by Anne Lyle
“Oh.”
“It did him no good, of course. Parliament was united in favour. But it made Raleigh’s name a byword for prejudice in our community. He hates the Dutch, the Jews, everyone who is not English.”
“And the skraylings?”
She shrugged. “I cannot suppose him to be a friend of the skraylings, for all his travels in their country.”
“Why did you not mention this to Walsingham?”
“We need to get to Venice, don’t we? My dislike of Raleigh is neither here nor there.”
“But you think we should keep an eye on him.”
“I think we would be fools not to.”
She quickened her pace. If only Mal had not had that ill-fated dream, they would be back home in Provence now, snug in their respective chambers. Not running around Southwark in the cold and the dark, and certainly not chasing skraylings to the far side of Christendom.
CHAPTER V
The next morning, Ned was surprised to be asked to ride out to Hampton Court with Mal.
“Not taking Hendricks with you?” he asked as they set out for the livery stables.
“He’s taken against Raleigh,” Mal said, “and I want to give a good first impression. It’s a long voyage to Venice.”
“You’re too soft on the boy.” He glanced at Mal sidelong. “Always were.”
Mal said nothing, but his jaw tightened in that way Ned knew so well. The conversation was at an end, for now at least.
The snow flurries of the previous night had given way to a crisp, clear morning, every fencepost, roof-tile and blade of grass limned with frost. Bankside stood silent, its inhabitants huddled in the warmth of their beds. Ned envied them, and cursed Hendricks silently. If not for the boy’s sulks, he could have stayed snug in his own bed, at least until Gabriel had to leave for the playhouse.
At the livery stables Mal chose a bay gelding for himself and the most placid pony they could find for Ned, who still wasn’t used to riding. It was occasionally useful in his work, though, so he had had to learn. Truth was, he’d had to learn a lot of new skills in the last year.
There had been a time when he resented playing the servant, tagging along at Mal’s heels and deferring to him in public. But Baines had taught him the importance of invisibility. No one paid attention to servants, so they could eavesdrop on their betters in places other men could not go without comment, and pass unnoticed even in the halls of power. And he was curious to see the palace Gabriel had told him so much about. Ned tried to keep his jealousy in check, for fear it would only make matters worse, but it gnawed at him to think of his lover surrounded by rich powerful men who expected everyone to pander to their needs without question. How many of the men they were about to meet had bedded his precious boy? His hands tightened on the reins, and the pony shook its head in protest.
Mal looked back at the sound.
“Not giving you trouble, is she?”
Ned shook his head and forced a smile.
They came within sight of the sprawling red-brick palace just before noon, skirting round the north side of the royal park to approach the enormous gatehouse from the west. Ned dismounted awkwardly, stiff with cold and more than a little sore in the seat.
“Raleigh had better have a roaring fire and a jack of mulled ale waiting for us,” he said as they walked towards the gates.
“This is a royal palace, not the Bull’s Head. Now mind your manners.”
The porter asked their names and business, and Mal showed him his letter of introduction. After glancing at the address the porter turned it over and raised an eyebrow at Walsingham’s seal, then jotted something down in a ledger. Ned tried to read the list upside down, but could not get close enough for a good look.
“Dinner is in an hour, sir,” the porter said, handing the letter back. “Across the courtyard, take the staircase on the left under the archway.”
“I’d like to see Sir Walter first,” Mal replied. “It is somewhat urgent.”
“I’m afraid Sir Walter rode out to Syon House this morning.”
“Will he be back?”
“Aye, like as not. The steward might know for certain.”
Their footsteps echoed from the surrounding walls as they crossed the courtyard. With the Prince of Wales and his court still in London the palace was largely deserted. A lone guardsman in royal livery stood in the far archway, his partisan planted solidly on the paving.
“I don’t like the idea of my comings and goings being written down like that,” Ned muttered, glancing back at the gatehouse. “I’m supposed to be the one watching people, not the other way round.”
