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

by Anne Lyle

  "Burbage has asked me to join the Prince's Men."

  "And will you accept?"

  "How can I not? I must work somewhere, and I would rather it were not for Henslowe." He gave Ned a wry smile. "I cannot forgive him for setting that miscreant Wheeler upon us."

  Coby forbore from explaining there was more to Wheeler's actions than petty Bankside rivalry. If Walsingham had suppressed news of the conspiracy, she was not going to speak out and risk attracting the spymaster's attention.

  "I wish you well," Master Eaton said. "For my own part, I must look to other professions. There is not much call for oneeyed actors."

  "You should write a ballad about the fire, and sell it in Paul's Yard," Ned told him.

  "I would rather forget the damned fire altogether," he muttered, and rising from the table he limped off in the direction of the jakes.

  "What about you?" Parrish asked Coby. "Will Mistress Naismith keep you on?"

  She shook her head. "She cannot afford another servant, not now. And what would I do? Sew clothes for her? It is all I know how to do. That, and running around after actors."

  "And lock picking," Ned added with a grin. "I know a few fellows who might take you on."

  "I would prefer to earn my bread honestly, thank you very much."

  "You never did tell us how you learnt the trick of it," Ned replied, unabashed.

  "I'm just good with my hands," she said. She thought of the trapdoor again, but it only brought back pangs of guilt. "I think I'm better off plying my needle."

  "Come to the Prince's Men," Parrish said, putting his hand on her wrist. "Burbage always has need of reliable tiremen. Most of them are quarrelsome drunks or thieves, by his account."

  She shook him off.

  "I do not think so. I have had enough of actors."

  The truth was, she too wanted to forget about the fire. The thought of entering the Curtain, or any other theatre, filled her with dread. She heard again the roar of flames and felt the heat singeing her face.

  "You are still in love with… him," Gabriel said softly.

  She nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

  "Then go to him," he went on. "Tell him how you feel–"

  "He knows," she said wretchedly. Faulkner was smirking, the vile whoreson. "How could he not, after…"

  "And?"

  "And nothing. I haven't seen him since we got back to London. What if–"

  "Do not dwell on such things. The ambassador would not let that happen to his dear friend, the brother of his beloved."

  "You really believe what the ambassador told us?" Ned put in. "That Sandy is his long lost love reborn?"

  "I saw him appear out of thin air on that boat," Gabriel said, turning to Ned. "If the skraylings can do that…"

  "Yes, but…" She sighed. "It is too much to take in."

  "Trust me, it will all work out in the end. Catlyn loves you."

  "He does?"

  Her heart tightened, hardly daring to believe. Mal desired her, he had made that plain, but she was not such a fool as to mistake that for love.

  "I saw the look on his face when you embraced him," Parrish said. "It was the look of a man who loves in spite of his own misgivings." He laughed softly and tightened his arm around Ned. "I should know."

  At that moment Master Eaton returned with more beer.

  "Here you go," he said, sliding a tankard across the table.

  Coby took a deep draught, hoping to calm her nerves.

  "Think on my advice," Parrish said. He clapped his hands together. "So, who's for a game of skittles?"

  Mal stood before the gates of the stockade. It seemed a lifetime since he had first come here and been half-affrighted out of his wits by the strange music from within. He waited patiently whilst the gate guard informed the ambassador of his arrival.

  He was shown through the camp to the same small tent where he had stayed after Bartholomew Fair. Sandy was lying on a heap of cushions, eyes closed and one of the skrayling lodestone necklaces about his throat. The air was thick with the scent of shakholaat.

  "How is he?" Mal asked, sitting down on the opposite side of the brazier.

  "At peace. For now."

  "He used magic to get away from the cellar, didn't he? If he could do that, why did he not try sooner?" It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.

  "You are not strong enough to be his anchor."

  "But you are?"

  Kiiren nodded. "If you had told me about him more soon… Instead I hear it from your friend Hendricks."

  Mal looked away. This was not his fault, how could it be? He knew nothing of skrayling magic, wanted nothing to do with it.

  "I have been looking at symbols your friend Hendricks drew," Kiiren said, reaching inside his robe.

  "The ones from Grey's desk? Are they skrayling writings?"

  Kiiren held them under the lamp-stand and stared at them for several moments. "Yes, I believe so. They look very like ancient script of my people. Added to your witnessing, it is enough proof that Suffolk is… Guiser, as you call them."

  "Was. Suffolk is dead."

  Kiiren looked aghast.

  "No. Then where–?"

  Mal told the ambassador of his fears, that Suffolk had chosen to be taken to Ferrymead House because of its closeness to the palace.

  "If that is true," Kiiren said, "our enemies' reach is greater than we suspected."

  "But surely he is no threat at the moment? He is not yet born. And even if the child is a boy, his father and elder brother inherit before him. He cannot come to the throne unless…"

  "Unless they die. Yes."

