by Anne Lyle
"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 you
r 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.
She glanced from Catlyn to Faulkner and back again. The two were friends but evidently not lovers; Catlyn appeared unmoved by the fact that Faulkner and Master Parrish were exchanging glances and whispers like a courting couple. That suggested one approach, though it was her stratagem of last resort. The risk of exposure was too great.
When Master Eaton paused to take a drink of beer, she seized the opportunity to enter the conversation.
"Do you come to hear plays often, sir?" she asked Catlyn.
"Not as much as I would like," he said, with a polite nod towards Master Naismith. "And I fear that when I am on duty in my new position, my thoughts will be engaged elsewhere."
"You think there's a threat to the ambassador?" It was a crude gambit, but what if she did not get another chance to speak to him?
"Quiet, lad!" Master Naismith turned to her, glowering. In a low voice he added, "Walsingham and Cecil's spies are everywhere."
Chastened, Coby lowered her gaze. Since Sir Francis Walsingham's unexpected recovery from a grave illness three years ago, the rivalry between the Queen's private secretary and his understudy had become intense. It was not wise to attract their attention with careless talk.
A serving-man arrived with supper. Coby poked her horn spoon into the mess of boiled vegetables and gristly grey lumps of something vaguely animal. Tavern food was good work for the jaws, if not the belly.
The conversation turned to a comparison of the two royal princes. Robert, the elder, resembled his father in looks and his mother in temperament, and everyone agreed he would make a great king, perhaps one even more famous than his grandsire Henry the Eighth. It was his younger brother Arthur, however, who was the people's favourite, taking after Henry in his love of jousting and spectacle.
"Shall the princes attend, if we perform at the new theatre?" Coby asked, drawn back into the conversation despite herself. The thought of being mere yards from the Prince of Wales set her stomach a-flutter with nerves.
"Surely you will be invited to play at one of the royal palaces?" Catlyn asked.
Master Naismith recounted Master Cutsnail's instructions, leaving out the matter of whether the theatre would be ready in time.
"Thank you for this intelligence, sir," Catlyn said. "It explains why Her Majesty requires an additional bodyguard for the ambassador."
"This contest is a sham," Dickon Rudd, the company's clown, muttered, pushing away his empty bowl.
They all looked at him.
"How so?" Catlyn asked.
"Do you really think the ambassador will risk offending the Queen by choosing any but her own son's company of players? Mark my words, the Prince's Men will win. I would put good money on it."
Parrish leant forward, a sly smile on his lips.
"You will be close to the ambassador," he said to Catlyn. "Could you not put in a good word for your friends?"
"Why should I care who wins?" he replied. "And what makes you think I have any influence over the skraylings? I cannot so much as speak their tongue."
Coby saw her chance, and seized it.
"I can."
Everyone stared at her.
"Well, I can. Only a little Tradetalk, I confess."
Catlyn looked at her thoughtfully. "Could you teach me?"
"I–" She turned to Master Naismith. She would have to play this carefully if she was not to arouse suspicion. "I have work to do, have I not, sir?"
"I am sure you could be spared one afternoon a week," he said after a moment's pause. Leaning around Rafe's back he added, "A wise man does not turn down an opportunity for advancement."
"I am in your debt, sir," Catlyn told Naismith. "If there is anything I can do for you – within the bounds of my duty to Her Majesty, of course."
"Of course."
Catlyn got to his feet.
"Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business elsewhere."
Coby joined the chorus of farewells and watched him leave. An afternoon a week for, what, almost two months? Surely she could find something out in that time, enough to satisfy Master Dunfell.
CHAPTER V
On his return to the Faulkners' house, Mal was met in the hall by Ned's mother, Mistress Faulkner. In the gloom of the narrow windowless passage her lined features resembled a death mask, pale as wax.
"What is it? Are you unwell, ma'am?"
She shook her head.
"There's a man waiting for you," she whispered. "I had to let him in–"
"What? Where's Ned?"
She held up a finger to her lips.
"Gone to Henslowe's house to do some copying work. I'm not expecting him back until curfew."
"Hell's teeth! Who is this man?"
She shrugged. "Never seen 'im before. He said he was come to talk to you about this new job."
Dear God, not another disgruntled young cockscomb looking for a fight. It was bad enough being accosted in the street, without them following him home and frightening poor old women out of their wits.
"Go and visit one of your neighbours," he told her. "I'll get rid of him."
She bobbed her head gratefully and hurried out of the door. Mal waited until she was out of earshot, then opened the door to the Faulkners' parlour.
A solidly built man of about forty stood to one side of the window, leaning against the crumbling lath-and-plaster wall. From his mousy brown hair to his workaday brown boots, he was as ordinary a man as Mal had ever seen. He made no move as Mal entered the room, only watched him calmly as if he were the host and Mal the unwelcome visitor.
"Who are you?" Mal said, drawing his rapier.
The man's eyes flicked to the blade then he raised his hands, holding them away from his own weapons.
"You can call me Baines
." His accent was that of the city: gravel grating on the underside of a Thames wherry.
"What do you want?"
Baines looked him up and down. "Leland told you about the job."
"The ambassador? Yes."
"And you accepted."