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

by Anne Lyle

  In the event, the gate guards' inspection of the coach was curtailed by another of Kemp's seemingly endless supply of angels, and they passed through into the city without further obstacle. Whoever was behind this did not lack for money, Ned reflected. A pity nothing but threats came his own way.

  From Bishopsgate the coach headed south-west down Threadneedle Street. Just before St Pancras they took a sharp turn left towards the river, and after a few more minutes the coach stopped.

  "Out," Kemp told Ned.

  "Why? Where are we?" Ned looked out of the window. On the far side of the river he could see the familiar Bankside skyline, dominated by the bear-baiting and bull-baiting arenas to the east and the theatres to the west.

  "Three Cranes Stairs. Here's the wherry fare." Kemp handed him a meagre two pennies.

  "What about Sandy? Where are you taking him?"

  "That's none of your business. Is it, Catlyn?"

  Sandy said nothing. He had been staring out of the coach window since they entered the city, taking in all the sights and sounds.

  "This is an end to my part, isn't it?" Ned asked in a low voice. "You don't need me any more."

  "That remains to be seen," Kemp said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "This isn't over yet, Faulkner. You think we sprang the idiot boy out of Bedlam for the pleasure of his company? There's bigger matters afoot, my friend. And don't even think about betraying us. You're in this up to your neck, and it's more than your neck that'll get stretched if you fail us."

  "An audience with the Queen?" Mal asked.

  That explained why servants had been sent at dawn to fetch his replacement livery from the tailor. Kiiren inclined his head in acknowledgment. He was dressed once more in his blue silk robes and looked every inch the foreign ambassador.

  "I fear I have caused great offence," he said. "It is my duty to put things right between our people."

  Just inside the gates of the compound the skrayling honour guard were waiting, mounted on matched bay geldings. Kiiren was escorted to a pretty grey mare and helped to mount; Mal could only assume the chestnut with the white blaze was for his own use.

  Outside the compound they were joined by more guards, this time men in scarlet-and-gold royal livery, with banner-bearers in the vanguard. To show the ambassador the way to Nonsuch, Mal wondered, or to protect the skrayling party from unwanted attention? Few of the foreigners ventured outside London nowadays. There had been too many… disappearances.

  The journey to Nonsuch Palace took most of the morning at the gentle pace set by the mare. At each village and hamlet, people flocked to watch the cavalcade pass, waving their hats as the royal banners appeared and then falling silent when they saw the ambassador. A few made the sign of the cross discreetly whilst others cried out "God save the Queen!" or "Christ bless you, Your Honour!" Even this close to London, many had probably never seen a skrayling before.

  As they rode, Kiiren was full of questions about the English countryside: its crops, the manner of their cultivation and the cycle of the year. Mal explained that the main harvest – wheat, barley, peas and beans – was now over, leaving only the autumn fruits and roots to be gathered before the frosts.

  "Your people do not grow many kinds of vegetables," Kiiren observed.

  "Not in the fields," Mal replied. "In gardens."

  He thought of the Faulkners' back garden, with its rows of onions and cabbages and herbs. It seemed a world away from the circles he now moved in.

  If it had not been for dread at the thought of facing his queen, Mal would have enjoyed the journey a good deal. A strong breeze tempered the heat of the sun and blew away all memory of the stink of London. As the riders passed each farm, flocks of swallows weaved through the air above them, filling their bellies with the last flush of summer midges before they departed who knew where.

  At last they neared the fabled palace built by King Henry the Eighth and now inhabited by his widowed daughter Elizabeth. At first nothing could be seen through the trees apart from an unremarkable crenellated gatehouse. As they approached, however, the scale of the building became apparent. Massive octagonal towers rose at each corner of the palace, topped with gilded onion domes flying the royal standard. Thousands of lozenge-shaped panes of glass glinted in the midday sun.

  "It is called Nonsuch because it has no equal in Christendom," Mal said, noting with amusement Kiiren's awed expression. "Perhaps not in the world, unless Your Excellency knows better?"

  Kiiren shook his head. "Your Queen lives in this great place all alone?"

  "Not alone. There are many servants here, to attend to her every whim. I am told her sons visit as often as their duties allow."

  "And her daughters?"

  "There are no daughters, Your Excellency."

  "That is sad indeed. Every woman needs daughters, for sons must leave her."

  "Because only women live in your cities?" Mal asked.

  "Yes."

  "Then where do the men go?"

  "They journey from place to place and trade, as we do here in England. Amongst our own people, and between human peoples also. This is how it has been since long before time."

  "But your people do not live with humans."

  "No. They have their ways, we have ours. We learn from them, they learn from us. Now we learn from you English, and perhaps you learn from us also?"

  "I am sure there is a lot you could teach us," Mal said. "Like how to make those lamps without fire?"

