The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  “Will pursues a Spanish spy, and another of your men has gone to help,” Grace said. “You must aid him—”

  The words died in her throat as the howl of the hunting dog rose up again, this time laced with an insistent bloodlust. It had located its prey.

  HAPTER 17

  he twisting routes among the tenements were impenetrably dark, the buildings too high to allow the moonlight to reach the ground. Only the occasional glimmer of candlelight gleamed in the black windows. Will’s footsteps echoed off the walls like stones dropped on ice. From somewhere ahead of him, a similar noise resounded, and from behind came the tramp of many boots as Pickering’s men fanned out through the maze of byways. Their lanterns flickered like fireflies as they searched doorways and side alleys.

  At a crossroads, he realised the footsteps ahead had slowed. Keeping close to a wall, he edged forwards until whispering voices emerged from the gloom, speaking Spanish. Another voice responded, mellifluous but with an unsettling note of menace.

  Tracing the low conversation along an alley to another courtyard large enough to be filled with silvery moonlight, Will found lion Alanzo and the Silver Skull with the Hunter. Beside him, his dog’s red eyes sparked.

  Keeping well to the shadows where he could not be seen, Will spied on the scene, but within an instant the dog’s hackles rose and it released a low, threatening growl. Peering directly at Will, the Hunter gave a knowing smile.

  Will expected the Hunter to set his dog loose, but instead he removed an item from the pouch at his belt and kept it hidden in his palm.

  Stepping out from the shadows, Will said, “You keep dishonourable company, lion Alanzo.”

  Don Alanzo eyed the Hunter. “A mercenary from Flanders.”

  “More than that. And worse.” Will strode forwards, keeping his right arm and Dee’s blade hidden behind his back.

  “Leave here, Will Swyfte, as quickly as you can,” Don Alanzo said. “I offer this advice as a courtesy. In return for you saving my life in the bear pit, I now save yours.”

  Don Alanzo’s words could have been glib arrogance regarding his skills as a swordsman, but Will heard a powerful note of truth in them. “I cannot leave without the Silver Skull,” Will responded. “I have been entrusted with the task of returning it to the Tower.”

  “Him,” Don Alanzo snapped. “Not it. There is a man beneath this mask, and he has been held prisoner in this Godforsaken country for twenty years. You claim to be the civilised defenders of the true way, righteously holding back the conspiracy of barbarians beyond your borders, but you commit atrocities without a second thought. You persecute good Catholics—”

  “Because you persecute us. You and your allies will not be happy until England is a memory.”

  “Arrogance finds a good home in this country. You believe any action you take is justified, and so you are capable of anything, without even a glimmer of guilt. You are blind to the blood on your hands and the brutality that lurks behind every sneering face in your court. You have turned away from God and Rome, but your sins run deeper by far.”

  “The one that stands beside you is more dangerous than any Englishman, and capable of worse things by far. He smiles and calls you friend, but he plays you like a lute.”

  “That may well be,” Don Alanzo replied. “But for now we have a common enemy, and so we walk shoulder to shoulder.”

  Will knew there was no point arguing with lion Alanzo, but before he could act, Miller emerged from the alley on the other side of the courtyard. Signalling to Will that he was going to attack, he was brought up sharp by the sight of the Hunter and his dog. In a single moment of hesitation, all Miller’s fears played out across his face, followed by a furious internal battle as the man Walsingham had recognised put those concerns to one side. Gripping his dagger tightly, Miller attacked.

  Though he didn’t make a sound, he’d barely got halfway across the courtyard before the Hunter sensed his presence. Will watched a smile flicker across the Hunter’s lips, but it was too late to call out. The Hunter didn’t turn until Miller was almost upon him, and then he whirled fluidly and grabbed Miller’s wrist before he could plunge the dagger home.

  As Will raced to help, the Hunter let slip the leash and his dog bounded forwards, its deep, rumbling growl turning the pit of Will’s stomach. Will held the blade before him, but the dog didn’t attack; it simply marked a line between the Hunter and Will and moved back and forth along it, holding Will at bay with the snap of its huge jaws every time he tried to pass it.

