The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  “A good attempt, Nat.” Pushing his chair back, Will swung a boot onto the table and wiped a bleary eye. “Enlightenment might strike you if you had taken the time to read The Matter of Olde English by Williams, a dour fellow from Cambridge. I presume you have a copy on your bedside table?”

  Sighing, Nathaniel motioned for Will to continue.

  “If you had, then you would know of heorot, our ancestors’ word for deer, which the rough-tongued people of England pronounced hart. H-a-r-t.”

  “Hart … heart,” Nathaniel mused. “Ah, I see. We search for the deer of truth, who bounds through the glades of faith … or is it charity? … not far from the fields of hope. In the hunting grounds behind the palace, I presume.”

  “Why, Nat, in your sadly familiar mockery you come close to striking the nail upon the head.”

  “Is that a copy of The Matter of Olde English I spy before you?”

  As Nathaniel leaned forwards, Will moved the book to the other side of the table. “Concentrate, Nat! I am here to add to your poor education. Another word for `hart’ is `stag.’ I read this morning of the early days of the palace, and more importantly of the abbey that stands beside it. It was built for the Augustinians by King David in 1128, guided, I was told earlier this night, by the Templar Knights. The location was precise, and chosen by King David following a vision he had of a white stag with the cross lodged between its antlers—the cross, or the Holy Rood, from which the palace gets its name.”

  “So the thing for which you search—”

  “A Shield, or the protection.”

  “It is at the abbey, not the palace.”

  “Correct. The Enemy presumed the reference to the Holy Rood meant the Shield was beneath the palace.”

  “And the martyr in black and white?”

  “Still eludes me. But we have a start. And when we are entertained by the king this evening, we shall investigate further.”

  HAPTER 23

  s the sun set, the carriages rolled down the cobbles of the mile-long avenues that stretched from the castle to the Palace of Holyroodhouse, each one awash with peacock feathers, pearly beads, and gold banners. Inside were the Scottish aristocracy in their finest clothes, the ambassadors, and the senior clergy who had amassed great fortunes to match their indulgent lifestyles.

  From the Cowgate house, Will, Nathaniel, Reidheid, and his daughter travelled together in a less extravagant carriage. Though it was protected, Will kept a close watch along the route for any sign of the Enemy.

  “This will be a fine night,” Meg said. Her eyes shone when they fell on Nathaniel. “The king’s festivities are lavish. I think he likes to take the opportunity to rebel against the preachings of the church.”

  “Yet still no queen,” Nathaniel noted. “And he is … twenty-two?”

  Eyeing Nathaniel askance, Reidheid added with a strained note, “The king prefers the company of males. His advisors have struggled to find a suitable mate, but at least the damnable Earl of Lennox no longer exerts his influence over James.”

  “You know the court well,” Will noted, “and you have some influence to gain an invite for a well-known English spy.”

  “Not influence enough. The king is suspicious of all beyond his immediate circle. The threats that preceded the forcible removal of Lennox from the king’s company have made him wary of all. Indeed, he has moved to exert control over his lords. Yet I have been informed that the king was very keen to have you present.”

  Will raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “He has some concerns over mutual enemies. He is fearful of many things.”

  Will and Reidheid exchanged a glance while Meg and Nathaniel smiled at each other, oblivious. The carriage rattled past the last of Edinburgh’s houses and the crowd of local people who had gathered to watch, to the wild, green land at the foot of the hills that surrounded the palace. The extensive gardens that James had remodelled when he took the throne overflowed with colourful blooms and the last strains of the day’s bird-song filled the air. It was a far cry from the oppressive darkness of the city, and the filth and the crime. Yet the wilderness that stretched from the hunting grounds beyond the palace was disturbing in its own way, for it belonged to the Unseelie Court, and particularly after dark. To Will’s eyes, the palace was an island extending into Enemy territory.

