The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  Drawing his knife, he waited in the shadows against the steps as the ship pitched and yawed, seawater sluicing across the boards. From his hiding place, Will could not see who approached—a lookout? The helmsman?—and he only had the noise of the boots to estimate the position. When the figure loomed at the foot of the steps, he brought his knife up and across the throat. He had a glimpse of long brown hair and blazing eyes, and then as hands went to the open throat, Will spun him around and pitched him straight over the rail into the sea.

  Once he was below deck, the constant roar of the sea retreated, but the sickly orchard smell was stronger. He could hear nothing beneath him apart from the steady heartbeat of the pumps keeping out the seawater. On either side, the quarters appeared empty. The crew would be in the berth, resting among the cannon. Will did not want to risk disturbing them and bringing every one of the Enemy upon him.

  All depended on where Mayhew was being held. Would they be cruel enough to imprison him in the vile conditions beneath the waterline, with the rats and the stench? He was too valuable for that. That left the officers’ quarters, the captain’s own quarters, the brig, or the infirmary, if the Unseelie Court needed such things.

  As he progressed, distorted sounds faded in and out of the unsettling silence, reminding him once again of the Fairy House—voices chanting in an incomprehensible language, mournful pipe music.

  The door to the officers’ quarters was ajar. Inside a group of figures sat around a long table, heads bowed, their faces hidden in the half-light. Although they appeared to be communicating with each other, all was quiet. He could see four, guessed there could be as many as ten.

  Slipping by, he continued to the great cabin and the captain’s cabin. The door here was also partly open. Inside, flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows as a male swayed around the room soundlessly in what appeared to be some kind of ritual. His movements reminded Will of the pattern the ship defined on the sea. A bitter aroma filled the air, incense or burned herbs, and there was the occasional gleam of objects, a chalice, he thought, a knife with a cruelly curved blade.

  In the bowels of the galleon, it was darker, and damper, the sour stink rising from below the water level. Outside the door to the berth, he felt an uncomfortable pressure upon him from the other side. Blood trickled from his nose and a dull buzz echoed in his head.

  Beyond more deserted officers’ quarters, he found what would have been the infirmary and mess on an English galleon. Here the door was locked, and no sound came from within.

  Removing the velvet pack of locksmith’s tools all Walsingham’s men carried with them, he got to work. He was not an expert lock-pick like some in the service, but after a moment he heard the tumblers turn with a dull clunk. Hesitating a moment to see if there was a response from the other side, he slowly swung the door open.

  A slow-pulsing white light forced the shadows back, holding them at bay for a second before they swooped back in. It came from a glass globe just large enough to be contained in two hands, resting on a small table. Inside the globe was another that opened and closed like an iris, releasing the steady beat of light. It was of such a unique appearance, it had to be of some importance, but Will could not guess its purpose. Three more of the globes stood on plinths on the boards beneath the table, but no light emanated from them.

  Wary of triggering an unseen alarm, he studied the room before taking a step inside. In the glare beyond the globe, the gloom held a figure lying on a mat on the boards, asleep or drugged. The glint of silver told him it was Mayhew. Beside the door was an open-topped barrel. From the salty smell, it appeared to contain only seawater, but as he reached towards the surface to test the liquid, an eel-like creature about as thick as his arm burst from the depths, snapping for his fingers. He withdrew his hand just in time, but he had glimpsed teeth like needles. He had never seen its like before.

  Time grew short. He intended to kill Mayhew and cut off his head, as he had done with Don Alanzo’s father, dumping the Silver Skull into the sea to be lost for all time. But as he took three steps towards the prone figure, he suddenly found himself facing the door.

  The disconnection left him reeling. He tried to approach Mayhew again, but the same thing happened. Finally, he decided the inexplicable turn must have been caused by the pulsing globe. It was a protection device of some kind, either working its influence upon his mind and disorienting him, or physically spinning him around in the blink of an eye. Whatever, he could not get near to Mayhew, nor could he approach the globe to destroy it.

