Elizabeth did not appear convinced.
“This dark night will fade against the golden days that lie ahead,” Walsingham pressed. “England … finally free of the grip of an Enemy that has hounded our people for sport, slaughtered them, mutilated them, defiled their lives, and spoiled their dreams. The English people have always deserved peace, and now they will get it. “
“I do not share your conviction, Lord Walsingham. ” She glanced back at the burning pit and then quickly averted her gaze. “I fear this night will echo down the years forever, and none of us will know sleep.”
HAPTER 62
or a moment, Will was convinced he could smell smoke on the wind, but it was just the enchantment of Deortha’s words.
“You understand now,” Deortha concluded.
In his pale eyes, Will saw the depth of emotion, and understood so much that had troubled him: what was kept in the room at the top of the Lantern Tower; why the Unseelie Court had risked so much to attack the Palace of Whitehall, and why they needed the Shield as protection when they unleashed the Silver Skull’s plague; the comments Cavillex had made in Edinburgh about Dartmoor; and why the Enemy was so determined to destroy England.
“This madness will never end,” Will said. “Each atrocity drives worse from the opponent in a spiral of horror.”
“It will end,” Deortha said firmly, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.
“No one can win,” Will pressed. “There is no good here, no evil. Everything is tarnished. Do we even remember why we fight?”
“We remember.”
“We continue this war, then, like the dogs tearing chunks off each other in the pits in the inn-yards of Bankside?” His bitterness made the words catch in his throat.
“What your kind did that night can never be forgotten, or forgiven,” Deortha said coldly.
“And what you did to England for generation upon generation—”
“Then you understand fully. There can be no peace. We are too much alike.”
Will felt as desolate as the dark landscape stretching out into the night.
“There is worse to come,” Deortha continued. “Cavillex’s death is a bitter blow to the High Family, which has already suffered greatly in this conflict. His brothers and sister burn with the desire for vengeance. Your nation will soon fear the heat of their response.”
“It never ends,” Will said to himself. “Then grant my request. Help my friend and let them take me and punish me for their brother’s death.”
For the first time, Deortha’s laughter was filled with clear contempt. “You think you are a fair exchange for a member of the High Family? If all your countryfolk were put to death, and your nation burned to the ground, it still would not make amends. You mean … nothing.”
Will set his jaw. “Then you will not help me?”
Deortha considered for a moment and then said, “I will help.” His smile chilled Will.
“The conditions?”
“You must make a choice. Aid for your friend … or an answer to the mystery that consumes your nature: what happened to your lost love.”
Will was stunned, not only that Deortha had offered such a dilemma, but that he knew about Jenny. The slyness around his eyes showed that he was aware exactly what effect his offer would have.
Hiding his shock, Will replied, “Why? You refuse to take me for punishment, perhaps death, yet you gladly offer help if I make a simple choice?”
“Choose.”
He could see Deortha revelling in the agonies that consumed him. Knowing the truth about Jenny had been the only thing that mattered for so long, it consumed him, drove him on to do everything he did; how could he turn has back on what might be his only chance? Yet how could he knowingly consign Nathaniel to the horrors of Bedlam? He saw the elegant cruelty in Deortha’s dilemma: either answer had the potential to destroy him, not in sudden brutality at the hands of the High Family, but gradually, over years, with a slow magnification of pain that would eventually consume him. He was responsible for Nathaniel’s suffering. He was responsible for never knowing the truth that would finally give him peace.
“I choose … my friend,” he snapped.
“Very well.” The triumph in Deortha’s face sickened Will. “There are worse things than death,” Deortha continued wryly, as though he knew the phrase had been uttered before. “For the rest of your days, you will be haunted by the knowledge of this night, as we are haunted by the knowledge of that other night. You could have solved the mystery that wrenches your heart. You could have found the one answer that will allow you to sleep at night. Perhaps you could even have brought your love back to you.”
“Enjoy your small victory,” Will said. “What I have achieved for my friend is worth my own suffering.”
“At this moment,” Deortha agreed. “In a week’s time? A year’s? At the end of your days, lying on your deathbed, knowing your entire life has been wasted by the never-knowing?” He shook his head.
“You think you know our ways so well,” Will replied. “But you do not understand hope. I have hope that I will find my Jenny, and I will do everything I can to bring that about.”
