The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  In a large room, where the queen sometimes held a reception for foreign guests before one of the masques, she came to a halt before a long mirror. She didn’t know why. For a while, she stared at herself, spectral in the half-light, and had the strangest impression she was looking at someone else, someone who had spent time shaping themselves to resemble her, but who couldn’t disguise the malign thoughts that lurked in the features, in the set of the mouth, or the narrowing of the eyes. It felt as if the glass wasn’t there, and that she could reach through the space. But then the other Grace would grab her wrist and drag her in. She half realised something about the mirror mesmerised her, was holding her fast, and she forced herself to move on, but not before she caught sight of a shadow on the edge of the mirror following her.

  She turned suddenly, but the room was empty. The shadow had been in the mirror and not in the real world, though it was gone now. It must have been a trick of the moonlight, for there was no other explanation. She decided as she hurriedly left the room that she didn’t like mirrors at all.

  Her feet pounded louder on the floorboards as she raced through the silent rooms, no longer trying to keep her presence a secret. Doors slammed open and shut. Corridors rang with the echoes of her passing. After a while she called out, “Hello?” but there was only the sound of her voice returning to her after a journey around the palace.

  Her uneasiness mounted, like the stem of a rose being drawn up the skin of her back. Where could they all have gone? Had the alarm for the invasion sounded and everyone had fled to the security of London’s walls? Could she really have missed it? Would Carpenter have forgotten to rouse her?

  In the room where the palace elders usually gathered to drink into the evening, there was no one. The guards’ quarters: empty. No sound rising from the servants’ quarters, where she would have expected singing and laughter, perhaps even a fiddle.

  She found herself at a window with a view over Henry’s great clock, the colours a dull grey in the gloom. Instinctively, she knew something was wrong, but in her anxious state her thoughts skittered too wildly across the details of what she saw. After a moment, it came to her: the clock was running backwards. She watched the gentle judder of the minute hand as it shifted counterclockwise and shivered, although she was not sure why.

  Its workings are wrong, she thought. That is all.

  The season now showed winter, the month December.

  Overcome with the compulsion to search the darkening countryside around the palace, she ran to another window overlooking the approach. At first all was still, but then came another brief burst of fire, closer than the last one she had seen, and another way across to the right, gone almost in the blink of an eye.

  The fires were hypnotic, and she waited for another while she considered what could possibly have caused them. Instead, she saw grey shadows bounding sinuously across the fields towards the palace, like foxes only larger. She tried to count them, but they moved too fast and were soon out of the moonlight and lost from view.

  She stepped away from the window, her heart tap-tapping.

  The kitchens! she thought suddenly. Everyone would be gathered there, telling stories, servants and gentlemen together, in the warmth of the ovens. It was the only explanation. Focusing on the hope rather than the nagging feeling that such a thing could never be true, she hurried for the stairs that led to the great kitchens underneath the palace.

  Down the winding stairs she went, and down again, deep, deep down, leaving the stark regiment of the palace for the sumptuous underworld. She could hear the crackle of the fires under the ovens and the hiss of the pots boiling on the top, the clank of their lids as they were lifted by the steam, smell the aromatic after-scent of the evening’s dinner, the capons boiled in a broth of oranges, sugar, mace, cloves, nutmeg, and cinnamon, rich and powerful, intermingling with the strong notes of the strawberries soaked in red wine and ginger.

  Her senses were overwhelmed, so much so that she was not wholly aware that she heard no human voices. Only when she bounded excitedly from the stairs into the vast brick vault did she see it was empty. The light from the candles danced up the orange-red walls and sent shadows rippling along the roof.

  The remnants of the dinner’s preparation were still scattered across the great oak tables that ran along the centre of the kitchen, juices dribbling from the edges onto the flags. The cooking pots were piled high, still unwashed.

  Grace’s shoulders grew taut. The kitchens should not be empty at that time; indeed, they ought to be an industrious hive of activity. The kitchen master would have his staff working hard to clear everything away so that all would be left clean and ready for the breakfast.

