Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

Nearby, Leicester strutted back and forth, revelling in the attention of the thousands of men waiting in their ranks or on horseback, playing the hero in his mind, though he had not been called on to fight. On the ridge overlooking the river, the camp at West Tilbury was a splash of colour, red, gold, and blue pennants fluttering on the slight breeze, flags flying proudly above the white pavilions erected to shield the nobility from the noonday sun.

Eschewing the crowds lining both banks of the river and hanging from the windows of the houses with the best views, Will had opted for a period of quiet contemplation while he waited for the queen to arrive. There was much to consider.

Somewhere in the far north, the Spanish were drowning, fighting devastating seas, ships sunk and torn apart, men washed up on beaches to be slaughtered by the local people. The price that nation had paid-and would pay-for the poor judgment of their leaders was great. But here at home, the English ships were returning to port lauded, every man aboard a hero. A new day was dawning.

As the queen's barge arrived in a blare of trumpets on its triumphant journey along the river from the Palace of Whitehall, the sense of anticipation mounted. Following the causeway across the foul-smelling marshes where clouds of flies buzzed, she made her way to the camp on a white gelding. Cannon fire proclaimed her arrival.

Led by the Earl of Ormonde carrying the sword of state, and with two pages dressed in white velvet, one carrying her helmet on a cushion the other leading her horse, she strode along the ranks, a silver breastplate shining over a white velvet gown, her auburn wig a blaze of fire, sparkling with diamonds and pearls. The men cheered loudly, and shouted their devotion to Elizabeth and to England.

Will was not moved. Whatever he saw, he knew there was always another face beneath. Walsingham had already given him a glimpse of the carefully rehearsed speech the queen planned to deliver at Tilbury the following day. It was designed as much for the ears of the Unseelie Court as it was for her own people, or Spain. The Enemy would be listening. They were always listening.

"My loving people," she would begin, "we have been persuaded by some that are careful for our safety to heed how we commit ourselves to armed multitudes for fear of treachery, but I assure you, I do not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear. I have always so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects.

"Therefore, I am come amongst you, as you see at this time, not for my recreation and disport but being resolved in the midst and heat of the battle to live or die amongst you all and to lay down for my God, and for my kingdom, and for my people, my honour and my blood even in the dust.

"I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king, and of a king of England too, and think foul scorn that Parma or Spain or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm; to which, rather than any dishonour shall grow by me, I myself will take up arms. I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field. I know already for your forwardness you have deserved rewards and crowns and we do assure you, in the word of a prince, they shall be duly paid you."

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.