ Will said sardonically.
    ‘We are not to know God’s plan, Master Swyfte.’
    ‘Not God’s, no. However, the plots and plans of men are of great interest to me. And women. How did you uncover the threat against my life?’ He allowed a hard tone to enter his voice, but the flame-haired woman still did not flinch.
    ‘I see and hear many things in my business.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Will?’ Grace was standing at the corner of the tower with a hurt expression. She looked from Will to the woman

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