  She looked around. Jars were unstoppered. Pans almost bubbled dry. Cheese lay uncovered. It was as if everyone in the palace had disappeared in an instant, their tasks left half finished, the ghost of their presence still haunting the place.

  Grace moved slowly through the kitchens, feeling the blood pound in her head. All the signals she received from the environment were conflicting. A disappearance of so many people without a hubbub? So quickly?

  The black, brackish waters of fear she had managed to suppress for so long began to rise through her.

  The fires off in the dark. The grey shadows loping across the fields. What was coming? She tried to laugh at her anxiety, couldn’t. She should run, hide. But where would she go?

  Instead, she crossed to the largest oven. The fire inside it was roaring out of control as if the flue had been jammed open. As she stood before it, she could feel the flames burning harder, faster, with each passing moment, a furnace, and the heat in the room rose accordingly. After a few seconds of fascination, she realised that the heat was increasing faster than the oven could account for, the air becoming dense and dry. Beads of sweat stood out on her forehead. It became hotter than the hottest summer day.

  Although she had heard nothing, she realised she was no longer alone. She whirled, her breath catching in her throat. Several figures stood at the entrance to the kitchens, shimmering as if seen through a heat-haze. They were watching her, as still as statues.

  “Who are you?” she gasped.

  HAPTER 31

  ursting into the great banqueting hall at Hampton Court Palace, Will hurled Carpenter against a wall and punched him in the face three times before Carpenter had even realised he was there. Mayhew and Launceston threw themselves forward to restrain Will, but even the two of them combined struggled to contain him. His anger was like a storm, his face filled with lightning.

  Blood flooded from Carpenter’s nose and lips. Picking himself up, he wiped his face clean with the back of his hand and turned on Will angrily.

  “Enough!” Walsingham strode into the room, and though his face remained as cold as ever, there was a crack of anger in his voice.

  Will continued his furious attempts to throw off Launceston and Mayhew, but gradually calmed. As the fury drained from his face, he spat, “You were supposed to protect her!”

  “I did all I could,” Carpenter snarled.

  “All you could? You ate and drank and idled your time with the women in the kitchens!” Launceston and Mayhew were forced to renew their efforts as Will strained at their grips.

  “I did the work with which I was charged!” Carpenter raged. “I brought her here undercover, and secreted her in a room, and kept watch.”

  “Then how did Grace disappear under your nose?” Will snapped. He ignored Walsingham who waited at his side, as if he were incapable of understanding the degree of emotion being shown. “Or did you finally decide to act upon the grudge you hold against me?”

  In a rage, Carpenter attacked. Launceston interjected himself, knife drawn.

  Knowing Launceston would use his weapon without a second thought, Carpenter stepped back and contained himself. “You think I would sacrifice a woman to pay you back?” he snarled. “I am not like you.”

  “You were charged to watch her.”

  “And I d
id. Her dinner was brought to her room. She ate it. I remained in the room next to hers, with the door open at all times. No one came to her room. No one left. Yet when I knocked upon her door an hour later, there was no reply, and upon inspection the room was empty.”

  “You fell asleep!”

  “No!” Carpenter’s eyes blazed. Will tried to tell if he was lying, but as always Carpenter was impossible to read.

  “How did the Enemy know she was here?” Containing a quiet power, Walsingham’s steady voice cut through the angry atmosphere.

  “I do not know,” Carpenter replied, dabbing at his bloody nose. “No one here knew, nor anyone in Whitehall beyond our trusted circle, and his assistant.”

  Will brought his struggles to a slow halt as Carpenter’s words settled on him. His head still pulsed with the beat of angry blood, but through it cut cold mistrust. Looking around the group, they all met his eye.

  Never trust a spy, that was the joke when they were all in their cups. After Reidheid, Will was starting to wonder if he could trust anyone.

