Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

As Will pushed through the crowd towards the carriage, he was recognised by some of the locals from the inns he frequented, and his name flickered from tongue to tongue in awed whispers. Apprentices tentatively touched his sleeve, and sultry-eyed women pursed their lips or thrust their breasts towards him, to Nathaniel's weary disdain. But many revealed their fears about the impending invasion and offered their prayers that Will was off to protect them. Grinning, he shook hands, offered wry dismissals of the Spanish threat, and raised their spirits with enthusiastic proclamations of England's strength; he played well the part he had been given.

At the carriage, the curtain was drawn back to reveal a man with an ascetic demeanour and a fixed mouth that appeared never to have smiled, his eyes dark and implacable. Francis Walsingham was approaching sixty, but his hair and beard were still black, as were his clothes, apart from a crisp white ruff.

"My lord," Will said.

"Master Swyfte. We have business." Walsingham's eyes flickered towards Nathaniel. "Come alone."

Will guessed the nature of the business immediately, for Nathaniel usually accompanied him everywhere and had been privy to some of the great secrets of state. Will turned to him and said, "Nat, I would ask a favour of you. Go to Grace and ensure she has all she needs."

Reading the gravity in Will's eyes, Nathaniel nodded curtly and pushed his way back through the crowd. It was in those silent moments of communication that Will valued Nathaniel more than ever; more than a servant, Nathaniel had become a trusted companion, perhaps even a friend. But friends did not keep secrets from each other, and Will guarded the biggest secret of all. It ensured his path was a lonely one.

Walsingham saw the familiar signs in Will's face. "Our knowledge and our work are a privilege," he said in his modulated, emotionless voice.

"We have all learned to love the lick of the lash," Will replied.

Walsingham held the carriage door open for Will to climb into the heavy perfume of the court-lavender, sandalwood, and rose from iron containers hanging in each of the four corners of the interior. They kept the stink of the city at bay, but also served a more serious purpose that only the most learned would recognise.

Hands reached in through the open window for Will to touch. After he had shaken and clasped a few, he drew the curtain and let his public face fall away along with his smile.

"They love you, Master Swyfte," Walsingham observed, "which is as it should be. Your fame reaches to all corners of England, your exploits recounted in inn and marketplace. Your heroism on behalf of queen and country is a beacon in the long dark of the night that ensures the good men and women of our land sleep well in their beds, secure in the knowledge that they are protected by the best that England has to offer."

"Perhaps I should become one of Marlowe's players."

"Do you sour of the public role you must play?"

"If they knew the truth about me, there would be few flagons raised to the great Will Swyfte in Chichester and Chester."

"There is no truth," Walsingham replied as the carriage lurched into motion with the crack of the driver's whip. "There are only the stories we tell ourselves. They shape our world, our minds, our hearts. And the strongest stories win the war." His piercing eyes fell upon Will from the dark depths beneath his glowering brow. "You seem in a melancholy mood this night."

"My revels were interrupted. Any man who had his wine and his women dragged from his grasp would be in a similar mood."

A shadow crossed Walsingham's face. "Be careful, William. Your love of the pleasures of this world will destroy you."

His disapproval meant nothing to Will. He did not fear God's damnation; mankind had been left to its own devices. There was too much hell around him to worry about the one that might lie beyond death.

"I understand why you immerse yourself in pleasure," Walsingham continued. "We all find ways to ease the burden of our knowledge. I have my God. You have your wine and your whores. Through my eyes, that is no balance, but each must find his own way to carry out our work. Still, take care, William. The devils use seduction to achieve their work, and you provide them with a way through your defences."

"As always, my lord, I am vigilant." Will pretended to agree with Walsingham's assessment of his motivations, but in truth the principal secretary didn't have the slightest inkling of what drove Will, and never would. Will took some pleasure in knowing that a part of him would always remain his own, however painful.

As the carriage trundled over the ruts, the carnal sounds and smells of Bankside receded. Through the window, Will noticed a light burning high up in the heart of the City across the river, the warning beacon at the top of the lightning-blasted spire of Saint Paul's.

"This is it, then," he said quietly.

"Blood has been spilled. Lives have been ruined. The clock begins to tick."

