The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (7 page)

  The older man caught Mal by the front of his doublet and slammed him against the nearest wall.

  "Don't think Grey will protect you, cur," he growled, craning his neck to look Mal in the eye. "His standing at Court is not so high as he likes to think."

  "And yours is, I suppose?"

  "I am a close friend of Prince Arthur. One word to him, and–"

  "And what? Think you he will go against his mother's wishes?"

  The man flushed. His was an empty threat and they both knew it. If he had so much influence with the prince, why bother to seek Mal out and threaten him?

  He released Mal with a sneer of contempt.

  "I shall enjoy watching your fall from grace," he said. "If not I, then someone will bring you down. 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a high mind before the fall'."

  He gestured to his companion, who was fishing his pomander out of the puddle.

  "Leave it, Jos. A gentleman," he glared at Mal, "does not grovel in the muck."

  Mal watched them leave. Was the pomander bearer Josceline Percy, one of Northumberland's tribe of younger siblings? If so, who was his companion? Mal had paid too little heed to Court gossip in the past, knowing that what reached the ears of the common folk was for the most part a confection of lies and exaggeration. Perhaps it was time to start listening. And where better to begin than with those on the very fringes of Court: actors.

• • • •

Coby saw no more of Faulkner in the next few days, for which she was heartily thankful. She had enough to do helping Master Naismith ensure there were no delays in the new theatre's construction. He entrusted her with a great many more errands than usual, and she had been back and forth across London Bridge so many times, her shoes were more holes than leather.

  On Friday morning she was sent to Bankside with a message for the foreman in charge of the builders. The new theatre, which was to be named the Mirror, was being built on the western edge of Southwark, in a field next to Paris Gardens. Workmen swarmed over the ladders and scaffolding that covered its sides, putting the finishing touches to the lattices of split branches that filled the gaps between the main timbers. Soon the wattle panels would be plastered over and it would start to look like its rival the
Rose
, barely a hundred yards to the east.

  She found the foreman deep in conversation with a man she had never seen before. He was of middling years, with lank mousy hair parted in the centre above a round, clean-shaven face. Plainly dressed in a dark brown worsted doublet and hose, there was not a bit of lace or other frippery about him except for a heavy gold neck chain from which hung a unicorn badge. Another servant of their patron, and an important one at that.

  At last the foreman made his courtesies and returned to his work. Coby ran after him and delivered her message, but as she turned to leave she found herself being addressed by the stranger.

  "You are Naismith's tiring man?"

  "Yes, sir. Jacob Hendricks, sir."

  "I am John Dunfell, His Grace's private secretary." He motioned her aside, out of earshot of the workmen. "It has come to my attention that this theatre–" he broke off and looked around at the building with a grimace of distaste "–will be required in the entertainments for the Ambassador of Vinland."

  "Indeed, sir."

  "Indeed. Well, we must not disappoint or embarrass His Grace. I have therefore been charged with overseeing the completion of the building."

  Coby nodded, unsure why she was being told this information. Unless Master Naismith did not yet know?

  "If you wish me to convey any message to my master–"

  Dunfell held up his hand. "Master Naismith is already informed of my intent. It was you I wished to see."

  "Me, sir?" Her voice cracked, and she hid her embarrassment with a cough.

  "You are a bright, trustworthy lad," Dunfell said, placing an avuncular arm across her shoulders. "Naismith would surely not rely on you otherwise. A man of talent can go far, with the right patronage, howsoever humble his birth. Your father is a tailor, I am told."

  "Yes, sir," she lied; in truth he was a locksmith, but how else to explain her skill with a needle? "But… he may be dead for all I know."

  "An orphan? Well, that need be no obstacle. It is in my power," he leaned closer, "to offer you preferment in the duke's service."

  "That would be very generous of you, sir."

  "Of course you would have to prove your worth."

  "Sir?"

  "A small task only. And, I am sure, well within your power." When Coby did not reply, he went on. "There is a man whom you may know, one Maliverny Catlyn. He lives in Bankside, or thereabouts."

  Catlyn. Where had she heard that name before? Oh, no. Not him.

  "Ah, you do know him, then?" Dunfell said.

  "By sight, sir, that is all."

