by Anne Lyle
“Indeed. Doubtless he has an amayi, but if so they are being very discreet; at any rate we have not been able to confirm it.”
Mal nodded. Skraylings did not marry but some took life-mates, amayiä, who watched over them during the vulnerable years before and after reincarnation. Erishen and Kiiren were just such a pair; he should not be surprised that Jathekkil had a companion too.
“There is one who spends a great deal of time at the palace and seldom leaves London,” Adjaan went on. “It could be he. And there are one or two who come and go, or perhaps several.”
“Then we have a good chance at success.” Mal was unable to suppress a grin of triumph.
“You have a chance, yes.”
“And the skraylings will help?”
“We will prevent any more of our people from joining their ranks, and our patrols here will discourage activity in your capital, but more than that I cannot promise. Our position here is fragile enough; if those in power knew what was truly occurring in their peaceful kingdom…”
“Of course, honoured one. Discretion is paramount.” Ever since the trouble in Venice there had been more and more reports of witch-hunts, some as far afield as Germany and Scotland. He had no wish to bring such horrors to his own country. “Even so, the aid you describe will be invaluable.”
They drank their aniig in silence for a few moments.
“And what will you do when the senzadheneth, the guisers, are gone?” Adjaan asked, just as the silence threatened to go on too long for courtesy.
“I had not looked that far ahead,” Mal lied, putting down his cup. “But now that you mention it… We are ourselves renegades, in a sense. We would gladly surrender to the elders’ justice, to be reborn among the skraylings if we can.”
“You and your brother are kiaqneheth. Surely you understand that this is not possible?”
“Jathekkil thought it was,” Sandy said. “By killing one of us–”
Adjaan made a dismissive gesture. “Even if it could be done, it would not avail you. The penalty for taking human form is destruction, you know that.”
“And what of our amayi, Kiiren? Must he too be condemned for our sins?”
Her topaz eyes narrowed. “Outspeaker Kiiren is not lost?”
“No, honoured one,” Mal said. “He has been reborn in human flesh, as we were–”
“Kiiren senzadh.”
The distaste in her voice made him wince, but he pressed on nonetheless.
“Yes, honoured one. We brought him back with us from Venice. That is, we took him as far as my estate in Provence, and my wife has charge of him now. But with all the trouble in France, she has decided to bring him here to England despite the dangers.”
“Oh? And what business is he of mine, this human child of yours, this…” she looked from one twin to the other “…guiser?”
“It was not his wish to break our laws, honoured one,” said Sandy, “any more than it was mine. He is young, scarcely more than a century in this world, and does not deserve exile. Please, let him go back to our homeland and rejoin our people.”
“And why should I allow this? As a favour to you, who unleashed hrrith in the streets of Venice and dashed all our hopes of an alliance with that city?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then you cannot be disappointed when I refuse.”
Mal bowed his head in submission. There was no point arguing the matter, not now. Perhaps if the outspeaker were allowed time to consider…
“Come on, Sandy.” He got to his feet. “We should be going. The Hayreddin will be arriving soon.”
Sandy opened his mouth to protest, but Mal took hold of his brother’s hand and used the skin-to-skin contact to send thoughts of reassurance and urge him to silence. Sandy’s eyes widened at this unexpected display of power. After a moment Mal felt an answering wave of agreement tinged with pride. He smiled and bade the puzzled outspeaker farewell.
“Don’t worry,” Mal said in a low voice as they led their horses out of the compound. “I haven’t given up yet.”
“But Kiiren–” Sandy looked contrite. “I mean Kit… It’s not safe for him here.”
“You think he would be any safer on Sark? Or back in Vinland? The guisers here in England aren’t our only enemies; they have Christ knows how many allies and would-be recruits among the skraylings. He’ll be safer with us, at least for now. When he is older perhaps we can petition the skraylings again.”
Sandy halted, twisting his mount’s reins absentmindedly between his hands.
