The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  Will was happy to move away from the worst-afflicted region of the city and head towards the slopes leading up to the Castle of Sao Jorge overlooking the city. Once the royal residence, the homes of the city’s wealthier inhabitants clustered close to its protection. Here the streets were quieter. Will eventually located the house he required in a long, white terrace of the well-kept homes of merchants, far enough away from the rich and important residents to avoid attention.

  A gentle knock was answered by a man in his late twenties, strong, clean-shaven, and tanned, black hair framing an intelligent face. He matched the description that had been made available in the Palace of Whitehall.

  “You are Luis Inacio dos Santos?” Will asked.

  “I am,” he said in heavily accented English and gave a formal bow. Once Will had announced the password, Santos admitted him into the gloomy interior. The Portuguese man carried himself with the strength and control of a soldier, but his face had the sensitivity of an artist. Both were true. Will knew he had been an acclaimed artist in Lisbon until the Spanish invasion, when he had fought in the resistance. The Portuguese lost in the face of Philip of Spain’s overwhelming force, but resentment boiled away in the shadowy streets, and Santos was an easy turn for Walsingham’s men. He hated Spain, and Philip, in a more visceral manner than any Englishman.

  “You have a ship moored off the coast,” Santos said. “Word came through this morning to prepare for the possible arrival of an English agent. Though,” he added, “that word has been flying back and forth for months now. I sent missive after missive about the buildup of the Armada. Why was I ignored?”

  “The queen has her favourites,” Will replied, “and she does not always heed the most trustworthy voice.”

  “You must be exhausted after your journey. I can offer you food.”

  “A bite, but matters are pressing and I cannot rest.” He explained to Santos about lion Alanzo and Grace.

  “This afternoon word reached me of a new Spanish nobleman in the city, but I have no knowledge of where he stays or which ship he will be joining. You can afford at least a few hours’ rest. This past hour also saw the arrival of a messenger from Philip’s palace. He is believed to be carrying orders for Medina Sidonia to launch the Armada, but that will not take place until tomorrow at the earliest. The duke has waited two weeks for the order already. Another day will matter little.”

  Will wondered if the attack on El Escorial had prompted Philip—and Malantha—to move with haste. If preparations were not wholly complete, that could work in England’s favour. “I cannot rest. If it is not possible to locate lion Alanzo in the city quickly, I must get aboard one of the ships,” Will pressed. “The arrangements will take time, if that is even possible. Even though I speak Philip’s tongue, or could pass as a French mercenary, the chances of discovery are high.”

  Laughing, Santos held up a hand to slow Will’s anxious words. “These matters are in hand. Rest. The world will not end before dawn.”

  Although Will knew the truth of Santos’s words, he couldn’t shake an oppressive feeling of mounting doom, of secret plans coming together in the darkness. Yet after weeks with only a snatched hour of rest here and there, his eyes drooped quickly and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. He was woken by Santos later when the room was filled with the warming aromas of food.

  Santos indicated a fine spread. “Red mullet from Setubal and mussels from Cabo da Roca. Goat cheese from Sobral de Monte Agraco, zimbros from Sesimbra, and pastries from Malveira. Cheese cakes and nuts, and for your pleasure, a bottle of Muscatel, also from Setubal. The best of Portugal, still, despite the Spanish occupation. Eat and drink your fill.”

  Santos’s hospitality was as much a mark of his pride in his country and his defiance of Spanish rule, but Will was just as thankful. He ate hungrily, and when he was done, was ready with the questions that weighed upon him.

  “What has happened to Lisbon?” he asked. “As I rode through, it was worse than the worst parts of London, filthy, seemingly poor. Where are the riches? Where is the food?”

