by Anne Lyle
"It's nothing." He uncorked his beer and took a swig.
Coby nodded sympathetically. One thing she had observed about men was that they rarely unburdened their hearts. It was a habit she tried to emulate, though in present circumstances it was so frustrating. There was more to her feelings for him than mere girlish fancy, she was sure: she truly liked Master Catlyn. Well, except when he swore at her. But at least it was proof her disguise still held. She felt certain a gentleman like him would not blaspheme so in front of a woman.
They sat on the edge of the stage in the late afternoon sun, their legs dangling over, like two small boys fishing from a jetty. It reminded her of her childhood, of long hot summer days spent tagging along behind her brother Kees and his friends as they explored the woods and pools around their home town. She felt tears starting to prick her eyes and scrubbed hastily at them with her sleeve.
"Worn out already?"
"I was just thinking of my family. I haven't seen them since…"
"Since the fall of Antwerp?"
She nodded. "Mother wanted to move north, to Amsterdam where we have cousins, but Father insisted we would never be safe with the Spanish in control of the Netherlands, so we took a boat across the Narrow Sea. There was a storm – I don't know if they are alive or dead. I asked everywhere I could when I got to England, but…"
"Both my parents are dead," Master Catlyn said in a quiet voice. "My mother died when I was small, and my father a few years ago. My brothers…"
"Tell me about your sweetheart," she said on impulse. It was like picking at a scab; she knew it was stupid, but there was a grim satisfaction in reopening the wound. "Are you to be betrothed?"
He smiled. "There is no such woman, at least not of my acquaintance."
"Then what–"
"One of Ned's fancies, a foolish game he plays with Parrish. I needed a scrap of paper for a laundry list, and there it was."
"Oh."
"I have no means to support a wife," he went on, "and little hope of it hereafter."
He fell silent, and Coby risked a sidelong glance. He was staring at the ground, seemingly unaware of her gaze. His black hair curled like a lamb's in the humidity, though he had barely raised a sweat despite their exertions. Long dark lashes shaded his brooding eyes. She had only to lean over a little and she might kiss him–
He grunted and finished his beer. "Come, let us not speak of such melancholy matters. Your lesson is not over yet."
"I– I think it is. In fact, I think I shall not have time to see you again before you start your work for the ambassador."
It was not what she had planned to say, but she knew it was the right thing to do. If she did not see him, if they did not talk, there could be nothing to betray – and no temptation either. She scrambled to her feet and walked away, not trusting herself to be able to look him in the eye.
The sound of his footsteps approaching caused her to freeze, one hand on the nearby pillar for support. Her heart was pounding.
"If you need my help kicking some little bastard's arse…"
He sounded so deadly serious, she could not help but smile.
"It is a generous offer, sir."
As they headed towards the door, Master Catlyn handed her the cudgels.
"Here, you might as well keep these. They are of no more use to me."
She hugged them to her chest as she showed him out, wishing she could hug him instead.
"Farewell, then," he said, holding out his hand. "Good luck in the contest."
"Thank you." She tucked the cudgels under one arm and shook his hand, trembling a little at his touch. "For everything."
She lingered in the doorway, watching him until he disappeared around the curve of the theatre wall, then closed the door and leant back up on it. Her disguise had always been her armour; right now it felt more like a cage.
Mal ate alone in the attic that night. Ned had taken to spending more and more time with Parrish, which was all to the good since it meant he was seldom around to notice Mal's absences. It made for dull mealtimes, though. He dipped his hunk of bread in the thin pottage, wondering what kind of grand dishes the ambassador would be served. Not stewed cabbage and onions, that was for certain.
As for his other companion of recent weeks… it was probably for the best. He had noticed the way the boy looked at him, ever since that first day in Paris Gardens. At first he had thought it simple admiration, such as he himself had felt for the heroes of his youth – Edmund Campion, Sir Francis Drake, Sir Philip Sidney – but there was a girlish shyness to Hendricks' glances, and more blushes than even a fair Flemish complexion and summer heat could account for. At least it was not the simpering of the young ganymedes who frequented the Bull's Head. He could not have stood that.
Putting aside the empty bowl he took out his next assignment from Baines, but his eyes would not focus on the grid of letters. Damn Walsingham, for trapping him in this conspiracy. How long was it going to take, anyway? A chill ran over his skin despite the closeness of the evening air. Leland had not said when the ambassador was due to leave. What if he stayed in England indefinitely?
On the other hand, twenty-four shillings a week would be enough to get proper care for his brother, away from that dreadful place. Mistress Faulkner might know a reliable woman who would look after Sandy, especially if he continued to improve. And it would be most fitting for the skraylings to pay for what they had done.
With a smile he kicked off his boots and lay back on the bed. Some good was going to come of this after all.
