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

by Anne Lyle

  "Very well," she said. "What must I do?"

  "You can get a message to Mal," Faulkner said. "I can't confess to my real business with Kemp and Armitage, not unless someone with connections can speak up for me."

  "But why me? Cannot Master Parrish convey your message?"

  Not that an excuse to see Master Catlyn was unwelcome. But there was something else going on here, something Faulkner was not telling her.

  Faulkner sighed. "The skraylings took Mal from the Tower on Saturday night."

  "What? Took him where?"

  "I don't know. Perhaps all the way back to the New World…"

  She gaped at him, caught between laughter and tears. "The New World?"

  "Not that far, God willing," Parrish put in. "The Admiral's Men are due to play today, so the ambassador must surely be in London yet."

  "But he might still be at the camp," Faulkner put in. "You speak their language, Hendricks. You have to go there and warn Mal. Those villains were up to something dreadful; they were too free with their money not to be working for someone very rich and powerful."

  "And if he is not at the camp?"

  "Then find him, wherever he is, and get a message to him. Lives depend on it, I'm certain."

  By midday a persistent drizzle had set in, and the atmosphere in the ambassador's quarters was more dismal than ever.

  "Will play go on in rain?" Kiiren said as they went down to the outer ward.

  "As long as there's not a downpour," Mal replied. "I fear there's been too much preparation done for anything less to stop it."

  "It rains very much in England," Kiiren said mournfully. "Perhaps that is why you think nothing of dirt everywhere."

  They arrived at the theatre in good time, before the crush of people assembled at the gate had been let in, and were shown upstairs. Usually the most honoured guests sat on the stage itself, but Mal feared this was too close to both the actors and the audience for safety. Instead the ambassador's party were accommodated in a side gallery, separated from the paying audience by a sturdy oak door. A table had been set with cold meats and a silver flagon of wine, and cushioned chairs placed to get a perfect view.

  "Sir Leland tells me this play is called Locrine," Kiiren said to Mal, "and is history of your people."

  "I have not heard it played, but I understand it tells the story of the founding of London by the Trojans, many centuries ago," Mal replied.

  "Trojans?"

  "People of Troy."

  "Ah, yes, I have heard tale of great horse. Is that in play?"

  Mal shrugged. "I have not read much history, and never learnt Greek. I regret to say I neglected my studies a great deal."

  It had been hard to concentrate on the niceties of Latin rhetoric when all he could think about was Sandy. His brother had not been able to join him in college, not after that dreadful night in the hills.

  He realised Kiiren had asked him another question.

  "Sorry, sir. What did you say?"

  "You studied at… What is word?"

  "University?"

  "University, yes."

  Mal nodded. "Cambridge."

  They spoke of libraries and lectures, astronomy and music, but he steered the conversation away from his own sudden departure. If the ambassador did not already know his family history, Mal was not about to tell him now.

  In the yard below, servants laid down straw to soak up the worst of the rain, carried piles of cushions to the lords' galleries, or ran back and forth on unknown errands. Three archways at the back of the stage led to the tiring house, and the occasional billow of a curtain or raised voice from within hinted at the frenzy of nervous preparation going on inside.

  After about half an hour a small group of men entered the yard and made their way up to the gallery where the ambassador was seated. At the head of the group was the admiral himself, patron of this theatre company. Effingham greeted Kiiren with the same blunt courtesy as on their first meeting, and asked after his health.

  Also amongst the party was a thin, stooped figure whose richly coloured brocade doublet and hose contrasted grotesquely with his sallow, wasted features: Lord Brooke, former English ambassador to Venice. He was seldom at court owing to frequent bouts of illness, and Mal was surprised to see him here today. Perhaps he came to discuss diplomacy with Kiiren, under cover of the drama contest.

  A rising hubbub from beyond the gates told of a gathering crowd. At last a shrill trumpet sounded in the street and the gates swung open. A multicoloured torrent of people surged through the opening: apprentices in blue, burghers in wine red or rusty brown, rakes in their slashed and embroidered doublets, and of course the whores in their tawdry gowns of scarlet and buttercup yellow. The groundlings jostled for places in the yard, the aldermen and their wives paid their extra pennies for admittance to the galleries and a cushion for their municipal rears. Serving-men stood at the doorways with bottles of beer and baskets piled with bags of hazelnuts. Mal was a little surprised they weren't selling the popped corn he had tried at the fair, though in truth it was more fit for throwing at bad actors than for eating.

  Speaking of which… Prominent amongst the crowd were the skraylings in their striped and chevroned tunics; they were frequent theatregoers in any case, but today they had turned out in force, perhaps feeling safer for the presence of their ambassador. The foreigners occupied almost the entire top gallery, having been separated from the locals by a thoughtful doorman.

