by Anne Lyle
There was a murmur of interest from some of the assembly.
"Yes, I am hiring." He held up his hands. "Only the one part, and that small. Two shillings on the day of performance itself, and an angel if we win."
"What's the play?" someone shouted.
"A new one, by Thomas Lodge, never before played on any stage."
Eaton and Rudd cleared a space amongst the tables, and arranged some stools for themselves and Naismith.
"Not going to join them?" Ned asked Gabriel.
"It's not my place," he replied. "I am the lowliest of Suffolk's Men, barely more than a hireling."
"Early days yet," Ned told him. "You'll be up there with Eaton one day, mark my words."
Gabriel smiled, like the sun breaking through clouds. Ned swallowed. God in Heaven, I can't do this.
"Now, gentlemen," Naismith said, turning to his companions, "let us see what the tide brings in."
The first to approach was a pallid, gangly youth in clothes that had once been apprentice blue but were now faded to colourlessness, where they had not worn to holes. He mumbled a name.
"Say on, lad," Naismith told him. The young actor coughed, then recited:
"Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious… conqueror,
Victorious Titus rue, the tears I shed.
A mother's tears in passion for her son.
And – if thy sons were ever dear to… thee,
O think my son to, be as dear to me!"
"Thank you." Naismith looked around. "Next, please!"
Next up was a short shiny-faced fellow who looked more like a pastry-cook than an actor; indeed the stink of rancid butter preceding him was as good as an advertisement.
"Next!"
Ned turned back to Gabriel. "Where are all the decent players? Usually you can't spit in here without hitting a Tamburlaine or a King Henry."
"All hired by Henslowe or Burbage, or else on tour for the summer. With our three companies tied to London by this contest, there's rich pickings to be had elsewhere."
Hendricks nodded. "We'd only got as far as Sheffield before we were called back by my lord Suffolk, but Master Naismith would have pressed on to York if he could."
When Gabriel got up to go to the jakes, Ned leant across the table. The news of the murder had given him an idea.
"Hey, Hendricks," he whispered. "Do me a favour, will you?"
The boy drained his tankard and frowned at Ned. "Why should I?"
"Because if you don't, Suffolk's Men will lose this contest."
"Is that a threat?"
"No!" He looked around at the other actors, but they were busy watching the auditions, "I'm just worried about Gabe. I don't think he should be left alone right now, not after this attack on Catchpenny."
"You think someone's out to ruin us by murdering our players?"
"Probably not. But better safe than sorry, right? And Gabe's the only one who lives alone." The only one who matters, anyway.
"Can't he stay with you?"
"No," Ned said hurriedly. "Mam's got a cough, and I don't want him to catch it and lose his voice. No, he's better staying at Naismith's."
"Tell him that yourself."
"He won't listen to me. Thinks I fuss over him too much already. That's why I need you."
"All right," Hendricks said at last. "What am I to say?"
"I don't know. Use your wits. Flatter him. Tell him your apprentice lads are crying themselves to sleep with fright over this contest and need a ministering angel."
Hendricks eyed him suspiciously.
"I still reckon you're up to something."
"What do you want me to say? That I'm in love with the man, and can't sleep at night for fear of anything happening to him? There, I've said it." He looked over his shoulder. "Ssh, here he comes."
The Lord High Admiral was a stern, hawk-nosed man in his late fifties, with a sunburnt complexion and an energy that belied his years. He showed the ambassador and the elders around the shipyard, pointing out the differences in design between English and Vinlandic ships, of which he seemed to have a great deal of knowledge. Mal followed behind, with half an ear on the conversation. He had been on a ship scarcely a handful of times, and then only to cross one sea or another on his way to war.
Whilst Effingham pointed out one of the cranes used to lift the masts into position, Mal scanned the dockyard for any sign of potential trouble. There were tools here aplenty that could be used to kill a man, in addition to the weapons proper to naval warfare: cannons with their various forms of ammunition, arquebuses and calivers for the marines, and boarding axes.
"And this," Effingham was saying, "is the pride of our fleet, Ark Royal."
The elders nodded as Kiiren translated, gazing up at the snowy sails of the galleon. Effingham gestured for the skraylings to precede him up the gangplank.
"With your permission, my lord–" Mal put in.
The admiral grunted, then motioned for him to proceed. Mal edged up the gangplank; the galleon was rolling in the water even though it was well anchored, and the plank pitched and wobbled alarmingly. At last he reached the comparative safety of the ship and scanned the decks and rigging. A couple of the sailors stared at him, an interloper on their territory, but none of them looked ready to murder an ambassador in cold blood. He waved down to Kiiren, and the skraylings followed him up the gangplank.
They were shown all over the vessel, from poop deck to beakhead. When Effingham enquired if they wished to go below decks to examine the guns, the ambassador shook his head, but gestured to the elders to proceed. The admiral and the two skraylings disappeared through the hatch. After a few moments Effingham's voice rumbled from below as he went from gun to gun, giving the range and poundage of each, as proud as a man showing off his sons.
