by Anne Lyle
Coby was woken by sounds from the tiring room below. Footsteps? She groped for the cudgel, her heart pounding. Surely she had locked and barred the doors before coming to bed; at least, she thought she had. No, she was certain of it. How then had someone got in?
The footsteps sounded on the stairs now. She pulled the cloak over her head, hoping not to be noticed in the shadows. If a thief were after something, it was better she spied on him and reported to Master Naismith later. She lay there, hardly daring to breathe. Yellow light, as of a candle or lantern, outlined the door at the far end of the office. The footsteps halted, and the door opened to reveal the face of a devil.
She clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream. The devil advanced into the room, holding the lantern so that its hideous blood-red face was lit from below like the fires of Hell. Its eyes glinted, and the hooked nose cast enormous shadows on the walls and ceiling. Coby moved her hand very slowly to the little wooden cross that hung on a cord around her neck.
The devil went from one chest to the next, unlocking each and examining the contents. At last he found what he wanted. Coby's heart skipped a beat. It was the chest containing the actors' sides. Master Naismith did not trust the hired men with even a fraction of his new play, and insisted that all copies were returned to the chest after each rehearsal. Pieced together, they could be made into a complete manuscript.
"Lodge," she muttered under her breath and got to her feet. The playwright was probably drunk again.
"Who's there?" the man growled.
He set his lantern down on the nearest chest, reached under his cloak and brought out a snaplock pistol. Never take on a man armed with a blade, Master Catlyn had told her. Or a gun, she added mentally. On the other hand, unless she fancied jumping over the balcony, there was nowhere to run from this particular devil.
After a moment she let the cudgel fall. The noise was loud as a pistol shot in the empty theatre, and in the long silence that followed, Coby realised no one would hear them and come to her aid. The intruder apparently came to the same conclusion.
"Make one more move and I shoot." He cocked the pistol with his free hand, then thumbed the flash pan open.
She froze, her heart pounding in her chest. If this was Lodge, he had grown a pair since Coby last saw him. Come to think of it, this man was too tall to be Lodge, and his mask could not quite hide the bald patch gleaming above a circle of mousy brown hair.
"Who are you, and what are you doing here?" she asked.
"That's none of your business, Hendricks."
So, he was an acquaintance, just not the one she had supposed. An actor, perhaps, or one of the workmen? His voice was familiar but, distorted as it was by the mask, she could not immediately identify him.
"Open the chest," the intruder said, stepping back slightly and gesturing with the pistol.
She crossed the room slowly, not wanting to come within arm's reach of the man. Most of all she had to keep from getting between him and the lantern, lest the transparency of her shirt betray her. Reaching the chest, she crouched and raised the lid. Neat stacks of pages lay where she had left them earlier that day, bound into sets with string. The handwritten lines seemed to blur before her gaze.
"Now, take out all the sides for The Queen of Faerieland."
She had been afraid the masked man intended to burn the contents of the chest, and perhaps the entire theatre, but if he were interested only in the new play, that suggested his motivation was monetary. The question was, what would he do with her once she had done everything he asked?
"If you are going to take these away with you," Coby said, trying to keep her voice steady, "it would be easier if I rolled them up into a document case."
She stood slowly and gestured towards the desk behind them, where there was indeed a cylindrical leather case. As she had hoped, the masked man turned without thinking, and she snatched up a nearby stool and hit him across the back of the head. He went sprawling across the floor, dropping the pistol. Coby stood over him, trembling with relief, but he did not move. She prodded him with the toe of her shoe. Out cold – or dead. Right now she was not sure she cared which.
There was no rope in the box-office, but a foray to the attic produced some offcuts from the fitting of the trapdoor and hoist mechanism. She bound the intruder hand and foot, and only then did she dare roll him over and remove the mask.
It was John Wheeler, the new hireling. Planning to sell them out to the Admiral's Men, no doubt. Well he could await Master Naismith's wrath. Grunting with effort she dragged the unconscious man over to a supporting timber and secured him with a further length of rope. She examined the back of his head, but his skull seemed unbroken and there was only a little bruising where she had hit him. He also had a lump on his forehead where he had hit the floor. At least he was not dead, though this knocking men out was getting to be a bad habit.
She got dressed, feeling vastly safer in the reassuring embrace of canvas and lacings, and settled down with a flagon of small ale to watch over her captive. Much as she wanted to run back to Thames Street and alert Master Naismith, there was nothing for it but to wait here. The wherrymen went home at curfew, and the city gates wouldn't open again until dawn.