“You’re right.” He looked up and gave Mal a watery smile. “I’m glad Adjaan said no.”
Mal patted his brother on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go and bring him home.”
CHAPTER II
By the time they reached Botolph’s Wharf, the Hayreddin was riding at anchor, her sails reefed against a stiff breeze blowing up the Thames. Hailing the captain, Mal jogged up the gangplank with more enthusiasm than he had ever boarded a vessel in his life.
“Catlyn!” Youssef embraced him, then stepped back to hold him at arm’s length. “You look pale. These northern climes do not suit you, I think.”
“You look as hale as ever, you old rogue,” Mal replied. “Well, there might be one or two more grey hairs in your beard, but it’s hard to be certain among so many.”
Youssef gave him a friendly buffet on the arm.
“I could say the same of you, friend.” He glanced at Sandy. “I suppose you gentlemen want to see your family?”
Not waiting for an answer, Youssef led them down to the tiny cabin where Mal and Ned had once stayed on the journey to Venice. The Moor inclined his head in silent invitation. Mal reached out a shaking hand and opened the door. Immediately his eyes lit upon the one face he had been seeking: his wife, Coby. Her expression brightened and she leapt to her feet, slipping into Mal’s arms like a hand into a glove. He pressed his cheek against her headdress, wishing he could bury his face in her pale hair that always smelt of chamomile and woodsmoke, but it did not do for a married woman to go bareheaded, especially on a ship full of men.
Sandy pushed past them with scarcely a word of apology.
“Where is my amayi?”
Susanna, their Venetian nursemaid, curtsied and gestured to a sea chest that had been turned into a makeshift cot. Kit lay sprawled on a blanket, thumb in his mouth, dark lashes fluttering as he slept. Mal smiled down at him for a moment. Strange how like Sandy and himself the boy looked, despite not being of their blood. Kiiren had chosen well.
“We’ll take a wherry over to Southwark,” he said, “and stay at Ned’s–”
“No.” Coby twisted in his arms and looked towards Sandy, who had scooped up the sleeping child and was cradling him as tenderly as any mother. “We should go straight to Rushdale Hall. Tonight.”
“What’s the matter?” He cupped her chin in one hand and gazed into her sea-grey eyes, resisting the temptation to probe her thoughts. He was not his brother.
“I don’t want anyone to see Kit. Not yet.”
He drew her out into the passageway and closed the door behind them.
“Is there something wrong with the boy?” he asked in a low voice.
“No, nothing. But we don’t want the guisers to guess he’s–” she looked around, as if suspecting spies even here “–who he is, do we?”
“I suppose not.”
“So it’s best they believe he was born in Provence, after we were married, and not in Venice.”
“I still don’t understand. How would they know?”
She sighed. “If he was born in France, he would be scarcely a year and a half old now, not nearly two.”
“So?”
“So a child of his age grows quickly. Someone might notice that he’s very forward for his supposed age, and put two and two together.”
“Oh.”
“In a year or so, a few months here or there won’t matter so much. But right now…” She shrugged.
“You
think of everything, don’t you?”
“Someone has to.”
“And what about Susanna?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why do we have a Venetian nursemaid, if he was born in France?”
Coby stared up at him, crestfallen. “I didn’t think of that.”
“No matter, my love.” He kissed her brow. “Where we are going, they scarce know a Frenchman from a Turk.”
He ushered her back into the cabin.
“Sandy, wait here with the womenfolk. I’ll be back before curfew with a coach and our luggage.”
He snapped a bow to the ladies and made his way back to the quayside. Perhaps he could hire a coach at the livery stables where they had left their horses, though he would still have to go back to Southwark to get his and Sandy’s belongings. He set off up the street, eyes flicking from one passerby to the next. Any of these people could be a guiser spy, but what could they report back? That he and his brother had met a ship out of Marseille? Perhaps with a few well-placed lies, their enemies could be fooled into thinking they were leaving for France…
“Evening,” a voice growled from the shadows of a nearby alley. Its owner stepped out into the street: a nondescript man of middling years in the rough jerkin and hose of a labourer.
