"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 five senses. With each step, the tension increased a notch until his breath burned in his chest as he waited for her to lunge at him.
"I know you," she intoned. That simple statement carried with it the weight of something terrifying.
Before Will could consider its implications, his vision swam. When it cleared, her unsettling appearance had shifted to take on an unearthly beauty. She was undoubtedly the same person, with that same hungry gaze, but now she radiated a deep, powerful sexuality that affected him despite himself.
She came to a halt before him. Presenting herself, he thought. Her posture accentuated every curve of her body, the swell of her breasts, her hard nipples protruding through the thin silk, her hips at an angle, crotch slightly pushed forwards. She challenged him to admire what he saw.
Knowing what lay beneath sickened him. As he looked away defiantly, he realised her sexuality was more than just physical. Slowly, she drew his gaze back to her, and however much he fought he could not resist. Sweat beaded his brow, and he shook from the strain of fighting her. The heat rose in his groin.
She leaned forwards until her luminous face was only inches from his, and he could smell the perfume of her skin, and her hair, and a muskier scent beneath it. "You are mine now," she whispered. Reaching down, she ran the tips of her fingers along his thigh.
"Your brother," he said, pointedly ignoring her teasing, "is Cavillex?"
She nodded slowly. "My name is Malantha."
He looked around for the guards, but they were alone.
Malantha appeared to sense what he was thinking, for she said, "I do not need protection."
"If I were free-"
"Not even then. Cavillex presents a fearsome face to the world, but I am worse. Much worse."
"I imagine Philip finds your wiles invigorating," he said.
"Personal weaknesses exist in all humans. You can hide them away, pretend they do not exist or that God and prayer have expunged them, but they remain."
"Until you work them loose."
Her gaze held him fast.
"I have many weaknesses," he continued. "I must be easy game for one such as you."
"You pretend to many weaknesses," she replied, "but only one truly matters."
"You see the weaknesses that clearly?"
"All people can see weaknesses if they open their eyes. But most of the time, you choose to ignore them, or you pretend, or you lie to yourself. But they are there. What is writ clearly in the heart is clear in the face."
"You see them as weaknesses. But they can also be strengths, driving us on to achieve great things, to strive, to overcome pain and hardship."
"Believe that if you wish," she replied.
"Is your brother coming to oversee my torture again?" he asked.
"My brothers are engaged in important affairs that demand their attention. Not Just in Edinburgh, but in France, and Venice, Moscow, and the New World. We have been playing this game for a long time, by the way you measure it, and we move with the slow turn of the seasons, a slight push here, barely noticed, another shove there, unseen, guiding, steering, drawing strands across your entire world until everything is in place. And then you will see the true design of the plan we have wrought.
"Cavillex trusts me to ensure you pay the price for what you did. We have only contempt for England and we will destroy it piece by piece without emotion. But you have gained our attention. You slew one of us." In the blaze of her eyes, he saw clearly the monster that lurked beneath the flirtatious surface. "This is now a personal matter. Quid pro quo. And," she added, "by the end, you will wish it was my brother here."
"True. His own brand of torture already failed."
"Torture is not a fair word for what I do. There is something of creation about it, a skill that makes the heavens sing, a drawing together of subtle themes, of resonances, a slow build of contrasting emotions, desires, and agonies, until they fall into a glorious harmony, and then you will be crushed by the artfulness of it." Her voice lost its honeyed tone and became gravelly. "Your mind and soul will be destroyed long before your body falls apart."
"And Philip sanctions that?"
"Philip will do whatever I tell him to. His only concern is that the Armada succeeds and England falls. Failure could wreak untold damage on the Spanish empire and his own reputation. And if I tell him a dangerous English spy is a threat to his Enterprise of England-however ridiculous that might seem-he will do whatever he deems necessary."
"With a little push and shove from yourself, perhaps, when he is entranced by the comfort of your thighs."
"Men are men. It is their nature, and easily manipulated by any woman who knows."
"But Philip knows nothing of your true plans. How you will use the Silver Skull to achieve your sly aims."
"You know nothing of our true plans. You think you know, but you have been wrong at every turn. We are too subtle ... too sly ... that is why we win. We are the wind that moves the oceans when all your power could not achieve more than a few ripples."