  The building was much smaller than the Palace of Whitehall, though still imposing with its pale stone and red-tiled roof, towers and spires, and soaring diamond-paned windows that flooded the interior with light. Just behind it, to the south side, Will spied the solid bulk of the abbey, a brooding presence beside the bright palace.

  There was already a queue of carriages passing through the gate in the wall to drop off the nobility under the protective arches of the large stone gatehouse on the west side of the palace. Once they had stepped down from their carriage to be greeted by a clutch of the king’s busy but silent servants, Reidheid led Will, Nathaniel, and Meg through the gates to the quadrangle, a grassy area surrounded by the three-storey palace buildings, and from there to the State Rooms where the guests were gathered.

  The court was big, almost six hundred people, swelled by the other guests, and the perfumed atmosphere was abuzz with conversation. Musicians played a masque specially composed for the occasion, with lutes, both bass and mean, a bandora, a double sackbut, a harpsichord, and several violins.

  As Reidheid introduced Will around the room, the young wife of the Earl of Angus broke off from her conversation to be presented to Will. She looked him in the eye flirtatiously and smiled. “I have heard tell of your exploits, Master Swyfte, even here in Edinburgh, and I would know if they are true.”

  Will bowed and kissed her hand. “If all the stories about me were true, my Lady, I would be worn down upon my deathbed.”

  She laughed, her eyes twinkling. “How you evaded the Doge’s men in Venice by disguising yourself as a Harlequin?”

  “True, my Lady.” Will hid his weariness at the familiar tranche of questions, smiled and nodded and answered several more.

  “And how you have romanced all the women at the Court of Elizabeth?” She narrowed her eyes.

  “I have not heard that story, my Lady,” he replied.

  As a ripple of excited conversation crossed the room when the king entered, she took the opportunity to lean in close and whisper in Will’s ear. “I would hear more of your tales, Master Swyfte. Perhaps in a quieter place?”

  Before Will could respond, the king swept towards Will under the guidance of an unsettled Reidheid, and the Earl’s wife retreated with a knowing gleam in her eye.

  “Master Swyfte, the king would speak with you in private,” Reidheid said, clearly unused to such attention.

  The king had inherited his mother Mary’s red hair, but none of her good looks or sexual charisma. Slightly feminine in manner, he had a weak chin, a lazy eye, a prominent nose, and his lips pursed in a manner that suggested he was passing judgment, but as he spoke to his guests in passing, Will could see he had a ready intellect and a bright sense of humour.

  Will bowed. “You honour me.”

  “Yes. I do.” James gave a wry smile.

  Will followed him to the edge of the room where Reidheid and James’s aides kept a respectful distance so the conversation could be conducted privately.

  “Master Swyfte, your reputation precedes you,” James said.

  “So I have just been told.”

  “I would say, firstly, that the execution of my mother at Fotheringhay last year was a harsh blow, `a preposterous and strange procedure,’ as I pronounced at the time.” He chose his words carefully, hesitating for a long time at the end of the sentence. “How strange was it, Master Swyfte?”

  “It was in accordance with the law of the land.”

  “That is not my meaning.” After a moment’s consideration, he continued, “My mother acted strangely for many years. She was not herself, do you understand?”

  Will did not respond.

&n
bsp; “The circumstances surrounding her execution led me to believe that there was more to her death than perhaps even I knew.”

  “These are matters of state, and I am a lowly—”

  “I know what you are,” James interrupted sharply. “I know the business of Walsingham’s men.” He leaned in and whispered forcefully, “Do you think me blind to the terrible ways of the world, when I am surrounded by vile things that seek to threaten everything we have built?”

  “We have an understanding,” Will replied.

  “But you do not understand what it is like here in Scotland, Master Swyfte.” Emotion rose in James’s voice and for a moment it looked as if he might cry. “You do not understand the trials we face, the suffering inflicted upon my people in secret. They feel themselves the victims of a harsh fate, plucked from their homes, murdered as they cross the glens and hillsides. If only they knew the truth!”