"I did not think it would be so soon. Why now?"

"You will receive answers shortly. We knew it was coming." After a pause, he said gravely, "William Osborne is dead, his eyes put out, his bones crushed at the foot of the White Tower."

"Death alone was not enough for them."

"He did it to himself."

Will considered Osborne's last moments and what could have driven him to such a gruesome end.

"Master Mayhew survived, though injured," Walsingham continued.

"You have never told me why they were posted to the Tower."

Walsingham did not reply. The carriage trundled towards London Bridge, the entrance closed along with the City's gates every night when the Bow Bells sounded.

Echoing from the river's edge came the agonised cries of the prisoners chained to the posts in the mud along the banks, waiting for the tide to come in to add to their suffering. Above the gates, thirty spiked decomposing heads of traitors were a warning of a worse fate to those who threatened the established order.

As the driver hailed his arrival, the gates ground open to reveal the grand, timber-framed houses of wealthy merchants on either side of the bridge. The carriage rattled through without slowing and the guards hastily closed the gates behind them to seal out the night's terrors.

The closing of the gates had always signalled security, but if the City's defences had been breached there would be no security again.

"A weapon of tremendous power has fallen into the hands of the Enemy," Walsingham said. "A weapon with the power to bring about doomsday. These are the days we feared."

CHAPTER 2

n the narrow, ancient streets clustering hard around the stone bulk of the Tower of London, the dark was impenetrable, threatening, and there was a sense of relief when the carriage broke out onto the green to the north of the outer wall where lanterns produced a reassuring pool of light.

Standing in ranks, soldiers waited to be dispatched by their commander in small search parties fanning out across the capital. Robert Dudley, the earl of Leicester, strutted in front of them, firing off orders. Though grey-bearded and with a growing belly, he still carried the charisma of the man who had entranced Elizabeth and seduced many other ladies of the court.

A crowd had gathered around the perimeter of the green, sleepy-eyed men and women straggling from their homes as word spread of the activity at the Tower. Will could see anxiety grow in their faces as they watched the grim determination of the commanders directing the search parties. Fear of the impending Spanish invasion ran high, and in the feverish atmosphere of the City tempers were close to boiling over into public disturbance. Spanish spies and Catholic agitators were everywhere, plotting assassination attempts on the queen and whipping up the unease in the inns, markets, and wherever people gathered and unfounded rumours could be quickly spread.

Ignoring the crowd's calls for information about the disturbance, Walsingham guided Will to the edge of the green where a dazed, badly bruised, and bloody Mayhew squatted.

"England's greatest spy," Mayhew said, forming each word carefully, as he nodded to them.

"Master Mayhew. You have taken a few knocks."

"But I live. And for that I am thankful." Hesitating, he glanced at the White Tower looming against the night sky. "Which is more than can be said for that fool Osborne."

"You were guarding the weapon," Will surmised correctly.

"A weapon," Mayhew exclaimed bitterly. "We thought it was only a man. A prisoner held in his cell for twenty years."

Walsingham cast a cautionary glare and they both fell silent. "There will be time for discussion in a more private forum. For now, all you need know is that a hostile group has freed a prisoner and escaped into the streets of London. The City gates remain firmly closed ..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Although we do not yet know if they have some other way to flee the City. The prisoner has information vital to the security of the nation. He must be found and returned to his cell."

"And if he is not found?" Will enquired.

"He must be found."

The intensity in Walsingham's voice shocked Will. Why was one man so important-they had lost prisoners before, though none from the Towerand how could he also be considered a weapon?

"Your particular skills may well be needed if the prisoner is located," Walsingham said to Will before turning to Mayhew. "You must accompany me back to the Palace of Whitehall. I would know the detail of what occurred."

Mayhew looked unsettled at the prospect of Walsingham's questioning, but before they could leave, the principal secretary was summoned urgently by Leicester, who had been in intense conversation with a gesticulating commander.

"They call your name." Mayhew nodded to the crowd. "Your reputation has spread from those ridiculous pamphlets they sell outside Saint Paul's."

"It serves a purpose," Will replied.

