by Anne Lyle
He found her in the kitchen, supervising the cooking of supper. Coby wiped her hands on her apron and left the cook to finish making the pastry.
“Can I help you, my lord?”
He smiled; ever the model of a dutiful wife in the servants’ presence. If only they knew what mischief the two of them had wrought together in the past! He led her through the servants’ hall and into the dining parlour, where they would not be overheard.
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he told her. “The road is as clear as it’s likely to get this side of Easter, and it’s bound to be fairer going once I get out of the Peaklands.”
“Must you?” She slid her arms about his waist and laid her head upon his chest. “It feels like only a moment since you arrived.”
“You know I have to,” he replied, embracing her.
She looked up at him, her grey eyes bright with unshed tears. “Then we shall come with you. Kit’s old enough now that no one is likely to question the exact month of his birth.”
“I have to be sure it’s safe first. Our enemies could still be waiting for me.”
“But you’ll write, won’t you? I shan’t sleep for worrying that you’ve been arrested, or worse.”
“I promise,” Mal said, and sealed the vow with a kiss. “And I’ll send for you all as soon as I can. Better in Southwark under the eye of the skraylings, than a week’s ride away.”
The journey back to London took rather longer than a week, on roads thick with mud and slush and pocked with holes big enough to swallow horse and rider both. When Mal finally saw the smoke of the capital rising above the trees, relief threatened to overwhelm caution, and it took all his willpower not to urge Hector into a canter down the last stretch towards Bishopsgate.
Getting into the city was not the immediate problem, he reassured himself. Even if his description had been circulated after the Marshalsea incident, surely after six months the guards would have forgotten it? In any case, he was so bedaubed with mud that even his friends might not recognise him. No matter; there were plenty of bath-houses in Bankside where he might steam away the filth from his skin and the chill from his bones.
He guided Hector through traffic that rapidly thickened as it was funnelled into the suburb that lay outside the walls, past taverns and shops and the forbidding bulk of Bedlam. This close to the gate, he felt less certain of anonymity. He had travelled through here often when Sandy was locked up in the hospital, and long-serving guards might just remember his face, even if it took a while to attach a name to it. He pulled his cap down lower and slumped in his saddle, trying to look inconsequential but not furtive.
“You there!”
Mal’s heart twisted against his ribs for a second, but he willed himself not to give any outward sign of alarm. A glance from under the brim of his hat revealed that the object of the gatekeepers’ attention was a merchant whose wagon was scoring deep ruts in the mud.
“Got something extra in there, have you?” one of the men asked, lifting the canvas sheet lashed over a stack of barrels.
“Have you seen the shitty state of these cobbles?” the merchant replied, brandishing his hat. “It’s a wonder I haven’t lost a wheel. What do I pay my tolls for, if the parish doesn’t maintain the road?”
“Then you won’t mind paying double to help fund the next work crew, will you, sir?”
Mal left them to their arguing and slipped past, tossing a coin into the toll-collector’s box. One line of defences breached; now there was just the rest of the city between himself and the relative safety of Southwark.
He half-expected the Sign of the Parley to be burnt down or damaged, but apart from the crude boarding-up of the shop windows on the ground floor, the building was much as he had left it. He let himself into the house. Dear God but it was a dreary place without his friends and family to brighten his homecoming! The kitchen stank of vinegar where the beer barrel had leaked and dripped its contents on the floor, and the upstairs rooms were hardly any better. He went into his bedchamber and pulled back the sheets on the bed, wrinkling his nose at the damp, mouldy linen. He would have to hire a maid to clean and air the place if his family were to live here.
He deposited his saddlebags and rapier on the chest at the foot of the bed, retrieved the package containing the alchemist’s rod, then set off for the skrayling camp on foot. The bath-house would have to wait. After a week on the road with nothing to do but think over what he and Sandy had found, he was eager to move on with his investigations.
It began to rain as he walked along St Olave’s Street, and by the time he reached Horseydown his hat and cloak were heavy with moisture. He was glad therefore to find Adjaan back in her cabin with the doors closed and a brazier warming the air. The outspeaker looked a little plumper than he remembered, with a distinct swell to her formerly flat bosom. Was this some masquerade to make herself look more human?
“Catlyn-tuur. Please, come in.”
Mal kicked off his muddy boots and stepped over the threshold. As the outspeaker turned to let him pass, Mal could not help but stare at her bulging belly. Adjaan laughed and stroked the broad curve stretching her tunic.
“Have you never seen a woman with child before?”
“Forgive me, honoured one. I am still getting accustomed to seeing a woman here at all.”
“As are my menfolk,” she said with a sigh, and knelt by the brazier.
Mal hung up his hat and cloak and joined her.
“What brings you back to us?” she asked. “I heard from your theatre friends that you had fled the city.”
“You know Shakespeare?”
“I like to acquaint myself with all your storytellers.”
Mal drew forth the package of waxed cloth tied with string and laid it on the matting between them. Adjaan cocked her head on one side.
“A gift?”
“Not exactly. Please, open it, and tell me what you think.”