  “Another thing for which we must thank the Spanish,” Santos said bitterly. “The Armada has brought more than thirty thousand men to Lisbon, all of them whoring, fighting, and thieving while the ships sit uselessly off our harbour for week upon week. They consume our food faster than we can replenish our supplies. Everything is scarce, and what is available is beyond the wages of the common man. We starve by the day. The Spanish run riot through our city, and the Portuguese have locked themselves behind their shutters, but even then there is no escape. In their filth and degradation, the Spanish sailors and soldiers grow diseased and ill. They desert by the score, and good Portuguese men are pressed to fill their spaces. Lisbon can take no more. The sooner we are rid of this damned Armada, the better.”

  “Do not wish it upon England,” Will said, “but I understand why you are keen to help.”

  “And help you I shall, to all my power. A spy within the fleet itself may do little alone to turn the tide of battle, but still you may cause some damage in the thick of it. And if the worst happens, when the force lands on England’s shores, you will have valuable information that may aid any resistance.”

  “If the Spanish set foot upon England, the hour will be dire indeed,” Will replied. “But how will I disguise myself effectively among Spanish sailors for such a long sea voyage?”

  Sitting back in his chair, Santos folded his hands together and smiled. “You will not be among Spanish sailors.”

  “Who, then?”

  “Among your own kind. Englishmen.”

  Will eyed Santos incredulously.

  “Not all your countrymen have the same pure motives as yourself. There are some two hundred Englishmen among the Spanish crews. Mercenaries, those driven by the passion of our Lord who believe this a crusade to return the one true religion to your land, priests who plan to become rich converting heretics, and exiles keen to reclaim their fortunes and their estates once rightful order has returned.”

  “A ship of traitors, then.” Though unsurprised, Will was still angry that some were so eager to betray the land of their birth.

  “Ships,” Santos corrected, “for they are scattered among the fleet. I know for certainty eight are aboard the Nuestra Senora del Rosario. And there is rumoured to be one of great status aboard Medina Sidonia’s flagship San Martin.”

  “The flagship? There is an Englishman in the command?”

  “They call him lion William.”

  “Sir William Stanley,” Will noted coldly. “The treacherous dog. I had heard he was in Dunkirk marshalling another part of Parma’s invasion force. Stanley cares for nothing but himself. He betrayed the entire city of Deventer in the Netherlands to the duke of Parma. If he is here, he feels success in his blood. How did you come by this information? And how will I gain the necessary papers to find a berth without being press-ganged and ending up a slave at the oars of one of Medina Sidonia’s galleys?”

  Raising a candle to guide his way, Santos motioned for Will to follow him. As they climbed the flights of creaking stairs, he said, “It may be that your woman will be aboard the Santiago. La Arca de las Mujeres is the name by which it is commonly known.”

  “The Ship of Women?” Will translated.

  “It carries the wives of many of the married officers, the only women permitted to sail with the fleet. No whores to distract the men. Though I have heard tell that one officer smuggled his wife on board disguised as a man, to provide him with comfort on the long nights at sea. Medina Sidonia does not want his men’s fighting edge blunted by nights of carnal pleasure. But the Santiago is one of the most heavily guarded ships in the Armada. You will not get aboard it.”

  Will stored the information away as Santos led him up a final, short set of stairs to an attic room. The smell of blood and urine washed out the moment the door was opened. As Santos’s candle drove back the dark, Will saw a man chained to the far wall on a bed of straw, his head hangin
g down so it was impossible to tell if he were alive or dead. As they walked in, he stirred and grunted, but he was barely conscious. Santos had clearly beaten him to get the information he required.

  “Who is he?” Will asked.

  “An English mercenary who goes by the name of William Prowd. I found him drunk in a bar and lured him back here on the pretence of more wine. He told me all I need to know, and I have his papers, signed by Medina Sidonia’s recruitment officer, so you will be able to slip on board.” Santos collected the wine-stained papers from a stool and handed them to Will.

  “Unless he has friends aboard.”

  “He tells me he travelled alone, as his regular acquaintances feared England’s firepower, even against a fleet of this size.”

