Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

"A fresh rose petal every day during the summer. To remind me of my one true love. "

"He is a lucky man."

"He is. I hope he knows it."

Excitement and nervousness fought within him. Everything was changing quickly. Good fortune had brought the patron to his door, and it now seemed certain his poetry would be published. At first there would only be a small stipend, but his future appeared assured and he could finally consider marriage.

With his hands behind his head, he pretended to watch the clouds, while eyeing her surreptitiously. Was this the right time to ask her?

She cuffed him on the arm. "I can see you watching me," she said.

"Making sure you are safe. "

"I need no man to keep me safe." She arched one eyebrow at him. "You should know that by now, Will Swyfte. "

He did. She was strong-willed and independent, fearless in the way she lived her life, and she kept the men of the village at bay with a quick wit that left them slackjawed. Many of the locals found her hard to handle, but those were just the qualities that had drawn Will to her.

He weighed telling her of his intentions, and then decided it would wait until the afternoon. He wanted to ensure the moment was perfect, shaped like a sonnet to capture the emotion for all time, and soon she would be away to help Grace prepare lunch for their mother.

"When does your father return from his business in Kenilworth?" he asked.

She eyed him curiously. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. "

"Well, Master Without-Reason, I must be away to my chores. Let us meet again in an hour. And I will give you my opinion on your latest sonnet, should you require it."

"As always. "

She surprised him with a kiss on the forehead. "My heart is yours," she whispered. And then she was gone.

He spent the next few minutes planning the proposal in his head, and then fell asleep beneath a rowan tree, confident in the knowledge that there would be no bigger day in his life.

When he awoke, it was afternoon and the countryside was held beneath a languid heat. Afraid he was late, he hurried down the baked track towards Jenny s house. The wind stirred the golden sea of corn into gentle waves that rippled around the hedgerows, where clouds of butterflies fluttered over the meadow fescue and birdsfoot trefoil. Birdsong and the drone of bees wove a languorous accompaniment to a day for lazy walks, not momentous events.

Across the field, he could just make out the thatched roof, and beyond it the dense, dark wall of the Forest of Arden stretching as far as the eye could see. Jenny's mother would undoubtedly be tending the garden with Grace at her side after the morning's chores had been completed. And Jenny would be free to spend the afternoon with him.

His thoughts of a lifetime with Jenny, and of writing, of love and art, were interrupted by the sound of her voice calling his name. On the far side of the field, she pushed her way through the corn towards him, smiling and waving, the blue of her dress sharp against the gold. Her face was filled with the joy of seeing him. There was something so perfect in that image he was sure it would stay with him always.

Climbing the stile, he set off across the field to meet her halfway. Before he had taken ten paces into the crop, the black clouds of a summer storm swirled out of nowhere in a sudden blast of wind. Puzzled by the strange phenomenon, he paused to watch the clouds sweeping towards the sun, wondering why the image troubled him so.

Within a moment, it had grown almost as dark as night. Disoriented by the buffeting gale, Will was shocked by a crack of thunder directly overhead, and then the clouds dissipated as quickly as they had arrived.

With the sun blazing once more, he returned his attention to the cornfield and prepared to hurry on to Jenny. Yet she was nowhere to be seen. He came to a slow halt and looked around the rolling, golden waves.

Playing a game, he thought with a smile. No one took such joy in teasing him.

"You cannot hide from me," he called. "I will find you."

She had ducked down below the level of the corn and was circling to surprise him from behind.

Calling her name, he ploughed a furrow through the swaying gold, but when he reached the point where he had last seen her, he came to another puzzled halt. Her trail was clear through the corn to her house. But there was no sign of any other path leading off. He knelt down to examine the stems of the corn, but none had been bent or broken.

His heart began to beat faster, still without truly realising why. Jenny was playful, and clever, he told himself, trying to find an answer to the puzzle.

He searched around the area, but when he glanced back he saw a confusion of his own furrows crisscrossing the corn. It was impossible to move without leaving a trail. But Jenny had left none.

He called her name loudly. He tried to call brightly, but he could hear the edge of desperation in his voice.

Only the sighing of the wind returned, as it had in the forest. A feeling of unaccountable dread descended on him. Jenny was gone.

Turning slowly, he tried to find answers that would not come, and after a moment he heard himself whispering, "I will find you. "

CHAPTER 14

he Bow Bells rang out and the City gates were slammed shut as night ,fell. From the ragged gap in the roof, Will heard the bellman set out to patrol the streets, calling the hour followed by his familiar refrain:

Remember the clocks,

Look well to your locks,

Fire and your light,

And God give you good night,

For now the bell ringeth.

"Now?" Carpenter prompted.

"Now," Will replied. His dream-memory, and the feeling of loss and grief that accompanied it, was still heavy on him.