  They pondered a while in silence.

  "What are we to do?" Mal asked at last.

  "Now? Nothing. As you say, he is not yet born. And even with wits intact, he cannot be a threat to us for some years yet."

  "Why are they doing this, these skraylings who become humans?"

  Kiiren sighed. "Many thousands of years ago, my people were very few, fewer even than now. We were afraid we would die and disappear altogether, but then humans came and after much time became friends of us. But still there were not enough children for those who wished to be reborn. And so some took human form. Those that did grew proud, called themselves gods, and there was war…"

  "I do not think that could happen here," Mal said. "We have a God in Heaven, and do not worship men."

  "Perhaps not. But to rule in secret, that is wrong."

  "They seek to rule us?"

  "They think you will take our lands, and those of our friends."

  Mal nodded. "They are probably right."

  "They are very afraid of you, and will break our oldest laws to protect our land."

  "How do we stop them?"

  "I do not know," Kiiren said.

  "What about Sandy? He was lucid for a while, down in the cellar, better than I had seen him in years, and yet now…"

  "That was Jathekkil's doing."

  "How? Why?"

  "Your brother was kept in irons for long time, yes? This hurt Erishen, made your brother soul-sick. Freeing him, your brother suffered for short while but then recovered."

  "But–"

  "Touch of iron sends Erishen back into depths of mind. Sandy is sane. But this cannot last. Kept like this –" he gestured to the supine figure "– he will soon be unwell as before."

  "But you can make him whole again," Mal said. "Can't you?"

  Kiiren shook his head. "Can you mend cup that is smashed to pieces? Ship that founders on rocks?"

  "Then you can drive Erishen out, so he may be reborn."

  "There is only one way to make it happen. Body must die, as Jathekkil tried with you."

  "No. There must be something–"

  "There is not. For either of you."

  Mal shuddered. "You're saying Suffolk – Jathekkil – was telling the truth? That I have part of Erishen's soul?"

  "Did I not tell you you are touched by Erishen?" Kiiren placed two shakholaat
cups side by side. "If I pour into one of these, and my aim is not true, will not some fall into second? So it was with Erishen."

  "Get it out of me."

  "I cannot. Do you not listen to what I say?"

  "I don't believe you. You're just saying all this because you want to keep Sandy to yourself."

  Kiiren hesitated, looked at Sandy, then back at Mal.

  "No. You may have him, if that is your desire. Take him. Go."

  "You mean that?"

  "Do not ask second time."

  Mal stared at his brother. "But… he is not cured."

  "There is no 'cure'," Kiiren said wearily. "If he goes with you and wears iron, he remains as he was. If he stays… He will be Erishen."

  "So I lose him either way."

  Mal rubbed a hand across his face. Was this not what he had wanted all these years, what he had prayed for? An end to the fits, the ravings, the silences? But at what price? He looked once more at his brother's face, serene and so like his own.

  "Do it," he said. "I will not see him suffer any longer."

  Kiiren inclined his head, mumbling thanks in a garbled mixture of English and Vinlandic.

  "Enough," Mal said. "I have to go, before I change my mind."

  He got to his feet, pulled on his boots and walked out of the camp without looking back. Night was falling fast. He had better get back before curfew. But back where? Not the Faulkners' house. Gabriel had moved in with Ned, and Mal was not about to intrude on them.

  Walsingham's money lay heavy in his pocket. Thirty pieces of silver. He had to wrap his arms about his chest to stop himself from throwing the purse in the river. As he approached the bridge at the near end of St Olave's Street, a slight, fairhaired figure jumped down from the railing. Hendricks. Her grin faded as she realised he was alone.

  "Sir?"

  He shook his head, and they walked into Southwark together, the darkness gathering around them like a cloak. He glanced at her profile as they walked, recalling that first day in Paris Gardens.

  "What of your friends?" he asked, more to take his mind off Sandy than out of real interest.

  She told him about Parrish and Eaton, and the disbanding of Suffolk's Men.

  "And you?"

  "With my master gone, I have no other employ."

  He laughed bitterly. "That makes two of us. Unless you count Walsingham, and he has not charged me with any duties. Yet."

  It was not quite the truth, but he was too weary to explain. Perhaps tomorrow. After he had drunk himself into oblivion, and sobered up again.

  "You're going to work for Walsingham?" she asked.

  "I need something to occupy my days. And I must confess that ciphers are intriguing."

  "I could help," she said, glancing up at him shyly.

  "You?"

  "Why not? Did we not work well together?"

  He stopped, and drew her aside into an alley, where none could see.

  "It is too dangerous for a woman," he said softly.

  "Then you do think of me as a woman."

