The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (49 page)

  Mal straightened up, and the butt of the quarterstaff prodded him in the back. He reluctantly stepped back into the room. Sandy stared at Blaise, wide-eyed, and began to mutter under his breath. The retainer moved towards him, quarterstaff at the ready.

  "Don't distress yourself, Alexander," Blaise said. "I'll get to you later."

  He gestured for Mal to move to the opposite end of the room.

  "What are you going to do with us?" Mal asked.

  "I? Nothing." Blaise cocked his head on one side, looked back at Sandy and then at Mal. "How did you get here?"

  Mal folded his arms. "I don't know."

  "Wrong answer." Blaise aimed his crossbow at Mal's foot.

  Mal weighed up his options. Blaise had not resorted to violence when he had questioned Sandy – assuming it was his words Sandy had echoed – but he probably had no such qualms with Mal himself. Injured, Mal was of no use to his brother, but if he revealed Sandy's magic, would that do Blaise's work for him? What would the Huntsmen do with that power once they had it under their control?

  "I used witchcraft," Mal said.

  "You?"

  Mal nodded, praying Blaise would believe him.

  "How?" Blaise asked.

  "I flew here on wings of night, drawn by my brother's need." As he said the words he knew they were true, in a fashion; his dreams had led him to Sandy, even if the magic had not been his.

  "A pity you couldn't just fly out again," Blaise sneered.

  "Perhaps I choose not to," Mal replied.

  "Brave words." He called over his shoulder. "Ivett!"

  A young man in livery entered the room, carrying two sets of gyves joined by chains. These were plain iron, not bronze. With many a nervous glance at his master, Ivett placed the irons around Mal's wrists and ankles, securing them with simple padlocks.

  "Now you have no choice," Blaise said, when the man was done. He backed towards the door, the servants preceding him out of the room.

  Mal yanked the chain between his wrists, but it was well forged and solid. Blaise was right; he had no choice now but to stay here and wait out whatever plan the Greys had in mind.

 

Ned climbed the outside stair to Gabriel's lodgings and let himself in.

  "What took you so long?" Gabriel asked, eyeing the heavy satchel that hung at Ned's side. His gaze flicked to Ned's face and he leapt to his feet. "God in Heaven, what happened?"

  "Nothing."

  "Doesn't look like nothing to me," Gabriel said, putting his hand under Ned's chin and tipping his head to one side to get a better look at the scrape.

  "A run-in with that whoreson Baines, if you must know," Ned grunted. Seeing the concern in his lover's eyes, he added, "Don't fret, it's all sorted out between us."

  "Well. Good." Gabriel turned to Hendricks. "Ready?"

  The boy nodded.

  "Right. You two head upriver, I'll report to the ambassador. I think someone should keep an eye on Suffolk House."

  "You think Ambassador Kiiren was talking about Whitehall Palace after all?" Hendricks asked.

  Gabriel shrugged. "You say he said 'not close', didn't you? But we can't be too sure. Skraylings may measure things differently."

  Ned took Gabriel's face in his hands.

  "I won't be parted from you again," he whispered.

  "Don't be a fool, love," Gabriel replied, catching hold of his wrists. He glanced significantly towards the boy. "Hendricks needs your help. What good would I be in a fight?"

  "I've seen you with a sword. Not nearly as good as Mal, mind–"

  "Play-acting, and well practised as any courtly dance. In a real duel I would be minced meat, and you know it."

  "All right," Ned sighed, and brought one of Gabriel's hands to his lips for a tender kiss. "My lady must do as she pleases."

  The look Gabriel gave him from under lowered lids almost made Ned send Hendricks on his way, and to hell with Mal.

  "Right," he said, releasing Gabriel. "We'd better be off."

  "Tyrell's is the best livery stable in Southwark," Gabriel said. "Tell Tom the stable lad I sent you, and you'll get a good price."

  Ned looked at Hendricks. "Can you ride?"

  The boy shrugged in apology. That would be a no, then.

  "We'll hire a boat," Ned told Gabriel. "Neither of us will be any use to Mal with a broken neck."

