It was cryptic, the script which lay before me, written in an Elizabethan Secretarial Hand. By the spymaster himself? Could it be?
It was well preserved; it must have been the best quality vellum, and first time used, not marred with the scrapings suggestive of years of palimpsests.
But what did it mean? And who did it concern? Did its contents lead to the arrest of a traitor, conspirator or the faithful of the wrong sect? Did someone lose their head over this? Did they lay on the rack, sinews stretched until they snapped?
Intrigued, I had to know more.
100 words written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Script


























