  Lifting the man’s battered and bruised head, Will studied him for a moment while he thought. “There will be risks aplenty, but this will at least give me an opportunity. I thank you. Now I must disguise my appearance as much as possible, for I have unfortunately been the subject of several pamphlets published in London detailing my adventures, each of which came with an engraving, which, although it failed to capture my true heroic nature, could make me recognisable.”

  Santos guided Will out of the room, but did not close the door. “I will find you a razor, scissors, and dye. Now: have you everything I can give you to bring misery to the hated Spanish?”

  “Your gifts and my own wits are all I need.”

  Santos’s polite bow only just hid years of mounting hatred. “Then I must tidy up here. I will meet you downstairs shortly.” He drew his knife and prepared to step into the attic room again before turning back briefly, his face haunted in the candlelight. “These times make monsters of all of us,” he said. “I wonder sometimes where is the simple man who took joy from the art he created in the hills around Lisbon. I fear he is lost forever.”

  With that, he stepped into the attic room and closed the door behind him.

  HAPTER 45

  ake one more step and I will cut off your ears and your nose!” the Spanish officer barked in faltering English. One hand lay on the hilt of his knife, and he looked as if he wished to mutilate Will whether he complied or not.

  Will came to a halt at the top of the rope ladder, on the brink of stepping onto the deck of the Nuestra Senora del Rosario, one of the most heavily armed ships in the Spanish fleet.

  “Papers!” the officer demanded. Snatching them from Will’s fingers, he cast an eye over the stolen documents while keeping Will’s face in view. The cursory glance came to a sharp halt, and he read one section in detail, his brow knitting, before staring deeply into Will’s eyes. When he drew his knife suddenly, Will was sure he had been discovered, and went for his own hidden knife. But then the officer jabbed the blade past him to indicate a clutch of three men further along the deck, and thrust the papers back into Will’s hand with a contemptuous expression.

  Playing his part, Will gave a sullen nod and climbed on board. Freshly clean-shaven, with trimmed hair dyed to turn it from black to dark brown, he was now William Prowd, a mercenary fighting man fresh from the campaign in the Netherlands. As such, he was not expected to be a seasoned sailor and could easily disguise his ignorance of the detail of the backbreaking work on deck. And with a supply of dye to keep his hair brown, he hoped he could survive for weeks, if necessary. By judgment or chance, Santos had done his work well.

  But he was now trapped on a ship full of enemies who would take his life in a moment, amid a vast fleet filled with thousands more cutthroats en route to the fiercest battle the world had known. He would not be able to rest for a second.

  The dawn had broken, clear and golden, with a light wind off the Atlantic, the sticky scent of pine from the forested hills mingling with the tang of salt and the rich aroma of fresh fish from the small boats unloading their catch on the quayside. Amid the discordant screech of seagulls, Will had made his way to the ship early to avoid unnecessary scrutiny.

  The Nuestra Senora del Rosario was moored on the far side of what the locals called the floating forest. It was a carrack, with a soaring forecastle that would prove a terrifying prospect for any would-be boarders. It was also the Spanish pay-ship, carrying the wages of every man sailing with the Armada, and as such Will knew it would be a prime target for England’s pirates. The last thing he wanted was to be slain by his own countrymen within sight of home, if he survived that far.

  The three men eyed Will suspiciously as he drew near. They were all English. Two were mercenaries like Will, happy to sell themselves to the highest bidder: Henry Barrett was a barrel of a man with enormous muscular arms that looked like they could crush bones, and a big belly, a shaven head, and protruding ears framing a face that had the half-lidded expression of someone on the brink of exploding into a rage; Jerome Stanbury was slight next to his associate but still muscular, with a hooked nose and lank grey-black hair hanging down to his shoulders. The third, Walter Hakebourne, was a coastal pilot who would guide the ship to safe harbour once they arrived in England. A small man, he appeared permanently anxious and on edge as if he expected an attack at any moment.