“Baines. What are you doing here?”
“Our esteemed employer sent me to deliver a message as soon as she heard you was back in London. I wondered what you was up to, visiting your heathen friends, so I followed.”
“You were spying on me.”
The intelligencer grinned unpleasantly. “Just doing my job.”
“So, you’re here now. What’s the message?”
“You’re to join her for supper on Thursday night. At the house in Seething Lane.”
Mal cursed under his breath. It was a good week’s travel to his estate in Derbyshire, which meant he would have to send Coby on ahead of him with only Sandy for protection. Still, with their main target still in London, perhaps the guisers would leave his family alone.
“Very well. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be about my own business. Alone.”
Baines gave him a mocking bow and disappeared back into the shadows. Mal headed for the livery stable, his former good humour souring like milk in a dairymaid’s bucket.
He returned to the Hayreddin an hour later with a hired coach and both horses. Night was falling, long shadows melting into the permanent gloom of the capital’s alleys: the perfect time to smuggle his family ashore unnoticed. Wrapping his cloak closer against the evening chill, he boarded the French galiote and made his way down to the cabin. The prospect of breaking the bad news to his wife slowed his steps, but there was nothing else for it. He forced a smile and opened the cabin door.
Kit was awake and sitting on Sandy’s lap, listening to his uncle tell him a story. Mal leant against the doorpost for a moment, wondering how many times this scene had played out across the centuries. Five hundred years, Sandy – or rather Erishen – had said, though not always with Kiiren. There must have been other amayiä before that, their names lost among the brothers’ fractured memories.
“Come,” Mal said, reluctantly interrupting the tale. “Curfew will be upon us soon, and I want you out of the city before the gates close.”
He led his wife up onto the deck, followed by Sandy carrying Kit half-hidden under his cloak and Susanna trailing in their wake. Youssef barked instructions to his men in a mixture of French and Arabic, and four of them disappeared into the ship, re-emerging a few moments later with the women’s baggage.
“Did you bring enough?” Mal said, looking back at them.
“Most of it is Kit’s,” Coby said with a sigh. “You would not believe how tiresome it is to travel with a small child. Susanna is a saint for bearing with all the work.”
“Better than her old life in Venice, surely?”
“Of course,” Coby said. “How could she not prefer honest employment to a life of wickedness?”
Mal suppressed a grin. Tempting as it was to point out his wife’s hypocrisy, he did not want to spoil their last few moments together. Though perhaps it was time to break the ill news? No, he would wait until they were in the coach. Best not to draw attention to themselves.
Kit stirred briefly as they got into the coach, blinked up at his uncle and settled down again with a beatific smile on his chubby features. Susanna sat stiff as a poker on the bench beside them, not taking her eyes off Kit.
They travelled in companionable silence for a while, Coby resting her head on Mal’s shoulder as they bounced along the cobbled streets. It was slow going up the hill to Bishopsgate, the horses straining at the traces and the coachman cursing like a Billingsgate fishwife.
“There’s something I have to tell you,” Mal said at last, swallowing his dread. “I’m not coming to Rushdale with you.”
Coby’s head jerked up. “What?”
Mal held up his hands to forestall her protests. “I am sorry, my love. Business keeps me here in the capital–”
“What business?”
“You know what business. The same as always.”
“But – I’ve not seen you in months. Can it not be delayed?”
He told her about Lady Frances’s invitation. Coby’s expression became grave.
“She hardly ever visits her father’s house, not since he died,” Mal went on. “If she wants to meet me there instead of at Whitehall Palace, there must be something badly amiss.”
The coach slowed to a halt. Mal stuck his head out of the window and discovered they had reached the city gates.
“I’ll come north as soon as I can,” he said, and leant over to kiss her farewell.
