Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

Let tyrants fear.

The Unseelie Court would never rest, but a gauntlet had been thrown down. England would meet them head-on.

Will was soon joined by Walsingham, who had travelled on the second barge with the queen's closest advisors, out of place in his sombre black gown yet seemingly untouched by the oppressive heat. He stood beneath the elm next to Will, hands clasped behind his back, and watched the queen inspecting her loyal soldiers with an air of gentle pleasure.

"I would say it went well," he mused.

"Apart from the death and the suffering."

Walsingham sniffed. "There is always that."

Relenting, Will nodded. "Yes, we won a great victory."

"And you played a great part in that, Master Swyfte."

"And the others: Carpenter, Launceston." Pausing, he remembered the young man who had joined Walsingham's band so proudly only to encounter things he never dreamed existed and which stole his life from him. "Miller. They should not be forgotten."

"Oh, they will be. As will you."

Will eyed Walsingham askance.

"Your task is to move behind the skin of history, not upon its surface." Walsingham continued to follow the queen's progress, nodding approvingly whenever the cheers rose up again. "Your work is by design invisible, and it will remain that way. If it were made public, it would detract from the glory of the queen and the true heroes of England."

"I have a public face now."

"Yes. We created the great William Swyfte to provide comfort for the people of England, so they knew they were always cared for, protected from the many hardships that assail this world by someone greater than them. But that will only continue in stories told by the fireside or in the taverns, and soon those stories will die. There will be no public record of the part you played this day, you or any of your band."

"The pamphlets-"

"Will be destroyed, one by one, over time. When the accounts of these days are written in years yet to come, it will be a story of the heroism of honest Englishmen. It will not be a story of deceit and trickery, however great the sacrifices made. That would not do justice to the legend of England. It is your destiny to be forgotten. You must come to accept that."

Will shrugged. "I care little what happens when I am gone."

"There will be rewards in this life, for you and your associates. Launceston will go unpunished for his unnatural urges. Riches, women, drink. Enjoy it."

"Forever unknown," Will said reflectively. "I find some comfort in that, oddly." A thought that had troubled him for a while surfaced, and he asked, "Tell me of Dartmoor and what happened there."

Shaking his head slowly, Walsingham said, "We keep our secrets dearly, Will, all of us. You must never speak of Dartmoor again."

Leicester continued to strut around, trying to catch the queen's eye, but her attention was clearly upon her new favourite, Robert Devereux, the earl of Essex, who rode at her side. In the shadow of great affairs, humanity's true motivation was apparent, Will saw.

"This day has seen the beginning of the end of the Spanish empire, and the ascendancy of our own," Walsingham noted.

"The world we inhabit is nothing but madness and brutality. And England's empire will be built upon it," Will replied.

"Then so be it. Better our madness and brutality than theirs."

"The Unseelie Court has been pressed back, but they will not be defeated."

"No, they will always challenge us. That is why we must always be vigilant. But as our strength grows across the globe, so will our ability to resist them, on every front, in every land. And here at home, Englishmen and Englishwomen will finally find peace."

As Walsingham turned his face to the sun for the first time, Will saw tears glistening in his eyes, and the shift of deep, repressed emotions in his face.

"Not an ending, then," Will said.

"A beginning, of many things." Taking a deep breath, Walsingham steadied himself, then began with surprising sympathy, "I have some troubling news. About your assistant."

Before Walsingham had even finished speaking, Will was speeding from the camp, and beyond the palisaded embankments to where his horse was tethered.

London seethed in the heat as Will raced through the rutted, dusty streets to Bishopsgate. The church spire was visible above the rooftops, but he could hear the screams echoing through the alleys long before he saw the three stone buildings of the old priory around the cobbled courtyard and the gardens beyond. The dusty, smeared windows were now obscured by bars, the stone worn, tiles missing from the roof, and grass sprouting among the cobbles. Two open sewers ran on either side, filling the air permanently with the stink of human excrement.

Will hammered on the door until the keeper came, a big man with a large belly, long, grey-black hair, and a three-day stubble on his chin, a substantial ring of iron keys at his belt. He eyed Will suspiciously until Will introduced himself, and then the keeper clapped Will on the shoulder and proclaimed the glory of England over Spain.

Will had no time for niceties and demanded to be taken to Nathaniel. With a shrug, the keeper complied. Will could hardly make himself heard above the screams that rang from behind every door and in the long, vaulted cellar where the inmates of Bethlehem Hospital prowled in their own private worlds, clawing at the dank walls or kicking the filthy straw in a frenzy. Everywhere smelled of dirty clothes, urine, excrement, and vomit.

Noticing Will's pained expression, the keeper said, "This is Bedlam. There is never quiet here."

He led Will to a quieter annexe and unlocked a door that led into a windowless room. After Will's eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw there was only a bed within. Nathaniel squatted in a corner, hugging his knees.

