The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  Like Jenny.

  Launceston, whose attention rarely left the carnage like a hungry man at a feast, indicated a pattern of shifting lights visible through the pall of smoke. Will instantly recognised the colours he had seen over the grey-sailed ship. As he turned to search for the outcome, the Tempest was buffeted by a strong wind. Black clouds churned in the southwest, rushing towards them.

  “What—?” Carpenter began.

  “Unnatural,” Will replied, turning to Courtenay, but the captain had already seen the approaching squall and ordered his men to trim the sails. The rain hit soon after, so intense they could barely see ten yards beyond the ship. As the gale battered the Tempest, the crew fought to hold steady, but in the middle of the battle there was chaos. Ships were blown into one another, ensnaring rigging and bringing down masts. The surviving Spanish vessels attempted to use the weather to flee their destruction.

  For half an hour, the squall continued in full force. Courtenay’s expertise kept the Tempest clear of any collisions, but he couldn’t drop his concentration for a moment.

  As the clouds cleared, they saw the remaining Spanish ships sailing north away from the battle, struggling to resume their crescent formation. The hearts of the crew fell with the knowledge that the core of the Armada lived on, but everyone knew they were out of ammunition and sailing into dangerous waters. The English fleet began pursuit to finish the work they had started.

  The smoke of battle had now cleared, and in the light of the setting sun, the topmen caught sight of their prey. Their hail drew Will’s attention to grey sails heading west.

  “They have abandoned the Armada?” Carpenter said. “What, they flee now?”

  As Will weighed the tactics of the Unseelie Court, he mentally plotted their course until a chilling realisation dawned upon him. “They sail for England,” he said, voicing his thoughts to himself. “With the Silver Skull aboard.”

  “They had given up the fight?” Carpenter suggested.

  “No. No!” Will became animated. “Consider: the English fleet is now being drawn away from our waters. The militia line the coast awaiting Parma’s invasion force. The queen will be protected, but aside from those soldiers, London’s defences are now wide open. We have been distracted from their true objective.”

  “The Armada … the entire might of Spain’s empire … was merely a distraction?” Carpenter said incredulously.

  “They have sacrificed the Spanish on the rocks of their own vanity. The empire … all the lives lost mean nothing to the Unseelie. The conflict simply served to draw our might, and our attention, away from where it was most needed.”

  “London?” Carpenter looked to the ship disappearing towards the horizon.

  “The seat of our nation. The core of our defences against them. The queen.”

  “All a manipulation.” Carpenter’s quiet voice was filled with disbelief at the extent of the deceit, but gradually the magnitude of the repercussions filled his face. In silence, the three of them stood at the rail as the Tempest gave pursuit, but the grey-sailed ship was faster, and soon it had disappeared from view.

  HAPTER 54

  n the hour before dawn, a sepulchral silence lay across the Palace of Whitehall. Up past midnight with Walsingham, Burghley, and her other advisors discussing the fleet’s fortunes against the Armada and the strategy for the coming days, the queen had finally retired to her chambers. In a display of confidence at the success of her forces, she had already made plans to spend the next day hunting in Epping Forest, while waiting for news of the battle off Gravelines, but it was clear to everyone who saw her that she remained uneasy.

  Nathaniel and Marlowe had spent the early evening drinking in the Traveller’s Rest in the shadow of the walls surrounding the palace complex. For most of the night, Marlowe had tried to cajole the owner to stage a play he had been writing, to no avail. Nathaniel had paid little notice, his attention drawn to the anxiety that blanketed the other drinkers. The mood was subdued, the conversation barely rising above a murmur. No entertainment had been planned for the inn-yard, and trade was sparse, though Nathaniel had heard there was brisker trade in the church across the street. The gossip raced back and forth: the Spanish had been defeated; the English fleet had been destroyed, and the Spanish were at that very moment landing along the south coast; death and destruction drew nearer.

  The same air of apprehension hung over the entire palace, from the kitchen staff to the queen’s maids, from the gardeners to Walsingham himself. Marlowe had questioned the spymaster on more than one occasion as the evening drew on, but Nathaniel was not allowed to be privy to the conversations; whatever the response, it did not raise Marlowe’s mood. A dismal air surrounded him as if he had received a portent of his own death; Nathaniel wondered if it was just the way of writers.

  “We are like children, wrapped in a mother’s skirts,” Nathaniel complained as they wandered through the formal gardens filled with the perfume of night-scented stock. Moonlight glimmered off the diamond-pane windows of the long north range where the gallery looked over the courtyard before the queen’s residence. From beyond the jumble of buildings to the west came the dank, florid smell of the summer river, the cries of the watermen long since ended.

  “Do not yearn for conflict and danger, Nat. These moments of peace are few and far between,” Marlowe replied.

  “But men are putting their lives at risk in the defence of England even as we speak. In defence of our lives, Kit, yours and mine, and we do nothing but wander through the gardens at night out of boredom. Does that not irk you to the very heart of your being?”

  “We keep watch. We are ready if needed—”

  Shaking his head forcefully, Nathaniel tried to allow his anger to erase his fears for his master, and also for Grace. He felt powerless, and the more he learned about the world Will inhabited, the less he understood. There were more dark shadows than he had ever anticipated, and though he feared he knew what lurked within them, he was not sure he wanted to know the truth. Already he had trouble sleeping, his nights haunted by grey figures flitting through the dark, and things that should not exist under the eyes of God.

  Gentle pipe music, lilting and entrancing, drifted over the peaceful palace grounds. Nathaniel paused and cocked his head, a smile leaping to his mouth unbidden. “Do you hear that? Such beautiful music. Who would play at this hour?”

  Marlowe shrugged. “I hear nothing.” He trudged along the path beside the low box hedge.

  “At least you have some purpose here. A spy. What can I offer, apart from keeping you company?”

  “I am not a swordsman like Will,” Marlowe said. “My strength lies in getting in my cups with cutthroats and gambling with rogues. Petty thievery and low deception.” The note of bitterness in his voice was potent. “Choose a writer to live in a world of lies! Walsingham knows men well.”

  Nathaniel came to a slow halt as he heard the music again, faint, caught on the wind; it came and went in a strange manner, and while its melody was enchanting, he now heard a more disturbing tone beneath.

  Catching it for the first time, Marlowe paused too. Nathaniel was puzzled by the troubled expression that crossed his associate’s face. “What is it?” he asked.

  Marlowe waved a hand as if it was nothing, but Nathaniel could see it was important to him. As Marlowe put his head back to sniff the air, Nathaniel realised he could smell a rich perfume, slightly sickly, drifting across the gardens.

  “Come,” Marlowe whispered. He broke into a light-footed run until he reached the passageway that cut through the long range of buildings into the courtyard in front of the banqueting house. The flags were lit by the moon. All was still. From the shadow of the passageway, Marlowe studied the courtyard intently, taking in the chapel in the far corner and the haphazard collection of buildings to his right where an archway led through to the palace’s private wharf on the river.

  “It is empty,” Nathaniel began until Marlowe silenced him with an insistent wave of h
is hand.

  Ahead was the Lantern Tower where the Silver Skull’s Shield had been stored, and from which all but a chosen few were denied access. At the top of the tower, a green light pulsed, so faint it would have been easy to miss, but now that he had seen it, it was impossible for Nathaniel to take his eyes off it.

  He had no idea what could cause such an odd hue, but it had the feel of a beacon, calling, or warning, he was not quite sure.

  Marlowe turned to him and hissed, “Something is amiss—exactly what I do not know—but I feel it in my gut. There is danger nearby.”

  Nathaniel let his gaze wander over the empty square, and realised he too could feel whatever was troubling Marlowe.

  A surprising flash of sympathy crossed Marlowe’s face. “Nat, it would be good if you stayed away from here—”

  “No!” Nathaniel interjected. “You would send me away now when I may actually prove I have some use in this world beyond fetching and carrying for my master?”

