by Anne Lyle
There was no point calling out; no one apart from the gardener was within easy range, and the intruder would easily get away. Mal stepped back into the shadows of a column and watched.
The man paused in a gap in the hedge, waiting for the gardener to turn his back. He was a short, dark-haired fellow, dressed in dull green and russet as if to go unnoticed in his current surroundings. He wore no cloak that would hide a pistol, and did not appear to be armed with more than a dagger. No immediate danger, then, unless he got a good deal closer to the ambassador.
The gardener picked up his trug and turned towards the next group of rose bushes. For a moment Mal was afraid the intruder would leap out and stab him, but the gardener walked away unharmed. The intruder looked straight at Mal and beckoned.
Mal hesitated. He was not about to walk up to another assassin and let himself be murdered. On the other hand, this could be some kind of contact from Walsingham. He strolled down the steps to the garden, as if going to admire the sundial. Glancing back, he reassured himself that the ambassador was still busy with the elders. He stepped aside into a rose bower and drew his rapier, then walked towards the waiting man.
"What do you want?"
The stranger said nothing, only took out a sealed letter, dropped it on the gravel path and walked away. Mal glanced around, but the gardener had his back to him. Crouching, he retrieved the folded paper. The seal was a plain one, a simple cross within a circle. On the other side were two initials: M C.
He slipped the letter into his pocket and sheathed his blade, then hurried back to the terrace. His only thought was to get the ambassador safely back to the Tower so he could read the letter at his leisure.
CHAPTER XIII
After a quiet supper in the dining room of St Thomas's Tower, the ambassador and the two elders settled down to a game of Five Beans. Greatyard produced a bag of counters and a roll of leather on which was painted the X-shaped board, and the skraylings began haggling good-naturedly over the items to be provided for the bets. The ambassador chose six gifts from the cabinet, much to the annoyance of the elders, who seemed to be disputing their value. Mal excused himself as early as possible, and retreated to the privacy of the small bedchamber.
Taking the letter from his pocket he cracked the seal.
Esteemed sir, it has come to our attention that one true to the Old Faith has, by the Grace of God, been granted access to His Excellency the Ambassador of Vinland. It is the fondest wish of His Holiness that the foreigners be brought to knowledge of Christ for the salvation of their souls, and it is certain that any man who could claim to have converted the ambassador himself would gain eternal salvation. He would also earn the undying gratitude of His Most Catholic Majesty King Felipe, to his undoubted benefit and worship. I pray to Our Lady that this message reaches one whose heart is true, and wish him all success in this endeavour.
Mal crumpled the letter in his fist. Goddam Spanish, using faith as an excuse for conquest. He looked around the bedchamber. Even to possess such a letter was enough to condemn a man. It mattered not that there was no signature, nor any recipient named; the initials on the outside were as good as a noose around his neck. Were they genuinely trying to recruit him, or was this a more subtle ploy, aimed at removing him from his position by exposing him as a Catholic? No matter. He would not give them the satisfaction of either.
He ventured into the ambassador's bedchamber, where one of the lamps rested on the hearth. He dipped the letter into the glowing liquid, but it failed to burst into flames. When he lifted it out, it dripped pale light back into the lamp but was otherwise unharmed. With a sigh he retrieved his tinderbox and placed the damp letter on the hearth, arranging a small heap of wood-shavings and other dry scraps in the centre.
After a few strikes of flint and steel the tinder caught fire. Flame gulped at the dry stuff and spread to the paper, turning it to wisps of black ash that floated about the room in the draught from the fireplace. Only the corner dampened by the skraylings' lightwater remained, the ink smeared into illegibility. He picked it up, wadded it and stuffed it in his pocket. One more thing that Walsingham would never hear from his own lips. Perhaps he should make a list, as Cecil was reputedly so fond of doing.
Item: one treasonous letter from the Spanish.
Item: one initiation into an illegal secret society.
Item: one murder of a skrayling, witness to.
Brushing the soot from his hands, he turned to leave. Should he do as he had vowed and sleep in the side-chamber tonight? Perhaps not. It would only cause more trouble and besides, the skraylings were not so monstrous, in truth. He had seen far more noisome creatures begging on street corners, and they were God's children also.
He suddenly realised he had not had the old nightmare last night, despite the close presence of the ambassador. On the contrary, he had slept better than he had since learning about this job. Perhaps it was relief that the waiting was over. Or perhaps it was just the calm before the storm.
The next day, Coby rose at dawn. Master Naismith might have delegated most of her work to Master Dunfell, but that did not mean she could not keep an eye on the secretary herself. What did he know about the theatre? Sooner or later he would slip up, and then what? Naismith and his men would get the blame, of that she was sure.
First order of the day was to head over to Bankside so she could be at the theatre before anyone else arrived. The actors were usually late to rise, but Dunfell no doubt scorned such idleness. Fortunately Master Naismith had given her a spare key to the back door of the theatre before Dunfell took over, and she had neglected to return it.
