The Silver Skull

by Mark Chadbourn

  For Will, the long wait was interminable. The Spanish commanders kept the men working hard under the hot sun, but his thoughts turned continually to Grace, the shadow that was falling across England, and the brooding threat of the Unseelie Court working their mysterious schemes just out of sight. Time and again he had been despatched into the dusty countryside as one of a team searching out wood for new barrels for provisions, until he thought he would go mad with the boredom.

  At least the frantic repairs and reprovisioning provided some cover in the cluttered harbour. Everyone was even busier now the order to sail had been issued. When he saw an opportunity to search the Santiago, he took it with relief.

  At the top of the steps leading below deck, Will glanced around quickly. No one was watching. He moved quickly into the stifling dark.

  The Santiago was the oldest ship in the fleet, a six-hundred-ton hulk, flat-bottomed with a spacious hold, but clumsy at sea, and one of the drags on the Armada’s speed and efficiency. Will had earlier glimpsed the women moving about on deck like ravens as they took the sea air in their black dresses and caps, but they had been ordered below rather than allow them to remain in full view of sailors who had been starved of comfort for so long. Yet in all the time he had been with the Armada he had never caught sight of Grace. Was she even there?

  Below deck, the women had attempted to provide some comfort in their meagre quarters with bunches of dried lavender and muslin bags of rose petals everywhere. Sheets had been strung from ropes across the hold to provide a modicum of privacy.

  When he appeared at the foot of the creaking steps, the curtains shifted as suspicious eyes inspected him. Puzzled mutterings rolled around the dark space and for a moment he was afraid the alarm would be raised, but from the glances he received from some of the younger women, he could tell they had been starved of comfort as much as the men. They flashed quick, nervous smiles and held his gaze a moment too long. Even the older wives occasionally let their gaze linger, though they maintained severe or sombre expressions and muttered angrily about his presence in their midst.

  As the hull rang with the sound of barrels banging up the side of the ship, he realised time was running out and took the risk of asking one of the young wives where he could find an Englishwoman. Shyly, she guided him to the back of the living quarters where an area had been curtained off with several sheets of sailcloth.

  Will pushed through the final sheet, and there was Grace, hugging her knees in one corner, a chain fastened to one ankle and affixed to the hull. She was not wearing the Silver Skull.

  His relief palpable, he grabbed her and held her tightly for a moment. Her shock gave way to a rush of silent emotion, but after a moment she pulled back, her eyes blazing. She jabbed a finger towards him and fumed, “`Kill the king’?”

  “Grace—”

  “Have you come to finish the job? Where is your knife?” She thrust her chest towards him and framed her heart with her hands. “There. Does that make it easier?”

  “Grace—”

  “`Oh, yes, I will protect you, Grace. Until it comes to a hard choice and then I will blithely toss you to the wolves.”’

  “You are alive, are you not?” he snapped.

  “No thanks to you.”

  “Months apart and your first instinct is to scold me like a child? You are the most infuriating woman I know.”

  “I can give you your due reward once we are away from here. How will you free me from this chain?” With frustration, she gave it a yank then let it clatter to the boards.

  “This is not the time,” he began hesitantly.

  She gave a sarcastic sigh. “Of course not.”

  “We are in the middle of the enemy’s fleet. There is no chance of escaping with our lives at this time.”

  “Then how did you get here?”

  “I am now William Prowd, a mercenary in the employ of Philip of Spain. Trust me, Grace. When the time is right—”

  “Oh, yes, I trust you. Of course. When the time is right. In the meantime, I will continue to enjoy the indignities heaped upon me.”

  Will took a breath to steady himself. “Have you been ill treated?” he said, pronouncing every word carefully.

  “Don Alanzo has treated me well, apart from chaining me like a dog.” She sniffed.

  Will took her face in his hands and examined her eyes. Deep within was a hint of whatever subtle control Malantha had exerted over her at El Escorial. Although she was not in the Unseelie Court’s thrall at that moment, they still planned to use her in their plot, and then her life would be forfeit.