  “That is enough for now,” Walsingham said.

  “No, it is not,” Will replied, ignoring the flicker of wrath in Walsingham’s eyes. “Grace is gone. The Enemy have her.”

  “I share your concern,” Walsingham said insincerely, “and I understand she was important to you. But there are more pressing matters. For now.” He fixed an eye on Will that was supposed to be reassuring. “Trust me, we will not let her languish in the hands of the Enemy. No Englishman or Englishwoman will suffer at the hands of our foes while I exert influence over this office.”

  Will understood the harsh reality. Grace was his personal priority, but she meant little against the great affairs of state. Deep inside him, the feelings he had kept locked down for so long threatened to tear him apart. He thought of Grace, saw Jenny, couldn’t help but imagine what terrible things were happening to her now, what would happen in the days, months, years to come, unless he saved her.

  Walsingham was speaking, but Will heard none of the words. His head buzzed with the pulse of his blood, and thundered with his anger and self-loathing at his failure to protect Grace when she needed him most. But he would not give in to despair. His task now was to balance the demands placed upon him by his work with his need to find Grace before something monstrous took place. Yet he recalled clearly the plain cruelty in Cavillex’s words in the Fairy House in Edinburgh. The Unseelie Court had embarked upon a path of torture. Their aim was to cause him pain, and to twist it and magnify it. The theft of Grace was only the beginning.

  “Will?” Walsingham questioned. “You are with us?”

  “Of course.”

  Carpenter eyed Will murderously, still dabbing at his nose and mouth. Launceston’s ghostly face remained a frozen mask, but Mayhew held his head as if the world was spinning out from under his feet.

  “The Spanish are preparing to invade?” he said. “We have heard that so many times. It is now true?”

  “Their Armada will sail upon England shortly.” As Walsingham clutched his hands behind his back, Will thought he could see a faint tremor in them.

  Steadying himself, Will said, “Philip has attempted an invasion with his Armada before, and failed. Badly.”

  “We all know what happened,” Walsingham said dismissively. “Two hundred ships amassed at Santander in 1575. After disease and incompetence, only thirty-eight finally sailed for Dunkirk. Five ran aground on shoals, three were driven back by storms, and the remainder were forced to shelter in the Solent before fleeing home.”

  “After such a folly, then, why should we give his current plans any credence?” Will asked.

  “And what of our ambassador in Paris,” Mayhew continued, “Stafford—his dispatches state very firmly that Spain is in no position to invade, and this Armada is a flight of Philip’s fancy.”

  “Stafford is wrong—or worse,” Walsingham replied.

  “You suspect him?” Launceston enquired.

  “Sir Edward likes his money a great deal and he never has enough of it, by his accounts.”

  “What other information do you have?” Will asked.

  “The Dutch captured and interrogated the nephew of one of the cardinals who has had close dealings with Philip,” Walsingham said. “He revealed that a year ago, the Vatican transferred a million ducats to a Spanish bank where it is held in trust until the pope receives notification that the invasion of England has begun.”

  “So Philip has the funds he needs,” Will mused.

  “The nephew also spoke of the Armada’s destination and timetable.” Walsingham paused as he considered his choice of words. “Unfortunately, the queen has chosen to believe Sir Edward’s missives—he has always been one of her favourites—and so the necessary preparation work to ensure our defences are robust is not yet under way.”

  “And the Armada will sail soon?” Will asked.

  “Soon.” Walsingham was clearly not prepared to reveal all that he knew.

  “We cannot conjure defences overnight,” Carpenter said. “If Philip truly has a great fleet, we would be stretched too thinly once he reaches our coast.”

  Walsingham slowly paced the Great Hall, looking like a raven searching for carrion. “Your analysis is correct. Time is fast running out.”

  “And the Silver Skull must be part of this invasion plot,” Will said. “The Enemy and the Spanish walk hand-in-hand. Each feels they use the other to gain their stated aim—the destruction of England, and the conquest of England.”