The guard looked Mal up and down then waved them both through. A staircase broad enough for several men to walk abreast led up to the Great Hall, where servants were laying trestle tables with snowy linens and bright pewter dishes. Ned tried not to gawp at the tapestries, twice the height of a man and woven in vivid hues of red, blue and gold, or at the elaborately carved hammer beam roof far above them.
“Let’s not get in the servants’ way,” Mal said loudly.
He winked at Ned, and led the way towards a door on the far side of the hall. Unfortunately the next room was just as busy, with more servants coming up the back stairs from the kitchen with baskets of bread and jugs of ale. Ned resisted the urge to steal a piece of bread as they passed; the royal steward would probably have his hand cut off, or worse.
Beyond the service room lay a grand presence chamber, smaller than the great hall, but still resplendent with tapestries. A fire had been lit on the wide hearth, but the room was empty.
“Should we be in here?” Ned whispered.
“No one is stopping us, are they?” Mal said.
Ned paused to warm his arse at the fire, but Mal was intent on exploring further. With a sigh Ned followed him, and found himself in a gallery lined with portraits of the royal family: Queen Elizabeth and her late husband Robert, with the infant Prince of Wales; the prince as a youth in a magnificent suit of engraved and gilded armour; and a more recent portrait of his wife Juliana, surrounded by her four children. The youngest, hardly more than an infant, sat on her lap gazing out intently at the viewer.
“Is that–?”
Ned broke off at the sound of a girl’s voice, raised in laughter.
“Back to the hall!” Mal hissed.
Too late. A wooden ball painted with red and blue stripes came bowling round the corner, followed by a child of about eighteen months old in an embroidered linen smock from which trailed leading strings of ivory silk ribbon. The child from the portrait.
“Harry! Come here!”
A dark-haired girl of about ten or eleven skittered along the polished floor, arms outstretched to catch the boy. She skidded to a halt upon seeing Mal and Ned and put a hand to her mouth. The little prince also paused and looked up at them. For a moment Ned thought he saw an expression of loathing cross the boy’s chubby features, then Prince Henry burst into tears and buried his face in his sister’s skirts.
Mal bowed.
“Forgive us for the intrusion, Your Highness.”
Gesturing for Ned to do likewise he backed out of the gallery, head still bowed.
“What was all that about?” Ned asked when they were out of earshot.
“That… child is the creature who pretended to be Suffolk. His plan was to be reborn as Princess Juliana’s child, and it appears he succeeded.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“I told you as much, after you and Hendricks helped me escape.”
“Yes, well, as I recall, in the preceding two days you’d been abducted, tortured, drugged, shot, drugged again – I thought it the ramblings of a tormented mind.”
Mal didn’t seem to appreciate the jest.
“So…” Ned lowered his voice, “the Prince of Wales’ son is a changeling?”
“I suppose you could put it that way,” Mal replied.
“Shouldn’t we tell someone?”
“Who would believe us? I’ve seen enough of the inside of the Tower for one lifetime, thank you.”
Ned glanced back towards the entrance to the gallery. Either Mal was as insane as his brother, or he had fallen into a web of conspiracy that would put the most intricate Catholic plot to shame. He wasn’t sure which alternative was the more terrifying.
After the encounter with Prince Henry Mal felt disinclined to explore further, so after dinner he and Ned lingered in the Great Hall over a flagon of beer and swapped tales of their doings since they had last seen one another. By 3 o’clock Raleigh had still not returned, however, and Mal began to grow restless. Any chance of getting back to London before dark was long gone, and though he had warned Sandy not to expect him until the morrow, it irked him to be idle for so long. He had almost decided to go down and ask the porter again when a page in royal livery approached them.
“M… Maliverny Catlyn?”
“I am he,” Mal replied.
“I have been sent to invite you, sir, to take supper with Sir Walter Raleigh.”
Mal bowed curtly, and turned to Ned.
