The Silver Skull (Swords of Albion) - Mark Chadbourn.pdf - NEW EBOOKS - renee2010

THE

QILVER SKULL

SWORDS OF ALBION

OTHER PYR TITLES BY

MARK CHADBOURN

THE AGE OF MISRULE

WORLD'S END

DARKEST HOUR

ALWAYS FOREVER

THE

SILVER SKULL

SWORDS OF ALBION

MARK CHADBOURN

an imprint of Prometheus Books

Amherst, NY

Published 2009 by Pyr(r), an imprint of Prometheus Books The Silver Skull-Swords of

may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the

Internet or a Web site without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Inquiries should be addressed to Pyr

59 John Glenn Drive Amherst, New York 14228-2119 VOICE: 716-691-0133 FAX: 716-691-0137

WWW.PYRSF.COM

13 12 11 10 09 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Chadbourn,

Mark. The silver skull / by Mark Chadbourn. p. cm. - (Swords of Albion ; bk. 1) ISBN 978-1-59102-

783-6 (pbk. alk. paper) 1. Great Britain-History-Elizabeth, 1558-1603-Fiction. I. Title.

PR6053.H23S55 2009 823'.914-dc22 2009026408 Printed in the United States on acid-free paper

r r+ For Elizabeth, l etsy, Joe, and Eve

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Credit must go to four hundred and thirty years of authors responsible for the primary,

secondary, and tertiary texts that provided the research and resources for this work.

On the matter of dates: at the time of this story, England still used the old Julian

calendar while the rest of Europe had adopted the new Gregorian calendar, with which we are

all familiar today. To avoid any confusion, I have used the Gregorian dates for all events.

Spies are men of doubtful credit, who make a show of one thing and speak another.

-Mary, Queen of Scots

PROLOGUE

Far beneath the slow-moving Thames, a procession of flickering lights drew inexorably

towards London from the east. The pace was funereal, the trajectory steady, purposeful. In that

hour after midnight, the spectral glow under the black waters passed unseen by all but two

observers.

"There! What are they, sir?" In the lantern light, the guard's fear was apparent as he

peered over the battlements of the White Tower, ninety feet above the river.

Matthew Mayhew, who had seen worse things in his thirty years than the guard could

ever dream in his worst fever-sleep, replied with boredom, "I see the proud heart of the

greatest nation on Earth. I see a city safe and secure within its walls, where the queen may sleep

peacefully."

"There!" The guard pointed urgently.

"A waterman has met with disaster." Mayhew sighed. With a temper as short as his

stature, the Tower guards had learned to handle him with care and always praised the fine court

fashions he took delight in parading.

The guard gulped the cold air of the March night. "And his lantern still burns on the

bottom? What of the other lights? And they move-"

"The current."

The guard shook his head. "They are ghosts!"

Mayhew gave a dismissive snort.

"There are such things! Samuel Hale saw the queen's mother walking with her head

beneath her arm in the Chapel of Saint Peter ad Vincula. Why, the Tower is the most haunted

place in England! The Two Princes, Margaret Pole, Lady Jane Grey ... all seen here, Master

Mayhew. Damned by God to walk this world after their deaths."

Mayhew studied the slow-moving lights, imagining fish in the deep with their own

candles to guide their way through the inky dark.

The guard's fear made his lantern swing so wildly the shadows flew across the Tower.

Steadying the lantern, Mayhew said, "When this great fortress was built five hundred

years gone, King William had the mortar tempered with the blood of beasts. Do you know why

that was?"

"No, no. I-"

"Suffice it to say," Mayhew interrupted wearily, "that you are safe here from all

supernatural threat."

The guard calmed a little. "Safe, you say?"

"England's defences are built on more than the rock of its people."

The lights veered away from the centre of the river towards the Tower of London where

it nestled inside the old Roman walls, guarding the eastern approach to the capital. Mayhew

couldn't prevent a shiver running up his spine.

