The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1
Page 48
"You will forgive me if I do not rise, sire," Grey said, bowing as best he could from his seated position.
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "I cannot chastise a man for hurts gained in protecting his own father. Even if he was a traitor."
Grey winced and mumbled an apology, then rang a bell by his side. Whilst the servants hurried back and forth with flagons of hot spiced wine and currant cakes, Robert sat down opposite and took a moment to study the man he had diverted his journey to see. Grey's features were gaunt and sickly pale as from long illness, which was no more than Robert had expected, but there was an intensity in his gaze that had not been there before.
"Will you spend Christmas at Richmond, sire?" Grey asked, after the servants had left.
"That is my intent," Robert replied. "Juliana is well enough for merriment, and I am not sorry to leave the city behind for a while. You must join us, at least for the Christmas feast."
"Alas, my prince, I am…" Grey gestured helplessly at his body.
"Nonsense," Robert replied. "I'll have my men carry you across the river and all the way to the great hall if need be."
Grey inclined his head in submission. Robert picked up one of the silver cups and handed it to one of the servants to taste. After a moment's hesitation the man sipped the wine, nodded, and returned it to the prince with a bow.
"Your son is well?" Grey asked, pretending not to notice this breach of etiquette.
"Both of them," Robert replied. "There was some talk of a fever, but I dispatched a skrayling physician forthwith."
"You trust them with your son's life?"
"My second son," Robert pointed out. "Besides, they are so cowed after that business with your father–"
"I had nothing to do with that, sire, I swear!"
Grey began to tremble as if he had taken another fever.
"I believe you," Robert told him. "I loved your father, and I confess his betrayal cut me deeply. But I am willing to let bygones be bygones. If you find me your father's lieutenants amongst the Huntsmen."
"Oh I shall, sire, I promise you."
"Topcliffe is at your disposal, should you need him."
Grey sniffed. "Topcliffe is a butcher. And the leaders of the Huntsmen are too clever to reveal themselves to their foot soldiers. No, more subtle means are needed." He tapped the book on the arm of his chair. "Leave it to me, sire. I will have all the information I need, soon enough."
"Hmm. Well, I must be going. Juliana will fret if I do not arrive before dark. She thinks this country full of brigands and rebels."
Grey smiled fixedly. "I am honoured by your notice, sire." He reached for the bell.
"No matter," Robert said with a wave of his hand. "I know my way out."
He left by the east door and went down the grassy slope to the riverside. The sun was nearly on the horizon, and an iceedged wind cut through his cloak as they crossed in one of the little ferry boats.
Leaving his guards and companions behind entirely, Robert strode through the echoing halls of the palace and made his way up to his wife's private apartments. There was a familiar scent here now, a sourness that he associated with the arrival of a new babe. Though not pleasant in itself, it spoke of life and health, for which the Lord be praised.
Ladies-in-waiting bobbed curtsies as Robert passed, though some glanced up at him with mock coyness. He wondered if any of them had been praying for the princess's death in childbirth. Lady Dorothy, perhaps, hoping to escape marriage to that old goat Northumberland? Or Lady Alice, plump and doe-eyed and ripe for bedding? Perhaps he would send for her later.
"Meu príncipe!" Juliana cried, leaping up from the window seat. "How I have longed to see you again."
He kissed her on the mouth, then looked about the room.
"And where is this fine young princeling you have given me?" he asked.
Juliana beckoned to her serving women, who brought forth a bundle of creamy silks and linens with a red, wrinkled face beneath a lace-trimmed bonnet.
"My dear, this is your son, Prince Henry Vasco Dudley."
Robert reached out a hand to touch the soft pink skin. The babe opened its eyes, blinked, then its tiny fingers closed around one of his own.
"Ah, he knows his papa!" the nurse crooned.
Robert gazed fondly at his son. The smallness of these fragile creatures never ceased to astonish him, each perfectly formed fingernail a miniature counterpart of his own.
"Hail, Prince Henry," he murmured. "Mayhap one day, King Henry the Ninth of England."
The babe looked him straight in the eye. And smiled.
About the Author
Anne Lyle was born in what is known to the tourist industry as "Robin Hood Country", and grew up fascinated by English history, folklore, and swashbuckling heroes. Unfortunately there was little demand in 1970s Nottingham for diminutive female swordswomen, so she studied sensible subjects like science and languages instead.