In the street, the chill of the spring dark had done little to dampen the stink. As they waited in a doorway for a pair of smartly dressed coneycatchers to pass on their way to finding a gull or two at the theatre, Launceston whispered, "Let us hope Pickering has not disposed of the Silver Skull, or the Enemy has not located it while we hid like mice. If the boy had not acted so weak we would not be in this position."

"But we are, so let us hear no more of it," Will replied.

He eyed Miller, who waited with Mayhew, now even more subdued since night had fallen. His eyes continually flickered from side to side as if searching for an imminent attack.

Will wished he could have sent Miller back to Walsingham, but in his current state it was unlikely he would get out of Alsatia alive. Knowing they would have to carry their liability with them, he had assigned Mayhew to watch over him, and subdue him at the first sign of panic; at least Mayhew could be trusted not to kill Miller, unlike Launceston.

The dark cloaked them as they moved along the streets, the only illumination the glimmer of candles and lamps through dirty glass. At the tavern, they hid in an alley where they could observe the door. When a drunk reeled out across the ruts, Will and Carpenter caught him beneath the arms, clamping one hand over his mouth, and steered him into the alley, where a knife at the throat helped loosen his tongue. Once they had the location of a house where Pickering's men took daily delivery of prizes stolen by their cutpurses, they left the drunk unconscious.

Dodging down alleys and racing from doorway to doorway to avoid scrutiny, it took them five minutes to find the house. Of all the run-down tenements in Alsatia, at first glance it was one of the worst, windows covered with planks, no signs of life within. A second glance revealed an incongruously heavy door with a large lock, and in the shadowed doorway of the next property, the dark shape of a sentry, arms folded, unmoving.

"Master Carpenter?" Will whispered.

Drawing a weighted knife, Carpenter measured the distance and then let the blade fly. It thudded into the guard's throat and he pitched forwards into the street.

Mayhew gaped at the fallen body. "God's loaves! Where did you learn that trick?"

"Why should I not have natural skill?" Carpenter snarled, adding sullenly, "It was taught me by one of the natives brought back from the New World."

At the door, Launceston kept watch while Carpenter retrieved his throwing knife and Mayhew dropped to his knees and unfurled a roll of purple velvet on the step. A set of locksmith's tools was revealed.

"A steerpointe three-chamber." He sniffed. "The lock of kings. A grand addition to such a hovel."

"Pickering lives cheek by jowl with the greatest thieves in all of England, and there is no honour among them. Of all places, this needs the best protection," Will replied. "You can open it?"

With a theatrical sigh, Mayhew's skillful fingers swiftly manipulated three of the tools in the keyhole until the lock turned.

Aside to Miller, Will said, "It is time to put all doubts behind you, Tom. We face only mundane foes here. Pickering will have guarded his riches with the strongest arms in Alsatia. We will have to fight to reach him. Are you ready?"

"You need not doubt me, Will," Miller replied.

Easing the door open a crack, Will slipped in, drawing his sword. The hall was dark, but he was instantly caught by the scent of lavender pomanders, and bowls of spice to keep the smell of the street at bay. From high above them came the dim sound of revelry.

Putting a finger to his lips, Will beckoned the others in. He had expected there to be at least one guard on the other side of the door and was uneasy to find the hall deserted.

A blast of chill, smoky air reached him. Further along the hall, the door leading to the cellars hung open, and muffled noises came from the dark below. Carpenter made to climb the stairs until Will motioned to him to stop. The cellars would offer a secure place to store riches or prisoners.

Cautiously, he approached the open door. Rough stone steps led down past glistening, damp walls to where a ruddy glow was visible through the smoke, as though a furnace roared beneath. The voices were louder, but still indistinct, yet something in the tone made Will uneasy. Sword at the ready, he edged down a step at a time, covering his mouth against the smoke. As he moved below the level of the hall, he crouched down until he could peer into the room.

The smoke came from the open door of a blazing stove, burning clothes, purses, and other indecipherable objects spilling around its feet. What Will perceived to be the next bundle for the fire was revealed by the shifting smoke to be a body, tossed against one wall, leaking blood. Growing still, Will waited for the smoke to uncover the rest of what the cellar had to offer.

The murmur of voices continued, a susurration ebbing and flowing, but now it was joined by a low, throaty rumble. Near the fiery maw of the stove, Will saw two hot embers suspended in the smoke. They moved slowly.

From the shifting grey appeared a black dog, bigger than a calf, heavyset with muscle, its implacable eyes surveying the cellar. A leather leash stretched from its thick neck to a dark shape hunched over another.

Will waited.

The dog's growl grew louder as it sensed his presence.

Finally the smoke shifted to reveal a lithe, strong figure, brown hair falling across his shoulders, wearing a shirt and breeches of a timeless cut in deep forest shades, brown leather boots to his knees, an oddly shaped knife at his belt, and the hilt of a sword curved at the end into a dragon's head. With the dog's leash held loosely in his hand, to Will he resembled a hunter. Though Will couldn't see his face, the stranger's presence burned as hot as a furnace.