The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (24 page)

  "I must say I am very disappointed by Parrish's abandonment of his role," he said to Master Naismith during a break in rehearsals.

  "I am sure he has not abandoned it," the actor-manager replied in his most conciliatory tones. "Our Angel lives for the stage, does he not, Coby?"

  "Aye, sir." She did not add that there were other stages in London, less plagued by troublemakers. The last thing they needed right now was for Master Parrish to leave them for a rival company.

  "If Parrish does not return tomorrow, I shall have to inform my lord Suffolk," Dunfell said.

  "There will be no need for that, Master Dunfell, I assure you," Naismith said. "I will impress upon him the importance of his role." He gestured towards the stage. "But apart from that small interruption, everything goes very well. Very well indeed."

  "Well?" Dunfell sniffed. "I would not say so. Scarcely a single speech rendered without stumbling. My lord wishes – nay, demands – they be word-perfect."

  "Oh, they will be, sir," Coby said. "Once they are in front of an audience, they lose themselves in the playing and the words flow like water."

  "They had better do. His Grace is most anxious that your company be ready in time, and trusts he will not have cause to regret his patronage."

  "I will speak to Master Parrish," she told her wan-faced master. "I might be able to talk some sense into him."

  It was the perfect excuse to go back to Thames Street whilst Philip was busy here at the theatre. Handing the playbook to a glowering Dunfell, she left before Naismith could stop her.

 

Ned laid down his pen and flexed his cramped hand a few times. He glanced over the contract, checking he had included all the standard clauses the lawyer had requested, then put it aside. A moment later he heard his mother's slow, uneven tread on the floor below.

  "Some gentlemen to see you, son," she called up. "Masters Kemp and Armitage."

  Ned frowned. He didn't have any legal contacts of that name. Must be someone new to the Inns of Court. "Show them up, Mam."

  He scooped the papers back into their satchel, made sure the ink on the contract was dry, and put it away with the rest. Getting to his feet, he brushed himself down and prepared to greet his guests. When the door opened, the words of welcome shrivelled on his tongue and it was all he could do to remain calm. Standing behind his mother were two all-too-familiar figures.

  "Master Faulkner, how good of you to see us." Weasel Face stepped into the attic room, smiling benignly. He was dressed in lawyer's robes and carried a leather document wallet, all very respectable-looking. "My name is Samuel Kemp, and this is my client, Tom Armitage."

  Ned waited until his mother had left the room before speaking.

  "What are you doing here? I tell you what you want to know, and you stay away from my house. That's the deal."

  "Deal's changed," Kemp replied. "We need you to do a little job for us."

  "What sort of job? If it's paperwork you want, fine, but anything else–"

  Kemp glanced meaningfully at the door. "You're not in a position to argue, Faulkner."

  "All right." Ned sagged onto the stool. "What do you want me to do?"

  "You told us Catlyn has a twin brother, locked up in Bedlam." Kemp began pacing back and forth with his hands behind his back, for all the world like a lawyer in a courtroom.

  "Yes, that's right."

  "You met him?"

  "Once or twice."

  "Is he dangerous?"

  "Sandy? No. He wanders in his wits a lot of the time, and some days he doesn't say a word, but dangerous…" He shook his head.

  "Would he recognise you if you visited him without Catlyn?"

  "I don't know. Possibly."

  "You say his wits wander. Is he slow? Can he learn?"

  "Why do you need to know?" Ned asked. "What's going on?"

  "Master Kemp is asking the questions," Armitage growled, looming over him.

  "So, can he learn?" Kemp asked.

  Ned sighed. "When he's in his right mind, he is sharper than any man I know. Reads Latin and Greek, and is learned beyond my wit to tell of."

  Kemp seemed pleased with this information, though for the life of him Ned couldn't work out why.

  "How often does Catlyn visit him?" Kemp asked.

  "I don't know. Most Sundays, when he's in London."

  "What about during the week?"

  "Not that I know of. If he's working, he's rarely free to visit, and if he's not, then he usually hasn't got enough money to bribe the porter."

