by Anne Lyle
"I need you to make yourself useful, love," he murmured, and produced a purse from his pocket. "We'll need transport upriver, and perhaps the means to break a man out of bondage."
Ned took the money and weighed it thoughtfully in his palm.
"I reckon I know just the man."
Mal sat down on the end of the bed. Sandy was sleeping again, his features relaxed for the first time since Mal's arrival. Trying to move silently so as not to disturb his brother, Mal examined every inch of the room. There had to be some way out of this trap.
They had not yet shackled him, which was his main advantage. Perhaps they were counting on the fact that he would not try to escape alone, and with Sandy in tow he would have little chance against their enemy's henchmen. A quarterstaff might be a good weapon to subdue a madman, but he didn't doubt they had other more deadly arms beside. His own life doubtless meant nothing to them, whatever their plans for Sandy.
He mentally inventoried the contents of the room and each item's possible uses. It did not take him long. Their accommodation had deliberately been stripped of most of its furniture and all of its bedding, probably to prevent Sandy from taking his own life.
The most promising weapon was the piss-pot, which could be used to hit the guard over the head, should he turn his back, or its contents could be thrown in his face to blind him. The bed and its mattress could be pushed up against the door to prevent anyone entering. That would not be much use unless he could find another way out. He examined the windows carefully. They hinged outwards, blocked by bars set into fresh mortar. If he had a knife or even a belt buckle, he might be able to poke it through the gap and dislodge them eventually, but he had neither. Not that time was likely to be on his side. The servants must have reported to their master by now; indeed he had expected Sandy's captors to come straight up here and demand to know how Mal had got in. Unless no one in authority was here right now.
A country house in Richmond, an absent master, and a manservant in blue-and-white livery. The cards fell into a pattern, though it was not one he had expected. Walsingham had it right: Blaise Grey was the rotten fruit to draw in the wasps, whilst the father stayed aloof and loyal to the Crown. But were they working with the Huntsmen, or against them? Either the father was a hypocrite, or the son; and Mal could not decide which of them he trusted least.
CHAPTER XXXI
Mercifully Southwark had been spared a conflagration. A couple of cottages at the end of Gravel Lane had burnt down, and several trees in Paris Gardens were no more than charcoal skeletons, but the rest of the suburb had escaped with only minor damage. Even so, Bankside was unnaturally quiet, even the bear-baiters' mastiffs cowering silent in their kennels.
"Perhaps everyone is at church, giving thanks for their escape," Coby said.
She and Master Parrish were leaning on the gate at the entrance to the theatre field, unwilling to approach closer to the smouldering ruins. Either side of where the theatre entrance had been, blackened timbers thrust up from the earth at odd angles, the only remnants of the staircase towers. The tiring house was a heap of silver ashes, stirred into ghostly life by the breeze.
"The bodies must have burnt to nothing," she said. "Poor Master Naismith."
"A pyre fit for Athenian princes. Come, there is naught we can do here."
At Master Parrish's suggestion they stopped by the Naismiths' house in Thames Street to enquire after the apprentices. Betsy told them Philip had paid a brief visit yesterday evening, with Oliver trailing in his wake as ever. Coby exchanged knowing glances with Master Parrish. They both knew only one thing would tempt Philip back here so soon: the hoard of jewels under the floorboards. Mistress Naismith had rallied somewhat and wanted to know all about the previous day's events, so they accepted her offer of breakfast before setting off for Suffolk House.
Coby found little to say on the journey; the walk up the hill to St Paul's and then westwards along the Strand brought back too many memories of her visit with Master Naismith. By the time they arrived the great house was only just beginning to stir, and a single retainer in blue-and-white livery stood on duty at the gate.
"Gabriel Parrish and Jacob Hendricks of Suffolk's Men, come to report to His Grace on the condition of his servants and their theatre," the actor said.
The retainer looked down his nose at them.
"His Grace is indisposed."
"We know that," Coby put in. "I helped rescue him from the fire."
The retainer hesitated, and Master Parrish leant closer.
"Perhaps we could speak to his secretary, Master Dunfell? He had supervision of the theatre business until recently."
"Wait here. I'll send word to Master Secretary."
The retainer ducked into the gatehouse for a moment, then resumed his station, gazing impassively out into the street. Coby looked about the empty yard. Blank windows stared back at her, their leaded panes dull as old pewter despite the sun overhead. She started as a pale-faced man in riding leathers emerged from one of the doors, but he headed straight for the archway leading to the stable yard with only the briefest of curious glances towards the visitors.
"Anyone would think the duke was dead," she whispered to Master Parrish.
After several more minutes another retainer arrived: the same man who had greeted Master Naismith on their previous visit.
"Master Dunfell is absent on His Grace's business," the man said, leading them across the yard. "However Lady Katherine would like to see you." His tone of voice suggested he was as surprised by this turn of events as themselves.