For a moment he thought she would deny him, then she melted into his arms and kissed him with such fervour that he was sorely tempted to go north after all. When the coach started moving again, he gently disentangled himself from his wife’s embrace, nodded farewell to his brother and leapt down into the street.
The coachman’s lad handed him Hector’s reins and he sprang into the saddle with a muttered curse. He would have to ride hard to get across London Bridge before the Great Stone Gate closed, and right now he could hardly see a damned thing. Wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve, he kicked the gelding into a trot.
On Thursday evening Mal made his way to Seething Lane, near the Tower of London. The house near the end of the street belonged to his employer, the daughter of the late spymaster Sir Francis Walsingham, and was still used by Mal and his confederates for clandestine meetings. He wondered again what was so important that Lady Frances would return to her old home.
At his knock the door was opened by a servant in smart new livery, rather than one of the usual intelligencers. This did not bode well at all. He let the man take his cloak and usher him into the candlelit chamber.
“Sir Maliverny.” Lady Frances stepped forward to greet him. “How good to see you again.”
“My lady.” Mal bowed deeply. “You look well.”
It was no empty flattery; though past the first bloom of youth she was still handsome, and her flushed cheeks and the sparkle in her brown eyes appeared to owe more to health than fashionable cosmetics.
“And you also.” She stepped to one side. “I believe you know my lord the Duke of Suffolk?”
Mal froze as Blaise Grey unfolded his lanky frame from the high-backed chair where he had been sitting concealed from view. The duke got to his feet with the aid of a silver-topped cane and gave Mal a curt bow. His curly dark-blond hair was as untouched by grey as when they had been undergraduates together, but the chronic pain of an old sword wound had scored lines into his handsome features.
I suppose I should feel guilty about that, but I count it fair recompense for the torment he and his father inflicted on me.
“My lord.”
“Catlyn. It has been too long.” The duke held out his free hand towards Lady Frances, who smiled and laid her own upon it as if posing for a portrait. “It see
ms we are to be business partners after all.”
Mal glanced from one to the other. “The Queen approved your marriage.”
“Of course,” Grey said. “I was never one of her favourites, even at the height of my powers. I think she only procrastinated so that my dear Frances could stay with Princess Juliana a little longer.”
“Then you have my congratulations,” Mal said, forcing a smile.
“And you mine. A knighthood, an estate, a wife and a son, all within the space of a couple of years? How swiftly you have risen, since you came to me begging for work.”
Mal was saved from having to frame a polite response by the arrival of another of the liveried servants.
“Supper is served, my lord.”
They crossed the entrance hall to the dining room, which had also been woken from its long slumber and made fit for its new master. Silver plate and Venetian glass, laid out along the long polished table in quantities enough to furnish twice their company, reflected back the light of an extravagant number of candles. The servant lifted the lids from an array of dishes, filling the air with the savoury scent of meats, herbs and spices.
Lady Frances made small talk until the servant had withdrawn, whilst the two gentlemen glowered at one another over their plates of beef olives. Mal sipped his wine – predictably excellent – and wondered how he was going to walk away from this situation still breathing. Damn Grey! Of all the women at court to choose from, why did he have to pick Walsingham’s daughter? She was as old as him, with only one surviving daughter from her previous marriage, so she was hardly a good prospect for breeding an heir. On the other hand, scurrilous gossip at court implied that Grey’s injuries had made him impotent, so perhaps he had already resigned himself to the end of his line. And with Walsingham’s daughter came control of her late father’s spy network – an invaluable asset for an ambitious man like Grey.
“You may of course continue to use this house for meetings.” Grey said, setting down his knife. “I am anxious for business to continue as usual. Under my supervision, of course.”
Mal glanced at Lady Frances, but she had eyes only for her husband. Can she really be in love with him, and perhaps he with her? It was a comforting explanation for the turn of events, but not one he dared trust in.