The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  “Why, if I did not know better I would say that was Mount Abantos,” Will said. The guard’s eyes flickered towards him.

  The carriage continued ahead for another mile until a grand grey-pink granite complex rose up from the desolate landscape. El Escorial shimmered in the hot sun.

  “I hear the king is more a monk than a man of the world,” Will noted. “He likes his prayers where others enjoy their tupping, and they bring him to a similar climax.”

  Flinching, the guard went for his knife until he realised Will was trying to goad him. He grunted and looked out of the other window.

  Will watched the village of San Lorenzo de El Escorial pass by in the shadow of Philip’s gleaming new monument to his ego, twenty-one years in the building and the centre of the Spanish empire. As they drew nearer, he could see the grand achievement of the construction, its magnificence amplified by the scale reflected in the pools of the formal gardens. Nine towers reached for the sky above the vertiginous, plain walls that resembled an unassailable cliff-face. Its appearance was as austere as the king was rumoured to be, yet in its proliferation of fountains and its rows of exquisite statues, its glorious basilica and its spires, and the sheer size of the construction, it appeared as much an illustration of the monolithic power of Philip and Spain as it did a monument to the glory of God.

  The carriage rolled up the sweeping driveway where several guards ran out to greet it. Will was dragged roughly from the carriage and thrown onto the stones before he was forced to his feet at sword point and accompanied by six men into the forbidding palace’s interior. The Spanish were taking no chances.

  The palace was laid out on a huge quadrangle with a series of intersecting corridors, courtyards, and chambers. He was hauled along at a fast clip, cuffed every time he fell, and cuffed again for every sardonic response. Finally, he was thrust into a large hall lined with dark portraits of severe faces and accusing eyes.

  At the far end of the hall, dressed in black, lion Alanzo kneeled in prayer. The guards threw Will to the floor before him, and surrounded Will with levelled pikes.

  “You think highly of me to believe so many fine men are necessary to keep me contained,” Will said.

  “You are no threat,” Don Alanzo replied. “You never were.”

  It was only then that Will saw the black coffin resting on a trestle near the window, with a smaller black box on top, which Will guessed contained the head of lion Alanzo’s father.

  “I would give my condolences,” Will began honestly. “Your father was a casualty of our war, but I had no ill feeling towards him personally.”

  “Shut up!” Don Alanzo raged. “You cut off his head!” He struck Will across the face with the back of his hand.

  Turning so the guards would not see his emotion, lion Alanzo rested one hand upon the coffin. “He was a great man, and an honourable one. He gave his life for Spain. That will not be forgotten. An English city will be renamed after him once we crush your country underfoot.”

  Will had a sudden flash of Sister Adelita inadvertently setting in motion the events that led to her father’s death, and he felt a deep regret at the guilt he knew would consume her. The corrupting touch of the Unseelie Court affected everyone, except themselves.

  “Your father was an honourable man,” Will admitted, “and I am sure he had no knowledge of the destructive power of the Silver Skull when he first affixed it to his head.”

  “You know nothing of those circumstances,” Don Alanzo spat.

  “And for all our bitter disputes, I know you are an honourable man too,” Will continued. “Would you see such terrible disease inflicted on my people? Is victory for Spain worth the deaths of innocents on so grand a scale? Where is your God in all of this?”

  “Quiet,” Don Alanzo said in a low voice trembling with passion.

  “Spain is our enemy, but never did I think Philip would sanction such devastation. Victory at any cost? Where is just rule in that? It was not too long ago when my people fell under Philip’s aegis during his marriage to Mary Tudor—”

  “Quiet!” Don Alanzo whirled, spittle flying from his mouth. Will could see those very doubts tormented him. “I would see all of your countrymen slaughtered for what you have done,” he hissed.

  “I do not believe it. I see the hands of others in this impending atrocity. The whispers in Philip’s ears lead him down a dangerous path from which there is no return.”

  Don Alanzo steadied himself before uttering cruelly, “From the outside, El Escorial is a palace, and a monastery, and an impregnable fortress. From the inside, it is a prison from which you can never escape. More secure than your Tower in London, it is the most heavily guarded building in the whole of the empire. Do not harbour thoughts of escape. No one can get in. No one can get out. This will be your home in your final days. Take him away.”

  The guards grabbed Will’s arms and dragged him to his feet. The pikes were kept within an inch of his throat at all times. As he left the room, he glanced back at Don Alanzo, a forlorn figure, head bowed in front of the coffin.

  Outside, Will was beaten severely until he lost consciousness.

  He came round tied to a chair in a great hall whose walls were covered with frescoes depicting scenes from Spanish military victories: the defeat of the Moors, and images from several of Philip’s campaigns against the French.

  “The Hall of Battles.” The voice was like the wind across snow. In the corner of the hall, a woman stood, motionless, shoulders slightly hunched like an animal on the brink of attacking. Her hair hung lank around a bloodless face, her eyes red-rimmed, unblinking. There was something of the grave about her. With excruciating slowness, she stalked towards him.

  “One of the Unseelie Court,” he said.