  "Then you are to acquaint yourself further with this gentleman, and report back to me what you find. His history, character…"

  "You want me to spy on him, sir?"

  Dunfell nodded approvingly. "I knew you were a sharp lad when I set eyes on you. And a discreet one too, I'll warrant."

  "Of course, sir."

  "As you may be aware," he said, lowering his voice, "His Grace takes a great interest in all the affairs of our allies the skraylings, the better to advise His Highness the Prince of Wales. It has come to His Grace's attention that the skraylings are by no means as united as we have been led to believe. There is dissension amongst their ranks –" he pursed his lips in disapproval "– even with regard to the ambassador being sent to England."

  "That is indeed grievous news," Coby said.

  "Indeed. Worse still, this fellow Catlyn, who has been appointed as the ambassador's bodyguard, may owe his position to the scheming of the ambassador's own enemies. Our very alliance with Vinland could be at stake."

  Coby stared at Dunfell. "This – this is too great a task for me, sir, I cannot–"

  "Nonsense. I ask but a small thing, do I not? A mere acquaintance, a few questions asked as of a new friend… Surely I do not need to tell your master of your disloyalty?"

  Coby shook her head miserably.

  "Very well," she said. "I will do what I can to make friends with this man."

 

Ned sat at a table by himself, nursing a pint of beer and keeping an eye on the door. His stomach growled. If Mal didn't turn up soon, he'd be having dinner by himself.

  The low-ceiling taproom held the July heat like a brick oven, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke and laughter. A favourite of both of Southwark's principal companies of players, the Bull's Head was the natural resort of every hireling actor on the lookout for work, as well as those gentlemen whose pleasure it was to mingle with the more famous denizens of the city's underbelly.

  Ned spotted Gabriel Parrish weaving through the crowd, his bright hair unmistakable in the shadowy taproom. No wonder he had earned the nickname "Angel" before ever he ventured onstage. Ned sighed, remembering how those forget-me-not blue eyes could darken with pleasure in an instant.

  Just as it seemed Gabriel would pass by without a sign of recognition, he paused and looked straight at Ned. He did not smile, but at least he did not frown or sneer. Ned swallowed past the lump in his throat, and found himself getting to his feet almost against his will.

  "Gabe." He never called Parrish by his nickname in public. It didn't seem right, somehow.

  "Ned."

  "I heard you were back in London."

  "As you see."

  "So I thought–"

  "Naismith doesn't like me even talking to you." Gabriel glanced back the way he had come. "He thinks you would lure me back to the Admiral's Men."

  "Does he have a reason to fear it?" Ned replied, hope rising in his breast.

  "Not at all."

  "Pity."

  There was a moment's awkward silence.

  "I suppose," Gabriel said, "you've not lacked for work since the playhouses reopened?"

  Ned grinned. "You angling to find out what play Henslowe has chosen for this contest?"

  Gabriel looked around then sat down at the table, motioning for Ned to do likewise.

  Ned sighed. "To be blunt, I don't know. He's got me working from dawn to dusk, copying sides for at least half-a-dozen different plays, and none of his men have been told anything definite either."

  Gabriel made to leave, but Ned reached out and caught his wrist. The contact sent a shiver of pleasure down his arm to the base of his spine.

  "I do know something that might interest you, though," he said. "Something better than finding out what the Admiral's Men are up to."

  The actor sat down again. "Go on."

  This time it was Ned's turn to glance around the taproom. There was still no sign of Mal.

  "I have a friend. You've probably seen him in here with me a few times. Tall dark fellow, a bit foreign-looking."

  "Oh yes, I remember
him
," Gabriel purred. "I thought it very unfair of you, keeping him all to yourself."

  "It's not like that." Ned flushed. "
He's
not like that."

  "You could have fooled me, darling."

  Ned resisted the temptation to explain further. It was none of Gabriel's business. And this was going to be worth it in the end. Oh, yes.

  "Do you want my news or not?" he asked.

  Gabriel pouted and fingered his love-lock.

  "I'm listening," he said.

  "Well…" Ned leaned forward and whispered in his ear.

