The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (4 page)

  Ned ducked his head again, not daring to reply. The crowd applauded: Mal had won another point. When Ned looked back, the boy with the pomander was gone.

 

It was not hard to let Grey win. Mal's pride would not allow him to give in without a fight, but the other man's superior height and reach made him a tough opponent by any standard. Mal hoped he would never have to face him in a duel.

  Afterwards they wandered out into St James's Park, where servants brought flagons of chilled Rhenish wine for their refreshment. Young ladies strolled arm-in-arm under the watchful eyes of chaperones or sat on cushions in the shade of beech trees, fussing over lapdogs and pretending not to make eyes at the young men as they passed. The stink and crowds of London might as well be a hundred miles away.

  Mal gestured for Ned to wait at a discreet distance. The last thing he wanted was for his friend to overhear anything about his not-so-glorious past.

  "So," Grey said at last, putting down his silver goblet, "what is this matter you are so anxious to discuss in private?"

  Mal told him about the commission, leaving out the ignominious nature of his arrival at the Tower.

  "And you want me to get you out of it?"

  Mal hesitated, wondering how best to put it.

  "I know we were not close acquaintances at Cambridge, but we have certain… sympathies in common."

  "Go on."

  "I also know you and your father are not close. But – he has the ear of Prince Robert. If there is anything you can do, I would be eternally grateful."

  "We were never the best of friends, I'll grant you that, Catlyn, but one Peterhouse man looks out for another." Grey leant forward. "I'll see what I can do. And since you are looking for work, I have something that might suit you very well."

  "You do?" Mal said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. There was no point getting out of Leland's commission if he could not pay back the advance.

  "After you left Cambridge, I fell in with some fellows from Corpus Christi. Tradesmen's sons, mostly, but money poured from their purses like Cam water from a drowned drunk. Well, one that I know of has come home to London and is minded to become a gentleman. I can hardly introduce him at Court, but noblesse oblige…"

  "What do you need from me?"

  "The fellow needs to be seen in the company of gentlemen, learn a few graces – perhaps the art of the sword?"

  "Why does he not hire a fencing-master, if he is so rich?"

  Grey shook his head. "I urged him to, but he would have none of it. 'Filthy swiving Italians', he called them, and refused to have them in his house. But a stout Englishman like yourself… Shall I write you a letter of introduction?"

  Mal was inclined to refuse. It was bad enough that he had to crawl to the likes of Grey; he had no wish to renew his acquaintance with the sort of men Grey favoured as friends. But it appeared he had little choice.

  "Thank you," he said at last. "That would be most generous."

  "'Tis trifling. What are friends for?" He waved away the servant offering to refill his goblet. "Where shall I send it?"

  "Address it to Deadman's Place, Southwark; first house past Maid Lane. I will be lodging there for the summer."

  "You're living in Southwark? God's bones, Catlyn, no wonder you're going nowhere. The sooner you remember who you are and where you belong, the better. I'll have that letter to you by morning. Swear to me you'll take the job, and get yourself some decent lodgings."

  Mal made a vague, noncommittal noise. No work for months, then two jobs come along at once – and both of them an uncomfortable link to his past. The Fates were conspiring against him, of that he was certain.

  "All right," he said at last. "I'll see this shopkeeper of yours. But I make no promises. I owe no loyalty to you or your friends."

  "Oh I think you do," Grey said. "You can wash the blood away, Catlyn, but the stain will always be there. Always."

 

Contrary to Grey's promises, no letter arrived the next day, nor the day after. Mal was by turns relieved and annoyed. He considered seeking Grey out, but did not want to appear too desperate. In any case, one did not press a duke's son to hurry with his favours.

  A week passed, and the matter of the fifty-two shillings still had to be dealt with. So it was that on Midsummer Day, Mal walked up to the gates of Bethlem Hospital with a heavy heart. Every time he came here, he swore it would be the last. Every time…

  He rapped on the door set into the tall wooden gates and waited. After several minutes it opened a crack, and the stubble-jawed porter poked his head out.

  "What is it?"

  "I have your money," Mal said, tapping his pocket.