"Very wise, Your Excellency," Mal said to the ambassador, lowering his voice to avoid being heard by the sailors all around them. "The stench of the bilges is enough to put any man off his dinner. And the admiral keeps a fine table, I am–"
"Be gone, ye foul demon!"
Mal pushed the ambassador aside as a sailor swung past on the end of a rope, axe blade whistling through the space where they had stood. The man hung for a moment in the air over the river, and Mal drew his rapier. The sailor's eyes widened in horror as his momentum brought him swinging back over the ship, straight towards the blade. Mal leant into the stroke, a shudder running up his arm as the rapier punched through the man's belly.
The sailor let go of his rope and sagged to a halt, staring up at Mal with bloodshot eyes. Mal pulled the blade free and stepped back, edging round between the ambassador and his attacker. The man lurched forward, clutching his blood-soaked shirt, and Mal managed a slash to his legs before he got in too close for rapier work. Mal drew his dagger with his left hand and, as the sailor raised his axe, plunged it into the soft flesh of his opponent's armpit. Blood spewed from the severed artery and the man dropped his weapon with a cry, collapsing to his knees at Mal's feet.
"What in Heaven's name is going on?" Effingham barked, emerging from the hold.
"An assassin," Mal replied, holding the rapier point at the wounded man's throat.
"Captain!" The admiral looked around. "Who is this man?"
The captain, drawn sword in hand, crossed the deck. Mal suddenly realised no one had moved to help him, not even the captain. Had it happened so fast, or were they all in this together? In the sudden silence he was conscious of the warm, sticky blood coating his dagger hand and dripping onto the deck.
"Edwards?" The captain seized the sailor by his hair and wrenched his head back.
Edwards' eyes rolled up into their sockets, and he sagged, a dead weight in his captain's grasp. The captain grunted and let him go, and the dying sailor slumped to the deck.
Mal turned to Kiiren. A spatter of red dots marred the ambassador's robe at knee height.
"Are you hurt, Your Excellency?"
Kiiren shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off his assailant.
>
"He almost kill me," he said in a low voice.
The skrayling elders hurried forwards, muttering in their own tongue as they stepped around the spreading pool of blood on the deck. The ambassador seemed to be assuring them he was unhurt, but the elders closed in around him as if to protect him from further attack. Mal wished that he had asked the ambassador to bring his escort aboard the ship. In future he would be more cautious.
He wiped both blades on the sleeve of his doublet – it was soaked in blood already, a little more would make no difference – and sheathed them.
"I think His Excellency has seen enough," he told the admiral.
"Indeed," Effingham replied. He turned to the captain. "See to this mess, Fosdyke. I want every man aboard questioned. Someone will hang for this."
"Aye-aye, sir."
The captain snapped a salute, his expression that of a man determined to find a scapegoat lest his own neck feel the hempen collar.
Mal wiped his hand absentmindedly on his hose. Only the first day of the visit, and already he had drawn steel in the ambassador's defence, aye, and bloodied it too. How many more zealots and desperadoes would try their luck? And how long before he failed to stop them? With a last glance round at the crew of the Ark Royal he escorted the skraylings down the gangplank to the blessed safety of the dockside.
There was only one problem with Faulkner's plan, Coby realised.
Where was Master Parrish going to sleep? Philip and Oliver shared a bed in the room opposite Master Naismith's, and Coby and the maidservant Betsy had the two servants' rooms on the top floor. Master Parrish would have to have a pallet on the floor in the boys' room. Either that or Coby would surrender her own bed and sleep in the costume store.
Faulkner got to his feet.
"So, mayhap I'll see you later, Gabe," he said with forced casualness. "Got a lot of work to do, though."
Parrish made an affirmative noise, still with half an ear on the debate over hirelings. Faulkner gave her a wink over Parrish's shoulder and left.
"Master Parrish," Coby said. "Sir?"
"Hmm?"
"I need your help. It's about Pip."
"Oh?"
"He's…" Perhaps the truth would be best, even if it cost her dear. "He's running wild, sir. Master Naismith has been so busy with the new theatre and the contest, he hasn't been keeping an eye on the apprentices like he should. I think… I think Philip is taking costly gifts from admirers and spending the money on… on…"
"On what?"
"Gambling, sir. And whores."
Parrish frowned, suddenly attentive. "How long has this been going on?"
"I don't know, sir. Since we came back to London, at least."
"Why did you not say anything sooner?"
"I wanted to, sir, but I was scared. I know I shouldn't be, he's more than a year younger than me, but he's always been jealous that I get to come to the tavern with you and the other adults whilst he has to stay at home with Oliver, and–"
"Very well, I'll speak to Master Naismith–"
"No!" She caught his sleeve. "If you do that, he'll know it was me."
