The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1

by Anne Lyle

  The man's earlobes were as big as apricots, stretched out of their natural shape by roundels of ivory.

  "It's not so very different from your earring, is it?" she said, then added, "He probably speaks Tradetalk, so he'd be as good a test of your skill as a skrayling."

  Master Catlyn cleared his throat and pointed to the brazier.

  "An they, sir."

  The man speared a sweet potato with a fork and wrapped it in a scrap of coarse cloth, grinning at them with tobaccostained teeth.

  "An denna, thank ye," he replied, holding out a scarred hand.

  As Master Catlyn fumbled in his pocket for a penny, a scrap of paper fluttered to the ground. Coby picked it up. It was a letter, and not sealed. This was her chance. Hardly daring to breathe, she turned her back on the stall and unfolded the paper.

  My dearest Jane–

  Her throat tightened. No, it might only be a letter to a sister. She read on.

  –I do most heartily wish you well, and assure you I have not forgotten my promise to visit on the 22nd of next month. In the meantime I will send 13oz of sugared almonds for you and your 3 sisters–

  "What have you there?" Master Catlyn asked.

  She hastily folded the strange letter and turned back to him.

  "You dropped this, sir," she replied, holding it out.

  He snatched the paper from her hand.

  "Did you read it?"

  She dropped her gaze to the ground, unable to lie to his face.

  "Did you read it?"

  "Yes, sir," she whispered. She wished she had never agreed to spy on him.

  "And what did you make of it?"

  "Only th-that you have a sweetheart, sir. And she likes sugared almonds."

  "Nothing more?"

  "No, sir. I didn't read any more."

  He put the letter back in his pocket, his expression thoughtful. She supposed she would have to report this to Dunfell. There was something odd going on, since sugared almonds were an expensive gift, an unlikely choice for a man who claimed to have no money.

  "I think I have had enough of markets," Master Catlyn said, taking his purchase from the stall holder. "And your master will be expecting you home for supper."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Sunday afternoon again, at five o'clock?"

  She stared up at him, hardly daring to believe, but there was no teasing look on his face. She had expected him to end their lessons together, after what she had just done. But why should he suspect her? She was just some boy to him, not a girl who might rival the mysterious Jane for his affections. She chided herself for thinking there could ever be anything but friendship between them.

  "Sunday," she said. "At five."

  On Saturday morning she accompanied Master Naismith on another business matter. He would not say where, but instructed her to wear her best suit. Another visit to Master Cutsnail? She hoped not – there was no good news for the merchant.

  However, they turned north out of Thames Street, and a short walk up the hill brought them to the yard surrounding St Paul's Cathedral, where the chapmen had their stalls hung about with ballad sheets and stacked with books of all sizes. Here one could buy a family Bible or a volume of love sonnets, sundry classics in the original Latin and Greek or English versions of works by Machiavelli and Castiglione. There were even a few printed editions of plays; were they perhaps going to visit one of the printers who had their workshops in the streets around Paul's Yard?

  Master Naismith turned left through Ludgate, however, taking them outside the city walls. In Fleet Street, Coby's eyes were drawn towards the dark bulk of Bridewell Prison on the bank of the Thames. She shuddered. If she were ever found out to be a girl in men's clothing, she could be whipped through the streets and condemned to that horrible place, to be locked up with all the other "disorderly women" of the city.

  They walked on and Fleet Street became the Strand, the main road between the city of London and Westminster. On the riverward side stood many fine houses belonging to the greatest lords in the land: Arundel, Bedford, Somerset… and Suffolk, she realised with growing excitement. Their patron had built himself a grand new mansion at Charing Cross, to be close to Whitehall Palace in Westminster. She exchanged glances with Master Naismith, and he smiled.

  "You have guessed our destination," he said. "We are to meet Thomas Lodge, the playwright engaged by our patron to compose a play perfectly suited to the Ambassador of Vinland." He smiled again and added, "Master Lodge has been to the New World."

  The New World! It was one thing to meet skraylings who had journeyed so far, but an Englishman who had ventured across the Atlantic and returned safe was a rare marvel indeed. She wondered if he was as handsome as Master Catlyn.

  They reached the western end of the Strand, where the ancient marble monument to Queen Eleanor dominated the confluence of three roads: the Strand, King Street and Cockspur Street. On the southern side nearest the river stood Suffolk House, its pale stone walls and many glazed windows rivalling the nearby Palace of Whitehall. They entered through a gatehouse into a large cobbled courtyard where servants hurried back and forth on the duke's business. On either side stood the apartments of the gentlemen retainers; the great hall, a single-storeyed building even taller than the wings, took up the entire south side of the courtyard.

  "His Grace lives beyond the hall, in fine apartments beside the river," Master Naismith said. "I doubt we shall be invited into such rarefied company."