  “There will be little left for the Spanish empire if the Enemy gets its way,” Carpenter noted bitterly. “Can Philip not see that?”

  “Philip sees what he wants to see,” Walsingham replied. “He believes God is on his side, and so all things will turn out well.”

  “When God is clearly on our side,” Will said acidly.

  Walsingham eyed him coldly, but did not respond to the barb.

  “In Edinburgh, Don Alanzo de las Posadas said he was transporting the Silver Skull back to Cadiz,” Will continued, “to keep the weapon safe until they are ready to use it, one would think. The Skull’s powers could be unleashed anywhere from Norfolk to the south coast to Wales, and disease would spread across the land in no time. When the Armada has defeated our feeble fleet, and the disease has run its course, the Spanish will march into London with no opposition. They do not need the subtleties of the Shield for that. Let the Skull kill all.”

  “And rule a land of the dead?” Carpenter said.

  “They have no need of Englishmen,” Will said. “They know that for the rest of their days, they would be attempting to stifle revolt after revolt. Best to be rid of us for good.”

  “Philip is not an evil man,” Walsingham said. “Merely misguided. He does what he does for his country and his religion, as do we. He would not want to see innocents suffer on a grand scale, Englishmen or not. No, I feel the Spanish will direct their attack along narrower lines.”

  Will considered this for a moment. “In London. If the Silver Skull is smuggled in, the queen, the government, the entire court could be wiped out. Our resistance would crumble.”

  Launceston nodded. “That makes sense. But other things do not: why travel from Edinburgh to Spain, when the Skull could have been brought directly to London and hidden away in the depths of the city until it is needed?”

  “Because they know what we would do,” Carpenter said firmly. “Trawl every part of London until we found it. No, Spain is the safest place for the Skull until the time comes to unleash it.”

  Will understood that a Spanish invasion weighed heavily on Walsingham’s mind, but his own thoughts turned towards the Unseelie Court. Their aims were elusive, constantly shifting. Their manipulations often appeared to point in one direction, while the results lay in another, and they continually circled the great events that were unfolding so it was hard to mark their place in them. They clearly needed the Silver Skull to strike a blow that would bypass Dee’s defences that kep
t them from crushing England in their fist. But why did they require the Shield to protect them so they could move through the disease-ravaged land?

  “The Shield is well protected in the Lantern Tower,” Walsingham replied to his query. “It is now beyond the Enemy’s reach. Whatever they planned is no more.”

  Will was not convinced, but he did not pursue the matter. His immediate concern was where the Unseelie Court was holding Grace, and he thought he knew.

  “You want us to go to Spain, to kill or capture the Silver Skull,” Will said, “and to do whatever we can to undermine the plans for the invasion.”

  A faint smile flickered across Walsingham’s lips, quickly stifled, acknowledging that Will had clearly predicted his intentions.

  “You want us to travel into the heart of our enemy’s land?” Mayhew said incredulously. “The Skull will be the most closely guarded object in the whole of Spain, as closely guarded as Philip himself. How can we be expected to survive such an assault?”

  “We aren’t,” Will responded, “but if we can destroy the Silver Skull in the process, our work will be done.”

  Though he blanched a little, Mayhew nodded; he understood their responsibilities.

  “You have only returned from Edinburgh this morn,” Walsingham said. “The report I received from your assistant suggested the injuries inflicted on you by the Enemy were extreme.”

  “Nat is prone to exaggeration,” Will replied. “I am in good health, and fit to lead the mission into Spain.”

  Walsingham studied Will for a moment, not wholly convinced. He had every right to be doubtful; Will’s wounds were still knitting, but the sea journey would give him plenty of time for recovery, Will anticipated. Walsingham clearly agreed, for he nodded and said, “Then these fine men will accompany you. Arrangements have already been made—your ship leaves today. But first you must visit Dee in Whitehall, for he has some new surprises for you. May God go with you.”