The Silver Skull Read Online Free Page A
Author: Mark Chadbourn
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Historical, Fantasy fiction, Fantasy, Action & Adventure, Great Britain - History - Elizabeth; 1558-1603, spy stories
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
SPECIAL_IMAGE-00084.jpg-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-00048.jpg-REPLACE_ME 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
"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
SPECIAL_IMAGE-00084.jpg-REPLACE_ME
SPECIAL_IMAGE-00048.jpg-REPLACE_ME 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
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