  Her dark, hungry eyes never left his face. “My brother told me that is what you call us. Unholy. “

  As she inched forwards, a suffocating dread closed about him, a visceral reaction to something beyond his five senses. With each step, the tension increased a notch until his breath burned in his chest as he waited for her to lunge at him.

  “I know you,” she intoned. That simple statement carried with it the weight of something terrifying.

  Before Will could consider its implications, his vision swam. When it cleared, her unsettling appearance had shifted to take on an unearthly beauty. She was undoubtedly the same person, with that same hungry gaze, but now she radiated a deep, powerful sexuality that affected him despite himself.

  She came to a halt before him. Presenting herself, he thought. Her posture accentuated every curve of her body, the swell of her breasts, her hard nipples protruding through the thin silk, her hips at an angle, crotch slightly pushed forwards. She challenged him to admire what he saw.

  Knowing what lay beneath sickened him. As he looked away defiantly, he realised her sexuality was more than just physical. Slowly, she drew his gaze back to her, and however much he fought he could not resist. Sweat beaded his brow, and he shook from the strain of fighting her. The heat rose in his groin.

  She leaned forwards until her luminous face was only inches from his, and he could smell the perfume of her skin, and her hair, and a muskier scent beneath it. “You are mine now,” she whispered. Reaching down, she ran the tips of her fingers along his thigh.

  “Your brother,” he said, pointedly ignoring her teasing, “is Cavillex?”

  She nodded slowly. “My name is Malantha.”

  He looked around for the guards, but they were alone.

  Malantha appeared to sense what he was thinking, for she said, “I do not need protection.”

  “If I were free—”

  “Not even then. Cavillex presents a fearsome face to the world, but I am worse. Much worse.”

  “I imagine Philip finds your wiles invigorating,” he said.

  “Personal weaknesses exist in all humans. You can hide them away, pretend they do not exist or that God and prayer have expunged them, but they remain.”

  “Until
you work them loose.”

  Her gaze held him fast.

  “I have many weaknesses,” he continued. “I must be easy game for one such as you.”

  “You pretend to many weaknesses,” she replied, “but only one truly matters.”

  “You see the weaknesses that clearly?”

  “All people can see weaknesses if they open their eyes. But most of the time, you choose to ignore them, or you pretend, or you lie to yourself. But they are there. What is writ clearly in the heart is clear in the face.”

  “You see them as weaknesses. But they can also be strengths, driving us on to achieve great things, to strive, to overcome pain and hardship.”

  “Believe that if you wish,” she replied.

  “Is your brother coming to oversee my torture again?” he asked.

  “My brothers are engaged in important affairs that demand their attention. Not Just in Edinburgh, but in France, and Venice, Moscow, and the New World. We have been playing this game for a long time, by the way you measure it, and we move with the slow turn of the seasons, a slight push here, barely noticed, another shove there, unseen, guiding, steering, drawing strands across your entire world until everything is in place. And then you will see the true design of the plan we have wrought.

  “Cavillex trusts me to ensure you pay the price for what you did. We have only contempt for England and we will destroy it piece by piece without emotion. But you have gained our attention. You slew one of us.” In the blaze of her eyes, he saw clearly the monster that lurked beneath the flirtatious surface. “This is now a personal matter. Quid pro quo. And,” she added, “by the end, you will wish it was my brother here.”

  “True. His own brand of torture already failed.”

  “Torture is not a fair word for what I do. There is something of creation about it, a skill that makes the heavens sing, a drawing together of subtle themes, of resonances, a slow build of contrasting emotions, desires, and agonies, until they fall into a glorious harmony, and then you will be crushed by the artfulness of it.” Her voice lost its honeyed tone and became gravelly. “Your mind and soul will be destroyed long before your body falls apart.”

  “And Philip sanctions that?”

  “Philip will do whatever I tell him to. His only concern is that the Armada succeeds and England falls. Failure could wreak untold damage on the Spanish empire and his own reputation. And if I tell him a dangerous English spy is a threat to his Enterprise of England—however ridiculous that might seem—he will do whatever he deems necessary.”

  “With a little push and shove from yourself, perhaps, when he is entranced by the comfort of your thighs.”

  “Men are men. It is their nature, and easily manipulated by any woman who knows.”

  “But Philip knows nothing of your true plans. How you will use the Silver Skull to achieve your sly aims.”

  “You know nothing of our true plans. You think you know, but you have been wrong at every turn. We are too subtle … too sly … that is why we win. We are the wind that moves the oceans when all your power could not achieve more than a few ripples.”

  “My ripples ended the life of the last Silver Skull. You will now be looking for another candidate, I assume?” She leaned close until he was lost in the dark, echoing depths of her eyes. His thoughts squirmed at the contact.

  “A small victory, if such it was. Now we will find one we can truly control.” She made a dismissive gesture. “But that was always our plan.”

  “And so you will destroy all of England’s peoples.”

  “In part. But if that were all, ‘twould be a sorry response to your crimes.”

  “Our only crime is to defend ourselves. In your arrogance, you may think that is crime enough.” He tried to uncover hints of what she was scheming in her face, but it was a mask; she was too clever to reveal anything she did not want him to know. “Then what else do you plan?” he pressed.