"The dark is good for those distraught from their wits," the keeper noted, and they must be kept free from all distractions. It is best for him," he added, seeing the dark look cross Will's face.

"Has he spoken?" Will asked.

"He says nothing. He eats if we feed him, but there is nothing left of him." He shrugged. "He will not recover."

Turning on the keeper, Will flung him against the wall and pressed his face against the keeper's. "Do not beat him-"

"They must be beaten, for their own good!"

"Do not beat him, or I will return and deal to you tenfold whatever you deal to him," Will snarled. He threw the keeper from the cell in a rage.

Pausing for a moment to control his churning emotions, he squatted in front of his assistant. "Nat, it is Will," he began quietly. "Your Master ... Your friend."

No reaction crossed Nat's face, and when he did not move, Will placed a hand on his arm to check he was still warm.

"I have failed you, Nat," he continued. "There are times when I fear everyone close to me will be destroyed." As he watched his friend, the weight inside Will grew until he felt it would crush him. "I will not abandon you," he whispered.

CHAPTER 60

tark slabs of exposed granite sparkled silver under the full moon hanging over the uplands, where the brackish streams trickled down through gorse and sedge, catching the light like jewels. It was a warm night, sweetly scented with the aromas of a country summer. Across the vast expanse of desolate grassland, not a light twinkled; all human life could have been extinguished.

Dusty from his long journey, Will let his rapid heartbeat subside, his breathing slow, and he listened to the singing of the breeze in the grass. Turning slowly, he surveyed the empty Dartmoor landscape. Alone in the world. From the moment jenny had walked out of his life, nothing had changed.

Long nights of agonising had followed long days visiting Nathaniel in Bedlam, turning over all he knew, letting unseen connections slowly rise from his memories, until finally he had made his decision.

Ahead of him, the standing stone towered against the starlit sky, almost twice his height. Beardown Man, the locals called it; a reminder of when giants walked the Earth, some said, a warning from the Devil of the fate that awaited all sinners, others averred. Will thought the latter was probably closer to the truth, according to the legends that had grown up around Devil's Tor, where he stood, the ghostly sightings, the ethereal music playing on summer nights, the noises deep in the earth.

"Here I am, then," he announced. "Come to me!"

Only the sighing of the wind replied.

For long minutes he stood waiting, and then made his way to a lichencovered boulder where he sat patiently. They would come in their own time, when they had shown it was not at his bidding.

An hour passed slowly, until thin strands of pearly mist drifted across the grassland. For no reason that he could discern, the skin on his arms became gooseflesh.

When the mist had passed, figures stood like statues here and there across the tor, their faces turned towards him, all lost to shadow. None moved; none spoke.

After a moment, a figure caught his eye, striding towards him through the grass past the threatening sentries. Tall and slender, he wore grey-green robes with a strange design in gold filigree, like the symbols of an unknown language, faintly visible whenever the moon caught them. His age was indiscernible. His cheeks were hollow and dark rings lay under his pale eyes, but his long hair was a mixture of gold and silver. Trinkets and the skulls of mice and birds had been braided into it so that he made a soft clacking rhythm as he walked.

He came to a halt before Will, his emotions unreadable. "Few dare to call to us," he said in a dry voice.

"You know me?" Will asked.

The stranger paused thoughtfully, and then said with a wry smile, "I know of your kind."

"And you speak for the Unseelie Court?"

"Ah," he said, still smiling, "unholy. Yes. You may call me Deortha. I am ... an advisor." With his right hand, he appeared to be plucking words from the aether that Will could comprehend. Finally, with a nod, he settled on, "I am the Court's equivalent to your Doctor Dee."

"You know Dee?"

"Oh, yes." Deortha gave a strange smile.

"A sorcerer, then. An alchemist. A wise man."

Deortha's pale eyes twinkled in the moonlight. "You have a request of us?"

"How do you know?"

"You would not be here otherwise."

"What you are is anathema to humankind," Will began. "You are the madness in the night. The shadow on the family hearth. In the very nature of your being, you tell us that however much we order this world to make it sane, it is not, and will never be, and we are nothing. We have no control."

Deortha nodded wryly.

"Some who come too close to you are burned to ashes, like moths approaching a lantern's flame." Will watched Deortha's face closely for any hint of manipulation, or sign of an impending attack. He knew his own life hung in the balance the moment he set foot on the tor. "My friend is one of those. His wits are gone. He could not cope with the secrets that lie behind your eyes."

"Unlike you. You would revel in the knowledge of our secrets," Deortha challenged.

Will ignored him. "My own people cannot help him. You have at your disposal great things unknown to us ... charms ... potions ..." Will shrugged. "Can you help him?"

A faint glint shone in Deortha's eyes, quickly gone. Will knew he had bared his throat for an attack.

"And why should we aid you?" Deortha asked.