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

by Anne Lyle

  "No, nothing." He had expected something like this when Kemp first latched on to him, and had destroyed what few papers Mal had left behind.

  "Pity," said Kemp. "Just make it look good, then."

  He handed Ned a sheet of paper and a large, official-looking seal. The document was a draft copy of a power of attorney; the name at the top read "Maliverny Catlyn Esq., of Rushdale in the county of Derbyshire".

  "I think you know what to do with those," Kemp said softly. "See you Monday."

  The front door of the Naismiths' house was locked, so Coby went round to the back. A clattering and reedy singing from the scullery told her Betsy was busy with the laundry. Perfect. Mistress Naismith was probably at the market or visiting friends, so she had the house to herself.

  She let herself in and walked through the kitchen and upstairs to the apprentices" room. The spartan bedchamber held a plain bedstead, a washstand and a clothes chest cracked and stained with age. She rummaged in the chest amongst the tangle of clean and dirty linens, but found only the usual scant possessions of a boy: a comb with several teeth missing, a cupand-ball, a set of skittles. There was nothing under the mattress either, apart from dust and an odd sock. What Philip did not know, however, was that this room had been hers, briefly, after Master Naismith had first brought her to London. If he had explored it thoroughly since then, he would have found her old hiding place.

  She moved the washstand to one side and levered up the short piece of floorboard with her knife. Reaching down into the dusty depths her fingers brushed against something smooth and cold. A leather pouch. She took it out and tipped the contents into her lap.

  The gold and jewels blazed like beacons in the gloom. A handful of angels and half-angels, mixed with gold chains, finger rings and the rope of pearls Philip had boasted of pawning. Had he taken the hint and redeemed them? Still, by themselves these treasures were useless to her. Everyone knew that boy players received gifts from their admirers, and the canny ones like Gabriel Parrish saved them up for the day when their admirers sought newer, younger idols.

  She reached inside the hiding-place again, but found nothing. Either Philip was cleverer than she thought, or he was not behind this wicked scheme. She put the pouch back and returned the room to the way she had found it. She was just about to leave when she heard noises coming from upstairs. Not the room above, which was Betsy's. That only left her own room and the costume store. Heart in mouth, she padded up the stairs.

  As she neared the top she heard someone cry out, a man's voice. In her own room. She crept up the last few steps and turned right onto the landing. The only sound from the room up ahead was a fast rhythmic creaking. She tiptoed to the door and pressed her ear to the worn planks.

  The cry came again and this time there were words, in a voice she recognised. Ned Faulkner.

  "Oh God… Oh God… I die, I di– Aaaahhh!"

  Blood rushed to her cheeks and her heart stilled its clamour. Ned Faulkner. Gabriel Parrish. They were fornicating like the sinners of Sodom, in her own bed no less, and blaspheming as they did so. She leant back against the wall and drew a deep breath, then another. Reaching out to her left she pounded on the door with the side of her fist.

  "Master Parrish?"

  There was a scuffling noise from within, and muttered curses. Coby recited the Lord's Prayer under her breath, then knocked again.

  "Master Parrish!"

  Silence. Try once more.

  She had just got to the part about forgiving trespasses, when the door opened a crack. Parrish stepped out onto the landing clad in shirt and hose, his feet bare. His pale hair was disordered and limp with sweat, and his features were as flushed as her own, though not, she feared, with shame.

  "Hendricks? What are you doing here?"

  "What are you doing here?" she countered. "We have rehearsals today."

  Parrish made a derisive noise.

  "Please, sir?" She tried a different tack. "Philip is still forgetting his lines, and now he reckons his voice might be breaking."

  "And how am I to help with that?" He lowered his voice. "I want nothing to do with this play. Not any more."

  Coby sighed. This was all she needed.

  "How could you?" she muttered, jerking her head towards the door. "In my bed."

  He shrugged. "Ned was… persistent, and we could hardly use the boys' room, or anywhere else for that matter. You did take pains to point out that this door has a bolt on it."

  She pushed past him, unwilling to acknowledge he was right. If Betsy had found… evidence in Philip's bed, it would go ill for Parrish.

  The air was heavy with the smell of violets and fresh sweat. Memories of another man's scent, the warmth of his breath on her neck as they grappled in combat, rose unbidden. How was that any different from this? the voice of temptation asked. It just is, she replied.

  She shook off the troublesome thoughts and forced herself to return to the matter at hand. Parrish was making a show of straightening the bedding, but since Faulkner was still sprawled across half of it with only a corner of the sheet to hide his modesty, there seemed little point.

  "Hullo, Hendricks," Faulkner said, grinning. "What brings you here?"

  "Master Parrish is supposed to be at rehearsals," she replied.

  "So you're Naismith's retriever now, as well as his mastiff?" He exchanged knowing glances with Parrish. "Methinks he would make a better spaniel, eh, Gabe?"

  "Oh, he's that already." Parrish gave her a wink.