  In frustration, he retraced his route to the steps where he grabbed one of the lanterns that illuminated the passageway. The sounds in the ship came to him more clearly, as if the longer he spent there, the more attuned he became to the peculiar qualities that existed on board. A carpet of rats scurried away from his feet as he descended to the lowest level, the orlop deck, the store for the spare sails, rigging, timber, and carpenters’ tools, the galley, magazine, and brig. Amid the foul smell of bilge in the damp and the dark, he swayed across the rolling deck to where the grey sails hung. Any second now the ship would start to sail away and he would be trapped aboard.

  Stacking the timber to create a pit, he used the lantern to set fire to one of the sails within it. Leaping flames rapidly filled the deck with thick smoke.

  In the right conditions, the fire would send the ship down to the bottom of the Channel, and Mayhew and the damned Unseelie Court with it. At worst, he hoped it would cause enough damage to make it worthless to the fleet.

  As he pounded up the steps, rapid activity erupted in the berth. He only just made it past the door when it was thrown open and bodies rushed out on the trail of the rising smoke.

  On deck, he saw the ship had started to sail away. Without stopping, he leapt over the rail and grabbed the now-taut grapnel rope, swinging his feet up to shimmy along it. The rope strained beneath his fingers as the two great ships pulled apart. Below, the waves surged hungrily towards him.

  Fearing a break at any moment, he dropped his legs and used his arms alone to power him on. He didn’t slow until he grabbed hold of the Rosario’s rigging and released the grapnel rope into the churning water.

  The grey-sailed ship had come to a halt, the smoke swirling in the wind. With satisfaction that he had struck a decisive blow, Will settled against the rail to watch the mounting conflagration. A second later he heard movement at his back. Barrett was there, and Stanbury, and several others drawing closer.

  “Spy!” Barrett snarled.

  Will had a second to guess Barrett had seen him dispose of Hawksworth’s body, and then a fist laid him flat.

  He came round to the silver of a new day, wrists bound behind him, head still ringing, a light breeze caressing his bruised face. As his vision cleared, he saw he was on a forecastle, looking down at a crew gathered in a crescent. They stared back at him with hateful eyes. At the front stood Medina Sidonia and several of the other Spanish commanders; it appeared he had been transported from the Rosario to the San Martin. Nearby, the grey-sailed ship listed, although no fire damage was visible from his vantage point. He guessed he had been under observation since he had killed Hawksworth, and his boarding of the grey-sailed ship had been the final condemning evidence against him.

  Don Alanzo stepped before him. Though he attempted to remain aloof, a deep hatred burned in his eyes. “You are like a disease, infecting the very heart of our glorious empire,” he said quietly. “But we have a cure.”

  “Your empire is already black and corrupted. Your sister knows the truth, Don Alanzo.”

  In a blaze of anger, Don Alanzo made to strike Will, but caught himself. “Your part in this business is now done.” He paused. “By business, I mean life.”

  “So, an execution at sea. Do I not have the right to be heard?”

  “A spy has no rights.”

  “I hope you feel the same if you are ever captured on English soil.” He nodded towards the grey-sailed ship. “Should you ever reach En
gland. Without your dogs, you are a toothless opponent.”

  Don Alanzo’s cheeks flushed. “Our allies are already at work repairing their vessel. You have caused a delay, not an end.”

  “With England’s ships so close, a delay may be more than enough.”

  Don Alanzo held Will’s gaze. “I know the inner workings that drive you.” A shadow crossed his face, and for a moment Will understood him too. “You have no regard for your life, and there is little I can do that will cause you pain,” he continued. “But you must know punishment for your crimes before you die … for your crimes against Spain, and against my family. Against me.”

  “There is nothing you can do—” Will was cut short by the flash of a familiar face in the crowd as Barrett and Stanbury dragged Grace to the front. Her frightened eyes looked up at him in desperation.

  “Leave her alone!” he snapped.

  “I had no wish to harm her. You did this. You brought her to misery. Let that stain your conscience as you die.”

  “There is much of the Unseelie Court in your cruelty,” Will said.