Shoes in hand, she crept in stockinged feet down the stairs, hopping over the creaky tread halfway down. On the first floor, snoring came from Master Naismith's bedchamber; the room opposite, where Master Parrish was sleeping with the two apprentices, was silent. At the bottom of the second flight of stairs she paused to put on her shoes. The sound of a brush scraping on hearthstones came from the kitchen, which meant their maidservant was already awake and at work. Coby's stomach grumbled. Perhaps she had better eat breakfast first. With Master Parrish to watch over them, there was much less chance that Philip or Oliver would come downstairs early with the same idea, and no one else was likely to be up at this hour, not even Mistress Naismith.
She wandered into the kitchen, trying to look nonchalant, and took a heel of yesterday's bread from the pantry.
"Morning, Jacob," Betsy murmured, brushing her hands on her apron.
"Uh, morning," Coby replied in her best Philip-surly voice, and sat down at the table.
"You're up early."
"Uh, yeah. Get us some ale, will you?"
The girl bobbed a curtsey, and returned with a tankard and a smile.
"Going to the fair today?" Betsy asked, sliding onto the bench opposite and pushing the tankard towards her.
Coby looked up, noting the girl's intent expression and the mock-coy way she rested her chin on her hand. She cursed under her breath. Sometimes her disguise was far too convincing.
"No." Coby stuffed some bread in her mouth and washed it back with a mouthful of small ale.
"What about tomorrow?"
"I doubt it."
"Sunday?"
"Certainly not. I shall be at church on Sunday, as you should be."
Betsy pouted. "Never mind. Master Philip will take me. If I ask him."
"Philip's going to the fair?"
This was more interesting. They were supposed to be rehearsing for the next three days, thanks to Master Dunfell, who was convinced everyone would forget their lines by next week. She would have to remember to warn Master Parrish to keep an extra-sharp eye on the apprentices.
"Oh yes. He promised me a half-angel to spend all to myself." Betsy sighed. "What colour ribbons should I buy for my hair, do you think?"
"Green," Coby replied without thinking. Betsy's copper hair looked good with green.
"How do you know so much about what women should wear?" Be
tsy asked, her eyes narrow with curiosity.
"It's my job to," Coby said quickly. "I make up the costumes for the stage, remember?"
The girl's mouth formed an "oh", then a look of guile crossed her features and she looked sidelong at Coby through lowered lashes.
"I wish you would take me, Jacob," she murmured. "You're much nicer than Philip."
Coby was saved by the sound of movement upstairs.
"Got to go," she said, draining the tankard and stuffing the rest of the bread in her pocket. "Tell Master Naismith I've gone to the new theatre, would you?"
After breaking his fast Mal was summoned to the lieutenant's lodgings. He was shown into the same dining parlour where he had met Lodge a few days ago, now bright with morning sunlight. Leland was still at breakfast, leafing through a pile of papers with one hand whilst the other held a spoon that dripped congealing porridge onto the tabletop. Mal stood to attention, hands clasped behind his back, and waited.
"I hear you saved the ambassador's life yesterday," Leland said eventually, frowning at a document he had just picked up.
"Well, yes I suppose–"
"Effingham says you killed the man."
"I didn't intend to, sir," Mal said. "But–"
"No?" Leland put the porridge spoon down and looked up at Mal. "Just mortally wounded him by accident, eh?"
"No, sir. But he would not back off, and I feared for my own life as well as that of the ambassador."
"Hmm. Well don't let it happen again."
"The attempted assassination, or my killing the assassin?"
"Either."
Leland picked up the spoon again and waved him away, spattering the paperwork with porridge. Mal bowed and left, wondering if he had just been praised or reprimanded.
The morning was fine and cool, with a flawless blue sky promising a scorching hot day to come. Even the turbid waters of the Thames were bright with sunlight. As Coby walked across London Bridge the city came to life: bleary-eyed shopkeepers unbolted their shutters and began setting out their wares, and the great gates at the southern end of the bridge swung open, letting in the first street-vendors with their baskets of eggs and pails of milk.
When she arrived at the field where the theatre stood, she was surprised to find the gate open. Fresh hoof-prints marked the damp earth at the entrance to the field, and by the gatepost were the imprints of booted feet – going in through the gate, but not leaving. She froze, scanning the field beyond.
There was no one to be seen, but on the other hand there were places enough for concealment. The wooded gardens nearby were thick with new growth at this time of year and of course there was the bulk of the theatre building itself, casting a long shadow on the dewy grass. A flicker of movement caught her eye. Something white, pinned to the front door of the theatre and fluttering in the early morning breeze. Paper?
She looked at the ground again. The boot marks went one way only, but the hoof prints faced in both directions, and the outgoing ones lay uppermost. Someone had dismounted to unlatch the gate, but had ridden out again without closing it. Why be in such a hurry, unless one was up to mischief? Heart in mouth, she ran up to the theatre doors.