  "Perfect," Kemp said to Armitage with an unpleasant smile. "We do it Monday, it'll be days before anyone notices."

  "Do what Monday?" Ned asked.

  "All in good time, Master Faulkner, all in good time." Kemp patted him on the shoulder. "We'll see you outside Bishopsgate at ten o'clock on Monday morning. In the meantime, I do indeed have a bit of paperwork for you."

  "Oh?"

  "Catlyn lived here for a while, right?"

  "Yes."

  "So, perhaps he left something, some letter or the like, with his signature on it."

  "No, nothing." He had expected something like this when Kemp first latched on to him, and had destroyed what few papers Mal had left behind.

  "Pity," said Kemp. "Just make it look good, then."

  He handed Ned a sheet of paper and a large, official-looking seal. The document was a draft copy of a power of attorney; the name at the top read "Maliverny Catlyn Esq., of Rushdale in the county of Derbyshire".

  "I think you know what to do with those," Kemp said softly. "See you Monday."

 

The front door of the Naismiths' house was locked, so Coby went round to the back. A clattering and reedy singing from the scullery told her Betsy was busy with the laundry. Perfect. Mistress Naismith was probably at the market or visiting friends, so she had the house to herself.

  She let herself in and walked through the kitchen and upstairs to the apprentices" room. The spartan bedchamber held a plain bedstead, a washstand and a clothes chest cracked and stained with age. She rummaged in the chest amongst the tangle of clean and dirty linens, but found only the usual scant possessions of a boy: a comb with several teeth missing, a cupand-ball, a set of skittles. There was nothing under the mattress either, apart from dust and an odd sock. What Philip did not know, however, was that this room had been hers, briefly, after Master Naismith had first brought her to London. If he had explored it thoroughly since then, he would have found her old hiding place.

  She moved the washstand to one side and levered up the short piece of floorboard with her knife. Reaching down into the dusty depths her fingers brushed against something smooth and cold. A leather pouch. She took it out and tipped the contents into her lap.

  The gold and jewels blazed like beacons in the gloom. A handful of angels and half-angels, mixed with gold chains, finger rings and the rope of pearls Philip had boasted of pawning. Had he taken the hint and redeemed them? Still, by themselves these treasures were useless to her. Everyone knew that boy players received gifts from their admirers, and the canny ones like Gabriel Parrish saved them up for the day when their admirers sought newer, younger idols.

  She reached inside the hiding-place again, but found nothing. Either Philip was cleverer than she thought, or he was not behind this wicked scheme. She put the pouch back and returned the room to the way she had found it. She was just about to leave when she heard noises coming from upstairs. Not the room above, which was Betsy's. That only left her own room and the costume store. Heart in mouth, she padded up the stairs.

  As she neared the top she heard someone cry out, a man's voice. In her own room. She crept up the last few steps and turned right onto the landing. The only sound from the room up ahead was a fast rhythmic creaking. She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to the worn planks.

  The cry came again and this time there were words, in a voice she recognised. Ned Faulkner.

  "Oh God… Oh God… I die, I di– Aaaahhh!"

  Blood rushed to her cheeks and her heart stilled its clamour. Ned Faulkner. Gabriel Parrish. They were fornicating like the sinners of Sodom, in her own bed no less, and blaspheming as they did so. She leant back against the wall and drew a deep breath, then another. Reaching out to her left she pounded on the door with the side of her fist.

  "Master Parrish?"

  There was a scuffling noise from within, and muttered curses. Coby recited the Lord's Prayer under her breath, then knocked again.

  "Master Parrish!"

  Silence. Try once more.

  She had just got to the part about forgiving trespasses, when the door opened a crack. Parrish stepped out onto the landing clad in shirt and hose, his feet bare. His pale hair was disordered and limp with sweat, and his features were as flushed as her own, though not, she feared, with shame.

  "Hendricks? What are you doing here?"

  "What are
you
doing here?" she countered. "We have rehearsals today."

  Parrish made a derisive noise.

  "Please, sir?" She tried a different tack. "Philip is still forgetting his lines, and now he reckons his voice might be breaking."