  Don Alanzo winced, but there was still some joy in his eyes at the pain he was causing Will.

  “Do not kill her,” Will pleaded.

  “I will not. She is vital to our allies’ plans, and therefore to our plans. But I can protect her no longer. I allowed her to sail on La Arca de las Mujeres to keep her safe from harm. You have forfeited that right. She will be taken from here to that ship …” He indicated the grey-sailed vessel. “… and she will travel with our allies.”

  “No!” Will cried. He tried to throw himself at Don Alanzo, but a guard caught his arms and flung him to the deck. “No man or woman can abide being among them for any period. Their very presence is corrupting. She could be driven mad, or worse. You know this!”

  “On your head,” Don Alanzo said quietly.

  Grace cried out as Barrett and Stanbury roughly dragged her towards the rail to transport her by rope to the grey-sailed ship. In fury, Will renewed his efforts to reach Don Alanzo and felt the pommel of the guard’s sword crash against the back of his head, plunging him into unconsciousness once more.

  When he came round again, Grace was nowhere to be seen. He was leaning against the rail, a rope wrapped around him and stretching across the deck, the other end trailing over the side into the water. Two teams of men waited on either rail so he could be pulled tight against the barnacled keel.

  “We have no time to waste here, or I would relish inflicting suffering on you,” Don Alanzo said. “Your death will be quick, but your suffering no less for haste.”

  “Do it, then.” Will’s head was hazy from the punishment of two blows. “I have damaged your plans. My life is a fair price if it brings you to your knees.”

  Don Alanzo ignored Will’s taunting. He appeared calmer now that he could see Will’s end was close. “You are not a seafaring man. Nor am I. Punishment at sea has its own particular flavour, I am told. What you are about to undergo has proven effective in the Dutch navy, according to the mercenaries aboard.”

  Will’s gaze followed the trailing rope. “Keelhauling,” he said.

  Don Alanzo nodded. “Pulled tight and fast, the rope will drag you down, under the water, and along the keel. Barnacles affixed to the keel will slice through clothes, and tear off skin, and the bloody prisoner that emerges on the other side of the ship is thereby made repentant. Pulled slack and slow, the prisoner hangs beneath the keel, and drowns. Either way, you will not survive this ordeal.”

  Unbidden, the terrible, shattering sensation of drowning Will had experienced in the Fairy House flashed across his mind. With all his will, he fought back the wave of terror. “Come, then. I would not delay your encounter with my countrymen. Your own reckoning awaits.” He cast one eye towards the grey-sailed ship, and tried not to think of Grace.

  At Don Alanzo’s nod, Barrett and Stanbury lifted Will onto the rail, and then steadied the rope trailing from his back. On the other side of the deck, four sailors prepared to drag him under.

  “And so the debt to my father is paid,” Don Alanzo began. “This day—”

  “Do not torture me with prattle.” Will flashed lion Alanzo a defiant grin, and leapt from the rail. He took pleasure in Barrett’s angry cry as the rope burned through his hands, and then he hit the water. The cold shocked the last of the wool from his head. His lungful of air would not last long. The two teams of sailors both now had the rope taut, dragging him directly beneath the ship where he was held tight against the barnacle-encrusted hull.

  The air burned in his lungs, and however much he tried, he could not escape the haunting sense-memories of his torture in Edinburgh.

  With a tremendous effort, he ignored the panic pricking his thoughts, the flashes of what would happen the moment he exhausted his breath, the water rushing into his lungs, the feeling of being trapped. By will alone, he calmed himself.

  Pressing his right arm against the keel, he released the trigger on the hidden blade in the leather forearm guard under his shirtsleeve. He prayed he would have the opportunity to thank Dee for his ingenuity.

  Twisting, he rubbed his restraining rope against the blade, which quickly frayed and broke under the sharp edge. He drifted down from the keel, towards the dark depths.