  "Be careful, sweet," Gabriel murmured, hugging him.

  "Don't worry about me. I have the Devil's own luck."

 
 
 

Coby leant on the gunwales of the little boat, scanning the Middlesex bank for a good landing place. They were about a mile downstream from Ferrymead House, and the golden pinnacles of Richmond Palace glinted above the trees to the west. They had seen no sign of the duke's barge, though this was not surprising since it had a head start on them of at least an hour.

  "There," she cried, pointing to a level stretch of grass beside a willow. Faulkner steered the boat towards it, and soon their prow bumped against the bank. The little craft spun like a leaf in the current, coming to rest with its stern amongst the willow roots that stretched down into the water.

  "Christ's balls," Faulkner muttered, shaking his arms and flexing his fingers. "Why in God's name didn't we hire a man to row this thing?"

  "The thing about secret missions is–" Coby paused for effect "–they're secret."

  Faulkner looked away, suddenly unwilling to meet her eye, like a schoolboy caught truanting. Coby's heart sank. She knew he was hiding something, but how was she to get to the truth? She could hardly beat the information out of him.

  "Half the Tower probably knows where we've gone by now," Ned replied with forced casualness, then paled. "You don't think they'd torture Gabe for information, do you?"

  Coby was tempted to say yes, but she thought how she would feel in Faulkner's place.

  "No," she replied, scrambling ashore and tying the painter to a low branch. "He'll be quite safe, I'm certain of it."

  Faulkner grunted as he threw her Mal's bundled-up weapons. "So what do we do when we get there?"

  "How should I know? You're older than me, and wiser in the ways of the world. Don't you have a plan?"

  "I did, but it rather involved Gabriel coming with us."

  "If you could get your thoughts out of the gutter for five minutes together, Ned Faulkner–"

  "You're the one chasing halfway across the country because you're smitten with a man who doesn't even notice you."

  Coby folded her arms, refusing to rise to the bait. It was none of Faulkner's business what Mal thought of her, or she of him.

  "Why do you hate me so much?" she asked him.

  "I don't hate you."

  "You don't like me."

  "Well what do you expect, when you're such a hypocrite?"

  "A hypocrite? Me?"

  "Yes, you. Acting all holier-than-thou over me and Gabriel" he pulled a prissy face in imitation "when you earn your living dressing boys up as women, so they can act out love scenes with men. In public."

  Coby swallowed. "I hadn't thought of it like that before."

  Faulkner said nothing. He didn't need to.

  "I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, and set off across the water meadow, tears pricking her eyes.

  Talk about looking for the mote in the other man's eye! She had heard many sermons about the abomination of boys playing women's roles, but since the preachers in question did not approve of women acting on stage either, Coby had thought it surely the lesser of two evils. That her own role made her complicit in encouraging masculine love had never occurred to her. No wonder Faulkner disliked her so much. Well, she could at least do better from now on. Starting with looking to her own faults first.

  She wiped her eyes and headed for a stile in the hedge. The last of the summer's flowers stirred at her passing and grasshoppers fled in all directions. A group of cattle watched her warily, flicking their tails at the thistledown drifting in the breeze. Leaden clouds massed in the west. She hoped they would reach Ferrymead before it rained.

  Ned jogged to catch her up, the satchel over his shoulder clanking slightly as he ran.

  "What's in the bag?" she asked.

  "Lock picks." Ned flashed her a smug grin.

  "Lock picks? How…?"

  "Borrowed them from Baines," Ned replied, then looked sheepish.

  She stopped dead. "You've told Walsingham's man where we're going?"

  "How do you know Baines works for Walsingham?"

  Coby hesitated. How much did Faulkner know about Mal's business? Not as much as he thought, she suspected.

  "You told me he was an intelligencer," she replied. "That means Walsingham, doesn't it?"

  "Uh, Hendricks!"

  "What?"

  "Run!"

  Coby glanced over her shoulder and saw the bullocks lumbering towards them. Pressing a hand to her side, she loped towards the hedge, but Faulkner soon overtook her. He vaulted the stile with enviable grace and stretched out his hand towards her.