"What would you like me to do?"
She swallowed, caught his cool blue gaze with her own.
"Come and stay at Master Naismith's for a few days. Tell him you're worried about this attack preying on the boys' thoughts, giving them nightmares, and want to keep them company for a while."
Parrish smiled. "You have this all thought out, haven't you?"
"It has been on my mind for a while, yes."
She looked away, praying he would agree. Faulkner was right. If anything happened to Parrish or, worse still, Philip, their chances of winning the contest would be scuppered.
"All right," he said at last. "Ned will not be happy about this, but I dare say he'll live."
He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brotherly hug. For once she did not shy away. She was beginning to realise she had misjudged this man. He had never been interested in her, not in that way.
"Thank you, sir," she whispered.
The temptation to pour out her heart to someone had never been greater. No, she must not succumb. The company was already under threat, without adding new kindling to the flames.
At Trinity House Mal was shown into a side-chamber and clean clothes were brought to replace his ruined livery. Mal changed hurriedly, reluctant to let the ambassador out of his sight for a moment. He emerged into the dining hall a few minutes later to find the admiral and his guests sitting at table, along with a number of naval officers. The hapless Captain Fosdyke was not amongst them.
"… most regrettable," Effingham was saying. "Can't question a dead man, though."
"The ambassador's assailant is dead?" Mal asked, taking a seat at the far end of the table, where he could see the skraylings clearly. He noticed the elders had placed themselves either side of Kiiren, and wondered how many English noblemen would defend their ambassador so readily.
"Bled to death," Effingham replied, picking up a gobbet of meat and gesturing with it. "You know how to wield that fancy sword, sir, I'll give you that."
Mal inclined his head at the backhanded compliment.
"Do you think the fellow was a Spanish spy, sir?" a young officer asked the admiral, his eyes gleaming with patriotic fervour.
"Unless Fosdyke finds a purse of doubloons in his hammock, how will we know?" The speaker was an older man, weatherbeaten like the admiral but less richly attired.
"Not all men betray their country for pay," the young officer replied. "Damned Papists will do anything to harm the Queen's cause."
"Enough of such talk, gentlemen," Effingham said, gesturing to the skraylings. "Don't want to bore our guests with our petty squabbles, eh?"
Conversation turned to more friendly matters for a while: the ambassador's voyage from the New World, expeditions of trade and exploration on both sides. What it must be like, Mal thought as he sipped his wine, to sail for weeks without sight of land, and no certainty of reaching the other side? Like marching into battle, he supposed, only against a foe more implacable than any army, and with no means of retreat.
"I wish more of my men would learn to swim," the young officer said, echoing Mal's thoughts, "but they prefer to put their trust in God."
Kiiren translated this for his companions.
"We have seen this in your people," the ambassador said, "but never understood."
"Damned foolish nonsense, if you ask me," Effingham muttered. "Here, have a slice of quince tart."
"Thank you, no. We are much sated."
"Ate too much of the roast goose, eh?" The admiral beckoned to the servants, who cleared the dishes away. "Now, about this play–"
Kiiren held up a hand. "I am sorry, Effingham-tuur, but I cannot talk about contest."
"I was just going to ask–"
Kiiren stood up. "Please, you must excuse me."
He bowed low, and walked out of the room. After a moment's hesitation the skrayling elders did likewise.
"Damned foreigners!" Effingham slammed his glass down on the table, slopping wine over the tablecloth. "I was only going to ask how many of these contests that young fellow has judged. None at all, I'll warrant. I've seen cabin boys with more hair on their upper lips."
Mal refrained from pointing out that the skraylings did not appear to grow facial hair at any age.
"I am told they take their traditions and rules very seriously, my lord," he said. "If you will forgive me–"
He sketched a bow and all but ran from the room, his footsteps echoing round the high ceiling.
Kiiren was pacing a terrace overlooking the river, deep in conversation with the elders. Mal took up his station by a clipped box tree, where he could see most of the gardens at a single glance.
Shaded by the house behind him, the terrace was cool despite the afternoon sun. Balustraded steps ran down to a parterre divided into elaborate geometric shapes by low box hedges, and taller hedges either side framed the v
iew of the river. Mal's attention was not on the formal beauty of the gardens, however, nor on the spectacle of so many ships sailing back and forth on the glittering waters. He scanned the shadowed arbours for lurking threats, calculated lines of sight and angles of attack. After the morning's events, he was taking no chances.
The gardens were disappointingly empty, however. A lone gardener was snipping the deadheads from the roses and tying in the climbing stems, and in the distance he could hear the shouts of a lieutenant of marines drilling his new recruits, but otherwise it was all very peaceful. He was just beginning to wonder if he should ask the ambassador if he wished to return to London yet, when he spotted a figure slipping from bush to bush. Not another so soon?