  "Alas, my horn is winded," Faulkner sighed. "The hunt is over, and the quarry brought to its fall."

  Coby ignored him. "Sir, we really do need you at the theatre. Everyone's so upset–"

  Parrish's eyes flicked towards his lover, and Coby realised he hadn't told Faulkner about the poem yet.

  "They're always like this before a new play," he said, a little too loudly. "They can live without me for one afternoon."

  "As long as it is only one."

  "Why should it not be?" Faulkner levered himself out of bed and slithered naked over to Parrish, slipping his arms around the other man's waist. "Or is there something you're not telling me, love?"

  Coby looked away, her cheeks burning. The shamelessness of the man knew no bounds.

  "It's nothing," Parrish said. "Just the usual squabbling over who gets the best parts."

  "I know which parts I like best," Faulkner purred.

  "Stop it, Ned, you're embarrassing yourself as well as Hendricks."

  Faulkner flounced back to bed and wrapped himself in a sheet, muttering.

  "Don't mind him," Parrish told Coby. "He's been in a queer humour all morning."

  She made no comment. As far as she could see, Faulkner was his usual self: lewd, discourteous and nasty.

  "So, how are the rehearsals going?" Parrish asked her, leaning on the bedpost. "Is Pip's voice really breaking?"

  "I don't think so. It's just nerves, or a summer chill."

  "Naismith should get him some physic from the skrayling apothecary in that case."

  "They would be happier if you were there, sir. And not just the boys. The company feels incomplete without you."

  Parrish bit his lip. He looked somewhat mollified, but she decided this was not the time to take chances.

  "You are the very pinnacle of the actor's art, in both male and female roles," she went on, "and thus invaluable to Suffolk's Men."

  "Invaluable, eh?" Parrish fingered his lovelock and looked about the room.

  "Absolutely."

  "All right. Tell Naismith I'll turn up if he pays me the same as Rafe."

  "I–" She could hardly say no, but if she agreed, Master Naismith would be furious. For one thing, actors were normally fined for failing to turn up, not rewarded when they deigned to appear. She supposed she could offer to pay the difference out of her own meagre wages. After all, it would only be for a few days. Once the competition was over, Parrish could run off to Vinland for all she cared.

  "Ten shillings a
week, or naught," Parrish said. "It's his choice."

  "Very well," she said. "I'll tell him."

  Gabriel shut the door behind Hendricks and sat down on the edge of the bed, staring down at his clasped hands. He sat there for so long, silent and unmoving, Ned began to fear that this was it; he had gone too far this time, offended Gabriel as well as that uptight little Puritan Hendricks, and now he was to be cast off. He slid out of bed and began dressing. Better to leave now of his own accord than be thrown out.

  He got as far as buttoning his doublet before Gabriel spoke.

  "You trust me, don't you, Ned?"

  He paused. This was not how he'd expected it to begin. When he didn't answer, Gabriel looked up, an expression of such despair on his face that Ned went to him and knelt at his feet.

  "Of course I do." He took Gabriel's hands in his own.

  "I– I know I've done some wicked, sinful things in my life," Gabriel said. "But I never forced myself on anyone, nor forced them–"

  "What's this all about, love?" He moved to sit on the bed, and put his arm around Gabriel's waist.

  Gabriel proceeded to tell him about the previous day's discovery, though his account was so garbled Ned could scarcely make head or tail of it.

  "A libel?" he said at last. "About Suffolk's Men?"

  The actor nodded, biting his lip. "Such terrible things it said…"

  "Come on, it can't be that bad."

  In a small voice Gabriel recited the verse pertaining to himself.

  "Lies and conjecture," Ned said, trying to convince himself as much as his lover. "Like you say, you never forced anyone to do anything they didn't want to, did you?"

  "No, of course not. But…"

  He glanced up at Ned. No words were needed; they both knew to what depths a man could sink, if his very survival was on the line.

  "But that was long ago, surely?" Ned replied. "And the rest is but idle gossip, and scarcely a secret."

  "It's one thing for tongues to wag," Gabriel said, "no one expects otherwise. But when it is written down, published for all to see, and in a point-by-point list of such slanders–"

  "I thought you said it was a poem?"

  "Poetry?" Gabriel grimaced. "I would not grace it with such a title. Rank doggerel of the feeblest kind."

  "So that's it. You are ashamed to be insulted in bad verse. Now if Marlowe–"

  The slap came out of nowhere, leaving Ned's cheek stinging. Suddenly they were both on their feet, eye to eye.

  "Leave Kit out of this, you puny upstart scratcher of other men's words!" Gabriel's eyes filled with tears. "You're not fit to speak his name."

  Ned said nothing. He knew Marlowe had had many lovers, but had never been able to get Gabriel to admit how he felt about the playwright. Until now.

  "I'm sorry, Gabe," he said quietly.

