Mark Chadbourn - The Silver Skull

Playing his part, Will gave a sullen nod and climbed on board. Freshly clean-shaven, with trimmed hair dyed to turn it from black to dark brown, he was now William Prowd, a mercenary fighting man fresh from the campaign in the Netherlands. As such, he was not expected to be a seasoned sailor and could easily disguise his ignorance of the detail of the backbreaking work on deck. And with a supply of dye to keep his hair brown, he hoped he could survive for weeks, if necessary. By judgment or chance, Santos had done his work well.

But he was now trapped on a ship full of enemies who would take his life in a moment, amid a vast fleet filled with thousands more cutthroats en route to the fiercest battle the world had known. He would not be able to rest for a second.

The dawn had broken, clear and golden, with a light wind off the Atlantic, the sticky scent of pine from the forested hills mingling with the tang of salt and the rich aroma of fresh fish from the small boats unloading their catch on the quayside. Amid the discordant screech of seagulls, Will had made his way to the ship early to avoid unnecessary scrutiny.

The Nuestra Senora del Rosario was moored on the far side of what the locals called the floating forest. It was a carrack, with a soaring forecastle that would prove a terrifying prospect for any would-be boarders. It was also the Spanish pay-ship, carrying the wages of every man sailing with the Armada, and as such Will knew it would be a prime target for England's pirates. The last thing he wanted was to be slain by his own countrymen within sight of home, if he survived that far.

The three men eyed Will suspiciously as he drew near. They were all English. Two were mercenaries like Will, happy to sell themselves to the highest bidder: Henry Barrett was a barrel of a man with enormous muscular arms that looked like they could crush bones, and a big belly, a shaven head, and protruding ears framing a face that had the half-lidded expression of someone on the brink of exploding into a rage; Jerome Stanbury was slight next to his associate but still muscular, with a hooked nose and lank greyblack hair hanging down to his shoulders. The third, Walter Hakebourne, was a coastal pilot who would guide the ship to safe harbour once they arrived in England. A small man, he appeared permanently anxious and on edge as if he expected an attack at any moment.

"Have ye heard the news?" Stanbury said. "Philip has sent his orders to sail. This day, May the ninth, is one for our journals, eh, friend? We will make good money out of this, for even when we reach England the Spanish will require much fighting and peacekeeping."

"How long till we are ready to depart?" Will asked.

"We can be ready in hours, for this is a well-run ship. It is under the command of lion Pedro de Valdes, one of the Armada's main commanders," Hakebourne stuttered. "But the rest of 'em? I would say two days."

As the day gradually warmed, they continued to speak about little of import in the curt manner of men who trusted no one: the poor quality of the food, their doubts about the management of the purchasing of provisions for the voyage, the inadequacy of many of the Spanish sailors. Guiding the conversation in an oblique manner, Will attempted to discover more vital information about Medina Sidonia's plans for the Armada, but it quickly became clear that the men knew nothing, nor wanted to know. They were only interested in the money they were going to pocket, and were ready to do anything asked of them.

A buzz began to spread across the other ships in the harbour, voices raised cheerily, shouts and song, as news spread of the arrival of the king's orders and the certain knowledge that the crews' long wait would soon be over. It was the irony of their work; whenever they were at sea they craved the comforts of port, but when on dry land, they could not wait to return to sea.

"This will be over in no time," Barrett grunted. "The Spanish officers told Hawksworth that Elizabeth still persists with peace negotiations with Parma, when Philip has no intention of seeing them concluded. There is no time for England to get its defences in place. We will stride right up to the door of the queen's bedchamber, knock politely, and ask for entry!"

They all laughed, but Will's mind was racing. "Hawksworth?" he asked.

Uneasily, they exchanged brief, flickering glances as Stanbury said, "Sir Richard Hawksworth. You have heard tell of him?"

Will had. Hawksworth had spent his time in the shadow of the treacherous Sir William Stanley, but his reputation for deceit and cruelty was, if anything, even greater. In the Netherlands, while helping Stanley complete his betrayal of the city of Deventer to the duke of Parma for a substantial purse of gold, he was rumoured to have sent his own brother to his death for money. In a stew of traitors, cutthroats, and liars, Hawksworth would always be the least trustworthy. More worrying to Will, Hawksworth had spent a great deal of time at court, and while he had never met Will face-to-face, he knew of his reputation, and perhaps other telling details too.

The mention of his name had certainly troubled the others for they had grown bad-tempered, and there was still one thing Will wished to know before they sloped off below deck.

"I have heard tell," he said, leaning in conspiratorially, "of strange things occurring around this fleet. Of portents ... and apparitions. I would not sail with a fleet that is cursed."

Will knew many of the sailors and fighting men were superstitious, a response to the closeness of death in their lives, but he was surprised by the reaction. Barrett, Stanbury, and Hakebourne all went for the items they carried to ward off ill fortune: a rabbit's foot, medallion, and ring.

"I myself saw, two nights gone, mysterious lights under the waves after dark had fallen, moving from the shore to ship ... several ships," Hakebourne whispered.

"The beer turned to vinegar at an inn on the quayside after a drunken Spaniard cursed the Fair Folk." Barrett looked over his shoulder as if he expected someone to be standing on the ship's rail at his back.

"Spectres," Stanbury muttered. "Glimpsed in the evening mist, stalking the forests around Lisbon." He pointed an accusing finger at Will. "Do not mention them again."

Will didn't need to-he already had the answer he required: the Unseelie Court was accompanying the Armada to England. He was amid even more enemies than he had feared.

His question had cast a pall over their conversation and as they prepared to break up so Will could find his berth for the night, they were hailed loudly by a tall, flamboyantly dressed man with a pockmarked face. Will noticed he rarely blinked, so that he resembled one of the lizards he had seen basking in the sun on the rocks during his journey from El Escorial.

"Watch your back," Stanbury said quietly. "It is Hawksworth."

His heavy-lidded gaze flickered across those present before alighting on Will. Hawksworth's brow knitted briefly before he spoke, but his gaze kept returning to Will for unsettling periods. "I have just returned from a council of war on the flagship," he pronounced. Will knew Hawksworth was not one of the inner circle, however much he pretended, so he could only have been on the ship as an associate of Stanley, and was likely not privy to anything of importance. "You will have heard the order to sail has arrived, yes?" Hawksworth continued. "But the king also sent another missive, warning that English spies may attempt to sneak into the fleet. We must be on our guard at all times. You all have correct papers, yes?" He spoke to the group at large, but his eyes suggested he was only addressing Will.

Will showed him the papers, and that appeared to satisfy him, although as he swaggered away from the group he cast one final, curious glance at Will.