  “A message, delivered with accuracy, that shows we will never be opposed again.”

  “Something beyond the death of all Englishmen and Englishwomen?”

  “That is a cudgel-blow. Our true message will be delivered with precision to amplify the pain and to underline that for every slight against us we will respond a hundredfold … a thousandfold.” Her eyes narrowed hatefully. Will was left in no doubt as to the intensity of the threat.

  “And how soon do you plan to ship the Silver Skull to my home?” he enquired blithely.

  “Soon.”

  “And where—?”

  “Enough questions!” Her bony fingers scraped up his neck to his cheeks. “It is time to prepare the way for your torment. You recall what my brother told you lay ahead?”

  Will did not respond.

  The doors at his back opened and someone walked slowly towards him. He strained to see, but the new arrival remained out of his frame of vision.

  Malantha drank in every expression, every flicker of emotion, and when she was satisfied, she summoned the person to stand in front of Will.

  It was Grace. She was unharmed, though pale.

  Will struggled to disguise his relief. Over the days, terrible thoughts had forced their way into his mind of the suffering she was enduring at the hands of the Unseelie Court. It was more than he could have hoped to see her in such good health.

  “You are well?” he said. His face revealed nothing that would give Malantha joy.

  Grace responded with a pale smile. “Yes. It is good to see you.”

  “They will pay for what they have done to you,” he said emotionlessly, adding so quietly that Malantha could not hear, “We will have you away from here in no time.”

  Grace’s brow furrowed. “But … I do not want to leave.”

  Her words were like a slap across his face. “What do you mean?”

  “This is our great chance. These people … your Enemies … they know what happened to Jenny. I see now why you do what you do. You knew they had knowledge of her disappearance.”

  “No—”

  “You know. Do not lie to me. And they have promised me they will tell all about Jenny, and then I … we … will know the truth, and we can finally find peace.”

  “You cannot trust them. She is lying,” Will said forcefully. “She knows nothing. Jenny … Jenny is dead.” He couldn’t bring himself to believe it even as the words left his mouth.

  “Is she?” Malantha said. “Would you not like to know the truth once and for all, like your friend here?”

  “Not in this manner. Your manipulation will not work.”

  Standing behind Grace, a touch of the true Malantha showed in her features; she did not believe him.

  Grace kneaded her hands uneasily. “I cannot bear not knowing any more. I will do anything they ask of me to discover the truth. Anything. And the only way to stop me is to kill me.”

  HAPTER 38

  here was no escape. Will hung out of his cell window at the top of the tower, but the walls were sheer. Even if he found a rope of sufficient length, the tower was in clear view of the army of guards swarming around the palace far below. Don Alanzo had been correct: El Escorial was the most secure building in all of the Spanish empire, a true fortress, the perfect prison.

  From his window, he had a vista that at any other time would have been reserved for visiting dignitaries or European royals, across the desolate waste surrounding El Escorial towards the lush green near Madrid. His cell was filled with the finest furniture and works of art from across the empire. The irony was not lost on him.

  Grace’s appearance had deeply disturbed him, but his concerns were interrupted by the key in the lock. The door swung open to reveal several guards—he was never left alone with any less than five—the captain stepping in to bark, “Kneel, English dog, in the presence of the king.”

  “I kneel only before those who are worthy of my respect,” Will stated. The guards threw him to the floor, pikes pressed against the back of his neck so that he could not raise his head.

  F
rom his reduced perspective, he watched a pair of black velvet slippers walk slowly into the chamber and stand before him, and only then was he allowed to look up. Dressed all in black with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, Philip was an ascetic figure, but Will saw in his eyes a gentleness not normally evident in monarchs.

  “An English spy.” He looked Will up and down with disdain. “And not just any spy. They tell me you are England’s greatest spy, William Swyfte. Is that correct?”

  “We are all burdened by our reputations,” Will replied, “but mine provides me with a parade of entertainment while yours, I am sure, does not.”

  Philip ignored the gibe. “Tell me, what is the point of a spy when everyone knows his name?”

  “You are not the first to ask that question.”

  “Does not your whole business involve secrets, duplicity, deceit, and shadows?”

  “And you think I am not involved in such things?”

  Philip nodded condescendingly. “I understand. What you see is not always what is. You are not England’s greatest spy, for if you were you would not be here.”

  “I would rather be perceived as victorious than great.”

  “You shall be neither. Your execution is forthcoming—”

  “After my torture.”

  Philip winced and looked away as if he had glimpsed something distasteful. “And your country’s days are numbered,” he continued regardless. “The Armada is to sail soon.”

  “Your Armada has floundered before.”

  “Not this time,” Philip said sharply. In that instant, Will could see the strain the king was under: victory would cement Spain’s reputation and empire for all time; defeat would deal a blow from which he might not recover. Realising he had revealed too much, Philip sniffed and said, “I wished to see what kind of man England thought was the best it could offer in opposition to my plans. I am not impressed. If you are the best, this business is already concluded.”