The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (38 page)

  "There is certainly a great deal of malice directed at the skraylings and anyone associated with them," Master Catlyn said when she had finished, "though whether from one source or several, I would not like to conjecture."

  "Do you have
any
idea who it might be?"

  "Unfortunately, yes." He sighed. "Have you heard of the Huntsmen?"

  "Only rumours. I have heard there are scurrilous ballads about their activities, but Master Naismith will not have them sung in his presence. His fortune depends upon our company's alliance with the skraylings."

  "Not all the ballads are invention," Master Catlyn said softly. "That I can vouch for myself."

  She stared at him.

  "It was a long time ago," he went on, "and I was but a callow boy, led astray by those who should know better. I disavowed their company as soon as I could."

  She wanted to believe him. And surely he would not have taken the job as the ambassador's bodyguard if he were still a Huntsman, would he?

  "And you think the Huntsmen are behind the attacks on our theatre, and the taking of your brother?"

  "I don't know. The man whom you caught–"

  "Wheeler."

  "Yes. He, and any allies of his, are probably just sympathisers to the Huntsmen's cause. The real Huntsmen would not dare pursue their activities here in London, not with informants on every corner and the might of both princes ready to crush them on the slightest suspicion. But they surely have eyes and ears of their own, and friends at Court. Friends like Blaise Grey."

  "The Duke of Suffolk's son? That cannot be. His father is our patron, and a friend of the skraylings."

  "The duke may be, but his son is not. And Blaise has income enough to fund a conspiracy, despite the breach with his father. You said Ned told you these villains of his were well supplied with money?"

  "Several gold angels at least. And that was just to bribe the warders at Bedlam."

  Master Catlyn stood up and walked over to the window. Moonlight silvered his hair and caressed the pommel of the dagger on his right hip.

  "I should be out there, looking for Sandy," he muttered, slamming the side of his fist against the stone wall.

  "It is long after curfew, sir. You cannot behave in any strange manner that might betray your suspicion of their plans, otherwise…"

  He turned abruptly to look at her.

  "There is no Otherwise."

  "No, sir."

 

The following morning Coby woke early, startled by the croaking of ravens on the battlements above her window. She washed her face in a basin of tepid water and pulled on her doublet before anyone else stirred.

  Master Catlyn finally appeared, dishevelled and grey from lack of sleep, as breakfast was being set out in the parlour.

  "You said that Naismith gave you the day off today," he said, taking his place at table.

  "Yes, sir."

  He poured himself a flagon of small ale, but waved away the platters of bread and cold meats. The servants bowed and retreated.

  "Then you must go to the hearing at the Compter," he told her, "and report back here."

  Coby put down her hunk of bread. "Are you not going?"

  "I think it wise for me to stay away from Ned as long as possible. I already risk much by using you as my go-between; Kemp mustn't suspect that I know about Sandy's disappearance."

  She nodded. Otherwise Sandy is dead, she added silently. And there can be no Otherwise.

  "Of course, sir. I… I was going to go anyway. Master Parrish is giving evidence, and Master Naismith will be most wroth if he is too distraught to act tomorrow."

  "Then you must do your utmost to help your friends." He stood and bowed curtly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to do."

  As he left, she thought she heard him mutter
Though what, I do not know.
She sighed, picked up her woollen cap and headed for the door.

  The hearing had been set for eleven o'clock, so she went round to Master Parrish's lodgings first. The actor looked even worse than Master Catlyn, white as new curds and with an uncharacteristic golden haze of stubble around his jawline.

  "Will they hang him?" Parrish asked for the hundredth time, as they walked along St Olave's Street towards the Compter.

  "I am sure they will not. Master Catlyn has friends in very high places."

  "But Ned betrayed him."

  "And is forgiven." A small lie, but she had sworn not to reveal Master Catlyn's plan to anyone.

