Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

Nathaniel and Marlowe had spent the early evening drinking in the Traveller's Rest in the shadow of the walls surrounding the palace complex. For most of the night, Marlowe had tried to cajole the owner to stage a play he had been writing, to no avail. Nathaniel had paid little notice, his attention drawn to the anxiety that blanketed the other drinkers. The mood was subdued, the conversation barely rising above a murmur. No entertainment had been planned for the inn-yard, and trade was sparse, though Nathaniel had heard there was brisker trade in the church across the street. The gossip raced back and forth: the Spanish had been defeated; the English fleet had been destroyed, and the Spanish were at that very moment landing along the south coast; death and destruction drew nearer.

The same air of apprehension hung over the entire palace, from the kitchen staff to the queen's maids, from the gardeners to Walsingham himself. Marlowe had questioned the spymaster on more than one occasion as the evening drew on, but Nathaniel was not allowed to be privy to the conversations; whatever the response, it did not raise Marlowe's mood. A dismal air surrounded him as if he had received a portent of his own death; Nathaniel wondered if it was just the way of writers.

"We are like children, wrapped in a mother's skirts," Nathaniel complained as they wandered through the formal gardens filled with the perfume of night-scented stock. Moonlight glimmered off the diamond-pane windows of the long north range where the gallery looked over the courtyard before the queen's residence. From beyond the jumble of buildings to the west came the dank, florid smell of the summer river, the cries of the watermen long since ended.

"Do not yearn for conflict and danger, Nat. These moments of peace are few and far between," Marlowe replied.

"But men are putting their lives at risk in the defence of England even as we speak. In defence of our lives, Kit, yours and mine, and we do nothing but wander through the gardens at night out of boredom. Does that not irk you to the very heart of your being?"

"We keep watch. We are ready if needed-"

Shaking his head forcefully, Nathaniel tried to allow his anger to erase his fears for his master, and also for Grace. He felt powerless, and the more he learned about the world Will inhabited, the less he understood. There were more dark shadows than he had ever anticipated, and though he feared he knew what lurked within them, he was not sure he wanted to know the truth. Already he had trouble sleeping, his nights haunted by grey figures flitting through the dark, and things that should not exist under the eyes of God.

Gentle pipe music, lilting and entrancing, drifted over the peaceful palace grounds. Nathaniel paused and cocked his head, a smile leaping to his mouth unbidden. "Do you hear that? Such beautiful music. Who would play at this hour?"

Marlowe shrugged. "I hear nothing." He trudged along the path beside the low box hedge.

"At least you have some purpose here. A spy. What can I offer, apart from keeping you company?"

"I am not a swordsman like Will," Marlowe said. "My strength lies in getting in my cups with cutthroats and gambling with rogues. Petty thievery and low deception." The note of bitterness in his voice was potent. "Choose a writer to live in a world of lies! Walsingham knows men well."

Nathaniel came to a slow halt as he heard the music again, faint, caught on the wind; it came and went in a strange manner, and while its melody was enchanting, he now heard a more disturbing tone beneath.

Catching it for the first time, Marlowe paused too. Nathaniel was puz zled by the troubled expression that crossed his associate's face. "What is it?" he asked.

Marlowe waved a hand as if it was nothing, but Nathaniel could see it was important to him. As Marlowe put his head back to sniff the air, Nathaniel realised he could smell a rich perfume, slightly sickly, drifting across the gardens.

"Come," Marlowe whispered. He broke into a light-footed run until he reached the passageway that cut through the long range of buildings into the courtyard in front of the banqueting house. The flags were lit by the moon. All was still. From the shadow of the passageway, Marlowe studied the courtyard intently, taking in the chapel in the far corner and the haphazard collection of buildings to his right where an archway led through to the palace's private wharf on the river.

"It is empty," Nathaniel began until Marlowe silenced him with an insistent wave of his hand.

Ahead was the Lantern Tower where the Silver Skull's Shield had been stored, and from which all but a chosen few were denied access. At the top of the tower, a green light pulsed, so faint it would have been easy to miss, but now that he had seen it, it was impossible for Nathaniel to take his eyes off it.

He had no idea what could cause such an odd hue, but it had the feel of a beacon, calling, or warning, he was not quite sure.

Marlowe turned to him and hissed, "Something is amiss-exactly what I do not know-but I feel it in my gut. There is danger nearby."

Nathaniel let his gaze wander over the empty square, and realised he too could feel whatever was troubling Marlowe.

A surprising flash of sympathy crossed Marlowe's face. "Nat, it would be good if you stayed away from here-"

"No!" Nathaniel interjected. "You would send me away now when I may actually prove I have some use in this world beyond fetching and carrying for my master?"

"There are things that you should not see, or know exist. Once in your head, they can never be put out, and this life goes from being a joy to a burden that you would be rid of soon. That is the nature of our business." He searched Nathaniel's face and grew sad. "I can see you will not be deterred. You are a brave man, Nat. But take my advice: whatever you see, put it out of your head the moment your eyes fall upon it. Ask no questions, neither of yourself, nor of me. Simply accept, and move on." Marlowe delivered his speech even though it was clear he didn't believe it was possible. "Do you understand?"

Nathaniel nodded, not understanding at all.

"Good. Then no more talk." He drew his knife and watched.

After a moment, a solitary figure wandered into the centre of the courtyard and looked around with an air of confusion. Nathaniel was shocked to see it was Grace.

Marlowe made to silence him as he called her name quietly, but Nathaniel was so relieved to see her he darted out into the moonlit square and threw his arms around her. She was stiff and unyielding, and when he looked into her face, he saw a blankness that reminded him of a child's doll.

Quickly, he pulled her into the shadow of the row of buildings and said quietly, "Grace? Are you well?"

She continued to stare blankly until a tremor crossed her face and she blinked once, twice, lazily. When she looked at him, her eyes had a dreamy, faraway look like someone deep in their cups, or on the edge of sleep.

"Nat," she breathed. "Oh, it is so good to see you. It has been ... how long has it been?" A puzzled furrow crossed her brow, quickly gone, and then her lazy smile returned. "I have had the strangest dream, Nat. Of life aboard a magical ship, taking me to great adventures across a sparkling sea beneath the light of the moon. Of friends, whispering comfort in my ear, and joy. Oh, Nat! The kind of joy you never experience once you are grown." Closing her eyes, she continued to smile at her memories.

"How did you get here, Grace? Where have you been?" he probed gently. He could see she was not herself, and wondered if she had taken one of the potions that the cutpurses sometimes used to dull the senses of their victims in the stews on Bankside.

Ignoring him, she wrapped her arms around her and swayed gently in the breeze.