"Complete your rounds," he said sharply, overcompensating in case the guard had seen

his weakness. "We must ensure that the White Tower remains secure against England's

enemies."

"And the prisoner you are charged to guard?"

"I will attend to him." Mayhew pressed a scented handkerchief against his nose to block

out the stink of the city's filth caught on the wind. Sometimes it was unbearable. He hated being

away from the court where the virtues of life were more apparent, hated the boredom of his

task, and at that moment hated that he was caught on the cold summit of the White Tower

when he should have been inside by the fire.

He cast his eye around the fortress where pools of darkness were held back by the

lanterns strung along the walkways among the wards. The only movement came from the slow

circuit of the night watch.

The Tower of London was an unassailable symbol of England. Solid Kentish ragstone

formed the bulk of the impregnable White Tower, protected by its own curtain wall and moat,

with a further curtain wall and thirteen towers guarding the Inner Ward beyond. Finally, there

was the Outer Ward, with another solid wall, five towers, and three bastions. Everything

valuable to the nation lay within the walls-the Crown jewels, the treasury, the Royal Mint, the

armoury, and England's most dangerous prisoners, including Mayhew's personal charge.

As he made his way down the stone steps, he was greeted by the clatter of boots

ascending and the light of another lantern. William Osborne appeared, his youthful face and

intelligent grey eyes unsettled. Mayhew contemptuously wondered if he now regretted giving

up his promising career in the law to join the Queen's Service out of love for his country, not

realising what would be asked of him.

"What is it?" Mayhew demanded.

"A disturbance. At the Traitors' Gate."

Where the river lights were heading, Mayhew thought. "The gate remains secure, and

well guarded?" he asked.

Osborne's face loomed white in the lamplight. "There are six men upon it, as our Lord

Walsingham demanded."

"And yet?"

Osborne's voice quavered with uncertainty. "The guards say the restraining beam moves

of its own accord. Bolts draw without the help of human hand. Is this what we always feared?"

Pushing past him with irritation, Mayhew snapped, "You know as well as I that the

Tower is protected. These guards are frighted like maidens." For all his contempt at his

colleague's words, Mayhew's chest tightened in apprehension.

Walsingham said it could never happen, he reminded himself. He told the queen ...

Burghley ...

Trying to maintain his decorum, he descended to the ground floor with studied

nonchalance and stepped out into the Inmost Ward. The whitewashed walls of the Tower

glowed in the lantern light.

"Listen!" Osborne's features flared in the gloom as he raised his lantern to illuminate the

way ahead.

The steady silence of the Tower was shattered by a cacophony of roars and howls,

barks, shrieks, and high-pitched chattering. In the Royal Menagerie, the lions, leopards, and

lynxes threw themselves around their pens, while the other exotic beasts tore at the mud of

their enclosures in a frenzy.

"What do they sense?" There was a querulous tremble in Osborne's voice.

Scanning the Inmost Ward for any sign of movement, Mayhew relented. "You know."

Osborne winced at his words. "Are you not afraid?"

"This is the work we were charged to do, for queen and country. Raise the alarm. Then

we must take ourselves to the prisoner."

Within moments, guards raced to their positions under Osborne's direc tion. Venturing

to the gate, they peered beyond the curtain wall to where the string of lanterns kept the dark at

bay.

"Nothing," Osborne said with relief, his voice almost lost beneath the screams of the

animals.

Mayhew kept his attention on Saint Thomas's Tower in the outer curtain wall. Beyond it

was the river, and beneath it lay the water entrance that had become known as Traitors' Gate,

after the enemies of the Crown who had been transported through it to imprisonment or death.

The guards had disappeared inside, but there was no clamour.

After five minutes, Osborne's relief was palpable. "A false alarm, then. Perhaps it was

only Spanish spies. With the country on the brink of war, they must be operating everywhere.

Yes?"

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