It appears that although you can take the girl out of Sherwood Forest, you can't take Sherwood Forest out of the girl. She now spends every spare hour writing (or at least planning) fantasy fiction about spies, actors, outlaws and other folk on the fringes of society. Her Night's Masque series is set in an alternate history Elizabethan England, where the Virgin Queen married and had children while fanged and tattooed creatures from the New World walk the streets of London.
Anne lives in Cambridge, a city full of medieval and Tudor buildings where cattle graze on the common land much as they did in Shakespeare's London. She prides herself on being able to ride a horse (badly), sew a sampler and cut a quill pen but hasn't the least idea how to drive one of those new-fangled automobile thingies.
annelyle.com
Author's Note
I first came across the name Maliverny Catlyn whilst researching Sir Francis Walsingham for an early draft of this book, and knew I had to use it. The historical Catlyn was an ex-soldier in Walsingham's employ, a man who "possessed the manners and bearing… to be able to circulate freely within the higher echelons of society"*; unfortunately he was also a little old to be my swashbuckling hero, and a theatre-hating Puritan to boot! However he is a very obscure historical figure, about whom little else is known beyond what is stated above, and I was writing an alternate history after all, so I decided to make a few changes.
I divided the historical Catlyn into two characters: a forty-ish Puritan forced to work with a theatre company against his personal wishes (John Dunfell, the Duke of Suffolk's secretary), and a twenty-five year-old ex-soldier recruited by Walsingham. For the rest of Mal's background, I started with his name.
Maliverny is a name from Provence in France, and from what little I could discover through Google, belonged to a minor family of aristocracy. In Elizabethan England, it was not unknown for the upper classes to name younger sons after their mother's family: the most famous example is probably Guilford Dudley, husband of Lady Jane Grey and brother of Robert Dudley, named after his mother Jane Guilford. Hence I made Mal half-French, the son of a French heiress and an English diplomatic aide at the French Court.
From there, everything fell into place. Provence was predominantly Catholic during this period, so it seemed obvious to me that Mal would have Catholic sympathies, although I wanted him to be pragmatic enough not to be a zealot, so I decided that firsthand experience of war on the Continent had made him cynical and wary of any cause. Also, the atmosphere of paranoid xenophobia in late 16th century England means that anyone of non-English birth and/or appearance is suspect, regardless of their religion, which would help to explain why Mal's career has been patchy, and provides another source of conflict.
My Maliverny Catlyn may not be true to the historical facts, but I aim to make all my characters as true to the period as I can. It's part of the pleasure of writing the genre – and reading it.
* Hutchinson, Robert. Elizabeth's Spy Master. Phoenix, 2007.
Acknowledgments
Firstly, I have to credit my publisher, Marc Ga
scoigne of Angry Robot Books, for his great taste in fiction - not just my work, but that of the many brilliant authors whose novels he has unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. Marc is a great sounding board for ideas, and puts up with the Tigger-like enthusiasm and anxiety of debut authors like myself with heroic patience. Angry Robot lieutenant Lee Harris earns my gratitude for editing and general cheerleading, and my agent John Berlyne for being our go-between and doing the boring paperwork so that I get paid for this stuff.
These days, writers rarely work alone in freezing garrets. Between online communities and offline events, it's easier than ever to share your work with other writers and get advice and feedback. I'd therefore like to thank all the dozens, nay hundreds, of people who have helped me over the years, but in particular my writing group in Cambridge, who critiqued numerous early drafts of this book: Una McCormack, Alex Beecroft, Rebecca Payne and Naomi Clark. You girls are probably sick of the story by now, but I promise this is the final version.
Fantasy writer and teacher extraordinaire Holly Lisle (no relation!) earns my undying thanks for her online courses on writing and editing, without which the manuscript of this book might still be languishing in revision Hell. Finally, two other authors deserve special mention for putting me on the path to publication: Ian Whates, for introducing me to Marc Gascoigne late one night in the FantasyCon bar, and Juliet E McKenna, for prodding me into attending SFF conventions in the first place.
Behind nearly every successful author, there's a long-suffering loved one who puts up with our hours at the keyboard and inexplicable obsessions with people who don't exist. Thank you, Richard, for your infinite patience and endless cups of tea.
Anne Lyle,
Cambridge, 2011
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I am Skrayling, 'cross the sea
An Angry Robot paperback original 2012
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Copyright © Anne Lyle 2012
Anne Lyle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978 0 85766 213 2
EBook ISBN: 978 0 85766 215 6
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This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.