  The Hunter didn’t attempt to hurt Miller. Still smiling, he pulled Miller towards him by the wrist with a slow, relentless ease, even though the terrified farm boy used all his strength to resist. When he was close, the Hunter leaned in and whispered in Miller’s ear.

  Instantly, Miller grew still, his eyes widening. The Hunter pulled back, his smile now taking a different note, and he let go of Miller’s wrist, which remained aloft for a second before his arm slumped to his side.

  “Tom! Pay him no heed!” Will called, unable to round the snapping dog.

  Miller appeared unable to hear. His shoulders slumped, he walked in a daze away from the Hunter, Don Alanzo, and the Silver Skull to the dark shadows on the edge of the courtyard, where he slid down the wall and came to rest with his head in his hands.

  “I will extract a harsh price for any harm you have caused him,” Will said.

  Eyes glittering, the Hunter stared back, silently mocking.

  As the dog returned to its master’s side, the tension broke. Thirty of Pickering’s men surged into the courtyard from different alleys. Turning slowly, lion Alanzo looked directly into each face as if searching for something he couldn’t find. Despite the overwhelming force, he appeared completely at ease.

  Turning back to Will, he said, “This is my final warning. Move away from here and do not look back.”

  His words were filled with such a powerful gravity that Will walked slowly backwards until rough hands grabbed his arms and held him tight. He continued to study Don Alanzo and the Hunter, trying to anticipate what was to come; but if one thing convinced him of the extent of the potential threat, it was their complete calmness in the face of cudgels and knives.

  “This Spaniard is an Abraham-man,” the leader of Pickering’s men said in the thieves’ cant. The ragged scar that ran from his left temple to his right cheek only emphasised his expression of mocking contempt. “Or he’s been too long in the boozing ken. You know I cut bene whids—he carries no sword and there are thirty of us good copesmates! Let us have him!”

  He beckoned the others with a hand missing two fingers and advanced on Don Alanzo and the Silver Skull. Will still expected the Hunter to unleash his dog, but instead the Hunter opened the palm of his hand to reveal a blue jewel as big as a coin which shimmered with the reflected light of the moon.

  “See, lads! They offer us their riches to buy their lives. We shall have that … and their lives!” The scarred man gave a mocking laugh.

  As the scarred man stepped forwards, the Hunter calmly fitted the jewel into an almost-invisible indentation on the Silver Skull’s forehead. A loud click brought the scarred man to a suspicious halt. The Hunter whispered in the Silver Skull’s ear. He wrung his hands in anguish, and tried to turn away, but the Hunter caught his arm in a tight grip. Don Alanzo whispered in the Skull’s other ear in a manner that appeared to be calming. After a moment, the Silver Skull began to shake, and Will was convinced that beneath the mask he was trying to control deep sobs. Then, with a desperate resignation, he raised one hand to his temple and half bowed his head as though in deep thought.

  The actions were strange enough to bring the band of thugs to a puzzled halt.

  As Will studied the Silver Skull, a barely perceptible change came over the mask, perhaps a slight change in the quality of the moonlight it reflected, or a barely audible noise as though it were a tuning fork vibrating.

  The scarred man flinched, his hand involuntarily going to
his throat. He coughed once and spluttered. When it passed, his mocking smile returned. But only for a moment. Within seconds he was reeling, tearing at his face and arms and fighting for breath, eyes wide with panic.

  The rest of Pickering’s men were rooted in horror. The hands holding Will fell away, and he stepped quickly back through their ranks into the shadows at the edge of the alley.

  The scarred man’s skin blackened as if burned by an invisible fire. It spread quickly across his face, then down his arms, and his skin cracked like a muddy track beneath the hot sun. Blisters erupted everywhere, covering every part of him within seconds, forcing his eyes shut and deforming his lips. One by one the blisters burst to release foul yellow pus. As blood streamed from the corners of his eyes, his nose, his ears, his flesh began to liquefy, and he fell to his knees in a growing puddle, clawing at the areas where sticky bone was now visible.

