“At Wandlebury Camp, near Cambridge, a night rider will appear under the full moon to challenge all comers. The wounds he inflicts bleed anew on the anniversary of the night they were inflicted. In the Lickey Hills in haunted Worcestershire, the local folk tell how the Devil and his chief huntsman Harry-ca-nab hunt wild boars, and if they cannot find their game they hunt the locals.”
For nearly an hour, Will detailed the atrocities, the blood-soaked fields, the devastated lives and stolen children, the changelings, the disappeared, the hunted and the haunted and the corrupted. His litany of misery covered every quarter of England, and reached back as far into the past as historians had documented. It was as he had been told in the days after he had been recruited by Walsingham, and Miller’s reaction was the same, the disbelief shading to shock, then to a creeping, cold devastation at the realisation that there was no safe place.
Stretching his legs, Will watched the clouds blowing across the afternoon sky as he completed the first part of his account. “In Atwick, in Yorkshire, no one dares drink at the local spring. In York … at Alderley Edge … at Kirkby Lonsdale and Castleton Fell …” His words dried up, but the silence that followed said enough.
“My grandfather disappeared in the marshes at Romney, following a mysterious light. We never found his body,” Miller began hesitantly.
“They are everywhere, Tom Miller. In every part of this country, and beyond too, I would wager. We have all been touched by them, though we might not realise it. They may exist on the edges of what we see, but they are always there. They have always been there.”
“What are they?” Miller asked. “Are they—?”
With a reassuring smile, Will held up a hand to silence him. “The farmers do not speak their name, lest they answer. They call them the Fair Folk or the Good Neighbours. You know who they are.”
“My mother said they helped.”
“Some did. But there is a cruel group among them who find us game for hunting, or sport when they are bored.” As he looked out past the broken tiles, across the smoky city, Will could feel the eyes of Launceston, Mayhew, and Carpenter on his back, all waiting to see how Miller would deal with the news. He had revealed to him the problem and brought him down; now it was time to uncover the solution. “But no more,” he added.
“But … the scarecrow in the street. They do not leave us alone,” Miller said, puzzled.
“No. There are other accounts, but fewer now. Mere skirmishes, to let us know they still exist. The hot war we fought with their kind has blown cold.” Will struck a defiant tone as he turned back to Miller. “We found a way to fight back.”
“Against a power like that? How?”
“Your thanks should go to Doctor Dee. When Elizabeth came to the throne in 1558 and received the truth of these matters passed down across the years through royal channels, she decided it was time to take a stand. The people of England could no longer be the plaything of an outside power. Determined to end generations of suffering, she turned to her teacher, advisor, and confidant Doctor Dee, and brought him close, charging him with the task. Through his esoteric studies, Dee came upon a solution, and after a night in which it is said storms tore England apart and ghosts walked in every churchyard, England’s defences were secured.”
“How did Doctor Dee achieve such a thing?”
“In this business of secrets, Dee keeps his closer than any. Whatever he did … whatever price he paid … it changed everything overnight. The Enemy could no longer attack us with impunity. They retreated to their distant homes, seething that those they considered so lowly had now risen up to challenge their rule.”
“If we have locked them out, how do they return to torment us?” Miller asked.
“Over time, they still find a way through here or there, a quick blow, but it is nothing like before. Yet in their absence they are even more dangerous. Their loss of power has wounded them. Always arrogant, they refuse to accept they now have equals and are determined to bring us once again to our knees. Now, instead of seeing us as sport, they see us as a threat, and they are determined to destroy us for all time. And so they plot, and bide their time, and search for a way through our defences. We must be ever vigilant, for we do not know where or when their decisive blow will come. And it will come, sooner or later. Their intellect, and their anger, burn hot. They have been spurned, and they will want a vengeance that will clear us from the world.”
“And this business with the Silver Skull?”
Will was pleased to see that Miller’s unease had dissipated a little. His brow was furrowed as he turned over the information, weighing options, realising, Will hoped, that there was no need to be fatalistic.
“They have never launched such a bold attack before, which suggests this artefact is of the greatest importance to them. And the only thing they consider important now is our destruction.”
“So … so … we do not fight the Spanish?”
“We do. We are in a bitter struggle with our Earthly enemies for our continued existence as a nation. That is how it always has been, though our lot was made more difficult by Henry’s decision to break with Rome. But now the Enemy stirs and manipulates our Catholic opponents. Indeed, not just Spain, or France, but all the foreign monarchs. We should stand shoulder to shoulder against a common foe, but religion is a formidable wedge. Catholic? Protestant? It means nothing to me. We are all brothers in our skin. But the Enemy is skilled at finding weaknesses and exploiting them to their own advantage.”
Cleaning his nails with his knife, Launceston came over. Will could see he had softened in his opinion of Miller now that the youth had not lost his head. “At times it appears the whole world is against us, with the Enemy manipulating all to crush us. But we have risen up off our knees and now that we have gained freedom, we shall not let it go again. We will do whatever it takes to survive.”
