Jenny was alive, he was sure. And he would not rest until he had discovered the truth.
CHAPTER 37
ill came round, not knowing how long he had been unconscious. Sensations flooded in: the fragrance of pine and the sweet scent of Spanish broom. Heat leavened by the occasional breeze of chill air. Dust on the back of his throat, and the rough rocking of a carriage.
The bitterness of the Moscow winter lay heavily on his mind, and jenny, always jenny, her face fading as the world around him rose up. His wrists were manacled behind his back and his feet were shackled, and his body ached from too long in one position. Underneath that was the dull throb of new bruises.
Fragmentary memories returned from his stand at the top of the bell tower in Seville, the lashing rain, figures climbing through the arched windows while others came up the steps from the belfry door, too many for him to fight. A flash of light like a glint from a mirror, a sudden pain at the base of his skull, and then nothing.
As he had expected, they hadn't hurt him too badly. They were saving him for the horrors to come, as Cavillex had promised.
He wasn't alone. A glowering Spanish guard sat on the opposite seat next to the other door, but however much Will tried to engage him in conversation, he gave no indication that Will was even there.
Through the window, he could see a mountain peak, the source of the chill air occasionally blowing through the carriage. It was a blazing hot day with no sign of the storm that had swept Seville. The landscape around the road was dusty, and beyond that it drifted into a bleak, depressing vista of rock piles and detritus from old mine- workings scattered far and wide. Beyond that a pine forest rose up the windswept slopes to the foot of the mountain.
'Why, if I did not know better I would say that was Mount Abantos,' Will said. The guard's eyes flickered towards him.
The carriage continued ahead for another mile until a grand grey-pinkgranite complex rose up from the desolate landscape. El Escorial shimmered in the hot sun.
'I hear the king is more a monk than a man of the world,' Will noted. 'He likes his prayers where others enjoy their tupping, and they bring him to a similar climax.'
Flinching, the guard went for his knife until he realised Will was trying to goad him. He grunted and looked out of the other window.
Will watched the village of San Lorenzo de El Escorial pass by in the shadow of Philip's gleaming new monument to his ego, twenty-one years in the building and the centre of the Spanish empire. As they drew nearer, he could see the grand achievement of the construction, its magnificence amplified by the scale reflected in the pools of the formal gardens. Nine towers reached for the sky above the vertiginous, plain walls that resembled an unassailable cliff-face. Its appearance was as austere as the king was rumoured to be, yet in its proliferation of fountains and its rows of exquisite statues, its glorious basilica and its spires, and the sheer size of the construction, it appeared as much an illustration of the monolithic power of Philip and Spain as it did a monument to the glory of God.
The carriage rolled up the sweeping driveway where several guards ran out to greet it. Will was dragged roughly from the carriage and thrown onto the stones before he was forced to his feet at sword point and accompanied by six men into the forbidding palace's interior. The Spanish were taking no chances.
The palace was laid out on a huge quadrangle with a series of intersecting corridors, courtyards, and chambers. He was hauled along at a fast clip, cuffed every time he fell, and cuffed again for every sardonic response. Finally, he was thrust into a large hall lined with dark portraits of severe faces and accusing eyes.
At the far end of the hall, dressed in black, lion Alanzo kneeled in prayer. The guards threw Will to the floor before him, and surrounded Will with levelled pikes.
'You think highly of me to believe so many fine men are necessary to keep me contained,' Will said.
'You are no threat,' Don Alanzo replied. 'You never were.'
It was only then that Will saw the black coffin resting on a trestle near the window, with a smaller black box on top, which Will guessed contained the head of lion Alanzo's father.
'I would give my condolences,' Will began honestly. 'Your father was a casualty of our war, but I had no ill feeling towards him personally.'
'Shut up!' Don Alanzo raged. 'You cut off his head!' He struck Will across the face with the back of his hand.
Turning so the guards would not see his emotion, lion Alanzo rested one hand upon the coffin. 'He was a great man, and an honourable one. He gave his life for Spain. That will not be forgotten. An English city will be renamed after him once we crush your country underfoot.'
Will had a sudden flash of Sister Adelita inadvertently setting in motion the events that led to her father's death, and he felt a deep regret at the guilt he knew would consume her. The corrupting touch of the Unseelie Court affected everyone, except themselves.
'Your father was an honourable man,' Will admitted, 'and I am sure he had no knowledge of the destructive power of the Silver Skull when he first affixed it to his head.'
'You know nothing of those circumstances,' Don Alanzo spat.
'And for all our bitter disputes, I know you are an honourable man too,' Will continued. 'Would you see such terrible disease inflicted on my people? Is victory for Spain worth the deaths of innocents on so grand a scale? Where is your God in all of this?'
'Quiet,' Don Alanzo said in a low voice trembling with passion.
'Spain is our enemy, but never did I think Philip would sanction such devastation. Victory at any cost? Where is just rule in that? It was not too long ago when my people fell under Philip's aegis during his marriage to Mary Tudor-'
'Quiet!' Don Alanzo whirled, spittle flying from his mouth. Will could see those very doubts tormented him. 'I would see all of your countrymen slaughtered for what you have done,' he hissed.
'I do not believe it. I see the hands of others in this impending atrocity. The whispers in Philip's ears lead him down a dangerous path from which there is no return.'
Don Alanzo steadied himself before uttering cruelly, 'From the outside, El Escorial is a palace, and a monastery, and an impregnable fortress. From the inside, it is a prison from which you can never escape. More secure than your Tower in London, it is the most heavily guarded building in the whole of the empire. Do not harbour thoughts of escape. No one can get in. No one can get out. This will be your home in your final days. Take him away.'
The guards grabbed Will's arms and dragged him to his feet. The pikes were kept within an inch of his throat at all times. As he left the room, he glanced back at Don Alanzo, a forlorn figure, head bowed in front of the coffin.
Outside, Will was beaten severely until he lost consciousness.
He came round tied to a chair in a great hall whose walls were covered with frescoes depicting scenes from Spanish military victories: the defeat of the Moors, and images from several of Philip's campaigns against the French.
'The Hall of Battles.' The voice was like the wind across snow. In the corner of the hall, a woman stood, motionless, shoulders slightly hunched like an animal on the brink of attacking. Her hair hung lank around a bloodless face, her eyes red-rimmed, unblinking. There was something of the grave about her. With excruciating slowness, she stalked towards him.
'One of the Unseelie Court,' he said.
Her dark, hungry eyes never left his face. 'My brother told me that is what you call us. Unholy. '
As she inched forwards, a suffocating dread closed about him, a visceral reaction to something beyond his