  Watching his death throes, Pickering’s men crossed themselves or whispered prayers, but the spectacle kept them fixed.

  Finally, the scarred man pitched forwards onto the cobbles and lay still. Will had observed something similar, in a village not far from Darmstadt when the plague had struck. But there the death had been slow, over days, not a matter of seconds. Yet he could see now what the Silver Skull was: an engine of disease, powered by the will of the one who wore it. All it required to operate was the key: the jewel the Hunter had fitted to it.

  His impression was proved correct when first one, then ten, then all of Pickering’s men began to experience the initial symptoms. In no time at all, the disease had leapt among them, driving them to their knees in an agonising death.

  With horror, Will realised why the Enemy was so determined to gain the Skull: if thirty men could be brought down so quickly, where was the end of it? A street? A city? An entire country? Perhaps even the greatest army could be wiped away in the blink of an eye. With the Skull under their control, all Dee’s defences amounted to nothing, and England was left naked and on the brink of becoming a charnel pit.

  A tingling began in the tips of his fingers and his throat began to close. The Silver Skull looked directly at him. Before the disease rushed through Will, Don Alanzo caught the Skull’s arm and guided him away with a gentle tug. The Hunter and his dog were nowhere to be seen. Don Alanzo gave Will a slight bow, the scales now balanced, and moved quickly away across the courtyard into the dark beyond, with the Skull beside him.

  Will attempted to give pursuit, but his head was swimming and his legs were like jelly, even at the merest touch of the Skull’s power. By the time he had recovered, Don Alanzo and the Skull had disappeared into the maze of Alsatia, and within moments, the whinny of a horse was followed by the crack of a whip and the rattle of carriage wheels.

  Miller stumbled over, unscathed, a deep-seated horror burned into his eyes. “Will, I failed you,” he croaked.

  “You did what you could, as do we all. Come.” As they headed back, Will added, “Whatever he said to you, ignore it. They lie. That is what they do.”

  Miller did not respond.

  At the scene of the Thieves’ Fair, Will was surprised to find that Marlowe and a group of the queen’s men had rounded up the collection of rogues in one corner of the courtyard, where they were being held at sword point. Several bodies of those who had resisted lay on the cobbles as a lesson to the others.

  Grace ran over and grasped Will’s hand tightly. “You are safe,” she said with relief. “I prayed for your return.”

  “You should not be here Grace,” he scolded. “But I am glad to see you well.” He motioned to Nathaniel to take Grace to one side.

  “She only wished for knowledge of her sister,” Nathaniel said quietly. “Do not treat her harshly.”

  The weight of what he had witnessed lay heavily on Will. With the weapon in the Enemy’s hands, time was rapidly running out. He sought out Marlowe and said, “Kit, I thank you for coming to my aid. Now, bring me Pickering, the King of Cutpurses. I have some hard questions for him.”

  Marlowe motioned to Pickering’s costume topped by the bird mask lying in a heap on the cobbles. “Mistress Seldon tells me this was his disguise.”

  “Then once again he hides among his people.” Will eyed the sullen mass of rogues.

  “If you do not know his looks, then you will never find him among that rabble, Will.”

  Will considered his options, and then said, “Bring the men to me one at a time.”

  As the pageant of glowering men trailed past, Will studied the size, the gait, and most importantly the eyes: Pickering’s unwavering stare was unforgettable. Many he dismissed immediately, too squat, too large, too grey. A few he spent a moment considering. But there was one who at first appeared wrong, until Will realised he was feigning a limp and walking with his left shoulder stooped. He kept his gaze down, until Will forced him to look up. The unblinking black eyes were coldly familiar.

  “The King of Cutpurses,” Will said wryly. “Your nobility is about to be tested.”

  Pickering responded only with a defiant stare.

  Will turned to Marlowe. “Take him to the Tower.”

