by Anne Lyle
At last the coach slowed down, and Master Catlyn leapt out before it had even come to a stop. Leaning out of the window, Coby could see few wherries on this stretch of the river; most of them would have rowed downstream in anticipation of the end of the play and found themselves busy earlier than expected, ferrying the fleeing theatregoers to the north bank. She climbed out of the coach stiffly, glad to have her feet on the ground again.
Master Catlyn hallooed again, and at last one of the small craft turned in their direction.
"Where to, good sir?" the wherryman called up.
"Suffolk House, as quick as you may!"
Master Catlyn returned to the coach and helped Lord Grey to carry the duke down the weed-slick steps to the wherry. Coby watched them, hand to her mouth, fearing they would slip at any moment. At last the duke was safely aboard, and his son joined him.
"I should go home too," she told Master Catlyn as he came back up the stairs. The full enormity of what had happened struck her, and tears started in her eyes. "It's all my fault. I should have been more watchful, and now M-M-Master Naismith is… is…"
Dead. The word stuck in her throat.
"You must be brave, lad," Master Catlyn said, and clapped her on the shoulder. She nodded, pressing her lips together to stop them trembling. "But if your mistress can spare you, come to the Tower before curfew. I want to know everything that happened this afternoon."
"Yes, sir."
He turned back to the waiting ambassador, and they boarded the coach. As it rattled away eastwards, she suddenly realised what had felt so wrong, back in the theatre field. The horses, which should have been made frantic by the mere proximity of the fire, had stood placidly in their traces whilst one of the skrayling guards sat on the driver's seat, eyes closed. Only when the powder keg blew had they panicked. Bewitchment. It was the only explanation. Her hand strayed to her chest, to the comforting contours of the wooden cross tucked inside her shirt. Perhaps her countrymen were right after all to shun the skraylings. Fireworks and ice engines were one thing, but this smacked of devilry.
She patted her pockets, realising she had left her purse on the makeup table. The pennies were a puddle of molten silver by now, she supposed. Well, there was nothing for it but to walk back to London Bridge. Perhaps by the time she got there, the crowds would have thinned a little. Not that she was anxious to go back to Thames Street. The thought of facing Mistress Naismith, knowing she was in part responsible for making her a widow, turned her insides to lead.
Ned reached the end of St Olave's Street and skidded to a halt on the muddy cobbles. Over the rooftops he could see a column of black smoke rising to the heavens. Judging by the direction and distance, it could have only one source. The Mirror.
"Oh, Angel," he whispered.
Eyes swimming with tears, he crossed Long Southwark and headed west towards Bankside, making slow progress against the torrent of people fleeing towards London Bridge. He scanned every face as they passed, but though a few were familiar, none was the man he sought.
As he neared the Rose, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a pair of richly dressed whores, their blonde wigs and silken finery singed and soot-besmirched. One was weeping into a filthy handkerchief. The illusion was spoilt, however, when the other 'woman' pulled off her wig and threw it on the ground in disgust. Even through the thick makeup, Ned recognised the boy apprentice from Suffolk's Men.
"Hey, you! Philip, isn't it?" Ned ran over to the boys. "Have you seen Gabriel Parrish?"
Philip looked him up and down and sneered. "He's dead. Not that I care."
Ned stared at him in horror. No, not dead. Not Gabe.
The other boy looked up from his handkerchief and seemed about to say something, but Philip silenced him with a glare.
"Come on, Noll, show's over. Let's go home."
Philip pushed past Ned, tattered skirts held high. The younger boy trailed after him, still sniffing into his handkerchief.
Ned walked on, numb with grief. The crowds were thinning a little, and he made his way through them towards the field behind Paris Gardens. A trail of discarded shoes, beer bottles and trampled bodies led back to the gate. The hawthorn hedges were smouldering, too wet to burn after the recent rains. Wisps of burning thatch rained down towards him. The field was deserted, a waste of churned mud and ash. No, not quite deserted. Ned blinked, unable to believe his eyes.
Gabriel was still wearing his costume of gold brocade, though his stockings were filthy with soot and his golden hair stood up in sweat-soaked spikes. In the ruddy light of the burning theatre he was a boyish Lucifer, dazed by his sudden fall into Hell.
With a cry of joy Ned ran towards him. Gabriel stared back blankly.
"Gabe?" Ned halted, hesitant, just within arm's reach.
Gabriel drew a deep breath and his eyes focused again. "Ned?"
Ned flung his arms about his lover, pressing cheek to grimy cheek. "God in Heaven, Gabe, they told me you were dead!"
Gabriel returned the embrace. "I thought I was, but now I live again." His breath was hot in Ned's ear, sparking memories of their nights together. Ned kissed him, heedless of who might be watching.
"Come on," he murmured at last, echoing Philip's words. "Let's go home."