  “Which is why they should never know.”

  James calmed himself, nodding. “Scotland needs aid, Master Swyfte. We need the defences you have established in England.”

  “That is not a matter for me—”

  James held up his hand. “I know. And I know you have the ear of some of the highest in the land. If you could take word back with you—”

  “There are proper channels for that communication.”

  “And yet they are always closed to me! England does not want to know of our suffering!”

  “England has suffering enough of its own. It faces enemies on every side, and from within. Many, I might add, that have crept in from north of the border, from your own Catholic sympathisers, and through the connections you have with France.”

  James’s expression grew taut. “We need the aid of England. One day, if Elizabeth passes without issue, I will be king of England, and then there will come a change. I will save my nation, Master Swyfte.”

  “We all wish to see the Enemy defeated. This is not a matter of nations, or religion. Those are distractions … yes, that is tantamount to treason in some quarters, but it is the truth. We are a brotherhood of man, and we should stand together against the greater threat. Only by recognising our common values can we rise up from our knees.”

  James smiled with a touch of relief. “It pleases me that we share this common ground, Master Swyfte. Perhaps change will come in my lifetime. Perhaps—”

  A commotion rose up near the entrance to the State Rooms, and a second later several of the king’s advisors ran over, concern marring their features. Ashen-faced, they hovered near their king, until one said, “They insist on entering. They claim it is their right as nobility.”

  With Will close behind, James marched towards the door, the crowd opening before him. The music died away, and the conversation stilled.

  As the doors to the State Rooms swung open, the light from the candles grew dimmer, although the flames burned as strong. Shadows fell at strange angles, and a suffocating atmosphere descended. Here and there across the room, blood began to drip from noses.

  Ten members of the Unseelie Court stepped in, the terrible weight of their gazes ranging across everyone present. The king’s guests recoiled as one. The strangers advanced with languid superiority, like wolves among sheep, their emotions, their thoughts, everything about them unreadable. No one could look them fully in the face, and if any caught an eye by accident, the blood drained from them, and they crossed themselves, muttering prayers. Will knew the unease went far beyond the physical appearance of the Unseelie Court; it was as if a grave had been opened in everyone’s presence.

  So potent was the sense of threat, it was as if the strangers were on the brink of falling upon those assembled and slaughtering them where they stood. Their clothes, while of the finest material, appeared to be on the brink of rot, stained here and there with silvery mildew, the style harking back to a distant age. A scent of loam accompanied them. Their cheekbones were high, their hair long, their eyes pale, but there was an odd quality to their features that meant they rarely registered on the mind; once they had passed from view it was almost impossible to recall the details of their appearance.

  Instantly, Will went for his knife, but James stopped him with a cautionary hand. “Leave them,” he said desolately. “If we dare to challenge them, my people will pay the price for months, perhaps years, to come. Now do you see what I mean? Now do you see?” His voice cracked with anger.

  From his bearing, one was clearly the leader. His long hair, the colour of sun on corn, fell around his shoulders, but failed to soften his icy features.

  Spying James and Will, he approached, while his advisors circled the room, pausing to stare into the faces of those nearby. Some of the guests sobbed or swooned under the attention. Others took on a fatalistic expression that was painful to see, as if they had accepted that the date of their death had been decided.

  The leader studied James’s and Will’s faces for a moment as if examining a lesser species. His eyes were too black, his stare unblinking. “I am honoured to be in the presence of the great King James of the land of Scotland,” he said, pronouncing each word as if he carried a pebble in his mouth. His voice was low, and quiet, and some quality to it made Will feel unaccountably cold. “I am Cavillex of…” He paused, and then added with a contemptuous nod “… the Unseelie Court.”

  “You are the king of your people?” James asked.

  Cavillex’s eyes narrowed. “My family guides the Court.” His attention skittered on to Will. “You trespassed in one of my homes, hurt one of those close to me, took what is mine—”

  “I freed a poor soul imprisoned against his will.”