  "And how am I to help with that?" He lowered his voice. "I want nothing to do with this play. Not any more."

  Coby sighed. This was all she needed.

  "How could you?" she muttered, jerking her head towards the door. "In my bed."

  He shrugged. "Ned was… persistent, and we could hardly use the boys' room, or anywhere else for that matter. You did take pains to point out that this door has a bolt on it."

  She pushed past him, unwilling to acknowledge he was right. If Betsy had found… evidence in Philip's bed, it would go ill for Parrish.

  The air was heavy with the smell of violets and fresh sweat. Memories of another man's scent, the warmth of his breath on her neck as they grappled in combat, rose unbidden. How was that any different from this? the voice of temptation asked. It just is, she replied.

  She shook off the troublesome thoughts and forced herself to return to the matter at hand. Parrish was making a show of straightening the bedding, but since Faulkner was still sprawled across half of it with only a corner of the sheet to hide his modesty, there seemed little point.

  "Hullo, Hendricks," Faulkner said, grinning. "What brings you here?"

  "Master Parrish is supposed to be at rehearsals," she replied.

  "So you're Naismith's retriever now, as well as his mastiff?" He exchanged knowing glances with Parrish. "Methinks he would make a better spaniel, eh, Gabe?"

  "Oh, he's that already." Parrish gave her a wink.

  "Alas, my horn is winded," Faulkner sighed. "The hunt is over, and the quarry brought to its fall."

  Coby ignored him. "Sir, we really do need you at the theatre. Everyone's so upset–"

  Parrish's eyes flicked towards his lover, and Coby realised he hadn't told Faulkner about the poem yet.

  "They're always like this before a new play," he said, a little too loudly. "They can live without me for one afternoon."

  "As long as it is only one."

  "Why should it not be?" Faulkner levered himself out of bed and slithered naked over to Parrish, slipping his arms around the other man's waist. "Or is there something you're not telling me, love?"

  Coby looked away, her cheeks burning. The shamelessness of the man knew no bounds.

  "It's nothing," Parrish said. "Just the usual squabbling over who gets the best parts."

  "I know which parts I like best," Faulkner purred.

  "Stop it, Ned, you're embarrassing yourself as well as Hendricks."

  Faulkner flounced back to bed and wrapped himself in a sheet, muttering.

  "Don't mind him," Parrish told Coby. "He's been in a queer humour all morning."

  She made no comment. As far as she could see, Faulkner was his usual self: lewd, discourteous and nasty.

  "So, how are the rehearsals going?" Parrish asked her, leaning on the bedpost. "Is Pip's voice really breaking?"

  "I don't think so. It's just nerves, or a summer chill."

  "Naismith should get him some physic from the skrayling apothecary in that case."

  "They would be happier if you were there, sir. And not just the boys. The company feels incomplete without you."

  Parrish bit his lip. He looked somewhat mollified, but she decided this was not the time to take chances.

  "You are the very pinnacle of the actor's art, in both male and female roles," she went on, "and thus invaluable to Suffolk's Men."

  "Invaluable, eh?" Parrish fingered his lovelock and looked about the room.

  "Absolutely."

  "All right. Tell Naismith I'll turn up if he pays me the same as Rafe."

  "I–" She could hardly say no, but if she agreed, Master Naismith would be furious. For one thing, actors were normally fined for failing to turn up, not rewarded when they deigned to appear. She supposed she could offer to pay the difference out of her own meagre wages. After all, it would only be for a few days. Once the competition was over, Parrish could run off to Vinland for all she cared.

  "Ten shillings a week, or naught," Parrish said. "It's his choice."

  "Very well," she said. "I'll tell him."

 

Gabriel shut the door behind Hendricks and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring down at his clasped hands. He sat there for so long, silent and unmoving, Ned began to fear that this was it; he had gone too far this time, offended Gabriel as well as that uptight little Puritan Hendricks, and now he was to be cast off. He slid out of bed and began dressing. Better to leave now of his own accord than be thrown out.