“Exactly.” He smiled one more time, and then motioned for Will to wait. At some point Will could not define, he disappeared from view, and when he returned he held a small phial. “Give this to your friend. One drop, on the tongue. He will forget his contact with the flame of our being, and he will recover. And should it happen again,” he added knowingly, “administer one more drop. It will only work for him.”
Taking the phial, Will held it tight in his palm, afraid Deortha was going to snatch it back once he had finished his taunting.
“You make all your choices with such a poor vision,” Deortha said. “You see a week ahead, at best a year. We are long-lived. Our plans move cautiously over years, decades, generations. Connections that are invisible to you fall into relief only when seen from our perspective. You cannot fight us when your reactions to our schemes are based only on the here and now. Who is to say that the things you do are not aiding us? That everything you consider a victory is only a step we expected and factored in to our plans, leading inexorably to our ultimate victory?” He nodded and added pointedly, “Enjoy this moment.”
Weighing Deortha’s words, Will looked down at the phial in his hand, and when he looked up the Unseelie Court was gone. Yet something glinted in the grass in the moonlight, a meaningless object Deortha had dropped in the warm glow of his cruel victory.
For a moment, Will stared at it, barely believing, and then he plucked it up and made his way back across the moor.
HAPTER 63
he stage was set, the players ready in costumes of green and gold and scarlet, trying on their expressions for a good fit, their true selves long since forgotten. Yet their private conversations carried subtle, conflicting notes. The dress rehearsal was a pivotal point, the end of the prelude. They were filled with the apprehension of how their performances would be received, yet also jubilant at a new start filled with possibilities.
The yard at the Bull Inn was flooded with early morning sun and crisscrossed with cooling shadows cast by the pennants that had been strung haphazardly from window to window overhead. They were only one of many marks of celebration at the news still coming in of the wrecking of Spanish ships in storms all around the northern coasts of England, Scotland, and Ireland.
All yawns and lazy smiles, doxies hung from windows to watch the players run through their final preparations. Scents of honeysuckle and rosewater mingled with the sour aroma of beer drifting from the shadowy interior of the inn.
Leaning against the cool stone in the shade, his arms folded, Will watched the proceedings. It was going to be a hot day.
Marlowe sauntered over in a brighter mood than Will had seen him in for a long while. He was accompanied by a young man who shyly left before he was introduced to the great hero of England.
“One of yours?” Will nodded to the players running
through their lines.
“A shine on the speeches here and there. Nothing more.” A dismissive shrug. “I am filled with passion for a greater work. The one we spoke of? A man who makes a deal with the Devil for rewards which only prove fleeting.”
A chill ran through Will, but it quickly dissipated in the summer warmth. “I am sure it will be well received, Kit.”
Shielding his eyes, Marlowe studied the players approvingly. “I feel better times lie ahead, Will. With the Spanish so roundly defeated. The Enemy pushed back once more. We can get on with our own lives, and there is much I wish to do with mine. Great plays to write. I see years of productive activity lying ahead.” Embarrassed, he looked to Will and laughed. “You will think me an impostor.”
“I am glad your spirits are high. You deserve some pleasure.” Will watched Marlowe’s young friend squeezing into a dress before he made his entrance on stage; a role upon a role upon a role. “I will speak with Walsingham,” he added, “and smooth this disagreement that lies between you.”
“No one has any control over Walsingham.”
“I do.” Will ignored Marlowe’s probing gaze; he was still considering how to use the information he had gained from Dartmoor, and how far he could go with it before he became a liability.
They were interrupted by a carriage thundering into the inn-yard. Onlookers scattered as it came to a halt near the stage, much to the annoyance of the players. Nathaniel climbed out and then offered a hand to Grace.
Marlowe flashed Will a glance.
“He is well,” Will said, but offered nothing more.
Two players involved in a furious argument dragged Marlowe away to give them better lines, and he left Will with a wink. Will was pleased to see him at peace; he hoped it would last.
His troubled emotions surfaced thick and fast as he watched Nathaniel and Grace approach, fear of what lay ahead for both of them and doubts about whether he could continue to fulfil his vows and keep them safe. Briefly, he wondered if he was like the Unseelie Court, a too-hot flame that burned all those who came close. But for now they were safe, and after the threat that had hovered over them, that was a victory he could cherish.
“The end of a long night, or the beginning of a long day?” Nathaniel eyed Will and then the open door to the inn.