  All too soon they arrived at the tall arched doors of the courthouse. The church buildings had been divided up, concealing most of their high vaulted ceilings, but many details of their former purpose remained: narrow Gothic windows, finely carved stone doorways and blank-faced niches that had once held the statues of saints. The nave had been converted into a panelled courtroom, and the magistrate's bench stood where the priest had formerly distributed the Host to the faithful. A fitting end to the corrupt idolatry that had been swept away by the Reformation, Coby had been taught, though she was too young to remember how things had been. To her, the name
Catholic
had always signified soldiers and enemies; it had nothing to do with ordinary pious folk.

  Sixteen men in their Sunday best occupied the front bench: sixteen citizens of the borough where the crime took place, as required by law, to form a jury of Ned's peers. A thin couple in threadbare homespun sat close together near the back of the courtroom, looking duly terrified by the grand surroundings, and a little way along the bench sat the Faulkners' parish priest, blackgarbed as a crow and about as genial. Peering over the heads of the jurors, Coby realised with a shock that what she had taken for an ancient marble tomb was a bier on which lay two corpses, each draped in a linen sheet. There was no sign of Ned.

  Feeling somewhat queasy, she allowed Master Parrish to show her to a seat halfway down the room. She sank down onto the bench and stared at her chipped fingernails, praying for the hearing to be over soon. Eventually the magistrate appeared, flanked by not one but two coroners, in robes of black lined with scarlet. The officer of the court rapped his polearm on the tiled floor, and everyone stood.

  "Pray silence," the magistrate intoned, "for Their Worships William Danby, Coroner of the Queen's Household, and John Derrick, Coroner for the County of Surrey."

  The jury and witnesses sat down again, and the legal proceedings began.

  "Let it be recorded," the magistrate went on, "that in the presence of the aforesaid coroners, on the twenty-eighth day of August in the thirty-fifth year of the reign of Elizabeth, by the grace of God, Queen of England, France and Ireland, et cetera, et cetera, and upon view of the bodies of Mistress Margaret Faulkner, widow of the parish of St Mary Overie, and of a man calling himself Thomas Armitage, both lying cruelly slain, upon the oath of–"

  He paused and gestured to the jurors to stand. The sixteen men took their oaths on the Bible, whilst the clerk of the court scratched down their names and stations.

  "Bring forth the accused."

  The rattle of chains echoed around the stone walls of the former church as Ned was escorted to the stand, fettered and manacled and stripped of all but his shirt and hose. He looked as if he had spent the night in a stable. Parrish clutched her hand, so tightly she almost cried out.

  "You are Edmund Faulkner, of Deadman's Place in the borough of Southwark?" the magistrate asked, not looking up from his papers.

  Ned swallowed visibly. "I am," he said, his voice dry and barely audible even in the silence.

  The coroners questioned Ned about the events of Tuesday morning. Only yesterday? It felt like an age since Master Parrish had first approached her for help.

  The jurors and the Queen's coroner gathered round the bodies. Coby could not see nor hear exactly what they were doing, but the coroner appeared to be raising each sheet and pointing out the fatal wounds. The sickly-sweet scent of decay wafted across the courtroom. After a few minutes the jurors returned to their seats, some of them looking a little green. Ned was pale as death himself, and kept his eyes averted from the bier.

  "I now call upon the first witness, Master William Watkins."

  The thin man stood up and walked to the magistrate's bench, watched by his wife, who wrung a kerchief in her reddened hands and looked about to break down in tears. With much prompting from the coroner, he told his side of events, though there was not much to tell since the couple had remained in their own lodgings throughout.

  Watkins returned to his seat, and the parish priest was called to give witness. He confirmed the time of delivery of the letter and vouched for Ned's good character. All seemed to be going smoothly, until the priest added that Ned had missed church the previous Sunday.

  The coroners exchanged looks.

  "Master Faulkner, can you explain your whereabouts on the Sunday in question?"

  Ned flushed and mumbled something.

  "Speak up, Faulkner."

  "I was at home, your worship."

  "You did not go to church at all?"

  "No, sir."