“And this is our job, then?” Miller asked.
“This is the true reason for our network of spies,” Will agreed. “Yes, we have agents in the foreign courts and we continually gather information against our Earthly enemies, but the real reason for our existence is the true Enemy.”
“We operate in the shadows, always presenting two faces to the world,” Launceston continued, “but the true nature of our fight, and the Enemy we face, must never be revealed. For the people of England would lose hope if they knew the scale of the forces ranged against us.”
“After Dee’s defences were secured, the first plans for a secret service to oppose the Enemy’s renewed attention were laid by Elizabeth’s chief minister William Cecil, Lord Burghley, and in 1566 he summoned our Lord Walsingham to enact the strategy that we now see through today.”
Miller clutched his temples. “My head is spinning. I can no longer tell what is truth or fiction. This all seems like a dream. A nightmare.”
“A nightmare indeed,” Launceston replied, “and we continue to take those bad dreams back to the Enemy’s door. We have fought them to a standstill in the twenty-two years since Lord Walsingham came to court, and there have been casualties on both sides. The battle will continue, cold, and hard, and fought forever in the shadows. I cannot see an end to it.”
“We cannot defeat them?” Miller asked.
“They are like the sea,” Launceston replied.
“But if our defences ever crack, they would wash us away in the flood,” Will said. “We cannot let that happen. Our guard must not fall for an instant. You see now the importance of the work we do?”
“It is all down to us?” Miller’s voice had grown thin and reedy.
“England and our queen demand the best of us,” Will said. “We shall not let them down.”
Outside, a flock of birds rose suddenly into the sky, cawing discordantly as they swooped across the rooftops. It was a strangely desolate sound that touched them all.
“I would be alone with my thoughts for a while,” Miller said quietly. “You have given me much to ponder.”
Once agai
n, Launceston fixed an incisive eye on the youth.
“Take your moment,” Will said, “but when night falls the time for thinking will have passed. Then we act.”
HAPTER 13
ranches tore at Will’s face and brambles ripped at his ankles as he crashed through the trees in search of the watcher. It was cool in the twilit world, the trees so densely packed in the ancient forest that he could barely see more than ten feet ahead. After a moment, he came to a halt against a twisted oak and listened intently. Only the sighing of the wind reached his ears.
After a moment’s hesitation, he picked his way back along the trail he had made. It would be too dangerous to go any deeper. Near-impenetrable in parts, the Forest of Arden sprawled for mile upon mile across the Warwickshire countryside and was home to bands of cutthroats and robbers.
In the high summer heat, Jenny sat on the grassy slope falling away from the forest’s edge, the whole of their world spread before her. She greeted him with a wry smile. “Starting at shadows again,” she teased.
Will was caught by a moment of pure clarity. Her dress, the blue of forget-me-nots, the tumble of her brown hair across her shoulders, features more delicate than all the other village girls, green eyes more intelligent, the faintly quizzical nature of her smile. Some element, or combination of elements, brought forth an acute awareness of the tumble of time: from the moment the tomboy pushed him into the pond on the green when he was ten, through the fights and the arguments, the slow surfacing of respect, emotions and perceptions shifting and coalescing across the seasons. At no point would he ever have predicted it would lead here, now. But it had.
“Some of the girls hereabouts dream of a valiant protector who would fling themselves into danger at the slightest provocation. ” He sniffed archly.
“Then you should seek them out. “
Lounging languorously next to her, he feigned aloofness, but his gaze was continually drawn back to the trees and the shadows that lay among them. Someone had been watching them.
“Though I am now filled with confusion,” she mused. “I thought I was stepping out with a poet. Who, in recent times, had also found fame in the debating chambers of the university at Cambridge. A scholar, and a dreamer. A writer of beautiful sonnets mapping the landscape of his heart.”
“A man can be many things, Jenny.”
“You would not hurt a fly,” she said, laughing. She toyed absently with the locket at her throat.
“What do you keep in there?”
“A fresh rose petal every day during the summer. To remind me of my one true love. “
“He is a lucky man.”
“He is. I hope he knows it.”
Excitement and nervousness fought within him. Everything was changing quickly. Good fortune had brought the patron to his door, and it now seemed certain his poetry would be published. At first there would only be a small stipend, but his future appeared assured and he could finally consider marriage.
With his hands behind his head, he pretended to watch the clouds, while eyeing her surreptitiously. Was this the right time to ask her?
She cuffed him on the arm. “I can see you watching me,” she said.
“Making sure you are safe. “
“I need no man to keep me safe.” She arched one eyebrow at him. “You should know that by now, Will Swyfte. “
He did. She was strong-willed and independent, fearless in the way she lived her life, and she kept the men of the village at bay with a quick wit that left them slackjawed. Many of the locals found her hard to handle, but those were just the qualities that had drawn Will to her.
He weighed telling her of his intentions, and then decided it would wait until the afternoon. He wanted to ensure the moment was perfect, shaped like a sonnet to capture the emotion for all time, and soon she would be away to help Grace prepare lunch for their mother.