The dream began as it always did, in darkness and cold. Mal was riding through trees, the wet leaves brushing his face. Around him, others were riding too, the only sounds the steady tread of hooves and the snorting of horses reined in. No jingle of harness – it had been muffled before they left – and no conversation. Mal looked around for his brothers. Sandy was a few yards away, separated from him by a couple of other riders; Charles was indistinguishable from the other masked men in the dark.
On they rode in silence, uphill and down and up again until the trees gave way to bracken and scattered birch, and finally to heather and gorse and clumps of rough grass. The constellation of Orion burned high in the northern sky. It was a week after the twins' sixteenth birthday, and only a few days until they were due to go up to Cambridge.
In a hollow by the side of the road, a camp fire flickered. The riders broke into a canter, then a gallop. He could see them to either side of him, hooded figures all alike, now carrying flaming torches. Across the moors they galloped in near silence, as smoothly as on a beach, never stumbling or slowing down. The distant glow drew nearer. Three wagons, drawn into a U-shape, with a fire between them. The silhouettes of men moved against the flame, running in panic. There was a faint crack of musket fire, then they were there, riding around the camp so none could escape. Crossbow quarrels thudded into earth, wood, flesh. Screams rent the air.
A few of the men dismounted, swords drawn. The rest assembled at the open end of the U, watching and waiting. All that could be heard was the moaning of the wind. Then there was a scuffle in one of the wagons, and two riders appeared, dragging a third figure between them. Firelight danced across a tattooed face, turning it into a demonic mask. With quiet methodical movements, the riders tied the skrayling to the wheel of one of the wagons.
Mal glanced at Sandy, who had managed to evade his escort and rein his mount in next to his brother's gelding. Sandy's eyes were wide and white-rimmed behind the slits of the mask. He did not have to speak for Mal to know exactly what he was thinking. Mal shook his head. Even if they could somehow out-ride these men, they would never find their way home in the dark.
One of the men pulled something out of his doublet. He grabbed the skrayling's jaw and wrenched it open. Mal tried to look away, but something nudged him in the ribs. A pistol.
"Art craven, little brother?"
Mal's breath caught in his throat as the skrayling screamed. There was a roar from the rid
ers. The one in the black hood took something in his left hand and threw it to the nearest rider, then bent back to his work. Another scream. Mal was glad he couldn't see from here, but he could hear well enough to imagine it. Then everyone was dismounting, and the men closed in on the skrayling. Mal turned away, trying to shut out the animal sounds.
Someone grabbed Sandy and pulled him off his mount.
"Come on, lad, it'll be thy turn soon."
The voice was answered with coarse laughter.
"Leave him alone!" Mal shouted at them.
Sandy began to make a strange whimpering sound in the back of his throat.
"No, no, please–" Sandy screamed. "Sula, aneimaca! Eicorro niwehi mallä! De! De! Amayi!"
The riders drew back, crossing themselves.
"The beast has unleashed a demon amongst us," one of them cried, drawing his dagger as he pushed his way into the knot of men surrounding the skrayling. The creature's screams ended in a gurgling moan. Sandy collapsed to the ground and curled into a ball, still whimpering.
Mal slid down from his horse. He knew he was the only one who had understood any of the strange words his brother had babbled. It was the secret language they used to speak together as boys, until their father caught them and whipped them black and blue. Something about "people coming", Sandy had said. Was he trying to warn the riders, or their victim?
Mal tried to get around the gelding to where his brother lay, but someone caught him by the arm.
"What about this 'un?" his captor asked the leader.
"Blood him."
"Aye, ye mun blood at least one," said someone else. "He's not one of us until he's blooded!"
He tried to turn and run away, but his path was blocked by the broad expanse of an oak trunk. He looked around and down and discovered he was tied to the tree, belly against the rough bark, naked but for the low boots skraylings wore. No, oh no…
"Amayiiii!"
Suddenly he was surrounded by three or four of the humans, towering over him in their slit-eyed hoods like carrion birds. Cold hands clawed at him, colder steel tore his flesh, burning like brands… White-hot pain exploded at the base of his spine, then his spirit fled into the howling darkness–
Mal awoke with a cry, his heart hammering in his chest. He felt himself all over. No wounds, no broken bones, nothing but the familiar scars of battle, long healed. He let out a shaky breath and looked around, half-expecting to see Sandy at his side, cheeks smeared in dried blood.
The cold half-light of an overcast dawn seeped through the shutters. In the distance a mastiff howled. Southwark. Ned's house. Home. He kicked off the sweat-soaked sheets. Where was Ned when he needed him? He wrapped his arms about his knees and bowed his head.
"Sancte Michael Archangele, deduc me per tenebras. Ferro tuo viam illumina…"
CHAPTER IX
"You off, then?" Ned asked, eyeing the gaping knapsack.
