Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

"Nothing to concern us." Will tried to urge him on, but he was rooted.

"It was with the tsar's men. With them!"

"The Enemy have many weapons at their disposal, and employ many beasts to do their work. You know that, " Will said, trying to calm him. He watched the spiralling panic in Carpenter's eyes with concern. At the outset, he had been afraid Carpenter had been sent on such an important mission too early, but as ever they were short of men.

"Is that what killed Jack and Scarcliffe and Gedding?" The scene of slaughter in Kitai-gorod, the walled merchant town beside the fortress, still lay heavily on both of them, but it had taken all Will's abilities to talk Carpenter through his devastation at the time.

Will grasped Carpenter's shoulders. The barks of the hunting party's dogs drew closer by the minute. `John, our lives mean nothing here. We do this not for personal reward, or acclaim, or the queen's favour, but for the people of England."

Carpenter stared at him, seeing only the pictures in his head.

`John. " Will shook him, too hard. "Though we both give up our lives here, we must see our burden delivered to London and to Dee. The safety of our country depends on us. We do not matter. Our lives are not important. Once you accept that fact, you are free. Do you understand?"

He nodded slowly, but Will was not sure he was convinced.

"If one of us falls, the other must make sure the package reaches our man so he can deliver it to the ship. That is the only thing that should concern us. You know the laws of our business: do not risk all we seek to achieve for the sake of one man. We are already dead. Repeat that."

"We are already dead," Carpenter said flatly. He blinked away a tear.

Another roar, so loud it felt like whatever had made the noise was only feet away. The hairs sprang erect on Will's neck.

It jolted Carpenter out of his stupor and together they drove on into the forest, increasingly thankful for the white snow as the light began to fade. Branches tore at their faces and objects hidden underfoot threatened to trip them, but they continued as fast as they could.

Another roar, close behind. The sounds of the hunting party had faded away as if they had decided to leave the pursuit to a more effective hunter.

"If it has our scent, we will never lose it," Carpenter gasped.

"There is a storm coming and that may provide cover for us and our tracks," Will replied.

For ten more minutes, they scrambled through the bitter Russian winter, no longer feeling their feet. The heat drained from their limbs until they felt leaden and only the threat of what lay behind drove them on.

Finally, as the gloom descended among the branches, a light appeared ahead: a lantern, gently swinging to draw them in.

"There!" Carpenter said with exultation.

Will was distracted by fleeting movement in the trees to his left. Afraid their pursuer had pulled ahead and was circling, he came to a halt and peered into the gloom. "We may need to take a different path," he said.

"What is it?"

"Whatever was at our backs could be lying in wait to attack us unawares. " He searched the trees, listening intently, but the snow muffled all sound. Another movement shimmered on the edge of his vision, closer to hand, a figure that was nowhere near as large as the roars of their pursuer had suggested.

"You see it?" Carpenter hissed.

And then Will did, and the cold that crushed the forest in its grip swept into every part of him. Standing among the trees, almost swallowed by the encroaching dark, was a woman, her leaf green dress floating around her in the wind.

Jenny.

His Jenny.

The cold did not appear to touch her. Her arms and head were bare, her skin so pale. She looked exactly as she had done that last time he had seen her, stepping through the cornfield to meet him, her eyes like the sun, her smile filled with love. Was she a ghost? A dream caused by the cold? Had she come to haunt him at the moment of his own death, as she had haunted him in the time since she had disappeared?

His heart went out, and then he was running towards her, oblivious to all else but the dim sound of Carpenter calling his name anxiously.

The roaring was so loud it felt like he was in the middle of a tempest. Whirling, he saw a huge, dark shape erupt from the trees and drive into Carpenter with such force he was thrown several feet against a tree. The beast descended on Carpenter in a storm of fangs and rending claws. Will was fixed to the spot in the shock and horror of the moment as the creature ripped through the clothes on Carpenter's back and sent a mist of blood into the air. Carpenter's screams were too painful to hear. Somehow he scrambled free and managed to draw his knife, but then the beast fell on him again.

It looked like a bear, but somehow more than a bear.

Will ran several steps towards the bloody scene and came to a slow halt. There was nothing he could do to save Carpenter.

Whirling, he searched the trees for Jenny, but only the wind whistled through the area where she had stood. He ran, calling her name, but there was no response, nothing to show she had ever been there.

Had she saved him from the beast's attack?

The ache in his heart was agonising, but he drove it down inside him, as he always had, and ran for the light, trying not to think about Carpenter and the awful sounds rising up behind him.

Within minutes, he was packed under heavy blankets in the back of a sleigh, hurtling down a steep track through the trees, with the crack of a whip echoing around him, and promises from his saviour that he would not rest until Will was at Arkhangelsk on a ship chartered by the Muscovy Company. England beckoned.

Lulled by the motion, his despair came and went on the edge of sleep. Wherever he was, he hoped Carpenter would forgive him, but the success of their task was paramount.

Obliquely, he recalled Walsingham telling him, "There is no room for any emotion," and at the time he thought he understood.

And he thought of Jenny, and however much he told himself it was a vision, he was sure something substantial was there, a hint, a hope, although he couldn't understand the whys of it.

Jenny was alive, he was sure. And he would not rest until he had discovered the truth.

CHAPTER 37

ill came round, not knowing how long he had been unconscious. Sensations flooded in: the fragrance of pine and the sweet scent of Spanish broom. Heat leavened by the occasional breeze of chill air. Dust on the back of his throat, and the rough rocking of a carriage.

The bitterness of the Moscow winter lay heavily on his mind, and jenny, always jenny, her face fading as the world around him rose up. His wrists were manacled behind his back and his feet were shackled, and his body ached from too long in one position. Underneath that was the dull throb of new bruises.

Fragmentary memories returned from his stand at the top of the bell tower in Seville, the lashing rain, figures climbing through the arched windows while others came up the steps from the belfry door, too many for him to fight. A flash of light like a glint from a mirror, a sudden pain at the base of his skull, and then nothing.

As he had expected, they hadn't hurt him too badly. They were saving him for the horrors to come, as Cavillex had promised.

He wasn't alone. A glowering Spanish guard sat on the opposite seat next to the other door, but however much Will tried to engage him in conversation, he gave no indication that Will was even there.

Through the window, he could see a mountain peak, the source of the chill air occasionally blowing through the carriage. It was a blazing hot day with no sign of the storm that had swept Seville. The landscape around the road was dusty, and beyond that it drifted into a bleak, depressing vista of rock piles and detritus from old mine-workings scattered far and wide. Beyond that a pine forest rose up the windswept slopes to the foot of the mountain.

"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-pinkgranite 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.