“Speak to the steward about lodgings for the night, will you, Faulkner?” He gave his friend a wink which he hoped would be interpreted as “and see if you can get any interesting gossip out of the servants whilst you’re at it.”
“Aye, sir.” Ned ducked his head in obeisance, but not before Mal had caught a glimpse of his sly grin.
He considered telling Ned not to get into trouble, but knew that would only have the opposite effect. Instead he turned away and followed the page through the palace to one of the private apartments off the main courtyard. Not for the first time he wondered what Raleigh was doing here, so far from the court. Was he in league with Jathekkil, perhaps even a guiser like the infant prince?
The page conducted him through an anteroom into a large bedchamber that doubled as a parlour. Firelight gleamed on linenfold panelling and on the rich brocades worn by the men gathered around the hearth, and the air was thick with the scent of tobacco.
“Maliverny Catlyn, sir,” the page said with a bow.
Raleigh looked up. Dark eyes met Mal’s own, narrowing in appraisal. Raleigh was about a decade older than himself and surprisingly handsome, with a broad brow and dark hair turning grey at the temples. His elegant pointed beard was likewise touched with silver, and he wore a pearl earring the size of a robin’s egg. Only his wind-burned cheekbones hinted at a more active life than most courtiers. Mal sketched a bow.
“Sir Walter.”
He handed over Walsingham’s letter. Raleigh broke the seal and scanned the contents, nodding to himself and frowning slightly in concentration. At last he looked up.
“So you’re the hero who toppled the mighty house of Grey,” he said in a soft Devonshire accent. He drew on his pipe and after a moment breathed a halo of smoke across the space between them. “I expected at least a Samson, if not a Hercules.”
“Hardly toppled, sir. Brought to its knees, perhaps.”
“A David, then.” Raleigh laughed. “Come, join us. You will not find any Philistines here.”
A servant pulled up a stool, and Mal seated himself on the edge of the company.
“I was just telling Harriot here ‘twas time for a new venture,” Raleigh said, gesturing to a plain-garbed man with receding hair seated on the opposite side of the fire. “And now Her Majesty wishes me to ferry you to Venice with all haste.”
“Indeed.”
“Venice?” Harriot leant forward, his eyes fixed on Mal. “Does Her Majesty seek to create a royal observatory?”
“An observatory?”
“I have certain theories regarding the use of glass–”
“Come now, Harriot,” Raleigh said, “Catlyn is a man of action, not of science. He is not here to discuss optics and mathematics, are ye?”
“No, sir,” Mal replied. “That is more my brother’s realm of knowledge.”
“Really? I should like to meet your brother,” Harriot said.
Mal inclined his head politely. He already regretted mentioning Sandy. “I’m afraid neither of us will be in England long. The weather here is not good for my brother’s health.” He looked around the company for any sign of displeasure that might give away a guiser, but saw nothing untoward.
“So what are you here for?” a voice from the shadows drawled.
Mal turned towards his interrogator, a pale young man of eighteen or twenty whom he recognised with a start as Josceline Percy, younger brother of the Earl of Northumberland. Not that he should be surprised. Raleigh and Northumberland were as thick as thieves, so what was more natural than that the earl’s brother should be of their fellowship?
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, my lord,” Mal replied.
Percy got to his feet, eyes glittering in the firelight. Mal realised his own hand had gone to his rapier hilt. Last time he had run into Josceline Percy he had managed to avoid getting drawn into a duel; this time he might not be so lucky. He leant back on his stool, feigning to adjust the lie of the weapon in this confined space.
“Peace, boy,” Raleigh said with easy familiarity. “Master Catlyn is my guest tonight.”
Percy bowed curtly to his host and sat down, though his expression remained alert and disdainful.
“All I can say,” Mal told the assembled company, “is that my mission is for the good of the realm.”
“No loyal Englishman can have quarrel with that,” Raleigh said.