  “What has happened to the Silver Skull?” he asked. “Don Alanzo intended to make you its bearer.”

  She explained how Don Alanzo had fixed the mask to Mayhew on the carriage ride from El Escorial.

  “Then perhaps there is still some honour within him,” Will said. “Now, I have but little time here before I am discovered. You must tell me quickly what you have learned during your time with Don Alanzo. He speaks with you?”

  “He visits me to enquire after my well-being and if I have any needs, and on those occasions, we pass the time, if not as friends then as people who share a bond.” Her face darkened. “A bond of suffering.”

  “Do you know where Mayhew is? Hidden on the flagship?”

  She shook her head. “He was taken aboard a ship with grey sails. It appeared deserted. I have not seen its kind before.”

  “Then I must board that grey-sailed ship and see for myself,” Will said, knowing exactly what that statement entailed. “Mayhew is the architect of much of the misery we have experienced. He will pay dearly for his crimes.”

  The clattering of the barrels continued, accompanied by a bout of shouting and cursing. Soon they would come looking for him.

  “Don Alanzo did not tell me his plans,” Grace continued, “but he was unguarded in some of his comments. He does not see me as a threat, and he knows there is nothing I can do until the Spanish plot bears fruition. There is some hidden weapon—”

  “The Silver Skull?”

  “No, another. Something that will be used when the Spanish fleet encounters our English ships. Don Alanzo appeared troubled when he realised he had mentioned it. It seemed to me that this was a secret even the Spanish officers did not know … something of which only Don Alanzo and a few others were aware.”

  “Spies are privy to many secrets denied the common man. That is our benefit and our burden,” Will replied. “He said no more? What it was? Where it is held?”

  She shook her head.

  “Any more regarding the Spanish invasion plans?”

  “No.” After a brief pause, she added, “I asked him about Jenny.”

  Will flinched. “Why would you ask Don Alanzo about her?”

  “I know your work is in some way connected to Jenny’s disappearance, or so you think. If she was taken by Spanish spies, you would not tell me, for fear I would rush to Walsingham, or the queen herself, and demand we do all we can do to gain her return, even if it be war.”

  “And what did Don Alanzo say?” he asked.

  “He sat down, here, and listened carefully to all my pleadings. He knew something, or he would not have listened.”

  “He knows nothing. Don Alanzo understands the world in which we operate, that is all.”

  “He told me he would make enquiries as to her well-being.” Tears stung her eyes, and in them was a hint of accusation that Will had not done enough.

  The clattering outside ended and silence descended on the ship. “I must go. We shall talk of this later,” he said.

  “And when will that be?” she asked tartly. “I would plan my swooning.”

  “Soon.”

  “I heard the order to put back to sea. Do you wait until we make land, which means England will have fallen, and our lives will amount to nothing? Or do we go down at sea under the weight of English cannon?”

  “Trust me. I will do everything in my power to help you.”

  Relent
ing, she gave an exasperated nod. He squeezed her hand and an uneasy moment passed between them, before he stepped past the sailcloth and hurried back through the living quarters.

  Back on deck, one of his fellows, a gruff Spaniard, angrily accused him of slacking. A fight brewed until the guards stepped in and urged the Spanish seaman over the side to the rowboat.

  As Will waited to follow, a shadow loomed over him. It was Hawksworth; he’d been out of sight somewhere on deck, and must have arrived after Will.

  How much did he see? Will wondered.

  His answer came when Hawksworth leaned in and whispered, “I know who you are,” before sweeping away across the deck.

  HAPTER 47

  itting in tense silence on the rowboat back from the Santiago, Will watched the quayside for guards ready to arrest him, but every man was occupied with the frantic reprovisioning of the fleet. Why hadn’t Hawksworth brought men to The Ship of Women? Why had he risked whispering to Will in the certain knowledge that Will could have slit his throat and attempted to make good his escape there and then?

