The Scar-Crow Men by Mark Chadbourn

his whip to urge the death-cart horse into Candlewick Street. On the seat beside Cressy, Thomas Bailey tied his scarf tighter around his young, pockmarked face. In the summer heat, the first load of the day reeked even worse than usual after the bodies had been left in their houses overnight.
    ‘The Lord Mayor says the hounds disperse the plague,’ Thomas said. ‘Though in the Cross-Keys, they are now taking bets on which will die out first – men or curs.’
    ‘God punishes us for our indiscretions, but he will never see his creations gone.’ The carter, broad-shouldered and round of belly, still stank of the beer he had been drinking all night. After a moment’s drunken reflection, he added thoughtfully, ‘Although the plague’s pace has not slowed. Indeed, it grows faster. Entire streets are now empty around the Tower.’
    ‘I heard tell they are running out of men to watch the houses to make sure the poor, sickened souls do not leave, and now they are hiring boys and women. And the aldermen have called for yet another death-cart to ply this grisly trade.’
    ‘As long as I get my eight pennies a day, and my free beer, I care little.’ Cressy hunched forward, gripping the reins in his chubby fingers as he peered along the quiet street. The carters and merchants had found other routes to take them away from the vicinity of the plague pits.
    To his right, Thomas eyed the constant, sinuous movement in the early morning shadows next to the walls of the timber-framed houses. Rats everywhere, filling the space that the tradesmen had vacated. The vermin had never had so much food to feast upon.
    The wheels rattled across the ruts as Cressy guided the creaking cart towards the plot among the row of houses. It had once been a garden, but now the youth could see only brown earth. A black cloud of cawing crows enveloped the site, rising to the blue sky in a thunder of wings when the cart came to a halt. Tails lashing, the sleek rats scurried around the edge of the yawning pit.
    ‘Nearly full now,’ Cressy grunted, heaving his large frame from the seat. ‘The Lord Mayor’s men will need to find another plot to dig, if they can. Not much left in this here city.’
    Even through his scarf, Thomas choked at the stench. His eyes watering, he levered himself from the cart while the older man ambled to the edge of the pit. A moment later, Cressy’s strangled cry rang out. At first, the youth thought the carter had tumbled into the grave, but with a hand clutched to his mouth, the fat man was staggering backwards, his gaze fixed on the dark hole.
    Thomas ran past the stumbling man, slowing as he neared the pit.
    What horrors has he seen?
    Peering into the stinking grave, the youth thought his heart would stop. The shroud-wrapped bodies had moved. Blackened faces stared up at him, the stained linen torn away from the heads. Thomas remembered laying the corpses flat, but now they were in a jumble, some leaning against the muddy walls of the pit as if they had tried to climb out, others upended or sprawling in seeping piles.
    Were the dead angry at their plight? Could they no longer rest in peace?
    The youth crossed himself and whispered, ‘In God’s name, what monstrous thing has happened here?’

CHAPTER EIGHT
    A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT BLAZED THROUGH THE DIAMOND-PANE window on to the blanket-covered body. Around the head, the rough woollen shroud was stained brown, and more blood had spattered the dry rushes on the floor. A thick-set man in a shabby doublet tore bunches of fresh-picked rosemary, thyme and mint in a futile attempt to disguise the foul smells, but the corpse of Christopher Marlowe had lain in that cramped, hot room for a day and a half.
    Will could not take his eyes off the dirty blanket, that simple, pathetic image telling him everything he feared about Marlowe’s life and his own future. He felt the loss more acutely than he would ever have imagined.
    It was mid-morning on 1 June. Standing at the back of the