  A man of about forty, wearing the duke's blue-and-white livery and a harassed expression, greeted Master Naismith as one well known to him, and they were shown through a door in the west wing and up a spiral stair to one of the apartments. Two men were waiting for them in the small but comfortable parlour. Coby immediately and with a sinking feeling recognised Master Dunfell; the other she assumed to be Master Lodge.

  "Naismith, good to see you!" Lodge grasped Master Naismith's arm and shook it heartily.

  Coby hung back in the shadows, eyeing the playwright with disappointment. She had expected a dashing adventurer with a taste for poetry, like Sir Walter Raleigh or Sir Philip Sidney, not this short scrubby-bearded fellow with a feverish glint to his gooseberry-green eyes.

  "So, what do you have for us?" Master Naismith asked, once the pleasantries were over.

  Lodge gestured for them to approach the table, which was covered in a chaotic layer of papers scrawled in a barely legible hand. She did not envy the scrivener who had to make a fair copy.

  "My best play yet," he said. "I have entitled it The Queen of Faerieland."

  "Based on Spenser, is it?"

  "Better than that." Lodge fairly quivered with excitement, like a child bursting to tell a great secret.

  "What Master Lodge is trying to say," Dunfell put in, "is that he has borrowed from his recent travels, not from another poet. This is a skrayling story put into English."

  "Devil take you!" Lodge turned scarlet. "You have ruined the ending, you pinch-souled capon. Go back to your accounts, and leave the recounting of tales to poets!"

  Dunfell stepped back a little from the table, but did not leave the room. His fixed expression suggested he was used to the playwright's temper.

  Lodge turned back to Master Naismith.

  "It is a story I heard in Antilia, an ancient legend of three brothers of the Pescamocarti and their love for the Queen of the Forest. I have transposed it to the city of Athens…"

  Whilst the playwright and the actor-manager bent over the manuscript, Master Dunfell motioned Coby to one side.

  "Have you made any progress in the matter we spoke of?" he asked in a low voice.

  "I- I found a letter," she said, "though it was only to his sweetheart."

  "What did it say?"

  "It was addressed to a lady named Jane, who has three sisters, and said he would be visiting her on the twenty-second of September."

  "After the competition? Well, no matter. Go on."

  "That is all, sir. I did not have time to
read more."

  "You do not have it."

  "No, sir, I–" She could not tell Dunfell she had been caught red-handed.

  "More than a month, and this is all you have found out? I must say I am disappointed. Very disappointed indeed." He wrinkled his pointed nose, as if she were a smear of dog shit on his shoe. "After all I have done for you and your master, I expected greater efforts to follow my instructions."

  Coby hung her head and tried to look contrite.

  "Needless to say," he went on, "I shall not be recommending you for a place in the duke's household. You may consider my own patronage of your career at an end."

  She inclined her head submissively, though she was secretly relieved. The last thing she wanted was to work for such an odious man. She would rather take her chances amongst the actors, even at the risk of exposure.

  "This is very good, Lodge," Master Naismith said, scanning a page. "Here, Dunfell, is this not most excellently written?"

  Seeing Lodge bristle in anticipation of another argument, Coby put in, "Begging your pardon, Master Lodge, but why did you set it in Athens instead of the New World?"

  "It is not your place to question your betters' judgement," Dunfell snapped.

  Lodge looked taken aback at this unexpected ally, though Coby guessed it was only anger at herself that made Dunfell side with the playwright.

  "No, let the boy speak," said Master Naismith. "'Tis a fair point."

  Master Lodge launched into a long explanation full of words and allusions Coby did not understand. When he eventually paused for breath, Naismith put in: "Our scholarly colleague's point is, have you ever heard of these Peascod folk?"

  "No, sir," Coby replied.

  "And how much do you think the average playgoers know of them?"

  "Not much, sir."

  "Your first answer was nearer the mark. No, there is no drama in telling a tale of lands so far away that no one knows their names. No resonance with the audience, see? Instead, Master Lodge has taken the tale and reshaped it into something even the penny stinkards can make sense of. That's how you get bums on seats, lad."

  Lodge gathered up his mess of papers into what Coby hoped was the correct order, and she stuffed them into her satchel. A skrayling play in a skrayling-sponsored theatre – let the Admiral's Men top that!

  CHAPTER VIII

  After church on Sunday morning Mal visited Bethlem Hospital again. To his relief his brother was improving, in both body and spirit. Either Mistress Cooke was being true to her word and giving him more care now Mal was a regular visitor, or… No, he could not let himself dare to think it. Sandy had had lucid spells before, but they never lasted.

  The weather had turned cooler again, and they stayed indoors all morning. Mal had bought a book in Paul's Yard which he thought Sandy might like. Something to dispel evil humours, and bring his thoughts to greater order and harmony.

  "'The Whetstone of Wit'," Sandy read out, "'which is the second part of Arithmetic: containing the extraction of roots; the cossike practice, with the rule of equation; and the works of surd numbers'." He looked up at Mal. "It's just abridged Euclid, you know."