There was a murmur of agreement, though Mal noticed that Percy’s voice was not amongst the loudest. A sign of guilt, or was the boy canny enough not to be seen to be trying too hard?
“Still, a strange time of year to be undertaking a sea voyage,” Percy said, picking up his wine cup and swirling the contents ostentatiously.
“Frobisher risked the North West Passage and returned safely,” he said, matching Percy’s casual tone. I hope the arrogant little prick turns out to be a guiser, so I have an excuse to run him through. “The journey to Venice will be a stroll in St James’s Park in comparison.”
“Frobisher’s dead.”
“Of a Spanish bullet, not by Poseidon’s hand.”
“Percy has a point. I would counsel against a winter voyage–” Raleigh held up his hand to forestall interruption by the younger man “–except in this case. The letter makes it clear that this mission is of the utmost urgency.”
“Whose letter?” Percy held out his hand.
Raleigh pointedly threw the paper onto the fire and prodded it with a poker until it was burnt to fragile wafers of soot.
“As Catlyn says, he is not at liberty to reveal such information.”
Mal inclined his head in thanks.
“I fear, sir,” he said to Raleigh, “that others may be curious as to our purpose. Perhaps Master Harriot is right; we should put it about that you are on Her Majesty’s business. We could even take Harriot along, to be our guide in matters optical.”
The philosopher turned pale. “Oh goodness me, no. Please excuse me, my lords, I am no traveller. You should take Shawe here.” He gestured to his companion, a thin-faced man with faraway eyes. “What say you, Shawe? Would you like to go to Venice?”
Shawe turned slowly towards Raleigh, as if only just awakened.
“I regret I cannot be spared so long.”
“No, I suppose not,” Raleigh said. “Northumberland keeping you busy, eh?”
“Just so.”
Mal offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Neither Harriot nor Shawe were the kind of men he wanted to be stuck on a ship with for weeks on end. One would likely never stop talking, and the other was about as cheery as a November afternoon.
“Well then, we must away with all dispatch,” Raleigh went on. “The Falcon has been berthed at Deptford these past months and wants only provisions to be ready to sail whither you will. Be there for the morning tide on the day after tomorrow, and I’ll have ye in Venice by Easter.”
The steward ha
d assigned them lodgings on the north side of the palace, where the servants of the royal household lived when the court came to visit. The chamber was barely large enough to hold the vast, ancient bedstead, which must have been old in Wolsey’s day. No doubt the Tudors had spurned it in favour of more modern furnishings, but such a grand edifice was too valuable to discard entirely.
“I suppose we’ll be sharing, then,” Ned said cheerily, leaning on a bedpost. “There’s scarce room to use a piss-pot, never mind set out a cot bed.”
Mal grunted an affirmative, stifling a belch. Raleigh’s supper had been so generous, it was easy to forget there were food shortages back in London.
“Just like the old days,” Ned went on. He pulled off his boots and threw himself down on the bed. “If only my old mam could see me now, sleeping on a feather bed in a royal palace…”
“Ahem.”
“What?”
“You’re supposed to be my manservant, remember?”
Ned stuck out his tongue.
“In public, perhaps.” He propped himself up on one elbow and looked Mal up and down appreciatively. “Or would you like me to undress you… my lord?”
Mal gave him a withering look, turned his back and began unbuttoning his doublet.
“Did you discover aught useful?” he called over his shoulder.
“Not much. Plenty of gossip about Lady Dorothy; she and Northumberland do not get along, and there’s some doubt as to whether they’ve even consummated the marriage yet.”
“Servants’ tittle-tattle, and naught to our purpose,” Mal replied. “Go on.”
Ned listed a few more rumours, none of them of any great interest. Mal finished undressing and crossed to the tiny washstand, where a number of toothsticks stood in a pewter beaker. He picked through them, looking for the least well-used one.
“Is that all?” he said, when Ned fell silent.
“Just one thing. Though it’s probably nothing.”