  James flinched at Will’s defiance.

  “Took what is mine,” Cavillex repeated. “The disrespect you have shown is unforgivable. I would know your name.”

  “You will learn it soon enough. It will be engraved in your heart.”

  Cavillex nodded thoughtfully as he searched Will’s face. “You have been touched by us before.”

  “Many men have been touched by your kind. There will be an ending to that business.”

  Cavillex ignored Will’s insolence and continued to peer deeply into his eyes. “What was her name?” he enquired thoughtfully.

  Deep in his head, Will felt something shift. His thoughts unfolded, rolling away like the mist on an autumn morning, and in the sun-drenched landscape that was revealed, he saw Jenny again, coming towards him through the cornfield, her face ablaze with love. His heart pounded with joy. He wanted to feel the touch of her hand in his once more, the sweetness of her cheek against his lips, the perfume of her hair, the melody of her voice, her laughter; her love.

  And then the image faded, and he knew it was an echo, fading with each passing day, slowly draining the happiness from his life. A wave of grief washed through him, but he held it back before it broke on his face.

  “Would you like to know if she still lives?” Cavillex enquired.

  “Why would I listen to your words? They are lies and obfuscations and swamp-lights that lead you on to disaster,” Will replied.

  “Because hope and yearning forces you to listen, even when you know it is painful or futile. That is the way of men. You follow the light to try to ease the pain of your existence. You need the promise because you cannot deal with the harshness of the truth.”

  “And you take advantage of our weakness.”

  “You carry your own destruction with you,” Cavillex continued. “Love. Even as it leads you on, it ruins you.”

  “And yet we continue,” Will replied. “And when you divine that mystery you will realise you can never win.”

  “I know where she is.” Cavillex nodded as he saw the light rise up in Will’s face. “Alive, yes.”

  “With your kind?”

  Cavillex remained implacable.

  Will privately cursed himself for responding; he had proved Cavillex right. He forced himself to dismiss Cavillex’s admission as another manipulation designed to inflict pain, but something in his
opponent’s face, or tone, hinted at a deeper truth.

  “We will meet again, when it is time to balance our accounts,” Cavillex said to Will with a nod. He turned to James and added, “We enjoy our time among your people and the sport it gives us.” James winced and once again Will thought he was on the brink of tears. “Now, you have a choir here?” Cavillex continued. “I would hear more of your music that celebrates the joys of your short lives. Let them sing the opening verses of the 137th Psalm, in the setting of Filippo de Monte, Super flunaina. Please your honoured guests.” He bowed, and moved away into the crowd.

  James wrung his hands. “I am a king, yet I am a slave.”

  “None of us can be ourselves—our lives are not our own. We all make sacrifices for the good of the ones we serve, and that is how it should be.”

  “But I would not be a slave to him!”

  “Nor shall you, for much longer. We will never be truly free of them, but there will be a time when we have driven them back to the edges of life, and for most people they will become a memory, nothing more.”

  “Your words give me confidence. Remember me to your Queen, and, if you find it in your heart, pass on what I have said.” He gave a weary smile, a nod, and went in search of the choir.

  His resolve reaffirmed, Will moved towards Nathaniel, Meg, and Reidheld, who had been watching from afar. All the joyous noise of the festivities faded into a dull background buzz as his thoughts coalesced around the image of Jenny in the cornfield. Was Cavillex telling him the truth, or was it a lie designed to cause emotional pain? New hope that would eventually be crushed so brutally it would be worse than not having hope at all? It showed the cold effectiveness of the Enemy: in only one moment they had identified and attacked his most vulnerable area. He tried to force the image back into the deep, dark place where he had learned to keep it so he could continue with his life, but it clawed its way back, refusing to be subdued. Raw once more, the old questions hit him with renewed force: alive or dead? Salvation or damnation?