  Soon the theatre was packed to bursting. Some of the crowd had noticed the guests of honour in their gallery and begun pointing them out to their neighbours. At that moment, however, their attention was diverted by a rumble of thunder from the gallery. A boy actor, dressed as a Greek goddess in robes of black, walked onto the stage.

  "In poenam sectatur et umbra," the actor intoned.

  "For punishment, even a shadow pursues," Lord Brooke added, for the ambassador's benefit.

  A man dressed as a lion ran on, roaring, and paced to and fro across the front of the stage, clawing in the direction of the audience. Having seen the real lions in the royal menagerie, Mal found the actor's feeble roars singularly unimpressive.

  A second actor, dressed in green and carrying a bow, slipped from the other stage door and hide himself behind a canvas bush, whilst the goddess continued her speech in English.

  "A Mighty Lion, ruler of the woods,

  Of wondrous strength and great proportion,

  With hideous noise scaring the trembling trees,

  With yelling clamours shaking all the earth,

  Traverst the groves, and chased the wandering beasts.

  Long did he range amid the shady trees,

  And drave the silly beasts before his face,

  When suddenly from out a thorny bush–"

  The archer leapt out and drew his bow, nocked with an imaginary arrow.

  "A dreadful Archer with his bow ybent,

  Wounded the Lion with a dismal shaft."

  The invisible arrow was loosed, and the lion clutched his chest and fell to the stage with a roar of agony.

  "So he him stroke that it drew forth the blood,

  And filled his furious heart with fretting ire;

  But all in vain he threatened teeth and paws,

  And sparkleth fire from forth his flaming eyes,

  For the sharp shaft gave him a mortal wound.

  So valiant Brute, the terror of the world,

  Whose only looks did scare his enemies,

  The Archer death brought to his latest end.

  Oh what may long abide above this ground,

  In state of bliss and healthful happiness."

  The archer and lion stood and bowed, and all three actors left the stage.

  "What was all that about?" Effingham grunted. "Damned foolish nonsense."

  "It was an allegorical masque," Lord Brooke replied. "See, here comes the dying Brutus carried on a chair, and his Trojan courtiers."

  Mal left the ambassador and his guests to
enjoy the performance, and withdrew a discreet distance along the gallery, where he had a better view of the audience. Many of them were paying more attention to the ambassador than to the play, and their eyes flicked towards Mal from time to time. He returned their gaze levelly, and they soon looked away.

  A disturbance in the crowd caught his eye, but it was only a woman fainting. Perhaps the lion had been too much for her, though it was more likely she was overcome by the press of bodies. In truth there was scarcely space for a would-be assassin to draw his pistol, never mind aim it. Mal retreated to the back of the gallery and considered the party gathered around Kiiren. The admiral could have been behind the attack onboard the Ark Royal, but surely that was too obvious even for him? The rest of the party were unknown to Mal. Once again he found himself wishing he had paid more attention to the goings-on at Court. Any one of these men could be in the pay of France, Spain or the Holy Roman Emperor. And he might never find out who until it was too late.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Coby jogged along Bankside, her hair and clothing uncomfortably damp from the summer drizzle. She had been to the skraylings' camp, only to discover the ambassador had returned to the Tower after all. She took a wherry across the Thames to save time, but was told by the Tower guards that the ambassador had already left for the Rose by coach, in order to arrive before the crowds. For fear of missing them again she took the same route on foot, along Thames Street to London Bridge and thence to Bankside. By the time she arrived, however, the theatre doors had closed and people were being turned away.

  "Please, you have to let me in," she said to the doorman. "I have an urgent message for the ambassador's bodyguard."

  "Aye, and I'm the Queen of Sheba," the man replied.

  "Here, aren't you with Suffolk's Men?" his companion asked. "Clear off. We don't need any of you lot getting anywhere near the judge of this contest."

  "That worried, are you?" Coby replied, her impatience getting the better of her.

  The man raised two fingers at her and jerked them upwards in the favourite English gesture of defiance.

  Coby backed away. She didn't want to get into a fight, and there was no other way into the theatre but past these men. She would have to wait until the ambassador came out, even though it meant missing the afternoon's rehearsals. If this business was as important as Faulkner seemed to think, Master Naismith would have reason to thank her in the end.

  She crossed the lane and sat down in the shelter of a large oak tree to begin her vigil.

  The rain continued, thin but steady, adding to the ominous atmosphere of the play. Act Two began with more imitation thunder and lightning and another dumb-show narrated by the goddess Ate, in which Queen Andromeda was taken captive by a band of Ethiopians, to the dismay of her husband Perseus. "Divine will rules all" was the motto of this allegory.

  This second prologue was followed by the invasion of England by Scythians and then a comic interlude in which the cobbler, Strumbo, was pressed into military service by a captain of Brutus' army. It reminded Mal uncomfortably of his own situation; indeed this whole play made him uneasy. Surely a story of invasion and war was not a happy choice for a diplomatic visit?

