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twenty years, the Enemy chose this night to free the prisoner from the Tower,"
    Will pressed. "Why now, unless the Key is already in their hands?"

    Walsingham and Dee exchanged a brief glance.

    "What do you know?" Will demanded.

    "The Enemy's plans burn slowly," Dee replied. "They do not see time like you or I, defined by the span of a man's life. Their minds move like the oceans, steady and powerful, over years and decades, and longer still. Yet we knew some great scheme was in motion, just not its true nature."

    "When the defences of the nation were first put in place, all was quiet for many years."
    Walsingham stood erect, his hands clasped behind his back. "The hope grew that finally we would be safe. But then there came the strange and terrible events surrounding the execution of the traitor Mary, Queen of Scots, one year ago and we glimpsed the true face of the terror that was to come."

    ((CHAPTER 4
    v

    SPECIAL_IMAGE-00087.jpg-REPLACE_ME

    18th February 1587

    SPECIAL_IMAGE-00051.jpg-REPLACE_ME 11 through the bitter winter's night, Robert, earl of Launceston, had ridden, and finally in the thin, grey morning light his destination fell into view on the rain-soaked Midlands terrain. His fingers were frozen on the reins, his breeches sodden and mud-splattered, and his bones ached from the cold and exhaustion.

    Launceston was hardly used to such privation, but he could not refuse his orders to be the eyes and ears of Lord Walsingham for the momentous event about to take place. Though thirty-eight, he looked much older. His skin had an unnatural, deathly pallor that many found repulsive and had made him something of an outcast at court, his nose long and pointed, his eyes a steely grey.

    When Walsingham called on him, it was usually to have a throat slit in the middle of the night, a Spanish agent agitating for Elizabeth's overthrow or assassination, sometimes a minor aristocrat with unfortunate Catholic sympathies. He had forgotten how many he had killed.

    At least this time he would only be watching a death instead of instigating it.

    Just beyond Oundle, Fotheringhay Castle rose up out of the flat, bleak Northamptonshire landscape on the north side of the meandering River Nene. On top of the motte was the grand stone keep, surrounded by a moat, with ramparts and a ditch protecting the inner bailey where the great hall lay alongside some domestic buildings. The gatehouse stood on the other side of a lake crossed by a bridge. Lonely. Well defended. Perfect for what lay ahead.

    As he drew towards the castle, Launceston feared he had missed the event. Mary's execution had been scheduled for the cold dark of seven a. in. and the hour was already approaching ten, but he could hear music from the courtyard and the distant hubbub of an excited crowd.

    Encouraging his horse to find its last reserves, he pressed on through the deserted Fotheringhay village, across the bridge, and the drawbridge, and into the courtyard.

    "A ghost!"

    "An omen!"

    When they saw his ghastly features peering from the depths of his hood, a shiver ran through the crowd of more than a hundred who had come to see history made. He hated them all, common, witless sheep, but to be fair, he disliked his own kind at the court just as much.

    As they slowly realised he was only a man, they returned their attention to the grey bulk of the great hall. Some waved placards with Mary drawn as a mermaid, a crude insult suggesting she was a prostitute. She had no friends there on the outside, but the long wait had reduced the baying to a harsh murmur. The air of celebration was emphasised by a band of musicians, playing an air that usually accompanied the execution of witches. It could have been considered another insult, except Launceston knew that Walsingham had personally requested the playing of the dirge.

    Dismounting, he strode towards the hall where his way was barred by the captain of the sheriff's guard in breastplate and helmet, halberd raised.