  Once the boat was tied up, Will uneasily joined the throng hauling barrels out of the warehouses while he tried to decide on a course of action. It was easy to lose himself in the swirl of noisy activity. New barrels were still being constructed amid a clatter of hammers, before they were lowered with grunts and curses into every available rowboat.

  No one came for him. It made no sense, unless Hawksworth had a grander scheme in mind. But what could that be?

  For the rest of the day, Will scanned his surroundings, the groups of stone-faced infantry, even the dark interiors of taverns and stores, but there was not even a furtive glance from the Spanish officers, no hint that anyone was the wiser about his true identity.

  He was torn, but there was too much at stake to flee. Finally he decided to continue as planned and hope he could deny any allegation Hawksworth made. Once back on the Rosario, he acted as normally as possible, exchanging lewd banter with Barrett and Stanbury as he went about his allotted tasks. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of Hawksworth, but the traitor gave no sign that anything had passed between them. That puzzled Will even more.

  Twilight brought a cooling breeze that eased the heat of the day. Will sat with the crew on the deck while the officers discussed Medina Sidonia’s orders at the forecastle. After so long in Corunna, there was an eagerness to get back to sea although it was tempered by apprehension at what might lie ahead.

  The gun to make ready sounded at midnight. Will dozed fitfully, in case Hawksworth made his move during the night, and at dawn every crew member was up with the crack of the gun ordering them to sea. It was another very hot day, and it took until mid-afternoon for the fleet to assemble, and by the following dawn they were finally out of sight of Spain.

  Will glimpsed Hawksworth regularly, talking to the officers or overseeing some mundane task, but he continued to give no sign that anything had passed between them. With each hour, the tense atmosphere magnified until Will wanted something to happen to end the unbearable waiting, though he knew he had to board the grey-sailed ship before his identity came to light.

  He had noticed that the Unseelie Court ship regularly paused alongside the Rosario, as well as the flagship and some of the other important ships, for around fifteen minutes each night. Sailing with unnatural speed, it appeared to mark out a proscribed route among the fleet, as though following a ritual path.

  Fifteen minutes to board the ship, find the Silver Skull, and escape was little time, but he made his preparations regardless. In the hold among the carpenters’ tools, he had located the grapnels used by boarding parties and had secreted one on deck.

  That night, while the crew members slept on their filthy blankets, he crept up into the salty night air, ready to mount vigil for the grey-sailed ship pulling aside. They were sailing under a bank of low cloud, drizzle coming in sheets. The Rosario bucked across a choppy sea, and with visibility poor the night crew were occupied. Across the water, Will occasionally glimpsed the lamps of the other ships in the fleet.

  Huddled against the elements, he waited. Finally, he caught sight of the silhouette of a lightless galleon ploughing across the waves on a slanting path in the channel between ships. Its speed told him it was the grey-sailed vessel.

  As he went for the grapnel, he caught sight of someone emerging from below deck. Ducking down at the rail, Will watched, stock-still, as the figure searched slowly while trying to keep out of view. At the foot of the steps to the poop deck, the swinging lantern revealed Hawksworth’s profile, sword drawn, but kept low at his side.

  “Prowd?” he growled.

  Cursing under his breath, Will peered over the rail to where the grey-sailed ship had now moved alongside, keeping an exact pace with the Rosario. Although dark, Will could see there was no movement on deck, no one on the poop deck or forecastle, no lookout, no sound of orders being barked. To the casual eye, it could have been abandoned and drifting with the current if not for the purposeful way it had been steered alongside. An illusion, Will decided, like the Fairy House in Edinburgh, which always appeared empty from the street.

  The ship was close enough to reach with the grapnel, but Will couldn’t risk trying to move between ships with Hawksworth prowling around not far away. Nor could he risk a sword fight on deck, which would quickly draw attention and awkward questions.

  After a moment’s thought, he left the hook where he had hidden it and pulled himself onto the rail. Fleet-footed, he bounded up the rigging, the oily rope slick beneath his fingers. Away from the shelter of the deck, the wind tore at him and the rain lashed as the ship rolled across the swell. Hooking his arm through the rigging, he waited in the knowledge that Hawksworth would probably not think to look up.