  Kiiren smiled. "That I cannot tell you. Only our women know secrets of making such things. Men trade, or make show of music and storytelling and games of skill and strength, one company against another."

  "Like the theatre contest in London?"

  "Yes, except…" Kiiren glanced at him sidelong. "In my lands, purpose of contest is for choosing of mates."

  Mal was prevented from further enquiry into skrayling customs by their arrival at the gatehouse of the palace. The royal escort led them through a large outer courtyard to an inner one, less spacious but far grander. Rows of dazzling white stucco panels adorned all four sides of the quadrangle, depicting heroes of classical myth and English legend: Hercules, Perseus, Brutus and of course King Arthur, the prince's namesake.

  "You must tell me some of their stories," Kiiren said eagerly, gazing around in wonder.

  "Perhaps after the contest, sir," Mal said. "I would not want to spoil any surprises the players might have in store for Your Excellency."

  The skraylings dismounted, and the ambassador and his bodyguard were escorted alone through the echoing corridors of the palace, across expanses of black-and-white marble floor and up a noble stair into one of the octagonal towers. Mal felt very small and wretched amongst all this magnificence, which was no doubt its purpose. He wondered for the thousandth time how much the Queen had heard about Saturday's incident, and what she made of it. He only prayed he might come out of this with his head and other limbs intact.

  They were shown into an antechamber, and after a short wait the ambassador was announced. Tall doors decorated with bronze bas-reliefs swung open and Mal followed Kiiren into the chamber beyond.

  If he had not already been perspiring from a long ride in the sun and the anxiety of meeting his monarch, Mal would have broken out into a sweat the moment he stepped through the doors. Though the palace's many windows caught and held the midday heat, fires blazed in both great hearths of the audience chamber. A thick layer of rushes covered the marble floor, sprinkled with drifts of yellow bedstraw flowers. No courtiers thronged here to wait upon their monarch, only a handful of servants, silent and watchful.

  On a dais at the far end of the audience chamber stood twin thrones, The left was empty save for a narrow coronet ringed with ruby crosses and clusters of pearls; on the right sat Elizabeth. The sixty year-old Queen was her own death mask, a thick layer of white ceruse rendering her features immobile. She wore a gown of plain black damask with cuffs of tarnished silver thread and a cartwheel ruff
that framed her face in what had perhaps once been a flattering manner. A wig of tight redgold curls made an incongruous splash of colour above her sombre attire; a double rope of enormous pearls was her only adornment.

  Mal walked towards the dais behind the ambassador, gaze lowered. His booted feet bruised the tiny yellow petals, releasing their honeyed perfume. As Kiiren bowed in a courtly manner, Mal sank to one knee and remained there, eyes on the floor. A mouse stared at him from the shadow of the dais, jet-bead eyes glinting in the firelight, then it scuttled away.

  "Ambassador." The Queen's voice was still sharp, accustomed to absolute obedience; only a faint quaver betrayed her age.

  "Majesty."

  "How did you like the fair?"

  So much for the pleasantries. Mal wondered how quickly news had reached her. Probably the same night, which meant the Queen had been waiting a day and a half to hear this story at first hand.

  "It was most entertaining, Your Majesty," Kiiren replied. "Seeing our people together, as one – it remind me of home."

  "Ah, your home. We have heard much from our advisers about the wide lands of the New World, its richness, and our great good fortune in attracting your friendship. And now we are honoured by an ambassador. Tell me, Your Excellency, which prince do you represent?"

  "Prince, Majesty?"

  "There is some leader amongst your people, a chief or potentate or king?"

  She gestured regally, taking in the portraits of her ancestors lining the walls.

  "There are many leaders, Majesty," Kiiren said, "and many peoples. I speak only for Shajiilrekhurrnashet, as most numerous of all clans of Vinland to visit your shores."

  "The other clans and nations do not wish to send their own ambassadors?"

  "Perhaps in time they shall. I do not know their minds."

  The Queen laughed sharply. "Would that I had so little care for the plans of my enemies."

  "The other clans are not our enemies, Your Majesty," Kiiren replied.

  "Then you are indeed fortunate, Your Excellency." She peered more closely at him. "You are not like the others. Are there as many different races amongst the people of the New World as of the Old?"

  Kiiren shrugged. "There are hurraqeth, who are my people, and many nations of your kind, though they are darker of skin and black of hair. No others."

  "Hmm." The Queen turned her attention to Mal. "I understand it was your idea to divert the ambassador to Bartholomew Fair, Master Catlyn."

  Mal risked a glance upwards, into heavy-lidded bronze eyes as watchful as a hawk's.

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "To what end?"

  "Sir James is not so well acquainted with the ambassador as I am, Your Majesty. I knew His Excellency would not think well of us if he saw the way we treat those sick in mind."

  "You refer to Bethlem Hospital."

  "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "You think Sir James did wrong in this matter?"

  "In arranging a visit to Bethlem?"