  In the gloom he could barely make out the pale blur of her features, but he could hear the smile in her voice. By way of a reply, he put his arms around her and bent to kiss her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and rose on tiptoe; at the pressure he let out an involuntary hiss of pain. Muttering an apology she transferred her hands to his waist. Her lips burned against his, and he drank from them like a man parched. Or frozen.

  As she pressed against him, he felt something… hard. In her breeches.

  "What in God's name–?"

  "Um, just part of my disguise," she said, pulling away slightly. "Got to have something in there for the look of it."

  "Oh. Of course."

  He kissed her again, partly to reassure her that it didn't bother him, but mostly because he needed to forget the past hour. He stroked her temples, her hair, the small of her back, the tight curve of her arse… She trembled. Damn, still a virgin, of course. He moved his hand back to her waist. She pressed against him, willing but tense as a deer under the hunter's gaze. After a few minutes they both realised she wasn't the only one with a bulge in her breeches.

  "If you like me this way," she said with an embarrassed laugh, "I shall remain a boy. It is what I am used to."

  He released her, abashed. It had been one thing to lie with Ned when he was lonely and in need, but a boy… Here in England they might be safe enough if they were discreet, but in France it would be a very different matter. Rumour had it Francis Bacon's brother was nearly burnt at the stake for molesting one of his pages, and had to flee home to England in disgrace.

  "That cannot be," he said. "If you insist on remaining in this guise, then you and I cannot be lovers."

  "No!" She bit her lip. "What… what about Ned and Gabriel? If they can be happy together, why cannot we?"

  "They are grown men and, more importantly, men of little consequence. I have brought myself to the notice of those in power, and must therefore remain above the law. In the eyes of the world, at least."

  "And where those eyes cannot pierce?" she said, glancing at the shadows about them.

  She looked so hopeful – but he would have to dash those hopes, for both their sakes.

  "You are a woman – and a child. You cannot understand."

  She folded her arms, her eyes glittering with indignation.

  "How like a man! You think because I am a woman I am weak and useless. Well, Master Maliverny Catlyn, next time you are taken captive and in peril of death, I shall not come to your rescue."

  She marched back out into the street, head held high. He burst out laughing and followed her.

  "You have me there." He weighed the purse in his pocket. A dozen angels; and more to come, if he took up Walsingham's suggestion. "Very well, I will take you into my service. I owe you that much at least."

  She halted and turned back.

  "Service? I will not be your doxy."

  "Honest employment, I swear." Though it will be a sore trial of my honour, if I am to be chaste. "I am a man of substance now. I cannot do without a valet to look after my wardrobe. That is what you do, is it not, tireman?"

  She grinned at him. "Yes. That is what I do."

  "Then it is agreed." He held out his hand, and she grasped it firmly. "Come, let's find an inn for the night, and tomorrow, lodgings."

  She fell in at his side and they walked down St Olave's Street in companionable silence, leaving the skrayling camp and guild house far behind. One day he would go back for Sandy. One day. Until then, he had another young soul in his charge. Perhaps he would make a Catholic of her yet. Making an honest woman of her; now there was a challenge.

  EPILOGUE

  Prince Robert shaded his eyes against the setting sun as the cavalcade trotted westwards along the London road. Golden onion domes glinted to his left, stirring a hundred memories of homecomings, but first he had a visit to make. A prince who neglected his magnates stored up trouble for the future.

  Both riders and horses were bone-weary, though they had gone scarcely a dozen miles today. The sucking clay mud of the Thames valley had frozen overnight into a treacherous surface of ice-slick ruts and hollows that had already claimed one animal's leg and left its rider bruised and winded. Robert pulled his furs around him and flexed his gloved fingers. Having taken over his mother's tradition of the royal summer progress, he was no stranger to hard travel, but in this weather men of good sense stayed at home. If they could.

  They passed the ivory grandeur of Syon House and turned south towards Ferrymead. Behind him, Robert could hear William Bourchier, the Earl of Bath, congratulating young Josceline Percy on his eldest brother's great good fortune in acquiring both Syon House and the lovely Lady Dorothy, though the boy seemed little impressed by either. Other lesser courtiers joined in the envious chorus. Robert noted those who sounded most sycophantic; it did not do for a powerful and ancient family like the Percys to become too popular. Especially the Percys. They had not forgotten that R
obert's grandfather had been made Duke of Northumberland whilst they were only earls of that county.

  Wrapped in these thoughts, he paid little heed to the servants that ran to greet them as they rode into the courtyard at Ferrymead. The master of the house was not, of course, at his door to greet them, so Robert left his escort in the great hall and ascended the stair with only Bourchier and Percy in tow. He found Grey in the ancient solar, seated by the fire. The young duke was wrapped in a crumpled blue velvet robe and clutched a small, fat book as if it held the very secret of life eternal; a psalter or book of devotions, perhaps? It would be understandable, for a man who had come so near death.