  HAPTER 18

  lady, in Alsatia, amid the greatest rogues of London? What did you expect?” Will said angrily as he marched down the Long Corridor from the State Rooms to the wing set aside by Walsingham. “And this is where I hear your lecture about recklessness again, I suppose?” Grace responded without flinching.

  He could see her temper was hot and she would fight him every step of the way, as always. “You risked a great many things, including death.”

  “If you kept me informed, I would not have to take risks.”

  “So it is my fault?” he blazed.

  “Stop treating me like a little girl.”

  “Then trust me. If I discover anything about Jenny, I will tell you.”

  She grew sullen. “It is not simply about Jenny, and you know that.”

  His own anger drained away as he saw clearly the young girl who raced to him through the garden whenever he visited Jenny. “You cannot protect me in the work I do,” he said.

  “And you cannot bring Jenny back by protecting me. Nor can you erase the pain of her loss. But we cannot help ourselves, can we? We are both cursed to repeat our mistakes, trying to save the one person who reminds us of that time when all was right with the world.”

  She looked away sharply. He knew it was because tears had sprung to her eyes, but she would not show him what she perceived to be a weakness. Much of what she said was true, he knew, but Grace was more to him than a symbol of what had been lost. In the midst of his own grief, he had been devastated to see the effect of Jenny’s disappearance on her. It had torn out her heart at first, and then replaced her happiness with a slow-burning bitterness. He cared for her deeply, and he would not have her suffer any more.

  Grace saw him wrestling with her account of his motivations and softened. “Jenny haunts us both. The manner of her passing … here one moment and then gone, no body to bury or grieve, no truthful account, only guesses and hints and what-might-have-beens … Neither of us can find rest while there are so many questions still to answer, and no likely answers forthcoming.” She bit her lip and looked away out of the window to where the servants carried cuts of ham to the kitchens from the back of a wagon.

  “This is not the life either of us would have chosen, but it is the one we have,” he said. “You have accepted that Jenny is gone for there is no evidence to show otherwise. That is sensible. I believe she is still alive because there is no evidence to show she is dead. Less sensible, perhaps, but it is all I am capable of doing. Whatever happened that day is lost to us. For now. But I have seen …” He caught himself. “I do not believe the world is as simple as most people accept. There are spaces in it for strange things to happen.”

  “For Jenny still to be alive?” she mocked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “You hold on to a ghost and it slowly sucks the life from you. You will never find pe
ace, or happiness, while you look back, and while you grip tightly to fantasies, and ask question upon question. You are here, now. You must take some joy … some love … or all will be wasted.”

  “I only ever wanted my Jenny. She was right for me. There will be no other.”

  Grace turned away from him, pretending to examine the servants once again.

  “Whatever happened to her, she is still with me every day,” he continued, “here and here.” He touched his temple and his breastbone. “I would not give up that to dull what pain I feel.”

  “If one of us is the child here, wishing and hoping, it is not I,” she said brusquely. “I will continue to search for answers in my own way. And if you continue to keep secrets from me, I will be forced to go to even greater lengths.”

  Watching her march back along the corridor, head down, cheeks burning, Will felt a deep sadness for what she had lost, and a determination that she would, at least, have a happier life ahead. If he failed Grace, he failed Jenny; he failed in everything.

  Putting aside his emotions, he made his way to the Tryst Rooms, where Henry had attempted to woo Ann Boleyn, away from the scrutiny of his wife. They were now set aside for Walsingham’s use, and lay on the second floor above the hall that Dee had christened the Black Gallery.

  Nursing their wounds, Mayhew sat gloomily in one corner, drinking wine despite the earliness of the hour, while Launceston and Carpenter ate bread and sausage as they turned over the previous night’s events.

  “Where is Tom?” Will asked.

  “Away brooding,” Launceston replied.

  “I would not have him on his own after what he saw.”

  Mayhew let out a theatrical sigh. “We cannot mollycoddle the boy. He must learn to deal with these things, as we all have.”

  “He did not have the benefit of a slow admission to the secrets of the world, as we have,” Will replied. “Find him and bring him here.”