He led Gabriel down Gravel Lane to the outskirts of Southwark. Cautious householders, torn between fleeing the fire and leaving their homes vulnerable to looters, lingered in their gardens with bundles of valuables, staring at the pillar of smoke that loomed over the borough like a sign from God. Ned remembered he had left some of his own belongings behind at his mother's house when he went to stay with Gabriel, as well as the rosary Mal gave him for safekeeping. He supposed he had better go back home and collect them. There was nothing else to keep him there, except the rent from his mother's tenants. And if the house burned down, he would not have even that.
As they walked along the road towards Deadman's Place, they were passed by a coach accompanied by a dozen skraylings on horseback. The vehicle drew to a halt just ahead of them, and Mal climbed out.
"Ned?" He paused, hand on sword hilt.
Ned's knees gave way, and he dropped to the ground, head bowed. A pair of black leather boots, smeared with mud, appeared on the edge of his vision and halted before him.
"I'm so sorry, Mal," he mumbled. "I never meant–"
"Get up." A hand grasped his arm and hauled him to his feet. "I thought you were with Baines," Mal said in a low voice, drawing him aside.
"You knew about that?" Ned eyed his friend, trying to judge his mood. Mal's features were flushed from the fire, but he looked calm enough.
"Would you rather have been hanged for murder?"
Ned swallowed, and stared at the ground. "I deserve no less."
Mal made a derisive noise. "The Ned Faulkner I know never wallowed in self-pity."
"Perhaps you don't know me as well as you think."
"Enough!" Mal sighed. "We've both lost loved ones to these bastards. Don't let them force us apart too."
He held out his hand, and Ned grasped it, then embraced his friend. Mal stank of smoke, even worse than Gabriel. Not surprising: he must have been in the thick of it. Ned released him and craned his neck to get a better look at the coach. The skrayling guards were gazing in all directions, as if expecting an attack at any moment.
"What's going on, Mal? Is someone trying to kill the ambassador? Did–" His blood ran cold. "Your brother…"
"I didn't see him. I don't think this attack was part of their plot."
"If not, then who?"
Mal shrugged. "Plenty of people hate the skraylings."
"I remember a time when you were not so fond of them yourself," Ned replied.
Mal stiffened, and Ned cursed his stupid mouth. Not a wise thing to say within earshot of a dozen of them.
"What would you have me do to help?" Ned said. "Go back to Baines?"
Mal glanced at Gabriel. "Take him home first. I'll deal with Baines. If I need you, I'll send word
."
"Thank you."
Mal nodded curtly and returned to the coach. After a moment the vehicle lurched into motion and continued on its way.
"What was all that about?" Gabriel asked, staring after the retreating cavalcade.
"I think…" Ned bit his lip. "I think I might be forgiven."
Coby unlatched the front door of the Naismiths' house and slipped inside. The murmur of women's voices came from the front parlour. One of them, surely Mistress Naismith, was sobbing inconsolably. Coby crept past the door towards the stairs, but before she could reach the bottom step, Betsy emerged from the kitchen, her face pale and streaked with tears.
"Oh, Jacob!" she cried, and ran up to hug Coby. "We thought you were dead too!"
She burst into tears, burying her face in Coby's chest. The parlour fell silent for a moment, then a group of middle-aged women poured out, exclaiming over Coby in mingled tones of relief and disapprobation.
"My dear boy," one of the women crooned, stroking Coby's singed hair. "Your mistress has been so worried about you."
Coby glanced at Mistress Naismith, but her master's widow was already returning to the parlour.
"Don't mind her," another of the neighbours said. "We all thought it was Naismith come home after all."
"You, girl," the first woman said to Betsy. "Go and fetch hot water for Master Hendricks here."
Betsy released Coby, much to her relief, and went back to the kitchen, though with many a smiling, tearful glance backwards.
"So," a third woman asked Coby in a low voice, "is it true? Is Naismith dead?"
She nodded. "I saw it with my own eyes."
The women burst into exclamations of grief, though to Coby's eyes their performance seemed well rehearsed.
"He died almost instantly," she added. "I am certain his suffering was very brief."
Leaving the women with this crumb of comfort, she headed upstairs to her room. She wanted to strip off her filthy clothes straight away, but decided it was wiser to wait for Betsy to bring the water. Instead she paced the small chamber, wondering how soon she could ask to be excused. Mistress Naismith was too wrapped up in mourning her husband to care about a mere apprentice. Coby was a little surprised at that. Her master had often praised his wife, but received little but complaints in return. Although, Coby reflected, if she had been stuck at home whilst the menfolk toured the country or caroused at the taverns, she would have been jealous and frustrated too.
She wandered about the room, unable to settle. Her eyes fell upon the sheets of paper pinned to the wall above her bed: her earliest sketches of the trapdoor mechanism. She pulled them down and tore them into little pieces, fighting back tears. If she started crying now, she feared she would never stop.
A knock on the door made her start. She opened it to find Betsy waiting with a bucket of warm water in one hand and clean towels under her arm. The girl bobbed a curtsey, and Coby showed her in, shoving the wad of torn paper into her pocket.
"Have you seen the boys?" Coby asked, as Betsy set the towels down and poured some of the water into the bowl on the washstand.
"No, we–" The girl put her hand to her mouth. "You don't think…?"
Coby shook her head.
"I'm sure they were in the first rush of people to escape the tiring house," she said. "Perhaps they went home to their own families, to reassure them?"
She didn't think Philip would do such a thing out of concern for his parents, so much as from a desire to avoid Mistress Naismith's wailings.
"Yes, yes, I'm sure that's it," Betsy said, nodding a little too hard, as if trying to convince herself. "You're so clever, Jacob, I would never have thought of that."
Coby turned away and unbuckled her belt, hoping Betsy would take the hint and leave. She did not. An involuntary hiss of frustration escaped Coby's lips.
"You're not hurt, are you?" Betsy asked, coming closer.
"No, not at all. Just tired."
"Only… Only I don't know what I would have done if you… if you–"
She flung herself at Coby, sobbing. Coby caught her by the arms and steered her gently but firmly towards the door.
"Perhaps," she said, "you could run along to the Johnsons' and ask if they've seen Pip. That would set your mistress's mind at rest."
Betsy looked up at her, face puffy and streaked with tears.
"But… what if Mistress Naismith needs me?"
"She has her gossips for company. She will not miss you if you are swift, and you will be doing her a great kindness. And it would set my mind at rest, too."
"It would?" Betsy blew her nose on her apron.
"Most certainly," Coby lied. She could not wish ill upon Philip, not after today, but she would not be sorry either if she never saw him again.
"Then I will go straight away," Betsy said. She gave Coby a watery smile. "I'm so glad you came home safe."
"So am I," Coby murmured to the door as it closed behind the girl.
She slid the bolt home, then took off her doublet and hose and hung them up to air, brushing off the worst of the soot. A pity: it had been the best suit she ever owned. With a sigh of relief she stripped off her filthy linens and dropped them in the laundry basket, then washed herself all over with a flannel and a sliver of soap and sluiced the soot from her hair. By the time she had finished, the water was tepid and filthy. She rubbed her hair with a towel and then dressed in a clean corset, breeches, shirt and stockings, and put her old suit on. Mistress Naismith had no need of her here, that was certain. Best to slip away before Betsy returned.
Closing the door quietly behind her, she ventured out onto the landing. The house below her was silent. She padded downstairs in her stocking feet, put on her shoes, and was out in the street in moments.
CHAPTER XXIX
Mal strode along the wall-walk until he reached the Martin Tower. He had insisted on doing this himself: if Ambassador Kiiren had been shocked at Mal's flogging, the sight of one of Topcliffe's victims would distress him beyond measure. He knocked and a yeoman warder let him in, closing the door behind him with an ominous thud.
The warder led Mal down a narrow stair to the lower chamber. It was not unlike the one in the Salt Tower where Mal had stayed on his first visit to the Tower, but with arrow slits instead of glazed windows. In the gloom Mal could just make out the shape of the actor, huddled on a simple cot bed. The stink of fresh urine hung in the air.
Mal waited until the gaoler had left, then walked over to the bed.
"Wheeler?"
The man mumbled something. Mal touched his shoulder and he flinched, whimpering like a whipped dog. Mal took a candlestick from the table and held it up, surveying Topcliffe's handiwork. There was little to be seen, no blood or broken bones, but he could read the story of the actor's torment in the shaking of his limbs and the taut lines of his face. He had been put on the rack and questioned for some considerable time, until his sinews were fit to snap. The warders would have had to carry him here, and still he was in too much pain to even get off the bed to piss in a pot. Mal sat down on the edge of the bed, causing the actor to whimper again as the mattress shifted beneath him.
"Who are your confederates, Wheeler? Where will they attack next?"
"Go to the Devil."
Gritting his teeth, Mal put his hand on the man's shoulder again and pressed down. Wheeler screamed, the cry echoing from the stone walls like the ghosts of all the prisoners kept here over the centuries.
"Who are they?" Mal asked, when Wheeler was quiet again.
The actor rattled off a list of names between sobs of agony. None of them were familiar to Mal.
"Who wrote the poem?"
"I– I don't know. H-H-H-Harris gave it to me, I d-didn't ask."
"Was it your intention to kill the Ambassador of Vinland, by burning the theatre with him inside it?"
"How… How else do you think you kill a demon?" Wheeler tried to laugh but broke off, gasping against the fresh agony it caused him.
; "You think the skraylings are demons?"
Wheeler looked up at him with bloodshot eyes. "Don't you?"
"You said the other day you had seen me before," Mal replied. "Are you sure it was me, or someone who just looked like me?"
"How should I know? Demons can look however they want. Perhaps it was one of them masquerading as you."