They followed him into the great hall, along a passageway and out into a second courtyard. A marble fountain stood in the centre, its waters still as a mirror, ringed by fruit trees in tubs. Grand apartments were ranged around the other three sides. The retainer showed them through a studded door, past a marble staircase and into an antechamber lined with gilded panelling, its ceiling painted with scenes of Greek goddesses and nymphs. Enormous vases of blue and white porcelain stood on tables inlaid with marquetry of precious woods, one in each corner of the room, and coloured glass glowed like jewels in the windows, displaying the Suffolk coat of arms and their red unicorn crest. Coby stared about in open-mouthed awe. The theatre's tawdry glamour paled in comparison to the real thing.
Voices echoed down the stairs, magnified by the high ceilings and marble floors. A woman's voice, and a man's.
"… stop him, Dunfell, you know he's far too weak to be moved."
"I, Your Grace? I am but a humble servant, and do only as my lord commands."
"And what does Doctor Renardi have to say about the matter? I cannot imagine he is happy with this… adventure."
"Doctor Renardi agrees with His Grace. He says the evil airs of the city are not beneficial to my lord's condition."
"Hmph. Evil airs indeed. Tell him I will have his head if my husband dies."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Rapid footsteps descended the stairs and crossed the entrance hall, fading as their owner went out into the courtyard. A few moments later the Duchess of Suffolk swept into the room, followed by two ladies-in-waiting. Coby and Master Parrish both leapt to their feet and bowed low.
"Your Grace."
The duchess smiled graciously at them both, though Coby thought she looked tired and worried. Hardly surprising, when both she and her husband had come so close to death.
"You are the young man who helped everyone escape from the theatre," the duchess said to Master Parrish.
"Not I, Your Grace," he replied, gesturing to Coby. "That was all Hendricks' work."
"Really? And so young." She beckoned to one of her ladies, who handed over a velvet pouch. "For your pains."
Coby bowed again. "R-really, Your Grace, it was not I. Master Catlyn rescued your husband. Him and Lord Grey. I just helped the ambassador down the stairs."
"Oh. Well, perhaps you could give this to Master…"
"Catlyn."
"Indeed." She dropped the purse into Co
by's palm, as if reluctant to touch an underling's flesh.
"I will," Coby replied. She forced out the words. "When I see him again."
"Splendid." The duchess gathered her skirts about her. "Come Nan, come, Jane."
She swept out of the room in a rustle of silk brocade, the ladies-in-waiting scurrying after her like lapdogs. Master Parrish let out a soft whistle.
"A formidable woman," he said.
"She's terrified," Coby said quietly.
"What?"
"She might be dressed as if for a visit to court, but she wears no makeup or jewels. And something is wrong. You heard what she said on the stairs."
"They were talking about the duke."
"Yes. And… and now I remember." Yes, that was it.
"Remember what?"
Footsteps sounded in the hall.
"I'll tell you when we're well out of here."
They were shown back out to the gatehouse where, at Master Parrish's prompting, Coby tipped the porter for his troubles. She felt rather guilty for spending Master Catlyn's money without his say-so, but it might come in useful later to have a friendly ear in the duke's household.
When they were well out of sight of Suffolk House, she seized Master Parrish's arm and dragged him into a doorway. "Yesterday, in the carriage after the fire, the duke said something to his son, and he said it was too far."
"What was too far?"
She lowered her voice, afraid they were already attracting too much attention from passers-by. "Somewhere the duke wanted to go, instead of his house in London."
"Such as…?"
"Ferrymead Park."
"Ferrymead?" Master Parrish stared at her. "But why there?"
Coby grinned in triumph. "Because that's where they've been keeping Sandy. And that's where Master Catlyn is now."
"That's – It's madness. Why would the duke abduct Mal and his brother?"
"I don't know," Coby replied. "But why else would His Grace be so anxious to travel in his wounded state, unless there was something there, something more important than his own life? And is it not a marvellous coincidence that he owns a house so close to one of the palaces, just as Ambassador Kiiren saw?"
Master Parrish shrugged. "It does look very odd, I'll grant you that. All right, let's go and find Ned. It's as good a trail to follow as any."
"Where do you think you're going?"
A shape detached itself from the shadows under the stairway and blocked his path. Ned groaned. Not him again!
"I don't have time for this," he told Baines. "I've got business to attend to."
"What sort of business?"
"None of yours."
The next thing he knew, Baines had twisted one arm up behind his back and was using his other hand to grind Ned's face into the rough-cast wall of the shop.
"None of my business, eh?"
Ned willed himself not to struggle. That would only encourage a bully like Baines.
"Still, it's a bit early in the morning to set you loose in the taverns," the intelligencer growled in his ear. "So how about you tell me what's so urgent?"