Mal grunted in affirmation and began rummaging in the chest at the end of the bed. His belongings were pitifully few: a spare doublet and hose and a few changes of underlinens, a pair of riding gloves, a brown velvet cap going bald in places, and a threadbare winter cloak, the lute, a dog-eared fencing manual in the original Italian, and what he thought of as his soldiering kit. The canvas pouch contained a small whetstone, a tinderbox, a corked bottle of neatsfoot oil, a bundle of greasy rags and a bobbin of thick silk thread with a curved leatherneedle stuck in it.
He unrolled the cloak and retrieved the fist-sized pouch hidden there.
"Will you look after this for me?"
He tossed the pouch to Ned, who loosened the strings and looked inside.
"A rosary?" Ned raised an eyebrow.
"It was my mother's. I suppose it would have been safer to get rid of it but…" Mal shrugged. "Anyway, I don't want to be found with it in my possession. Not at the Tower."
"Very wise." Ned slipped the pouch into his pocket. "Don't worry, I'll stow it somewhere it won't be found."
Mal stuffed the cloak into the knapsack, drew the strings tight and slung it on his shoulder.
"Farewell, then."
"Aye." Ned leant on the bedpost. "I'll miss you."
"No you won't." Mal reached out and snagged Ned's nose between curled fingers, giving it a shake. "You'll be able to have Parrish over whenever you wish."
Ned batted his hand away with a sheepish look. The next thing Mal knew they were embracing, pounding one another's backs in sudden bittersweet urgency.
"Take care," Ned murmured huskily, kissing him on both cheeks. "Don't do anything stupid."
"You know me."
"Exactly."
Ned released him, and Mal picked up the lute. After a last look around the room, he unlatched the attic door and left.
Twenty minutes later he walked up to the gates of the Tower to report for duty. At least this time he was entering through the landward gate, and of his own accord. Two guardsmen in scarlet livery blocked the entrance with crossed partisans. He handed the nearest guard the letter of appointment Leland had given him back in June. The man perused it, his lips moving silently. I suppose, Mal thought, I should be grateful he doesn't need to follow his finger.
"All seems in order," the guard said at last.
"Thank you." Mal took the letter back and headed through the gatehouse.
"So you're the new Keeper of the Royal Menagerie," the guard said as Mal passed him.
"What?"
"Don't worry, you'll soon get used to the smell. When the wind's in the south…" The guard waved his hand in front of his face and wrinkled his nose.
"Do you know," Mal said, "I could do with a knowledgeable fellow like yourself on guard duty outside the ambassador's quarters. I think I'll ask the lieutenant to assign you to my command."
The guard's bloodshot eyes bulged. "No, sir, thank you, sir. I don't know nothing about skraylings, honest."
"That's a pity. Well, I'm sure you are best off here, then." Mal set off again. "Good day to you, gentlemen."
He crossed the causeway that spanned the moat, through a second, larger gatehouse and finally into the castle's outer ward. The narrow cobbled lane seemed to close in around him, and he hurried through the archway into the pleasanter surroundings of the inner ward.
As he approached the lieutenant's lodgings, Leland himself appeared at the main entrance. His golden hair and beard glowed in the sun, their curls merging into the bullion-work on his moss-green doublet.
"Catlyn!" The lieutenant beamed, as if Mal were an old friend. "Not run off to France, then, eh?"
Mal winced at the reminder of his elder brother's misdemeanours, but forced a smile and bowed.
"I'll have Captain Monkton show you around the place later," Leland said, "but for now I'll take you up to your quarters and you can get settled in." He strode off without waiting for an answer, leaving Mal to follow in his wake.
Monkton? Wasn't that the name of the man who had arrested him and thrown him in the Salt Tower for the night? Either Leland had a malicious sense of humour, which from what little Mal knew of him did not seem in character, or he had simply forgotten the circumstances of Mal's first visit.
The lieutenant led him back out into the outer ward, to the water stairs where Mal had disembarked all those weeks ago. Above it stood the timbered upper levels of St Thomas's Tower, now stripped of their severed heads. Leland turned right and climbed the short flight of steps to the tower entrance.
He opened the door and ushered Mal inside. They passed through a tiny vestibule into a pleasantly domestic dining room with painted plaster walls and a large stone fireplace. A long table dominated the room, draped with a ruby and cream patterned carpet that overflowed the benches standing either side. A throne-like chair, age-blackened and carved in an antique style, stood at its head. Two doors led off the dining room, one into an empty stone-walled chamber in the corner tower, the other into the rest of the apartments, which were further divided in two by a thin lath-and-plaster partition.
> Mal explored the large divided chamber beyond the dining room. A bed with embroidered hangings stood in the far half; in the other, which was set out as a parlour, a short flight of steps led up to a heavy oak door.
"Is this where I will sleep?" Mal asked, gesturing to the bed.
"That is for Master Lodge," Leland replied. "We are fortunate to have found an Englishman fluent in the skrayling tongue. You will sleep here."
He led Mal up the stairs into the chamber beyond. Like the rest of the apartments it had recently been painted, and fresh rushes covered the floor. A large bed with crimson damask curtains dominated the space. Realisation dawned.