  "In punishing you for disobeying orders."

  "No, ma'am. I would have done the same in his place." Had done the same, on campaign. It was the only way to maintain discipline amongst the lower ranks. He was only glad he had never had to order a man's death.

  "You consider yourself as skilled a diplomat as your father?"

  Mal blinked at this change of direction. The Queen was as unpredictable a questioner as Walsingham.

  "No, Your Majesty."

  "Very wise. A diplomat who caused this kind of… upset would not hold his post for long."

  "I am of course yours to command, Your Majesty. I will resign my commission forthwith, if that is your desire."

  "Hmm."

  "Majesty." Kiiren bowed again. "Please forgive my loyal companion; it is my fault alone. I should have more respect for customs of my hosts."

  The Queen leant forward slightly, her eyes moving from one to the other of her visitors.

  "It seems you have made a powerful ally, Master Catlyn."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Since no hurt has been done, we are willing to overlook this incident – if the ambassador is agreeable."

  "Of course, Majesty," Kiiren said in grateful tones.

  "It would be a great comfort to our enemies to learn that our two nations were at odds. We will not give them that satisfaction."

  "Your Majesty is very wise."

  "Now, leave us. We are wearied by all this talk."

  The Queen rang a small bell that hung at her side, and a hidden door in the panelling opened. A lady-in-waiting hurried into the audience chamber, bearing a tray of refreshments. Her eyes widened at the sight of the skrayling.

  They made their exit, stepping carefully backwards across the crackling rushes until they were out of the royal presence. Mal heaved a great sigh of relief as the doors closed.

  "Your people are very fortunate to have so great a queen," Kiiren said, smiling.

  "Yes, we are," Mal replied. "England shall not see her like again."

  He did not add that his people would not think themselves truly fortunate until they had a king once more.

  Ned went straight home after crossing the river. He wanted to stay on Bankside and see if he could make out which way the coach headed next, but he saw Kemp watching him like a hawk as he disembarked and thought better of it. The less he knew, the better. But even that might be too much.

  His feet led him towards the Mirror at first, unconsciously seeking the comfort of Gabriel's presence, but as he reached Gravel Lane he changed his mind. He would not be at all welcome if the actors were rehearsing, and if they were not, there was no point in going. Perhaps he should try Gabriel's lodgings, or Naismith's house? Then again, Hendricks had made it pretty clear he was not welcome there either. And whilst Armitage and Kemp were busy enough for the present, there was no telling what they would do when they returned to London. Either Ned had finally outworn his usefulness, or they had some new villainy in store for him. Well, he would not oblige them either way.

  There was only one thing for it: he had to get his mother away from here. They had cousins down in Sussex; they could hide out there and Kemp would never find them. How they would shift for themselves in the country, he had no idea, but it had to be better than this. With the thought of perhaps never seeing either Mal or Gabriel again gnawing at his guts, he made his way through the back garden and into the kitchen.

  His mother was bent over the fire, stirring an iron pot hanging on a hook. A savoury aroma rose with the steam, making Ned's stomach growl.

  "Sit down," his mother said. "I got a nice ham-hock from the butcher's this morning, and there's soup–"

  "Mam, we should leave. Now."

  He took down the shopping basket from its peg and began filling it with supplies: bread, cheese, a jar of newly pickled onions, and several bottles of beer. After a moment's thought he added a carving knife and a small roasting-spit.

  "Leave?" Mistress Faulkner put the lid back on the pot with a clank and sat down at the table. "What are you talking about, our Ned?"

  He looked around the kitchen distractedly. What else did they need?

  "We have to leave Southwark, Mam."

  She cocked her head on one side.

  "Have you been getting into trouble again, my lad?"

  "It wasn't my fault." He put the basket down with a sigh.

  "It never is."

  She patted the bench beside her, and he sat down reluctantly.

  "If your father was alive," his mother said, "you wouldn't have to scrape around for a living with them actors. I always knew they'd lead you amiss one day… Well, no use crying over spilt milk, eh?"

  "I suppose you're right, Mam."

  He leant his head against hers, and she put her arm around his shoulder. Her fingers were cold through the thin linen of his shirt, and her breath sounded even more wheezy than usual. How could he ask his mother to go tramping the high roads like a beggar at her age?

  "O' course I'm right."
She ruffled his greasy hair. "Now, get yourself some supper and stop worrying."

  CHAPTER XX

  After the audience with the Queen they rode straight back to the skrayling encampment and Kiiren excused himself, saying he must report to the elders. A servant brought a plate of spiced rice scattered with strips of fried meat and chunks of vegetables, and a jug of aniig. Mal picked at the food, pondering the day's events. The fragile alliance between England and Vinland hung in the balance, and he had been the one to disturb the scales by switching his allegiance between the two. Who was this Erishen, that the mere possibility of his existence could rule the fate of nations?