  The porter's eyebrows lifted, and his sneer twisted into an ingratiating smile.

  "Come in, sir, come in."

  He unbolted the gate and Mal went through into the courtyard, wrinkling his nose at the smell from the nearby cesspit. It was a wonder the patients hadn't all died of plague long ago. Judging by the screams coming from the nearby Abraham Ward, however, they were still very much alive.

  "You go right on in, sir," the porter said. "Mistress Cooke will see to you."

  He looked expectantly at Mal. who grimaced but gave the man thruppence from his purse, "to oil the hinges of the gate" as the fellow liked to put it. Much as Mal disliked the fact, he would need to come back here at least once more.

  "I have to ask for your blade as well, sir," the porter added. "New rules, sir."

  "He has become dangerous of late?"

  "Lord bless us, no, sir! He's been gentle as a lamb since you was last here." He shook his head. "There was this young gallant, see, showing off to his lady in the Abraham Ward, and one of the inmates got hold of his rapier. Nasty mess, it was, sir. We don't want any more trouble like that."

  Mal drew his dagger and handed it to the porter. He was tempted to point out that anyone who thought taunting the insane was a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon deserved everything he got.

  "I trust such visitors are not allowed into my brother's lodgings," he said. "I pay you well to keep him secluded."

  "Of course not, sir." The man grinned nervously.

  He was lying, of course. The occasional visitors paid for the little luxuries that made the keepers' lives bearable in this vile place. He hoped Sandy had afforded them little entertainment.

  The western gatehouse provided accommodation for patients whose families were willing to spend a little extra on their keep. Like the eastern gatehouse it had rooms on the ground floor which opened into the gateway itself, and several chambers above. Originally interconnecting, these had been subdivided to create a corridor with locked doors to either side and a narrow window at each end. The lodgings were a little more comfortable than the main ward where the meaner inmates were kept, but it was a melancholy place nonetheless.

  After a few moments Mal's eyes adjusted to the gloom and he spotted a woman of middle years coming out of one of the rooms, accompanied by a pale-faced girl of about fourteen. Their aprons were smeared with filth, and the girl carried a brimming chamber-pot.

  "Mistress Cooke?" he called out. "I'm here to see my brother."

  "O' course, sir." She fumbled through the bunch of keys hanging from her belt. "I was just in there a few minutes ago, happily for you. All cleaned up, he is, sir."

  The chamber was about the size of the one in which Mal had been shut up at the Tower, though without the luxury of a fireplace or glazed windows. The only furnishings were a narrow cot bed against one wooden side-wall and a rickety table bearing a small pile of books. The rushes on the floor had long since been trampled into a layer of matted filth that stuck to the soles of Mal's boots.

  "Sandy?"

  The pale figure curled up on the cot bed did not move.

  "Sandy, it's me, Mal."

  He went over to the bed. Mistress Cooke's idea of "clean" was a sweat-soaked shirt which clearly had not been changed in days, and the same breeches her patient was wearing last time Mal visited. Sandy's feet were bare and filthy, the toenails grown long, and his black shoulder-length hair was matted into elf-locks. Well, all of that could be remedied, at least. Having expected no better treatment in his absence, Mal had brought some of his own spare clothes and shoes this time.

  "Bring me hot water and towels," he told Mistress Cooke. "And a pair of shears."

  The matron looked offended but eventually complied. Neither the towels nor the water turned out to be particularly clean.

  "Before you go," he said, "I would also like the keys to my brother's shackles. I cannot change his clothing as he is."

  "Oh, you mustn't unchain him, sir. Master Charles was quite insistent about that."

  "Charles gave him into my care. I pay the bills now, I will do with him as I see fit. And you will give me the keys."

  Grumbling, Mistress Cooke removed a small iron key from the ring and handed it over.

  "On yer own head be it, sir," she said and hurried out, locking the door behind her.

  "Sandy?" Mal put the bucket of water down by the bed. "Sandy? They've gone now."

  "I'm not here," Sandy whispered. "You can't see me."

  He was right, then. The warders had been allowing paying customers in here.