“Neither, Nat. I am enjoying the sun and the peace of a day away from my duties.”
Nathaniel made a disbelieving face. “The Spanish defeated, the country in the mood for celebration, and you are not already three drinks ahead? Something is amiss.”
“There is time enough for that. I have been contemplating hiring a new assistant. The old one has a sharp tongue and I feel he mocks me when my back is turned.”
“To your front only,” Nathaniel said indignantly. “I am not a spy—I am open in my ways.”
“And we are all thankful for that, Nat,” Grace said warmly. “No news of Jenny?” she asked Will hopefully. She paused, her brow wrinkling as she struggled with the gap in her memory. “Have I asked you this recently?”
He smiled. “No, not recently. Do not worry, Grace. The physician says the blow to your head has left you in good health, if a few memories short. You will soon make new ones. And the answer to your question is, not yet. But I continue my endeavours.”
“It warms me that your love for my sister was so strong it still burns brightly even after she has gone. But sooner or later you must let someone else into your life, Will. You deserve warmth, and comfort, and your love returned by a good woman.”
I deserve Jenny, he thought.
His smile and a nod were enough for her. Pleased, she took her leave and went to tease Marlowe who was caught in a huddle of bickering players.
“You will break her heart, Will,” Nathaniel cautioned.
“What do I do, Nat? I must protect her from harm. I cannot keep her at arm’s length to do that. She mistakes my care for love and will not hear any different.”
“She may be right, though. She loves you—”
Will’s cautionary glare stopped him in his tracks.
“Yes, yes, I know. There is only room for one woman in your heart.” Nathaniel shook his head in frustration. “Do not complain to me in your bitter, lonely old age. You work a cold business in sour times. You need some warmth to stop your heart becoming as hardened as the world you inhabit.”
“You are like an old wife, Nat.” Will feared his friend spoke true, but in his hand he clutched at hope. He unfurled his fingers to reveal the glint of gold.
“What is that?” Nathaniel asked.
“Something I found on Dartmoor.”
“A locket?”
Jenny’s locket. Within it was a fresh rose petal, a mark of a love that had not died in all the years apart.
Although the High Family would be invigorated by their loss and there would be no respite in the long battle, he now had a hope that he scarcely dared believe.
On stage, the players put away their true selves. Intricate layers of trickery and emotion unfolded in the subtle spin of their words. The crowd laughed at the conceits, applauded the deceits. At the side of the stage, Marlowe nodded in approval at how the players danced to the strings he pulled.
Will clapped a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder. “Our Lord Walsingham muttered something about more work, in France. In Krakow. And in fair Venice. And on the Spanish Main. No rest for the swords of Albion, ever. But for now the sun is shining, and time runs away from us. There is wine to be drunk, and women to be romanced. Whatever lies ahead, the here and now is good, Nat, and we must make the most of it. Let us celebrate our great victory and drink to a world made right.”
BOUT THE AUTHOR
two-time winner of the prestigious British Fantasy Award, Mark Chadbourn has published his epic, imaginative novels in many countries around the world. He grew up in the mining community of the English Midlands, and was the first person in his family to go to university. After studying Economic History at Leeds, he became a successful journalist, writing for several of the UK’s renowned national newspapers as well as contributing to magazines and TV.
When his first short story won Fear magazine’s Best New Author award, he was snapped up by an agent and subsequently published his first novel, Underground, a supernatural thriller set in the coalfields of his youth. Quitting journalism to become a full-time author, he has written stories which have transcended genre boundaries, but is perhaps best known in the fantasy field.
Mark has also forged a parallel career as a screenwriter with many hours of produced work for British television. He is a senior writer for BBC Drama and is also developing new shows for the UK and US.
An expert on British folklore and mythology, he has held several varied and colourful jobs, including independent record company boss, band manager, production line worker, engineer’s “mate,” and media consultant.
Having traveled extensively around the world, he has now settled in a rambling house in the middle of a forest not far from where he was born.
For information about the author and his work:
www.markchadbourn.net
www.jackofravens.com
www.myspace.com/markchadbourn
Table of Contents
THE SILVER SKULL SWORDS OF ALBION
OTHER PYR TITLES BY
PYR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
; CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
CHAPTER 56
CHAPTER 57
CHAPTER 58
CHAPTER 59
CHAPTER 60
CHAPTER 61
CHAPTER 62
CHAPTER 63
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
The Silver Skull Page 48