“When does your father return from his business in Kenilworth?” he asked.
She eyed him curiously. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason. “
“Well, Master Without-Reason, I must be away to my chores. Let us meet again in an hour. And I will give you my opinion on your latest sonnet, should you require it.”
“As always. “
She surprised him with a kiss on the forehead. “My heart is yours,” she whispered. And then she was gone.
He spent the next few minutes planning the proposal in his head, and then fell asleep beneath a rowan tree, confident in the knowledge that there would be no bigger day in his life.
When he awoke, it was afternoon and the countryside was held beneath a languid heat. Afraid he was late, he hurried down the baked track towards Jenny s house. The wind stirred the golden sea of corn into gentle waves that rippled around the hedgerows, where clouds of butterflies fluttered over the meadow fescue and birdsfoot trefoil. Birdsong and the drone of bees wove a languorous accompaniment to a day for lazy walks, not momentous events.
Across the field, he could just make out the thatched roof, and beyond it the dense, dark wall of the Forest of Arden stretching as far as the eye could see. Jenny’s mother would undoubtedly be tending the garden with Grace at her side after the morning’s chores had been completed. And Jenny would be free to spend the afternoon with him.
His thoughts of a lifetime with Jenny, and of writing, of love and art, were interrupted by the sound of her voice calling his name. On the far side of the field, she pushed her way through the corn towards him, smiling and waving, the blue of her dress sharp against the gold. Her face was filled with the joy of seeing him. There was something so perfect in that image he was sure it would stay with him always.
Climbing the stile, he set off across the field to meet her halfway. Before he had taken ten paces into the crop, the black clouds of a summer storm swirled out of nowhere in a sudden blast of wind. Puzzled by the strange phenomenon, he paused to watch the clouds sweeping towards the sun, wondering why the image troubled him so.
Within a moment, it had grown almost as dark as night. Disoriented by the buffeting gale, Will was shocked by a crack of thunder directly overhead, and then the clouds dissipated as quickly as they had arrived.
With the sun blazing once more, he returned his attention to the cornfield and prepared to hurry on to Jenny. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. He came to a slow halt and looked around the rolling, golden waves.
Playing a game, he thought with a smile. No one took such joy in teasing him.
“You cannot hide from me,” he called. “I will find you.”
She had ducked down below the level of the corn and was circling to surprise him from behind.
Calling her name, he ploughed a furrow through the swaying gold, but when he reached the point where he had last seen her, he came to another puzzled halt. Her trail was clear through the corn to her house. But there was no sign of any other path leading off. He knelt down to examine the stems of the corn, but none had been bent or broken.
His heart began to beat faster, still without truly realising why. Jenny was playful, and clever, he told himself, trying to find an answer to the puzzle.
He searched around the area, but when he glanced back he saw a confusion of his own furrows crisscrossing the corn. It was impossible to move without leaving a trail. But Jenny had left none.
He called her name loudly. He tried to call brightly, but he could hear the edge of desperation in his voice.
Only the sighing of the wind returned, as it had in the forest. A feeling of unaccountable dread descended on him. Jenny was gone.
Turning slowly, he tried to find answers that would not come, and after a moment he heard himself whispering, “I will find you. “
HAPTER 14
he Bow Bells rang out and the City gates were slammed shut as night ,fell. From the ragged gap in the roof, Will heard the bellman set out to patrol the streets, calling the hour followed by his familiar refrain:
Remember the clocks,
Look well to your locks,
Fire and your light,
And God give you good night,
For now the bell ringeth.
“Now?” Carpenter prompted.
“Now,” Will replied. His dream-memory, and the feeling of loss and grief that accompanied it, was still heavy on him.
In the street, the chill of the spring dark had done little to dampen the stink. As they waited in a doorway for a pair of smartly dressed coney-catchers to pass on their way to finding a gull or two at the theatre, Launceston whispered, “Let us hope Pickering has not disposed of the Silver Skull, or the Enemy has not located it while we hid like mice. If the boy had not acted so weak we would not be in this position.”
“But we are, so let us hear no more of it,” Will replied.
He eyed Miller, who waited with Mayhew, now even more subdued since night had fallen. His eyes continually flickered from side to side as if searching for an imminent attack.
Will wished he could have sent Miller back to Walsingham, but in his current state it was unlikely he would get out of Alsatia alive. Knowing they would have to carry their liability with them, he had assigned Mayhew to watch over him, and subdue him at the first sign of panic; at least Mayhew could be trusted not to kill Miller, unlike Launceston.
The dark cloaked them as they moved along the streets, the only illumination the glimmer of candles and lamps through dirty glass. At the tavern, they hid in an alley where they could observe the door. When a drunk reeled out across the ruts, Will and Carpenter caught him beneath the arms, clamping one hand over his mouth, and steered him into the alley, where a knife at the throat helped loosen his tongue. Once they had the location of a house where Pickering’s men took daily delivery of prizes stolen by their cutpurses, they left the drunk unconscious.
The Silver Skull Page 10