  "It's all right, Sandy," he said, "there's no one here but me. It's Mal, your brother."

  "Brother?" Sandy sat up suddenly. The chains joining the iron manacles slithered into his lap.

  "Yes, your brother, Mal."

  He took up the shears and began trimming his brother's hair and beard, taking care to keep the blades well away from Sandy's eyes. One sudden seizure and… He drew a deep breath and forced himself to continue. At last it was done. He ruffled Sandy's hair, sending a last few severed curls tumbling into the rushes.

  "There, now you look yourself again."

  Sandy smiled back, his features a gaunt mirror-image of Mal's own. Same black hair, same straight nose and narrow jaw, same dark eyes – no, not the same. Not any more. It was as if a stranger looked out at him, a stranger who wore his twin's shape like an ill-fitting suit of clothes. But if he were possessed, it was by no demon any priest had been able to drive out.

  Mal unlocked the shackles around Sandy's wrists and ankles, wincing at the sight of the chafed and blistered flesh. He bound the wounds with clean bandages then set about stripping off his brother's filthy clothes. Sandy began to shiver.

  "Come on, you big baby, it's not that cold," Mal said with a smile, and dipped a bit of flannel into the tepid water.

  "My brother is coming," Sandy moaned, staring past Mal and pointing. "He is coming for me."

  "Yes, I'm coming for you soon, to take you away from here." He took the thin, cold hand in his own. "But there's something I have to do first. A job."

  "I was all alone." Sandy's eyes focused on him at last. "You're not him. I see him in my dreams. Old, so old…"

  "Father?" Their father was dead. If he were still alive, none of them would be in this mess.

  "No. I told you." Sandy pulled his hand away. "My brother."

  Mal frowned. Their elder half-brother Charles had been no more than thirty when they last saw him. Sandy must be thinking back to his childhood.

  "Charlie's gone, Sandy, he left us here in London." You in this hell-hole and me in whatever job will earn me enough to keep you from dying in here. "He's not coming back."

  "Not coming back?"

  "No. There's just me now."

  He helped Sandy dress, then gently replaced the shackles. Sandy whimpered as the metal closed around his limbs and Mal feared he would struggle, but after a moment Sandy fell silent and lay down on the bed once more.

  Mal sat with him until the bell of nearby St Botolph's tolled the hour. Sandy seemed to take comfort from his presence, and Mal could think of nothing to say that would not spoil that. If only… He cursed his stupidity. Now he had money again, he could redeem his lute. Sandy always found his playing soothing. Well, there was always next time.

  A key grated in the lock, and the cell door opened. Mal got to his feet.

  "Goodness me," said Mistress Cooke, "I can scarce tell the two of you gentlemen apart now. I hope I lets the right one out!" She laughed at her own joke, chins quivering.

  Mal was not amused. He counted out the fifty-two shillings under her avaricious gaze.

  "That is for this quarter. I will be back every week, to ensure you are keeping my brother in the comfort I am paying for."

  "Of course, sir. Everything will be done as you wish, sir."

 
 
 

Coby brushed the dust from her hands and wiped her brow with the back of her cuff. There, that was the last of the chests from the wagon. Most people assumed a life in the theatre was a life of idleness; indeed she had thought the same, once upon a time. Now she had arm muscles like a washerwoman and more blisters on her feet than a Bedlam beggar.

  Realising she was alone for the first time in a month, she bolted the door to guarantee herself a few moments' privacy. She stripped off her doublet, lifted up her shirt, and loosened the upper lacing of her corset, wrinkling her nose at the ripe smell of unwashed flesh. She had managed to keep a couple of spares hidden in the costume trunks, but changing into them – and washing the used ones and herself – was not so easy. Fortunately all the company smelt at least as bad after a warm spring on the road, so no one had noticed. Yet.

  She exchanged the foetid garment for a clean one she had left amongst her tailoring supplies, pressing her breasts downwards as she laced it so they were flattened to boyish proportions rather than plumped up like a whore's. No time for a wash, but most of the stink was in the corset anyway. She put on a clean shirt for good measure, then donned her doublet once more and unbolted the door.