"No."
"No?"
The pressure increased until Ned yelped in pain.
"No," he whispered to the wall. Not this time. He would not betray Mal again.
"Do you serve your Queen or not?"
"All right, all right!" His mind raced, trying to come up with something that would satisfy the intelligencer. "I was going to the Tower to see Mal. Thought he might know what was happening with the contest, what with the Mirror burning down and everything. I owe Henslowe some money."
Baines released him with a grunt of disgust. Ned raised a hand gingerly to his cheek, and hissed as his fingers brushed raw flesh. This was going to be a beauty of a bruise, and maybe a scar to boot.
"Well then," Baines said, "in that case we can go together."
"What?"
"Walsingham wants to know what happened yesterday. Seems your friend Catlyn was in the thick of the action."
"No!"
"What do you mean, no? He was there, wasn't he?"
"Yes. Yes he was," Ned sighed. This was all going to come out soon enough. "But you'll be wasting your time. He's not at the Tower."
Baines drew his knife. "If you're lying to me again, Faulkner–"
"It's the truth. Mal was taken from the Tower last night."
"Who by?"
"How should I know? All I know is, he's gone."
"So that's what Naismith's whelp was doing here. And here's me thinking you boys were just getting together for a game of Hoodman Blind." He smirked. "I think you'd better come with me anyway."
"No, I–"
Baines seized him by the arm.
"You can come quietly and with all your guts on the inside, or not. Up to you."
He marched Ned down to the river and they caught a wherry across the Thames, disembarking on the quayside under the shadow of the Tower's outer walls. Ned fully expected to be dragged inside and thrown into the darkest dungeon, but they carried on past and turned left at the top of Tower Hill.
"Where are you taking me?" Ned asked, trying to keep his voice from quavering.
Baines made no answer. After a few yards they turned right into a narrow street lined with tall timber-framed houses. Baines stopped at one of the doors near the far end, knocked, and they were let in.
"This is Walsingham's house," Ned hissed, when the servant had left them to wait in the black-and-white panelled atrium.
Baines nodded curtly. Ned stared down at his cracked and scuffed shoes, feeling very shabby in the starkly elegant surroundings of the spymaster's home. The servant returned a few moments later, saying Sir Francis wanted to speak to Baines, and the intelligencer disappeared through a doorway set into the panelling. Ned was left in the atrium to ponder his fate. Should he run now? There didn't seem much point; Baines would just hunt him down and bring him back here again. In pieces.
Eventually the servant reappeared and conducted Ned through the same door, down a passageway and out into the garden. Baines stood, hands folded behind his back, on the far side of a small lawn. Beyond him, the Queen's private secretary was a blot of inky darkness against the jewellery-box colours of the flower bed. Ned pulled the cap from his head and clutched it nervously in both hands as he approached them.
"Baines tells me Maliverny Catlyn has gone missing," Walsingham said, clipping a long drooping stem from a honeysuckle and dropping it into a basket at his feet.
"Yes, m'lord." Ned swallowed, then added, "Spirited away by magic, m'lord."
The shears clicked loudly, then were silent. Walsingham turned to face him, his dark eyes burning like embers in his parchment complexion. Ned clutched his cap tighter.
"Magic," Walsingham said. "Do you mean to say witchcraft?"
"I– I don't know, m'lord."
"I am no lord. 'Sir' will suffice."
"Aye, m'lord – I mean, Sir Francis."
"Why was this not reported to me sooner?" Walsingham asked Baines.
"I didn't know nothing about it, sir, not until Faulkner opened his mouth just now."
"Then perhaps," Walsingham said, "you would be so good as to find out."
"Yes, sir. Right away, sir." Baines snapped a bow and went back into the house.
Ned gazed after him, wondering what he was supposed to do now.
"So you are Edmund Faulkner, the one survivor of a certain little conspiracy," the spymaster said.
Ned couldn't think of an answer that wouldn't incriminate him further, so he merely ducked his head in obeisance. Walsingham tossed the shears into the basket with a clatter that made Ned jump.
"Nervous as a cat on a kennel roof," Walsingham said with a smile. "So, what have you not told me yet?"
"Nothing, sir."
"Come now, there must be something more. There is always more to a story than first seems." He gestured for Ned to walk with him back to the house. "This is no simple plot to replace a bodyguard with his dou
ble, is it?"
"I wouldn't know, sir."
"You wouldn't know. But I do. If these men have witchcraft at their disposal, why not attack the ambassador directly? Unless it is not the ambassador who is the target."
"They were after Mal all along," Ned breathed. "But why?"
"That is what I would like to know. And that is why I must know everything you know, or suspect."
Ned bit his lip, uncertain how much to tell Walsingham. Was it betraying his friend, or helping him?