  The jurors murmured in consternation. The church imposed heavy fines on all recusants, and repeated offences drew the suspicion of being a Roman Catholic.

  "Why not?"

  "I was… unwell, your worship."

  "Can anyone vouch for your sickness?"

  "No, sir. No one saw me that day, except my mam."

  Parrish let out a slow breath, and Coby realised Ned could have named him as witness to his whereabouts on Sunday. She withdrew her hand. Bad enough that they sinned together in such an abominable way, but on the Lord's Day…

  The magistrate asked the priest to sit down, and called for the next witness. Master Parrish stood shakily and made his way to the front of the courtroom. Ned glanced up at his lover, a look of desperation in his eyes, then he returned his gaze to the floor.

  "You are Gabriel Parrish, a player…" the magistrate's voice dripped with contempt, "of Bermondsey Street in the borough of Southwark?"

  "Yes, your worship."

  "And you are acquainted with the accused?"

  "We are… old friends."

  "Did you deliver the aforesaid letter to Father Nicholls, as related before this court?"

  "I did, your worship."

  "When did you first see the accused, on the morning in question?"

  "The bells had just tolled nine, your worship."

  "Nine?" Derrick looked at Ned. "Some three hours after the murder took place."

  "I was minded to flee, your worship." Ned replied slowly. "But my conscience pricked me at last, and I made my way back to Southwark."

  "Where were you, those three hours?"

  "I can't remember, your worship. I wandered out of Southwark, past St George's and down to Newington, and thence along lanes and paths unknown to me."

  "Did anyone see you?"

  Ned shrugged.

  "But you did in time return," Danby put in. "And at three o'clock yesterday afternoon, you came to this very courthouse and confessed to your crime."

  "Yes, your worship."

  "I think we have heard everything we need to hear," the Queen's coroner said. "The accused admits to having killed the aforesaid Thomas Armitage, in defence of his own person, and to have found his mother dead by the hand of the same Thomas Armitage. I put it to you that the said Edmund Faulkner has hitherto been a lawful citizen of this parish, and ask you to judge this case accordingly. Gentlemen of the jury, you may withdraw to consider your verdict. The witness may stand down."

  Parrish made his way through the departing jurors and took his seat next to Coby. A servant came in with goblets of wine for the magistrate and coroners. Somewhere a bell chimed the hour, followed by twelve strokes.

  "Damn that priest," Parrish muttered. "Why could he not have kept silent about Ned's absence from church? It was only once, I swear, and then only out of fear of that bastard Kemp."

  The officer called the court to order, and the magistrate asked the foreman of the jury to deliver the verdict. The man cleared his throat.

  "We, the aforesaid jurors of this case, do agree that the defendant Edmund Faulkner killed and slew Thomas Armitage, in defence of his life and property, and that having fled in shame at his deed, did willingly return and surrender his person to the law, within that same day. We likewise agree that the aforesaid Armitage slew, or did cause to die, Mistress Margaret Faulkner, in the commission of said crime of robbery."

  Coby sighed with relief, and squeezed Parrish's hand.

  "He's not out of the woods yet," the actor muttered.

  Coroner Danby got to his feet.

  "On behalf of Her Majesty the Queen, I hereby grant bail of five pounds to the defendant, pending further proceedings. Master Faulkner, you are free to go about this city and not to leave its bounds, upon your own recognisance and the payment of said sum."

  A murmur of surprise passed around the court. Such swift and clement dealings were almost unheard-of, and yet five pounds was an enormous sum to a man of Ned Faulkner's means. Coby glanced at Master Parrish and knew he was thinking the same thing. Who, if anyone, would pay the bail?

  The jurors and other witnesses filed out, and the clerk of the court began gathering up his notes. Coroner Danby beckoned Ned to approach the bench, and said something to him. Ned nodded and signed the document he was given, and one of the guards who had brought him in removed his chains.

  Ned turned towards them, blinking as if awaking from a bad dream, and Parrish rushed forward to embrace him. Coby followed more slowly. As she drew near, she heard Ned ask: