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

by Anne Lyle

  "Is something wrong?" he asked Hendricks, leaning close to make himself heard. "Is he – Is he dead?"

  "I– I don't know, sir. I don't think so."

  "All right. Tell me everything–" He held up his hand and glanced pointedly at the ambassadorial party. "Tell me in your own tongue. Speak slowly, and use simple words I can understand."

  The boy cleared his throat.

  "I come from your friend, Ned," he said in Dutch. "Two wicked men found him, said they would hurt him if he did not tell them about you and your brother."

  "Ned is hurt?"

  "Only a little. But they used him to steal your brother away."

  "Steal?" Mal asked. He knew the word well, though he had only heard it used in the context of looting.

  "Yes, sir."

  Mal made the sign of the cross. Sweet Mother of God, Ned, what have you done?

  "When?"

  "Yesterday morning."

  Whilst we were far away at Nonsuch. Very convenient. But the implications of that line of reasoning did not bear thinking about…

  The comic scene ended, and Kiiren looked round at last.

  "What is happen? Who is this?"

  Mal bowed low, and gestured to Hendricks to do likewise.

  "Nothing of import, sir, merely a servant come to ask if we need more refreshments."

  He took a shilling from his pocket and gave it to Hendricks.

  "Here's for your trouble, lad," he said in a loud voice, then added in an undertone, "Wait for me outside the theatre."

  "Thank you, sir," Hendricks replied brightly, though his eyes were filled with concern. Bowing again to the lords and gentlemen, he left the gallery.

  Mal spent the rest of the play in an agony of frustration, scarcely able to stay still. The clamour of the crowd was no more than a murmur in his ears, the drama onstage hollow puppetry devoid of meaning. One thought alone raged back and forth in his mind like a wounded bear: the bastards who had done this would suffer, and soon.

  Coby didn't sit and wait for the play to end. First she ran to the nearby Mirror and made her excuses to Master Naismith.

  "I have a chance to meet the ambassador and find out what he thought of the Admiral's Men," she added, after her initial apologies.

  "Not tonight," Master Naismith said. "By skrayling tradition, the judge of a drama contest must withdraw from company after the performance, to meditate upon what he has seen."

  "But–" She racked her brains for another excuse. "Master Catlyn has need of me. If I can continue to be of service, I might get to speak to the ambassador tomorrow."

  "Very well then. This shabby crew need to practise without their leading strings for a while. Get back to the Rose, but do not stay o'erlong."

  She thanked him profusely and ran back to the other theatre. The Rose was situated in the old gardens of the brothel of the same name, which was also owned by Henslowe. Access to the theatre was via an archway piercing the brothel, there being no lanes or alleys interrupting the continuous row of stew-houses on this stretch of Bankside. She could hardly stand around on the street here, lest she be mistaken for either a prospective customer or a male varlet. Instead she took herself along the riverbank to Falcon Stairs, where she could at least feign to be waiting for someone.

  As it was, she was propositioned at least thrice before the play ended and the audience began pouring out onto the street. Her disguise might not be a complete defence, but she dreaded to think how much worse it would have been, were she dressed as a girl. No wonder the city fathers forbade women to wear men's clothes; if her sisters knew how much freedom it might win them, none would willingly don skirts again.

  Theatregoers swarmed out of the narrow archway like ants from a nest, covering Bankside in a mass of noisy, sweating humanity. Fearing to be lost in the crush, Coby crossed the street and walked back towards the Rose, flattening herself against the buildings as much as possible. Better to be mistaken for a whore than be trampled or cast into the river.

  After what felt like an age, the flow of people eased from a torrent to a trickle, and she spotted a coach standing outside the Rose with four mounted skraylings as escort. More skraylings, armed with long staves, issued from the theatre exit, and behind them came the ambassador in his blue robe, with Master Catlyn towering above him.

  The swordsman helped the ambassador into the coach, then looked around for Coby. Catching his eye, she hurried over.

  "Get in the coach," he said in a low voice.

  "Sir?"

  "Just do it, will you?"

  She did as she was told, cowed by his sudden grim demeanour. His anger was understandable, she told herself, and not directed at her. She knew well that feeling of panic at being separated from one's family.

  The ambassador frowned at her as she got in, and looked questioningly at Mal.

  "This servant accompanies us?" he asked.

  "Forgive the subterfuge, Your Excellency," Master Catlyn said, climbing in after her. "It may be your custom to spend the evening in seclusion, sir, with no talk of the theatre –" Mal glanced meaningfully at Coby "– but I need to confer with my informants if I am to protect you."

  The coachman flicked his whip and they rattled off. For a while it was all Coby could do to keep her seat. The little vehicle bounced over the cobbles like a pebble skimmed across a pond; if its purpose was to shake its passengers senseless, it was doing a good job. After a while she began to get the rhythm of the movement, however, and she was able to observe the ambassador more closely.

  He was very different from the other skraylings she had seen in London, even allowing for the magnificent robes and lack of tattoos. Most skraylings were polite to the point of coldness; they kept their eyes averted and showed little emotion apart from rare flashes of anger. This one gazed about in open curiosity, and even smiled at her in sympathy when she nearly fell from her seat into the footwell of the coach.

  "I am Outspeaker Kiiren," the skrayling said, inclining his head.

  "Jacob Hendricks, of Su–" She caught herself, just in time. "Of Berchem, in the Low Countries."

  She glanced at Master Catlyn, but he was staring out of the window, a muscle working in his jaw and his left hand clenched white-knuckled over the pommel of his rapier. Her elation at seeing him again was turning to lead in her stomach. She wanted to reassure him that she would do anything to help – but not here. Besides, what could she do that Master Catlyn could not manage himself, and ten times better at that?

  For the rest of the journey she diverted Ambassador Kiiren with tales of her homeland. He was particularly interested in the dykes and dams, though she struggled to explain how they worked; she had been too young when her family fled to England.

  "There is great city in New World with canals," Kiiren said, "but this holding back of sea is unknown to us. I like to see it one day."

  "So would I," Coby replied. All this talk of her homeland had brought back so many memories.

  The coach rattled under the gatehouse of the Tower, and a chill of fearful anticipation washed over her, knowing she was now inside the dread fortress where so many good people had been imprisoned and executed. Some bad ones, too, like wicked Queen Anne. No wonder the place was said to be haunted.

  They came to a shuddering halt outside a half-timbered building in the outer ward. Coby shook her ringing head, half falling out of the coach behind the ambassador and Master Catlyn. She followed the party up a short dog-leg flight of steps to the building's entrance, uncomfortably aware of the skraylings' curious eyes upon her. She wondered if any of them had seen her at the guild house with Master Naismith and thus suspected her of spying for Suffolk's Men.

  Ambassador Kiiren retired to his private apartments for the evening, and the skrayling guards gathered in the dining chamber to await supper. Master Catlyn showed her through a door in the corner into a small octagonal room with walls of bare whitewashed stone. The air was thick with dust motes and smelt faintly of smoke. A charcoal brazier, cold and full o
f ashes, was the only furnishing.

  "Tell me everything you know," he said, closing the door behind him.

  She stood in the middle of the room, arms clasped behind her back, and began to relate the morning's events: Master Parrish's insistence on speaking to her, the visit to his lodgings, and Ned's account of the men who had pressed him into the service of an unknown master. When she came to the part about Mistress Faulkner's death, he placed his palms either side of one of the small windows and rested his forehead against the glass.

  "And Ned has no idea where they took Sandy?" he asked, his voice cracking on his brother's name.

  "None. I'm sorry, sir."

  "Will he give himself up?"

  She shrugged.

  "He is not safe, either way." Master Catlyn pushed himself away from the window and came to stand before her. "There is something more I need you to do."

  "Of course, sir." She gazed up into his dark eyes. Anything…

  "You know where Seething Lane is, off the near end of Tower Street?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Run to the house of Sir Francis Walsingham and tell his servants I need to speak to him immediately, here in the Tower."

  Coby stared at him. If Master Catlyn was so intimate with the Queen's private secretary, that could only mean one thing. Her mind ran back over everything she had told him in the past few weeks. Had he been spying on Suffolk's Men all along? Was all this somehow connected to the attacks on the theatre?

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Do not fear for your friends. I have no love for Walsingham or his methods."

  "But you work for him."

  "Yes."

  "Can you not go to him yourself, sir? I am sure he will not listen to a mere errand boy."

  "I must not leave here, not until something can be arranged."

  "I don't understand."

  "Someone has taken my brother captive. A man who looks exactly like me. And the ambassador trusts me with his life."

  "Oh."

  "Quite." He went back to the door. "Wait here for a moment."

  He returned a few minutes later with a letter, unaddressed and sealed with a plain blob of wax.

  "If my lord secretary is not at his house or will not see you, ask for a man named Baines. Do not say who the note is from; Walsingham is not the only one with informants everywhere."

  She tucked the letter into her doublet and left, assuring him of her discretion. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to keep a secret.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Coby delivered the letter as promised then set off for the theatre, her thoughts in turmoil. Master Catlyn an intelligencer? She smiled bitterly at the irony of being set to spy on him.

  Dunfell's account of his master's suspicions came back to her. This fellow Catlyn, who has been appointed as the ambassador's bodyguard, may owe his position to the scheming of the ambassador's own enemies. Did that mean Walsingham was one of those enemies? Master Catlyn himself must surely be innocent; why else would they be using his brother against him? Unless it was a threat to ensure his cooperation, as they had done with Ned. That made more sense than trying to pass a madman off as the ambassador's bodyguard.

  By the time she reached the theatre, Suffolk's Men were packing up for the day and heading for their suppers. To her surprise Master Parrish was there, though he was uncharacteristically silent amongst the laughing, chattering actors.

  "Well, how did it go?" Master Naismith asked in a low rumble that was scarcely audible over the hubbub. He turned away for a moment and slapped Master Eaton on the back. "Good work today, Rafe. If that does not win us the contest, I shall eat my boots with gravy."

  Eaton laughed. "It is many a year since we had so mean a supper. Do not wish those days back again, sir!"

  The actor-manager turned back to Coby. "So?"

  "Ah, um, it went well enough," Coby replied, trying to remember what she had said earlier. "Sir, did you really eat your boots, in the old days?"

  "Aye, and count myself fortunate for even that. At least I did not set out barefoot." He laughed. "But enough of reminiscences. What did Catlyn want you for, anyway?"

  "He, uh, wanted to learn how to play Five Beans with the ambassador's guards, since he has nothing to do this evening. He needed me to translate the skraylings' explanations of the rules."

  She grinned, congratulating herself on her quick thinking.

  "Did you warn him how seriously the skraylings take the game? I've heard of men sold into bondage after making an over-ambitious wager."

  "Of course, sir. I did my best to discourage him from playing." She decided it was best to change the subject, before her tongue ran away with her. "Do you really think we can win, sir?"

  "Think it? I know it," he replied loudly, then added in a lower tone, "though if you can put in a good word for us tomorrow with the ambassador, it can do no harm, eh?"

  "No, sir."

  "Lock up here, will you? We're off to the Bull's Head to find out how the Admiral's Men got on. Are you expected back at the Tower this evening?"

  "I don't think so, sir."

  "Well, then, join us for a drink. I've promised the lads a day off tomorrow, to rest their spinning heads before the performance on Thursday."

  Whether he meant the spinning of a hangover or the exhaustion of a full day's rehearsals, Coby was not sure. Probably both.

  "You too, of course," he added. "I need you fresh and ready to look after these miscreants on the big day."

  "Of course, sir."

  She glanced at Master Parrish. The actor looked pale and withdrawn, and in no better humour for carousing than herself. He gave her a wan smile in return.

  "Would you help me tidy up, sir?" she asked him, with a meaningful look. "You know almost better than I where everything belongs."

  He nodded acquiescence, and began picking up discarded garments, though he seemed unable to remember what to do with them after that. The other actors appeared not to notice, however; intent on their evening's enjoyment, they filed out into the rosy evening light. Soon the tiring room was empty but for the two of them.

  Parrish went to the door and watched until everyone was out of earshot.

  "Did you speak to Catlyn?" he asked, turning back to her.

  "I told him everything Ned told us."

  "And? Will he protect Ned?"

  She had no answer for him. Master Catlyn had been very angry, and rightly so. No doubt he would do anything to get his brother back.

  Master Parrish enveloped her in an embrace, catching her off-guard.

  "Ned gave himself up this afternoon," he mumbled against her hair.

  She patted his back awkwardly.

  "You should go home," she said, pulling away.

  He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

  "Thank you for trying to help," he said at last. "Men like us must stick together, eh?"

  "I was simply doing my Christian duty," she replied. "Now, I really must lock up and meet Master Naismith at the Bull, or he'll be wondering what kept me."

  After Master Parrish had gone she locked the back door of the theatre and crossed the field to Gravel Lane, but she did not go to the tavern as promised. She was in no mood for the actors' chatter this evening. Perhaps she ought to go back to the Tower after all: Master Catlyn was not going anywhere tonight, and she had not had a chance to tell him about the attacks on the theatre. They might be nothing to do with the plot against the ambassador, but what did she know of conspiracies? Older and wiser heads might see a connection where she could not.

  On the other hand, she was not sure how far she could trust Master Catlyn. It pained her to think how naive she had been, trusting a man she had known only a few weeks. What if Master Dunfell was right, and Catlyn was in collusion with Walsingham and the shadowy enemies of the ambassador? Was it too late to apologise to the duke's secretary and fulfil her abandoned mission? She sighed, letting her feet lead her towards London Bridge. After that, she did not know which way to g
o. East to the Tower, or west, to Suffolk House?

  After what felt like an interminable wait but was probably less than an hour, Mal heard Walsingham's slow footsteps on the outer stair. He wished this had not been necessary, but if the ambassador's enemies wished to get to him by substituting one twin for the other, they could do that much more easily if Mal left the Tower.

  "Master Secretary." He bowed low as Walsingham entered.

  "Catlyn. I hope this is important."