Adjaan did so, revealing the crumpled handkerchief still wrapped around the glass rod. She peeled the fine linen away and held the rod up before her eyes. The deep blue crystals caught the light of the hanging lamps, seeming to glow from within like lightwater exposed to air. Adjaan sniffed delicately at the encrusted end.
“Siiluhlankaar. Interesting.”
“What is it?”
“I do not know the English name. We call it ‘sacred poison stone’, because its making from ore gives off deadly fumes, but its colour makes it precious to us. Where did you find it?”
Mal told her about the alchemical workshop. She nodded thoughtfully.
“Siiluhlankaar has an interesting nature; it behaves a little like iron, even though it contains none.”
“Like iron, but not iron? That explains a lot.”
“It does?”
“My brother has an idea that the guisers may be trying to counteract the effect of iron on dreamwalking.”
Adjaan’s eyes widened, and she laid a hand on her belly in instinctive protection. “Do you think so?”
“I really don’t know, honoured one. But I mean to find out.”
“I will do whatever I can to help, of course, though alchemy is not my field of study.”
“May I ask what is?”
“Language, of course. That is why I asked to come here to be my clan’s outspeaker, against all our traditions. I wanted to learn your languages and discover if they are related to our own.”
“And are they?”
“Alas, no. Not that I can discover. Everything about them is different.”
She fell silent, stroking her belly. Mal wondered if the child within was a reincarnated skrayling, or waiting to be the vessel for one. Was that why she was really here? If one of the elders was too infirm to travel across the ocean, this might be his only alternative to extinction. And if more skrayling women came, might that not also be a solution to Sandy and Kit’s problem one day? He dragged his thoughts back to the present. It would be many years before either of them was ready to reincarnate.
“Fascinating as such a subject is, honoured one, I am more interested in the siiluhlankaar.” Mal held out his hand for the glass rod and Adjaan passed it back to him. “Do you know anyone who could tell me more about it?”
“There are few tjirzadheneth on this side of the great sea, and alchemy is only one craft of many. Still, I shall ask.”
“Why would you need to seek among the reborn, honoured one?”
“Do you forget so much, Catlyn-tuur? Alchemy is the province of women, as with all crafts.” She laughed softly. “I am sure Erishen has been a woman at least once in his many lifetimes.”
Mal hid his embarrassment by carefully wrapping up the glass rod once more.
“Thank you, Adjaan-tuur,” he said, getting to his feet and bowing.
Adjaan looked up at him, her amber eyes grave. “I am only sorry I could not do more.”
“One more question, if I may, honoured one? Will any more skrayling women be coming over the ocean, to England or Sark?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I merely wondered if you were considering a permanent settlement. Since you are having a child here.”
She shook her head. “These are your lands. We do not wish to take any of them from you.”
“Not even a small island, freely given?”
“Lent to us only, I think. It is surely still your Queen’s, to bestow where she wishes.”
He had no answer to that, so he bowed and withdrew. Still, it had answered the question he had not asked. If Erishen and Kiiren wanted to become skraylings in their next lifetime, they would have to risk their lives on a voyage back to the New World.
CHAPTER IX
With Mal gone the house felt strangely empty, even though he had been but one man out of a household of more than a dozen. However, Coby was far too busy with spring chores to sit and mope. The arrival of March brought dry windy weather that was perfect for laundry, then there was the kitchen garden to prepare for the coming year: leeks and parsnips to harvested, beds to be cleared and re-sown with lettuce, spinach, onions, carrots and summer cabbage. Every night Coby fell into bed exhausted and with nothing but the prospect of longer, harder days ahead. Every morning she hoped for news from Mal, though she knew it would take at least two weeks for a letter to reach her.
To her relief Sandy came down to the hall for meals more often, but half the time he didn’t respond to his own name and she could hardly call him “Erishen” in front of the servants. Once or twice she even caught him referring to his nephew as “Kiiren”, and though she chided him, he appeared unrepentant. If they did not join Mal in London soon, she didn’t know what she would do with him.
“I thought you might like to take Kit to see the new lambs,” she said one day at dinner, some ten days after Mal’s departure. “The path up towards Bleak Low should be dry enough by now.”
Sandy’s reply was interrupted by the sound of hoofbeats from the courtyard. Coby leapt up from her seat and ran to the front door, wiping her hands on her apron as she went.
Five horsemen, not one, drew to a halt in the centre of the courtyard. Nor was their leader her husband, though he was handsome enough, with dark wind-blown hair and grey eyes that sparkled with the exertion of his ride. He dismounted smoothly and bowed to Coby.
“Mistress Catlyn.”
“Do I know you?”
“William Frogmore, at your service.” He bowed again.
So, this was the Huntsman Mal had worked with in Kent.
“Ah, of course. Do come inside and refresh yourself,” she said, forcing a smile. She glanced at Frogmore’s companions and reluctantly added, “Your men, also.”
In truth they were as hard-eyed a bunch of ruffians as she had seen in all her time in Southwark, with steel gorgets around their throats and pistols tucked into their belts. Well, let them swagger; I am not afraid of them. I bet they’ve never even seen a devourer, let alone killed one.