  “Have ye heard the news?” Stanbury said. “Philip has sent his orders to sail. This day, May the ninth, is one for our journals, eh, friend? We will make good money out of this, for even when we reach England the Spanish will require much fighting and peacekeeping.”

  “How long till we are ready to depart?” Will asked.

  “We can be ready in hours, for this is a well-run ship. It is under the command of lion Pedro de Valdes, one of the Armada’s main commanders,” Hakebourne stuttered. “But the rest of ‘em? I would say two days.”

  As the day gradually warmed, they continued to speak about little of import in the curt manner of men who trusted no one: the poor quality of the food, their doubts about the management of the purchasing of provisions for the voyage, the inadequacy of many of the Spanish sailors. Guiding the conversation in an oblique manner, Will attempted to discover more vital information about Medina Sidonia’s plans for the Armada, but it quickly became clear that the men knew nothing, nor wanted to know. They were only interested in the money they were going to pocket, and were ready to do anything asked of them.

  A buzz began to spread across the other ships in the harbour, voices raised cheerily, shouts and song, as news spread of the arrival of the king’s orders and the certain knowledge that the crews’ long wait would soon be over. It was the irony of their work; whenever they were at sea they craved the comforts of port, but when on dry land, they could not wait to return to sea.

  “This will be over in no time,” Barrett grunted. “The Spanish officers told Hawksworth that Elizabeth still persists with peace negotiations with Parma, when Philip has no intention of seeing them concluded. There is no time for England to get its defences in place. We will stride right up to the door of the queen’s bedchamber, knock politely, and ask for entry!”

  They all laughed, but Will’s mind was racing. “Hawksworth?” he asked.

  Uneasily, they exchanged brief, flickering glances as Stanbury said, “Sir Richard Hawksworth. You have heard tell of him?”

  Will had. Hawksworth had spent his time in the shadow of the treacherous Sir William Stanley, but his reputation for deceit and cruelty was, if anything, even greater. In the Netherlands, while helping Stanley complete his betrayal of the city of Deventer to the duke of Parma for a substantial purse of gold, he was rumoured to have sent his own brother to his death for money. In a stew of traitors, cutthroats, and liars, Hawksworth would always be the least trustworthy. More worrying to Will, Hawksworth had spent a great deal of time at court, and while he had never met Will face-to-face, he knew of his reputation, and perhaps other telling details too.

  The mention of his name had certainly troubled the others for they had grown bad-tempered, and there was still one thing Will wished to know before they sloped off below deck.

  “I have heard tell,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially, “of
strange things occurring around this fleet. Of portents … and apparitions. I would not sail with a fleet that is cursed.”

  Will knew many of the sailors and fighting men were superstitious, a response to the closeness of death in their lives, but he was surprised by the reaction. Barrett, Stanbury, and Hakebourne all went for the items they carried to ward off ill fortune: a rabbit’s foot, medallion, and ring.

  “I myself saw, two nights gone, mysterious lights under the waves after dark had fallen, moving from the shore to ship … several ships,” Hakebourne whispered.

  “The beer turned to vinegar at an inn on the quayside after a drunken Spaniard cursed the Fair Folk.” Barrett looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be standing on the ship’s rail at his back.

  “Spectres,” Stanbury muttered. “Glimpsed in the evening mist, stalking the forests around Lisbon.” He pointed an accusing finger at Will. “Do not mention them again.”

  Will didn’t need to—he already had the answer he required: the Unseelie Court was accompanying the Armada to England. He was amid even more enemies than he had feared.

  His question had cast a pall over their conversation and as they prepared to break up so Will could find his berth for the night, they were hailed loudly by a tall, flamboyantly dressed man with a pockmarked face. Will noticed he rarely blinked, so that he resembled one of the lizards he had seen basking in the sun on the rocks during his journey from El Escorial.

  “Watch your back,” Stanbury said quietly. “It is Hawksworth.”