The thought came to her that if the villain was the man hired to replace Catchpenny, he might have killed Catchpenny to gain a place in their company. She shivered despite the heat. If she had known she was taking on a murderer, she might have been more cautious, and that in itself could have got her killed. She picked up Wheeler's pistol and examined the intricate mechanism. She didn't know much about guns, but surely a pistol needed to be primed with powder and loaded with shot? This one looked as clean as the day it was made. An empty threat, then; Wheeler had not had any murderous intent this time. That was a relief of sorts. But she had acted on impulse, risking her life for what? A few sheets of paper, and those a mere copy of the original that Master Naismith kept safe at his home. The actor-manager might praise her bravery in capturing their would-be thief, but she did not think Master Catlyn would agree. She sighed, and put the pistol down on the desk.
After about an hour Wheeler regained consciousness and began to struggle against his bonds.
"Wha–? Where am I?" he slurred.
"You don't remember?"
Wheeler shook his head, and winced.
"You're at the Mirror," she told him. "I caught you breaking into the box-office and trying to steal the sides for the new play."
"I – There were rehearsals."
"Yes, all day. Everyone went home for supper this evening."
"I don't remember," he groaned.
"You don't remember going home?"
"No. Where am I?"
Coby sighed. Perhaps she had hit him too hard after all, and knocked his wits awry.
"At the Mirror. Why were you stealing our manuscript?"
He looked up at her with unfocused eyes.
"You're that Dutch boy who works for Naismith. What are you doing in my house, and why am I tied up?"
"You are at the theatre," Coby said through gritted teeth.
"Am I?" He looked around, puzzled. "What am I doing here?"
"That's what we'd all like to know," she sighed.
It was useless; she would not get any sense out of the man tonight. Picking up an armful of cushions she went out onto the balcony and closed the doors behind her. The rain had cleared the sky, and stars twinkled in the cloudless black. She lay down, pulled the cloak over her head to muffle the sound of her captive's shouts for help, and prayed for dawn.
CHAPTER XVIII
Mal woke slowly, stiff with cold. The brazier had gone out in the night, and his back was no longer numb from the skrayling salve. He rolled onto his side. Needles of sunlight pierced the seams of the tent, threading the gloomy space with lines of sparkling dust. The blue silk panels on the tent walls glowed softly.
He rubbed his eyes. Kiiren sat behind the brazier, watching him with those catlike amber eyes. Had he been s
itting there all night?
"Good morrow, Catlyn-tuur," Kiiren said. "You sleep well?"
"Tolerably," Mal replied, grimacing. He shifted into an upright position. "I have to go to church today. I could be fined if I don't."
"Of course you go," the skrayling replied. "You must spend time with your people."
Mal needed no further prompting; he thanked Kiiren and left for Southwark as soon as his own clothes were returned. His shirt was in a sorry state, so he gladly accepted Kiiren's offer of a plain linen tunic in its place. It felt a little odd, wearing it under his doublet, but hopefully no one would notice.
He attended service at his parish church of St Mary Overie, hoping to see Ned there, but oddly there was no sign of his friend amongst the congregation. He thought to ask Mistress Faulkner, but she was with a gentleman friend whom Mal had never seen before. Well, good for her; a poor widow deserved companionship in her old age.
After the service he went straight to Bethlem Hospital. Sandy was in much better health than he had been two months ago, though still rather thin and unkempt. As the weather was so hot today, indeed too humid to be cooped up indoors, the nonviolent patients had been allowed out into the courtyard, to see the sky and feel the sun on their faces. Sandy, however, remained in his cell.
"I would like the keys to my brother's shackles," Mal told Mistress Cooke.
"Oh, I can't do that, sir. Master Cooke says the bad cases ain't to be let out, no matter what."
"I will take responsibility for my brother."
The matron shook her head, her chins wobbling. "I'm sorry, sir."
"I would reward you for your pains," Mal said, taking out his purse. "Let us say, an extra week's fees?"
The woman's eyes lit up at the gleam of silver.
"Just for an hour, mind," she said, tucking the coins into her soft, freckled bosom. It would be a bold thief who dipped for that.
Mal took Sandy out into the courtyard and sat him on the bench under a great linden tree. His lute was left behind at the Tower, alas, but a few pence procured the loan of a draughts board from the warder.
When Mal returned to the bench, Sandy had something cupped in his hands and was examining it closely.
"What have you there?" Mal asked, sitting down next to his twin.
Sandy held up his hands. Perched on one palm was an enormous hawkmoth with dusky pink-and-black wings. The moth's feathery antennae quivered.
"Very fine. Perhaps you should let it be about its business, though. Whatever that might be."
He set out the board and pieces and let Sandy make the first move.
"They are treating you well?" Mal asked. He prodded a counter forwards.
Sandy shrugged. A lock of dark hair fell over his face, and he pushed it back absentmindedly – a painfully familiar gesture.
"I'm sorry I didn't visit last week," Mal said. "I have a new job, and there was much to do in preparation."
"You didn't come yesterday either," Sandy said, hopping his piece across several squares.