  "No! You, my dear, are a treasure." He seized the front of Ned's doublet and kissed him on the mouth. "Bring him to our table when he arrives, and I promise you I will be
very
grateful."

• • • •

"You told him what?"

  Mal stared at his friend in despair. Why did he ever bother trying to keep secrets, with Ned around? Thank the Virgin Mary and all the saints Ned hadn't overheard the conversation with Grey. Had he?

  "Everyone will know soon enough," Ned replied, frowning. "I don't know why you're making such a fuss."

  Mal hesitated. He had come here hoping to strike up a conversation with Edward Alleyn, the leading actor of the Admiral's Men, but perhaps Parrish would do just as well. Anything to keep Ned quiet.

  "Come on, then," he said with half-feigned irritation. "Best get this over with."

  He followed Ned to a table near the fireplace. On one side sat Ned's former lover, along with a glum-faced fellow of about thirty whom Mal didn't recognise; opposite them were two actors he did know by sight, Henry Naismith and Rafe Eaton. Squeezed between this latter pair was the young tireman he'd seen at Goody Watson's.

  All eyes were on Eaton, whose mellow baritone carried easily over the hubbub. Mal only caught the end of the tale he was spinning:

  "… And then I say to him, 'By Heaven, sir, I would not marry her if she shat gold!'"

  Everyone around the table laughed, apart from the boy, who smiled nervously and clutched his tankard closer. Ned took advantage of the pause in conversation to address the leader of the troupe.

  "Master Naismith?"

  The actor-manager looked up.

  "What do you want, Faulkner? I thought I told you to stay away."

  Parrish said, "Ned has brought someone to see you, sir."

  "I'm not hiring."

  "I'm not looking for work," Mal said. "I have… connections you may find interesting."

  "Go on."

  Mal leant closer. "The skrayling ambassador. I am to be his bodyguard."

 

Coby stared down into her tankard, hardly able to believe her luck. She had been wondering how on Earth she could contrive to meet this man again, and here he was.

  "Well, you are welcome, sir," Master Naismith was saying. "Henry Naismith at your service. Leader of this humble band of players."

  "Maliverny Catlyn." He bowed in courtly fashion. "I saw your Hieronimo in Cambridge a few years ago. Very moving."

  "A pleasure to meet a man who appreciates the dramatic arts," Naismith said. "Is that why you were appointed to guard the ambassador?"

  "I am not at liberty to say," Catlyn replied with a smile.

  Rafe Eaton got to his feet.

  "Any friend of Faulkner is a friend of yours, eh, Parrish? And any friend of Parrish is a friend of ours." He slapped Catlyn on the back. "Sit down, sir, sit down!"

  To Parrish's evident disappointment, Catlyn did not take the proffered space on the settle but pulled up a stool and sat at the end of the table. Faulkner rested his elbows on the back of the settle, his left hand dangling inches from Parrish's head. The actor seemed oblivious to his presence, though Coby noticed how he leant back casually in his seat so that his hair brushed against Faulkner's fingers.

  "Have you dined?" Master Naismith asked Catlyn.

  "No, not yet."

  "Please, be my guest," he said. He glanced at Faulkner and added, somewhat grudgingly, "Both of you."

  Faulkner's eyes lit up, and he slid around the settle into the seat beside Parrish.

  "We are only having the ordinary," Naismith told them. He turned to Coby. "Run and tell Joan we are now seven altogether, there's a good lad."

  She squeezed past Rafe and Catlyn and went in search of the tavern cook. By the time she had returned from her errand, beers had been poured and Rafe Eaton was engaged in a lengthy account of their latest travels. She slipped onto the seat next to the actor so as not to disturb the performance. This put her opposite Faulkner, and on Catlyn's left.

  She hadn't got a good look at him in the gloom of the pawnshop, nor had she any reason to take notice. Now she took in every detail, her costume-maker's eye matching dress to character. Good-quality but threadbare doublet and hose. An expensive-looking dagger, its wire-bound hilt worn smooth with use, at his right hip. A knotted ribbon of black silk adorning his left earlobe, where a richer man might wear a pearl droplet or other bauble. A well-born man down on his luck, then: ambitious, no doubt bribable… He certainly fitted Master Dunfell's description of the situation.