  His lungs burned. He could not last much longer without another breath. On deck, they would realise the rope had broken and would be watching out for him. Kicking out for the stern, he surfaced just beyond the rudder before his lungs burst, and trod water. They would not be able to see him from above, but one of the other ships might spy him if he waited too long. From above came the calls of his enemies as they hung over the rails searching the water.

  With difficulty, he rubbed the bonds at his wrists along the edge of the rudder, and after several attempts, the wet ropes loosened until he was able to wriggle his hands free.

  Gulping air, he continued underwater beneath the next ship. The rest of the fleet was visible all around, but they would be too distracted preparing for the battle to see him in the water. After a brief rest, he carried on, surfacing for air at every ship, until he reached open water.

  He was free, but adrift in the middle of the English Channel. How long could he survive before exhaustion dragged him down to his death?

  HAPTER 50

  od’s teeth, the Spanish are slow-witted rabbit-suckers.” On the forecastle of the Revenge, Drake watched the Armada in the first light of dawn through his tele-scope. “We are at war. Did they expect us to sit back and wait for them to attack?”

  “What could have distracted them?” Carpenter mused.

  “Ha!” Drake laughed. “Their topmen have finally seen us. Now there will be a commotion aboard their ships, and Medina Sidonia’s prayers will amount to naught!”

  Closing his tele-scope with a snap, Drake set about ordering his men to prepare for battle, boosting their spirits with loud bragging and comical contempt for their enemy.

  If Carpenter had doubted whether Drake’s skills matched his arrogance, he was convinced now. During the night, Drake, Howard, and the other commanders had left five ships floating in easy sight of the Armada. It had fooled the Spanish into thinking the entire fleet was steady, while eighty ships were taken upwind to claim the weather gage. The English now had the advantage.

  Launceston waited calmly by the rail, as though the horrors of the previous day had never happened. But at times Carpenter saw the earl’s eyes flicker towards him; a bond had been forged, however much Carpenter was repulsed by it. If Drake guessed what had happened, he showed no sign of it; the word had gone out that the cabin boy must have fallen overboard during the dark sail from Plymouth harbour.

  “If they had had Drake’s tele-scope they may have got an early warning in the grey light,” Launceston mused. “We should give thanks that Walsingham and Dee see a greater picture than you or I.”

  “I will give thanks if we survive this damnable thing,” Carpenter growled. “I am not meant to f
eel the world rolling beneath my feet. Dry land for me, and soon!”

  “Look. It begins.” Launceston indicated a squadron of eleven English ships streaming west and then tacking between the Armada and the Eddystone Rocks at a speed that must have startled the slow-moving galleons.

  “Our race-built galleons,” Launceston noted approvingly. “None faster.”

  “Stop speaking some foreign language,” Carpenter snapped. “Race-built? Is this some salty-haired sailor’s argot?”

  Launceston allowed himself a faint smile.

  A signal flag went up on the mizzenmast of the lead ship, and instantly barking orders rolled out across the waves as the gun ports snapped open. The cannon on each ship in turn blasted the Spanish before the squadron raced back to the fleet, untouched.

  At that moment, Carpenter and Launceston both noticed a curious sight and leaned across the rail to get a better look. Against the wind and the currents, a grey-sailed ship was limping away from the fleet, its starboard side blackened by fire. It was soon lost behind a wall of vessels, and before Launceston and Carpenter could question what they had seen, the Armada responded to the attack.

  As Medina Sidonia fired his signal gun, the Spanish ships sailed into their prearranged battle order: a crescent, with a short spike in the centre, stretching several miles across. To an uneducated eye, the floating city looked imposing, a mass of white sails painted with the red cross of the Crusades, the water barely visible between them.

  But Launceston waved a lazy hand towards the mass and said, “See—they create an illusion. The warships are all on the outside of the formation, but inside … useless hulks, transport ships … Their number is much less than it appears.”

  “Nevertheless,” Carpenter said, “a single piece of shot will take me apart.”

  The Disdain, Lord Howard’s personal pinnace, sailed out to fire one shot at the Spanish: a challenge; and in response Medina Sidonia raised the Spanish royal standard ordering his fleet to battle.