Mal stared at him. "You know about that?"
"I heard the girl telling someone, out in the hall. He sounded angry."
"Probably one of Leland's men." Mal did not voice his real concern, that it could have been another assassin. Had his plan inadvertently thwarted a second attack? "I'm sorry about that. I was supposed to come here with some other people, but I thought they would rather go to the fair instead."
Sandy nodded. "I would rather go to the fair than come here."
"I did bring you something," Mal said. He produced the Bartholomew Baby, retrieved from his knapsack after the hasty retreat from the Tower. It had broken in half and some of the gilt had rubbed off, but Sandy's face lit up when he saw it. Taking it from Mal he glanced around the courtyard, broke off a piece of the lady's gown and stowed the rest of the gingerbread doll inside his shirt.
Mal rubbed his left arm. The tattoo was healing well, thanks to the skrayling's salve, but the morning was already hot and sweat was trickling down inside his tunic sleeve, making the still-tender skin sting like nettle rash.
"Fleas?" Sandy asked, taking a bite of gingerbread.
Mal laughed and shook his head. He took off his doublet, rolled up the tunic sleeve and pulled the bandage away to display the tattoo. "What do you think, Sandy? Sandy!"
His brother had given a strangled cry and turned as stiff as the gingerbread doll, arms and legs rigid and trembling. His eyes rolled back in their sockets and he began to toss his head from side to side, moaning.
"Help! Someone help us!" Mal shouted, taking hold of Sandy's head and trying to get the piece of gingerbread out of his brother's mouth before he choked on it.
One of the warders came running. "Gawd help us, the lad's possessed!" he wailed.
"Don't be an ass." Mal glared at him. "It's just a fever brought on by the sun's heat."
He didn't believe it himself, but it seemed to reassure the warder, at least for the moment.
"Let us get him inside," Mal told him. "Cool shade and a drink will soon bring him to rights."
The warder fetched a stretcher and they carried Sandy, still twitching and moaning, back to the gatehouse and his own bed. Some of the other inmates watched them go, moaning in sympathy. Back indoors the air was humid and pungent, promising little respite for any fever victim, but at least the cell was out of public view.
"Bring wine – the good stuff, mind, none of that vinegary swill," Mal said, pressing a shilling into the warder's sweaty palm. "Now, if you please."
Sandy had stopped moaning but was now muttering to himself in the secret language of their childhood.
"Sandy? Sandy, are you all right?" Mal whispered, crouching on the edge of the bed.
His brother opened his eyes and sat up. His pupils were enormous, great pools of darkness that seemed to draw Mal in…
"Itë omiro?" Sandy asked. Who are you?
"It's me, Mal. Remember?"
Sandy screamed. Mal threw his arms around him, trying to quiet him before he set off the whole ward. Sandy writhed in his embrace but despite having a madman's desperate strength he was too frail from his long confinement to break free. Mal held him tight until he stopped struggling, then reluctantly snapped the gyves around Sandy's wrists and ankles before he could gain his second wind. Sandy's pupils shrank in an instant, like a door slamming shut, and he slumped back on the bed. Mal stroked the sweat-damp hair from his brother's brow, blinking back tears, then sank to his knees beside the bed and prayed to St Giles, patron of madmen, cripples and those with the falling sickness.
The warder eventually returned with a cup of sweet hippocras, made the sign of the cross at the sight of Sandy, and fled. Mal coaxed a few drops of the wine between his brother's lips.
Sandy gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Mal? What happened?"
"A brief fit, nothing more," Mal said. "We should not have sat out in the sun so long."
Sandy closed his eyes again, and soon his breathing began to slow and his features relaxed in sleep. Mal stayed with him whilst the sun traced its slow path across the floor, alternately pacing the cell with soft tread and kneeling in prayer for his brother's soul.
At last the bells of nearby St Botolph's tolled five, and Mal remembered he had promised to return to the skrayling compound by six. He knocked on the cell door to be let out. The thought of leaving Sandy in this condition and being unable to visit him for a whole week tore at his heart, but what could he do? They would both have to endure the separation as best they could.
When Mal returned to the compound he was shown back to the small tent. Kiiren was seated cross-legged on a large woollen cushion next to the brazier, where a lidded metal jug stood heating. The jug's spout emitted a thin wisp of steam. That smell again: bitter and woody yet strangely pleasant.
"Please, sit," Kiiren said in a low voice.
He took the pot off the fire and whisked the contents, sending up a cloud of steam. Mal breathed it in, and felt his spirits lift a litt
le.
"What happens now?" Mal asked. "This… is not a good start to your stay in London."
"We go back to Tower, perhaps tomorrow."
Tomorrow, the day after, a week from now; Mal didn't care any more. He just wanted to see Sandy again.
"Next Sunday," he said firmly, "I must have time for my own affairs."