  "You've read it."

  He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but Sandy knew him too well.

  "I've read everything here a hundred times." He gestured to the small pile of volumes by his bed. "Something twice- or thrice-read will seem fresh in comparison."

  Sandy settled down to read the mathematics treatise whilst Mal took out his lute. It took some time to tune, being so sensitive to the changes in the weather. The room was oppressively warm now, and he wondered if he should suggest they go outside, but it was looking like rain again. August was always a race to get the harvest in before the heavens opened.

  He started as Sandy clapped his book shut with a loud thump.

  "No," Sandy whispered, turning pale.

  "What is it?"

  Mal went to the door and pressed his ear against the rough wood. A burst of laughter came from downstairs. Not the hysterical shrieks and giggles of the inmates, but a colder, more mocking sound. Visitors.

  He looked around. Mistress Cooke had locked the door as usual, but what if she opened it from the outside? Surely she would not do that with Mal in here, but if one of the gentlemen flashed a little gold in her direction, she might think it worth the risk.

  "Help me move the bed against the door," he told Sandy, keeping his voice low but firm.

  Sandy clutched the book to his chest, his face rigid with fear. Mal sighed and leant his weight against the door, ready to resist entry bodily if need be. He was not about to attract attention to their cell by setting off one of Sandy's fits.

  Mal remained at his vigil for what felt like hours, listening to Mistress Cooke and her husband's sycophancies and the cruel laughter of the visitors, and watching Sandy twitch every time footsteps came near their door. Eventually the ward fell silent and Mal returned to his brother's side. This was not going to be easy.

  "Sandy?" He sat down on the bed. "I have to go soon and… I don't know when I can return. I have to earn money to pay for our keep."

  Sandy said nothing, only stared into the distance.

  "If I can't come," Mal went on, "I'll send Ned to see you, all right? You remember Ned?"

  "Ned. Short for Edmund. Yes."

  "Good. He'll keep you company well enough. I'll have him bring his deck of cards."

  "He cheats."

  "That he does." Mal forced a smile, and kissed his brother on both cheeks. "It won't be much longer, I promise."

  Coby sat down on the grass by the front doors of the theatre, feeling conspicuous. In nearby Paris Gardens, revellers laughed, and a man was singing "The Pangs of Love" to the playing of a lute. A few passers-by gave her curious looks, but probably thought her just a young swain waiting for his sweetheart. If only…

  Shortly after five o'clock the gate opened and Master Catlyn entered the theatre field. Coby leapt to her feet and tried not to look too pleased to see him. She led him round to the back of the theatre and unlocked the door. The theatre was of course empty on the Lord's Day, which was why it made such a private practice-space. As they passed through the tiring house and out onto the stage, Master Catlyn handed her one of the two cudgels they used for their practice. They were sturdy lengths of maple, three feet long and an inch and a half thick, shod with iron. Ostensibly for walking, they were a favourite weapon of apprentices, who would often gather to fight on one of the fields outside the city walls, much to the indignation of their elders.

  After a few warm-ups and drills they sparred for a while. Master Catlyn's fighting technique was not at all like the moves the players used on stage; instead it involved a surprising amount of grappling and body contact, and she had been thrown to the boards on several occasions. It was at once terrifying and exhilarating, feeling his arms about her or his weight pinning her down. Every night she prayed for forgiveness for her unchaste thoughts, and every day she thought of little except her next meeting with him.

  She did not only think and daydream, however. Every spare minute she could get alone, she had been practising moves, sometimes even using her tailor's dummy as a pell. It seemed to be paying off. Master Catlyn did not swear at her quite as often as on previous occasions, and she got a couple of solid blows past his guard towards the end. As he was a good six inches taller than her, with a grown man's strength, she was pleased with herself for managing even that much.

  "All right, time for something new," Master Catlyn said, tossing aside his weapon. It rolled across the stage to fetch up against one of the pillars.

  "Sir?"

  "I want to show you how to disarm a man. Come at me as before."

  She advanced towards him, cudgel gripped in both hands. As she let go with her left hand and raised her weapon to strike, he caught her right arm with both hands and twisted it behind her back. The cudgel slipped from her grasp.

  "Ach, God's teeth!" Master Catlyn let her go, mutterin
g under his breath.

  "Are you all right, sir?" Coby asked, stretching her aching arm and flexing her fingers.

  "Dropped the damned thing on my foot," he replied. "I swear to God, I would rather fight a man armed with steel than one of these bloody things."

  He kicked the cudgel across the stage. Sensing this would be a good time to take a breather, Coby produced two bottles of beer she had hidden in a shady corner of the yard before leav ing the theatre last night. Master Catlyn took one with a muttered apology for his foul language on the Lord's Day.

  "Is something the matter, sir? You seem in an ill humour today."