"Would they be so full of admiration if those same pamphlets had called you assassin, murderer, corruptor, torturer, liar, and deceiver?" Mayhew's mockery was edged with bitterness.

"Words mean nothing and everything, Matthew. It is actions that count. And results."

"Ah, yes," Mayhew said. "The end results justify the means. The proverb that saves us all from damnation."

Will was troubled by Mayhew's dark mood, but he put it down to the shock of the spy's encounter with the Enemy. His attention was distracted by Walsingham, who, after listening intently to Leicester, summoned Will over. "We may have something," he said with an uncharacteristic urgency. "Accompany Leicester, and may God go with you."

At speed, Leicester, Will, and a small search party left the lights of the green. Rats fled their lantern by the score as they made their way into the dark, reeking streets to the north, some barely wide enough for two men abreast.

"On Lord Walsingham's orders, I attempted to seek the path the Enemy took from the Tower," Leicester said, as they followed the lead of the soldier Will had seen animatedly talking to Leicester. "They did not pass through the Traitors' Gate and back along the river, the route by which they gained access to the fortress. None of the City gates were disturbed, according to the watch. And so I dispatched the search parties to the north and west." He puffed out his chest, pleased with himself.

"You found their trail?"

"Perhaps. We shall see," he replied, but sounded confident.

In the dark, Will lost all sense of direction, but soon they came to a broader street guarded by four other soldiers, from what Will guessed was the original search party. They continually scanned the shadowed areas of the street with deep unease. Will understood why when he saw the three dead men on the frozen ruts, their bodies torn and broken.

Kneeling to examine the corpses, Will saw that some wounds looked to have been caused by an animal, perhaps a wolf or a bear, others as if the victims had been thrown to the ground from a great height. They carried cudgels and knives, common street thugs who had surprised the wrong marks.

"Were these men killed by the Enemy?" Leicester asked, his own eyes flickering towards the dark.

Ignoring the question, Will said, "Three deaths in this manner would not have happened silently. Someone must have heard the commotion, perhaps even saw in which direction the Enemy departed. Search the buildings."

As Leicester's men moved along the street hammering on doors, blearyeyed men and women emerged, cursing at being disturbed until they were roughly dragged out and questioned by the soldiers.

Will returned to the bodies, concerned by the degree of brutality. In it, he saw a level of desperation and urgency that echoed the anxiety Walsingham had expressed; here was something of worrying import that would have consequences for all of them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a cry from one of Leicester's men who was struggling with an unshaven man in filthy clothes snarling and spitting like an animal. Three soldiers rushed over to help knock him to the frosty street.

"He knows something," the man's captor said, when Will came over.

"I saw nothing," the prisoner snarled, but Will could see the lie in his furtive eyes.

"It would be in your best interests to talk," Leicester said, but his exhortation was delivered in such a courtly manner that it was ineffectual. The man spat and tried to wrestle himself free until he was cuffed to the ground again.

Leicester turned to Will and said quietly, "We could transport him back to the Tower. I gather Walsingham has men there who could loosen his tongue."

"If we delay, the Enemy will be far from here and their prize with them," Will said. "The stakes are high, I am told. We cannot risk that." He hesitated a moment as he examined the man's face and then said, "Let me speak with him. Alone."

"Are you sure?" Leicester hissed. "He may be dangerous."

"He is dangerous." Will eyed the pink scars from knife fights that lined the man's jaw. "I am worse."

Leicester's men manhandled the prisoner back into his house, and Will closed the door behind him after they left. It was a stinking hovel with little furniture, and most that was there looked as if it had been stolen from wealthier premises. The prisoner hunched on the floor by the hearth, pretending to catch his breath, and then threw himself at Will ferociously. Sidestepping his attack, Will crashed a fist into his face. Blood spurted from his nose as he was thrown back against a chair, but it did not deter him. He pulled a knife from a chest beside the fireplace, only to drop it when Will hit him again. As he scrambled for the blade, Will stamped his boot on the man's fingers, shattering the bones. The man howled in pain.

Dragging the man to his feet, Will threw him against the wall, pressing his own knife against his prisoner's throat. "England stands on the brink of war. The queen's life is threatened daily. A crisis looms for our country," Will said. "This is not the time for your games."