  Judging by the expression on Kiiren's face, he was indeed somewhat perplexed by the play. He frequently turned to his guests with questions, and Lord Brooke was eager to be of service in showing off his broad knowledge of history and mythology, which was perhaps the reason Effingham had invited him. Mal wondered what had moved the admiral to patronise a theatre company in the first place, as he seemed to have little interest in the dramatic arts. Simple ambition perhaps? Queen Elizabeth had been very fond of plays before her husband's death drove her into seclusion.

  After a particularly long explanation of the geography of England and its relation to the homelands of the Trojans and Scythians, Lord Brooke fell to coughing, and a servant pressed a goblet of wine into his trembling hands.

  "You should not have come out in this inclement weather, Brooke," Effingham said.

  "It is a mild ague, nothing more," Lord Brooke wheezed. He took out a small bottle and tipped some of the contents into his wine.

  Kiiren held out his hand, and the bemused Brooke passed him the bottle.

  "Don't taste it, it could be poison!" Mal cried.

  Everyone stared at him. Effingham sprang to his feet.

  "Are you accusing my guest of trying to kill the ambassador?" The admiral's weather-beaten features were flushed with rage.

  On stage, the actors fell silent, and everyone turned to stare at the lords' gallery.

  "No, my lord." Mal fell to one knee and bowed his head, cursing inwardly.

  "Please forgive our man Catlyn," Kiiren said, bowing low to the admiral and his party. "It is my error, being curious."

  "Apology accepted, of course, Your Excellency."

  Effingham sat down again, gesturing for the play to continue. Mal felt a touch on his shoulder, and looked up. Kiiren motioned for him to return to his position on guard.

  "This medicine, Lord Brooke," the ambassador said, "you take it often?"

  "Whenever the ague returns," Brooke said, and drank his wine down in one draught. "Bought it from an apothecary in Venice. Very learned folk, the Turks, for all their barbarity. Why, think you can do better?"

  Effingham turned pale, and an awkward silence descended on the party.

  "I commend your apothecary," Kiiren said. "We did not know trade in our herbs had spread so far, or their virtues had such renown."

  Lord Brooke muttered something under his breath. Effingham burst into laughter.

  "Hoist with your own petard, Brooke," he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "That'll teach you to try to best the skraylings at their own game!"

  At that moment, thunder rumbled and the goddess Ate reappeared to narrate the prologue to Act Three. Mal took advantage of the distraction to retreat to his lookout post at the far end of the gallery. What had he been thinking? That Brooke would risk poisoning himself on the minuscule chance the ambassador would take an interest in his medicine? Leland had been right. He should think less and apply himself to the job he was hired to do.

  After about an hour, the theatre door opened and several serving men left, complaining loudly about the crush within. Coby watched them from her vantage point across the lane.

  "Run out of beer already?" the doorman asked them as they trooped away.

  "Aye. And that skrayling brew as well."

  "Better get plenty more, then," he shouted after them. "There's nigh on three thousand thirsty folk in there. The more you sell, the happier old Henslowe will be."

  Coby leapt up. This was her chance. She strolled away down the lane, but as soon as she was out of sight of the theatre doors she backtracked towards a nearby inn which she knew belonged to Henslowe. Sure enough, the serving men were there, knocking back pints of ale to quench their own thirst before getting back to work.

  "Master Henslowe told me you needed more help supplying the theatre crowds," she said to the innkeeper. "He promised me sixpence."

  "Don't I know you from somewhere?" The man squinted at her in suspicion.

  "I'm a friend of Ned Faulkner, Henslowe's copyist."

  The innkeeper laughed, showing several missing teeth.

  "Good luck to you, then, lad," he said. "Faulkner's lackey or no, that'll be the hardest sixpence you earn all year."

  When the men from the theatre had finished their break, Coby lined up with them outside the brewhouse door. Someone passed her a crate of beer, which she balanced on one shoulder. With a bit of luck, she could walk straight in past the doormen and they would never see her face.

  Leaning against the pillar at the end of the gallery, Mal felt rather than heard a knock on the connecting door. He opened it a crack.

  "Master Catlyn?"

  "Hendricks!" he said, breaking into a smile at the sight of a familiar face. "What brings you here?"

  The boy looked graver than usual, and he gl
anced warily around.

  "There is something I must tell you, sir, in private."

  "Then it must wait," Mal replied. "We cannot speak privily here. I am on duty."

  "Please, sir, this is very urgent," Hendricks said in a low voice. "It's about your brother."

  "Which one?"

  "Sandy."

  Mal's heart lurched. This was too much of a coincidence. After a brief glance towards the ambassador, he beckoned the boy inside. The audience were roaring with laughter at a comical fight between Strumbo and his wife; even the ambassador and his guests were paying too much attention to the antics on stage to notice a visitor.