A sheet of paper had been nailed to the door by its top edge; it was slightly askew and one nail was bent, as if the job were hastily done. On it, written in a neat hand, were four verses of doggerel, signed "Jonah". Coby's breakfast turned to lead in her stomach. Just such a pseudonymous notice had been posted on the Guildhall door only a few months ago, intended to stir up violence against skraylings, Jews and other aliens in the city. The aldermen of London had offered a reward of one hundred crowns for information on the perpetrator, whilst the Privy Council had issued a blanket arrest warrant for all possible suspects, their lodgings to be searched for evidence and their persons to be tortured if they would not talk.
Thankful she had discovered the libel before it could be made public, she tore it down and took it in both hands, ready to rip it into pieces. No, Master Naismith needed to see this. If the theatre company had enemies, he ought to know about it, lest the villains try again.
Around mid-morning a servant arrived from Trinity House with Mal's livery, which had been rinsed of blood and dried. Mal gave the servant his borrowed garments and sixpence for his trouble then returned to the bedchamber to get changed. Unfortunately the delicate silk and silver embroidery on the breast was ruined by the scrubbing. A clicking noise caused him to turn. Kiiren stood in the doorway, looking him up and down and frowning.
"You need new clothes," the skrayling said.
"Probably, Your Excellency, but…"
"But?"
Mal hesitated. Perhaps it was better to be honest. "This livery must have cost a great deal. Even if Sir James docks my entire pay for this commission, it might not be enough."
"I will give Sir Leland money," Kiiren replied. "It is small price for saving of my life."
"Thank you, sir, that is most generous."
Mal put aside the livery and donned his own clothes once more. His best doublet and hose were of plain English wool, nothing like as fine as the royal livery, but good enough for a dinner at the Guildhall followed by trade negotiations, which was all the "entertainment" planned for today. After yesterday's excitement, it would be a relief to guard the ambassador in surroundings that did not bristle with deadly weapons. Still, he would have to remain watchful and alert. There must be a few merchants whose trade had not benefited from the alliance with the skraylings.
Though he was getting used to the skraylings' presence, he longed for the company of his own kind. He wondered if it was against ambassadorial protocol for him to invite Ned over one evening, or perhaps young Hendricks. No, not the boy. The ambassador had made it plain he could not discuss the contest, so asking one of Suffolk's Men to sup with them would not be wise. And even Ned had theatre connections, through Parrish and Henslowe. Dammit, the sooner Sunday came around the better. He would go and see Sandy after church, and perhaps have a drink with Ned before returning to the Tower. Leland had assured him he would be allowed time off duty on the Lord's Day; though the skraylings might not care to hear the word of God, they respected Christian custom at least that far.
He returned to the dining room, where the ambassador was greeting yet another well-wisher, a foreigner by his clothing.
"I am Monsieur D'Arrignan, aide to His Excellency the Ambassador of France," the man said in heavily accented English. "The ambassador regrets he cannot visit you himself, but he has been much distracted by bad news from Paris. A Catholic assassin tried to kill His Most Christian Majesty since only a few days."
"I do not understand," Kiiren said. "Is not your king of same faith as his people?"
"Since one month only, and not all believe he is sincere."
The ambassador shook his head. "It is very sad thing, that some men are so blind from own hatred they cannot see good in others."
Mal glanced at the ambassador, wondering if this statement was aimed closer to home. Had the ambassador understood the remarks at the admiral's dinner after all? He must surely have been briefed on the political situation in England, even if his people could not understand the details.
D'Arrignan presented Kiiren with an inlaid wooden box containing a gilded spoon and fork. Mal had seen table forks used in Italy, though Englishmen considered them unnecessary and effeminate. After a cursory examination he took the box and handed it to a servant, with instructions to wash the implements thoroughly in case the ambassador wished to use them at dinner.
As he was leaving, D'Arrignan addressed Mal in French.
"My master wishes me to convey his regrets that your family has suffered so much in recent years. Your late mother was truly an ornament of the French court, and she is sadly missed."
"Thank your master for his kind words, sir."
"He also wishes me to say that your mother's family's legal affairs are very… complicated. It is possible that mistakes were made in assigning the dowry, and that
her sons may yet be entitled to certain modest estates currently in the possession of our sovereign, Henri."
More bribes, eh? At least the French had the delicacy to couch it in terms that almost sounded reasonable and just. Treason was still treason, however.
"Please tell your master I appreciate his concern for my family. Should any such matter be presented to an English court of law, I would be most happy to accept the outcome."
The diplomat smiled thinly at the rebuff.
"As you wish, monsieur."
Mal was relieved when D'Arrignan left. First the Spanish, now the French; who else was lining up to bribe, threaten or cajole him into betraying his commission?