  “There are things that you should not see, or know exist. Once in your head, they can never be put out, and this life goes from being a joy to a burden that you would be rid of soon. That is the nature of our business.” He searched Nathaniel’s face and grew sad. “I can see you will not be deterred. You are a brave man, Nat. But take my advice: whatever you see, put it out of your head the moment your eyes fall upon it. Ask no questions, neither of yourself, nor of me. Simply accept, and move on.” Marlowe delivered his speech even though it was clear he didn’t believe it was possible. “Do you understand?”

  Nathaniel nodded, not understanding at all.

  “Good. Then no more talk.” He drew his knife and watched.

  After a moment, a solitary figure wandered into the centre of the courtyard and looked around with an air of confusion. Nathaniel was shocked to see it was Grace.

  Marlowe made to silence him as he called her name quietly, but Nathaniel was so relieved to see her he darted out into the moonlit square and threw his arms around her. She was stiff and unyielding, and when he looked into her face, he saw a blankness that reminded him of a child’s doll.

  Quickly, he pulled her into the shadow of the row of buildings and said quietly, “Grace? Are you well?”

  She continued to stare blankly until a tremor crossed her face and she blinked once, twice, lazily. When she looked at him, her eyes had a dreamy, faraway look like someone deep in their cups, or on the edge of sleep.

  “Nat,” she breathed. “Oh, it is so good to see you. It has been … how long has it been?” A puzzled furrow crossed her brow, quickly gone, and then her lazy smile returned. “I have had the strangest dream, Nat. Of life aboard a magical ship, taking me to great adventures across a sparkling sea beneath the light of the moon. Of friends, whispering comfort in my ear, and joy. Oh, Nat! The kind of joy you never experience once you are grown.” Closing her eyes, she continued to smile at her memories.

  “How did you get here, Grace? Where have you been?” he probed gently. He could see she was not herself, and wondered if she had taken one of the potions that the cutpurses sometimes used to dull the senses of their victims in the stews on Bankside.

  Ignoring him, she wrapped her arms around her and swayed gently in the breeze.

  In the entrance to the passageway, Marlowe beckoned furiously. Nathaniel tried to guide Grace towards him, but she resisted.

  “No, Nat. I have work to do. For my friends.” Her voice had the singsong lilt of some melody only she could hear. “I led them to the guards so they could come in …” Her brow furrowed again, as though at an unpleasant memory, but nothing dark would stay with her. “And now I must show them through the maze of the palace. They need me, Nat. I cannot deny my friends.”

  “That is not a good idea, Grace,” he began, but he could see she was not listening to him. Gradually, she pulled away and drifted across the courtyard, his presence already forgotten.

  Nathaniel ran back to Marlowe and said, “She has helped her captors to enter the palace.”

  “We must alert the guards, then. To the gatehouse.”

  As they made to move, Marlowe suddenly grabbed Nathaniel and dragged him back into the passageway. Pressed against the wall, they saw grey shadows shimmer from the archway that led to the gate, following in Grace’s wake towards the range of buildings on the other side of the courtyard.

  Blinking to clear his eyes, Nathaniel wasn’t sure if he was seeing moonshadows, so insubstantial did they appear. His attention was diverted by a cloaked and hooded figure walking slowly, head and shoulders bowed as if consumed with despair. More shadows followed, slightly more substantial this time; Nathaniel felt his eyes were clearing, although he could not explain the strange effect.

  Once the courtyard was empty again, Marlowe motioned for them to leave the passageway. They ran along the wall around the edge of the courtyard, hesitating every now and then in case more of the intruders appeared. As they edged through the archway to the gatehouse that lay next to the river entrance, they were overwhelmed by a smell of rot.

  The gates hung wide revealing the path that led to the warehouses along the river and the wharf. Two guards lay on the cobbles in the entrance, the moon illuminating skin that was blackened and suppurating. Nathaniel retched at the vile stink that rolled off the bodies and chewed on the back of his hand to control his gag reflex. As he edged closer, he saw large boils had risen up around the guards’ necks and a thick white foam covered their lips.