  He slipped his arms around his lover's waist and pulled him close. As angels went, Gabriel was a pretty sorry specimen at the moment, dark circles under his eyes and hair unkempt. Ned lifted a hand to smooth those golden locks, but Gabriel shrugged him off.

  "Three months," the actor said, pacing the narrow room. "Three months since those bastards murdered him."

  "I know."

  "Atheist, my arse. They killed him to shut him up. Didn't want him confessing to debauching half the Court. He had nothing to do with that libel, and they knew it."

  "You think it's happening again?" Ned asked. "The sedition, the arrests, the…?"

  He fell silent, sick to his stomach at the images running through his head: Gabriel tormented, broken… dead.

  Gabriel snorted. "Who needs torture when you have a willing informant?"

  "What do you mean?"

  The actor sank down onto the bed again, hands clasped before him.

  "If the Privy Council find out, they will question everyone here. Including Philip."

  "So?"

  "What if he lies? What if he tells them I… that I…"

  "He wouldn't."

  "You don't know him." Gabriel shook his head. "I thought I was doing the right thing, hauling him out of that stew and knocking some sense into him, but you should have seen the look in his eyes. He'd denounce me in a heartbeat, and probably accuse young Hendricks of being complicit in the crime."

  "You're serious, aren't you?"

  Gabriel nodded.

  "How will anyone find out?" Ned asked. "Would Philip go to the city fathers himself?"

  "We haven't told the boys why the rehearsal was cancelled, and Naismith burned the cursed thing when we were done with it. I think we are safe for now, unless the villain posts a copy somewhere else. In any case, perhaps we are not his only target. These things seldom appear alone, but spring up in clumps like toadstools on a cowpat."

  Ned closed his eyes, trying to shut out the knowledge that Gabriel was right. Someone was targeting the skraylings and anyone connected with them, and Ned would bet his life it was the innocents who would suffer. The villains doing the dirty work, and their masters pulling the strings, would get off scot-free as usual.

  He should tell Gabriel about Kemp, warn him of the real dangers facing him – No. Let him calm down a little before plying him with more bad news. He would be safe enough here for a couple of hours.

  "I have to go," he said, clapping Gabriel on the shoulder. "And I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back."

  "What is it? Where are you going?"

  "There's something I have to do, and it's best you know nothing about it."

  The actor caught hold of him by both arms.

  "Can't it wait a while?" Gabriel gazed down at him with redrimmed eyes. "Please, Ned."

  He sighed. "All right. A few more hours can't hurt. I'll stay here until supper, on one condition."

  "Anything." Gabriel smiled, his face lighting up with a hint of his old wickedness.

  "Tomorrow you go to rehearsals," Ned told him, trying to sound masterful. "The show must go on, remember?"

  "I promise," Gabriel murmured, and pulled him down onto the bed.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Mal woke just before dawn to find the girls preparing to leave. He tried to persuade them to stay a little while longer, but they shook their heads and continued dressing. They had not spoken a word since they arrived.

  When they had gone Mal rose and dressed, too alert now to sleep longer. The truckle bed was empty, and for a horrible moment he feared this had all been a clever ruse to distract him and abduct the ambassador. He wrenched open the door and leapt down the stairs into the parlour. Running into the side-chamber he pulled the bed-curtains aside – and found Kiiren curled up in the centre of the bed like a cat, fast asleep.

  With a smile Mal let the curtain fall. This was the perfect opportunity to re-examine some of the gifts for signs of secret correspondence. He picked out three books from the cabinet and carried them through into the bedchamber. The lamps had all gone dark and he had no idea how to relight them, so he found a candle and lit it with his own tinderbox.

  Without a key there was little hope of even recognising one of the more subtle ciphers, so he contented himself with skimming the pages for passages containing numbers, incongruous phrases or illustrations containing odd symbols. Nothing jumped out at him, and in the end he returned the books to the cabinet, frustrated. If someone was communicating directly with the ambassador, they were using means beyond his skill to uncover.

  Eventually servants arrived with hot water and breakfast, and Mal vacated the bedchamber so the ambassador could wash and dress in private. Snatching up a hunk of bread, he wandered out into the ward. The rising sun was already warm, but leaden clouds massed on the horizon. He climbed to the wall-walk and leant on the parapet, watching Southwark stir to wakefulness.

  The sound of approaching footsteps woke him from his reverie, and he looked round.

  "Shirking your duties already, Catlyn?" Monkton said. "I should report this to Leland."

  "Can't a man break his fast in peace?" Mal threw the heel of bread
into the river below. With a shrill cry a seagull folded its wings and plunged after it, followed by several of its fellows. "Where's the ambassador going today, anyway?"

  "Bedlam."

  "Bedlam?" Mal tried to keep the panic out of his voice. "Why?"

  Monkton shrugged. "Why not?"

  "Where is Leland?" Mal pushed past him, heading down the steps towards the inner ward and the lieutenant's lodgings.