As they entered the hall, Susanna rose from her seat and Kit jumped down and hid behind her skirts, eyeing the new arrivals suspiciously.
“Catlyn?” Frogmore strode up to the dais.
Sandy nodded his acknowledgement, but made no further move. Frogmore glanced back at Coby, puzzled, then his features relaxed into a smile.
“Ah, you must be his brother, Alexander. Truly, the likeness is remarkable.”
“So I am told.”
Sandy's icy tones did not invite further pleasantries, and it was left to Coby to fill the silence.
“Do you not bring news of my husband, sir?”
“He is not here?”
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
“That is a pity,” Frogmore said. “I'd hoped to have words with him ere I return to my estate in Kent.”
“He is gone to London. I’m surprised you did not see him on the road.”
“Oh, I have been in Derbyshire some weeks, visiting old friends.”
Sandy turned pale and looked as though he were about to say something impolitic.
“Why don’t you take Kit up for his nap?” she said quickly. “Susanna has a good deal of sewing to do, don’t you, my dear?”
The nursemaid nodded, her glance flicking over to the visitors. So, she didn’t think much of them either.
Sandy beckoned to Kit, who dashed round the back of the chairs and flung his arms around his uncle’s long legs.
“You will be down again for supper?” she murmured to Sandy as he bent to pick Kit up.
“If you insist.”
“I do.” She watched the three of them leave, then turned back to her guest. “You must forgive my brother-in-law. He takes his duty of guardianship very seriously.”
“I understand. The enemy are devious, and even little children are not safe from their enchantments.”
Somehow Coby managed to keep her expression blank.
“Indeed.” The sooner these zealots were out of her house, the better she would like it. “Please, sit down. It’s a long ride to Kent, and I would not see you leave on an empty belly.”
“Perhaps we should stay a day or two,” Frogmore said, stepping up onto the dais and taking Sandy’s now-empty seat. “My men could go hunting in the morning, bring you some fresh meat for your table.”
Frogmore’s men took their places on the servants’ table and began helping themselves to bread and beer. Coby resumed her own place at table, next to Frogmore.
“That’s most generous,” she said, “but I wouldn’t want you to delay your homeward journey on our account. Do you not have a wife waiting for you?”
“Alas, my business affairs take up a great deal of my time. And God’s work must come first, must it not?”
Coby could hardly disagree, but thankfully Frogmore soon turned the conversation to less contentious topics such as the prospect for the coming year’s harvest. She offered her own inexpert opinions and withdrew to her own chamber as soon as it was courteous to do so. All this talk of country matters only made her homesick for London, and she was determined to leave soon, whether Mal sent for her or no. Either he was safe in London, in which case he would be glad to see them earlier than expected, or he was in trouble and the sooner she was there to help him, the better.
One thing was certain: she could not let Frogmore know of her plans. He would surely offer his services to escort them to London, and for all her bravado she would as soon take up with bandits as travel with the Huntsmen. Tempted as she was to send him on his way this very afternoon, however, it would be hard to do so without arousing his suspicions. No, she would let Frogmore and his men stay here tonight, then give them a good start in the morning before setting off herself. She smiled to herself. If Mal were in trouble, this was a job for intelligencer Jacob Hendricks, not Lady Jacomina Catlyn. And travelling in male guise would be safer in any case.
At the bottom of her clothes chest she found the old doublet and hose she had worn in her guise as Mal’s valet. She shook them out and hung them up to air, then did t
he same for the shirt and hose to wear with them. The prospect of a chance to resume her old persona gave her a guilty thrill, and she glanced upwards apologetically. Forgive me, Lord, for my sin of pride. But I was good at what I did.
A trawl of the chests and cupboards produced more treasures: a worn leather belt and a knife in its sheath; leather shoes suitable for a man, also old but well-mended; her roll of skeleton keys; and a cherrywood box containing a pair of pistols that Mal had bought her for her eighteenth birthday. How long ago that seemed now, more like forty years than four. She put everything into an old satchel, ready to take down to the stables. After a moment’s thought she added her jewellery box to the satchel and bundled up the gown made from her New Year’s gift, along with a linen coif and other necessary items of feminine apparel. God willing, she would not need her disguise beyond the journey itself.
The rest of their preparations would have to wait until Frogmore had left; she could not risk him suspecting her purpose. With a last wistful glance at her old clothes, she shut the bedchamber door and locked it, then went back down to see to her guests.
Despite his promise, Erishen did not go down to supper that night. Though the visitors might be too young to have participated in his own murder, he had no doubts they would turn on him and Kiiren the moment they suspected the truth. It had been madness to involve them in the fight against the guisers, but Mal would not be swayed.
“They might have more information about Shawe,” he had said before leaving for London. “How can I let that chance slip through my fingers?”
“It seems to me that you are protecting them.” Erishen replied. “I think they did something to you that night, when they daubed you in Tanijeel’s blood. They made you one of their own.”
“How can you say that? The memory still haunts me–”
“Then why do you not want revenge?”
“Trust me, we will have it. But it will have to be planned carefully. A single coordinated arrest, like the Templars of France long ago.”