  “Plague!” he gasped, throwing himself back against the wall of the arch. “But … but the guards were well earlier. And plague does not strike one dead so quickly!”

  Marlowe led him away several paces and whispered, “Steady yourself, Nat. This plague is not natural. It comes from a weapon the Enemy has under their control—”

  “The Spanish have a weapon that can bring disease?” Nathaniel gushed anxiously.

  When Marlowe didn’t reply, Nathaniel knew his worst fears were confirmed: there was another enemy, beyond the Spanish, and he knew instinctively what it was. Marlowe struggled to find words to continue the conversation and so Nathaniel interjected, “What kind of weapon does this thing, Kit? I have not heard the like of this anywhere.”

  “I told you—no questions. We can talk of these things later. Right now we must raise the alarm.” Nathaniel followed him into the gatehouse, but they’d barely gone three steps over the threshold when the foul smell told them all they needed to know. “Damn them!” Marlowe snapped.

  “They are slaying every man they encounter. Is there no protection from this weapon?”

  “Dee searches for some defence, but as yet has found none. If used gently, without the protection of the Shield, I am told it has a range—like an arquebus. Stay beyond that range and you will be unharmed.”

  Nathaniel nodded his approval. “Good. That we can do.” He hesitated as a thought struck him, and then said, “The queen! If these guards are dead, the others may be taken by surprise. We must protect her!”

  “We are also charged with protecting what is held in the Lantern Tower. That will be the Enemy’s first port of call.”

  They ran from the gatehouse back across the courtyard and into the range of buildings that led to the banqueting rooms. Through the windows, they could see the maze of buildings that surrounded the queen’s residence, the Black Gallery and the Tryst Rooms on the far side, and in the foreground the row of stone houses next to the Lantern Tower. Nothing moved in the immediate vicinity.

  But as they continued down the corridor, they heard the sound of a guard’s challenge ahead. Slowing, they came to a corner and peered around cautiously. At the far end of the great hall, a guard levelled his sword at the hooded intruder, demanding to know his business.

  The figure did not respond. For a moment he hesitated, until the guard prodded him with the sword, and then he held out his hand. Dropping the sword, the guard cried out, his hand leaping to his throat. Horrified, Nathaniel watched boils burst from the man’s neck, his sk
in blackening and mouth foaming white, his eyes rolling until he fell to the ground, convulsing a little before he died. The whole process took barely a minute.

  “So quick,” Nathaniel whispered.

  Once the guard had fallen, Nathaniel became aware of figures across the hall, as if they had just stepped out from behind some unseen curtain. If they were the shadows he had glimpsed earlier, they now had substance, though he could see none of their faces. Still indistinct, they appeared to swathe themselves in shadows that were thrown by no obvious light source.

  Grace was among them, still entranced. Two of them guided her towards the door on the far side of the hall, the others loping behind. Not a sound echoed; it was as though the hall was filled with ghosts.

  Peering through a window, Nathaniel saw the intruders fanning out across the palace complex. “They are everywhere. We cannot confront them all. What do we do?”

  “Stealth, Nat,” Marlowe whispered. “There is nothing to gain by revealing ourselves yet. An opportunity will present itself.” Marlowe did not sound convinced, and Nathaniel could see on his face his anxiety as he searched desperately for an answer. Motioning for Nathaniel to follow, Marlowe dashed across the great hall to the door.

  “It is down to you and me now, Nat,” he said grimly. “The two of us, to save England and the queen.”

  HAPTER 55

  he desperate rhythm of pounding hooves matched the pulse of the blood in Will’s head. Under the light of the moon, he drove his horse along the sun-baked lanes, over the marshland where lights burned ominously, and past the peaceful fields where the corn waved in the night breeze, with Carpenter and Launceston alongside.

  Over the long hours that the Tempest pursued the grey-sailed ship, the three of them had remained in constant council. There was no doubt in their minds that the Unseelie Court would head directly for the Palace of Whitehall, to secure the Shield so they could unleash whatever plan they had nurtured since the Silver Skull had been taken from the Tower.