  "Come on, Hendricks, move your arse!"

  She staggered the last few yards and was hauled painfully over the stile. The hilt of the rapier dug into her ribs, trapped against the wooden beam, and for a second she feared it would pull free and slice her in two. Then she was over, the beasts snorting and pawing the ground impotently as the two of them collapsed on the dusty road. Coby looked at Faulkner, and they both burst out laughing.

  "Some rescuers we are," she wheezed.

  Faulkner got to his feet and dusted himself down.

  "Come on," he said. "We've got work to do."

 

"Damn!"

  "What?"

  Ned pointed due west to where creamy-white battlements rose above the trees.

  "Syon House," he said. "Belongs to the Earl of Essex. And we're on his land."

  He looked about, expecting to be accosted by servants at any moment.

  "Essex lives here?"

  "His sister does, since she was widowed last year. Rumour has it Northumberland is betrothed to her already."

  He scuttled over to a group of elder trees heavy with winedark berries, and beckoned for Hendricks to join him.

  "How come you know so much about the doings of great men?" Hendricks asked, her brow furrowing in suspicion.

  "I've got friends in high places," he replied with a wink. In truth it was mostly Bull's Head gossip, but he wasn't about to admit that. "Been to Whitehall Palace, me."

  The boy looked sceptical.

  "All right, only once," Ned admitted. "But I did see Prince Arthur, as close to me as you are now."

  Speaking of the prince reminded Ned of the tennis match, and of Grey's cold eyes that so belied his friendly demeanour towards Mal. He should have known the fellow was up to some wickedness.

  "So how do we get to Ferrymead House now?" Hendricks asked, peering through the leaves.

  "The London road surely passes close by here. Didn't you never come this way before, when Suffolk's Men were on tour?"

  "No. I think we played at Suffolk House once, when I first came to London, but I was so mazed by everything I could scarce tell one great mansion from the next."

  Ned scanned the park. London born and bred, he was out of his element here. Over to the right the trees thickened into dense oak woodland, its shadowed depths more dangerous to his eyes than a Southwark alley. A rich man's private hunting ground. Ned prayed they would not end up as the ones hunted.

 

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, then a key turned in the lock. Blaise entered, accompanied by Goddard and two other men, both of the latter armed with stout cudgels tucked into their belts. Sandy whimpered and pressed himself into the farthest corner of the bedstead. Blaise beckoned to Mal, who looked back at his brother.

  "Touch him again," he told Blaise, "and you'll wish you'd never been born."

  Blaise said nothing, only gestured for him to leave.

  They left Goddard stationed outside the room, and Mal was taken downstairs and through a door into the great hall. The night's chill still clung to the stone walls, though the morning light reached in through the tall windows to caress the terracotta tiles with pale fingers. The high table was strewn with books and papers and the remains of breakfast.

  At one end of the dais an archway opened onto a straight wooden stair running up to the lord's private apartments. Mal was ushered through the empty solar into the bedchamber beyond, where Suffolk sat propped up in bed. A black-gowned doctor was washing his hands in a porcelain basin, but looked round as the visitors entered.

  "His Grace is not to be troubled for long,
signore
," he told Blaise, wiping his fingers fastidiously on a towel.

  "I think my father is fit to decide for himself," Blaise replied.

  The physician gave a curt bow, little more than a bob of the head, and stumped out of the room, followed by a servant carrying the basin. As they passed, Mal could not help but glance into it: the contents swirled red and black with clotted blood.

  The duke was almost as pale as his linen nightshirt and his eyes were bright with pain. He gestured to his men, who seized Mal by the arms. Blaise stepped in front of Mal and gazed down at him with a mixture of disgust and fascination. Slowly he unbuttoned Mal's doublet, gentle as a lover. He unlocked one manacle and slipped Mal's arm out of the sleeve on that side before replacing the iron band around his wrist, then repeated the process on the other side. Mal made no attempt to resist; he was outnumbered three to one, and he had no intention of giving Blaise one iota more pleasure than he had to.