  In frustration, he accepted the moment had passed for the night. As he watched the grey-sailed ship, the hairs on his neck tingled as if someone was looking back at him. He wondered what really stood on that seemingly empty deck.

  Below him, Hawksworth continued to prowl, sword ready to repel any attack, with all the balance and poise of a master swordsman. It appeared he had decided to eliminate Will himself, rather than hand Will over to the Spanish commanders. Will couldn’t understand Hawksworth’s thinking. The capture of a live spy who could be tortured to provide vital information was a prize that could be traded for a high reward. One dead body was proof of nothing.

  Will drew his knife and waited.

  Hawksworth moved steadily around, clearly puzzled that Will was nowhere to be seen. He’d obviously observed Will leave his sleeping space, and had decided he was either up to no good or that it was the best time to dispatch him quietly.

  Edging around to the back of the rigging, Will held on in the face of the harsh wind. When Hawksworth was beneath, he dropped. Hawksworth’s cry was lost to the gale as Will smashed him to the deck, and before the traitor could recover, Will propelled him into the rail, winding him. Lunging with his knife just at the moment when the ship bucked over a large wave, Will skidded on the wet boards, and he half went down, one hand keeping his balance.

  Eyes blazing, Hawksworth brought up his sword with a skill that surprised Will. “Prowd,” he snarled, “or should I say `Swyfte’?”

  Will couldn’t wait for Hawksworth to raise the alarm. Using the momentum of the rolling ship, he threw himself forwards and plunged his knife into Hawksworth’s gut. Hawksworth’s eyes bulged with shock as if he was not expecting any attack. Blood splattered from his mouth.

  “No!” he gasped.

  Will whipped the knife out and sliced it across the artery at Hawksworth’s neck. As the blood arced into the rain, the traitor slumped down against the rail, desperately trying to stem the flow, knowing it was already too late.

  “You fool!” he said. “I am a spy, like you!”

  “Lies at the last?” Will knelt next to Hawksworth so they would not easily be glimpsed, ready to use his knife again if Hawksworth attempted to call out.

 
; “I worked both sides, but gave the last to Walsingham.” Hawksworth’s clothes were now sodden with the blood.

  “He said nothing—”

  “Walsingham never says anything!” More blood ran from his mouth. “The Spanish were close to uncovering me. My time was short, and I needed your aid. Together, we both could have escaped when we engage the English fleet. I have details of Parma’s invasion force … locations … numbers …” He coughed, grew weaker.

  “You are the fool! Why did you not identify yourself?” Will demanded.

  “I had to be certain. And now it is too late! We spend so long pretending … we waste our lives on lies … we are always slain by our own deceit. All of us.”

  His final breath rattled from his throat, and his chin slumped onto his chest. Briefly, Will bowed his head too, so that they resembled reflections of each other, one alive, one dead. His guilt quickly turned to anger at the stupidity of the confusion, both of them hiding behind masks, both mistrusting each other.

  When Will was sure no one was watching, he lifted Hawksworth to the rail and pushed him over into the sea. In the wind, and the crash of the waves against the hull, the splash was not audible. The body went under and was gone.

  The grey-sailed ship still kept apace with the Rosario, but as he watched, it gained speed, pulled ahead, and then sailed across the prow and away into the dark towards the San Martin. Will stifled the bitter sting of failure with the knowledge that he no longer risked discovery, and could return the following night to try again.

  But as he walked towards the steps that led below deck, he thought he glimpsed a dark shape waiting there, quickly disappearing down as he neared. Had someone seen him dump Hawksworth’s body? Worse, had someone overheard their exchange?

  He hurried in pursuit, but when he reached the sleeping quarters, no one stirred. There was only the sound of the waves on the hull, a steady, deathly beat like the slow tick of a clock.

  HAPTER 48