The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (20 page)

  "An assassin," Mal replied, holding the rapier point at the wounded man's throat.

  "Captain!" The admiral looked around. "Who is this man?"

  The captain, drawn sword in hand, crossed the deck. Mal suddenly realised no one had moved to help him, not even the captain. Had it happened so fast, or were they all in this together? In the sudden silence he was conscious of the warm, sticky blood coating his dagger hand and dripping onto the deck.

  "Edwards?" The captain seized the sailor by his hair and wrenched his head back.

  Edwards' eyes rolled up into their sockets, and he sagged, a dead weight in his captain's grasp. The captain grunted and let him go, and the dying sailor slumped to the deck.

  Mal turned to Kiiren. A spatter of red dots marred the ambassador's robe at knee height.

  "Are you hurt, Your Excellency?"

  Kiiren shook his head slowly, never taking his eyes off his assailant.

  "He almost kill me," he said in a low voice.

  The skrayling elders hurried forwards, muttering in their own tongue as they stepped around the spreading pool of blood on the deck. The ambassador seemed to be assuring them he was unhurt, but the elders closed in around him as if to protect him from further attack. Mal wished that he had asked the ambassador to bring his escort aboard the ship. In future he would be more cautious.

  He wiped both blades on the sleeve of his doublet – it was soaked in blood already, a little more would make no difference – and sheathed them.

  "I think His Excellency has seen enough," he told the admiral.

  "Indeed," Effingham replied. He turned to the captain. "See to this mess, Fosdyke. I want every man aboard questioned. Someone will hang for this."

  "Aye-aye, sir."

  The captain snapped a salute, his expression that of a man determined to find a scapegoat lest his own neck feel the hempen collar.

  Mal wiped his hand absentmindedly on his hose. Only the first day of the visit, and already he had drawn steel in the ambassador's defence, aye, and bloodied it too. How many more zealots and desperadoes would try their luck? And how long before he failed to stop them? With a last glance round at the crew of the
Ark Royal
he escorted the skraylings down the gangplank to the blessed safety of the dockside.

 

There was only one problem with Faulkner's plan, Coby realised.

  Where was Master Parrish going to sleep? Philip and Oliver shared a bed in the room opposite Master Naismith's, and Coby and the maidservant Betsy had the two servants' rooms on the top floor. Master Parrish would have to have a pallet on the floor in the boys' room. Either that or Coby would surrender her own bed and sleep in the costume store.

  Faulkner got to his feet.

  "So, mayhap I'll see you later, Gabe," he said with forced casualness. "Got a lot of work to do, though."

  Parrish made an affirmative noise, still with half an ear on the debate over hirelings. Faulkner gave her a wink over Parrish's shoulder and left.

  "Master Parrish," Coby said. "Sir?"

  "Hmm?"

  "I need your help. It's about Pip."

  "Oh?"

  "He's…" Perhaps the truth would be best, even if it cost her dear. "He's running wild, sir. Master Naismith has been so busy with the new theatre and the contest, he hasn't been keeping an eye on the apprentices like he should. I think… I think Philip is taking costly gifts from admirers and spending the money on… on…"

  "On what?"

  "Gambling, sir. And whores."

  Parrish frowned, suddenly attentive. "How long has this been going on?"

  "I don't know, sir. Since we came back to London, at least."

  "Why did you not say anything sooner?"

  "I wanted to, sir, but I was scared. I know I shouldn't be, he's more than a year younger than me, but he's always been jealous that I get to come to the tavern with you and the other adults whilst he has to stay at home with Oliver, and–"

  "Very well, I'll speak to Master Naismith–"

  "No!" She caught his sleeve. "If you do that, he'll know it was me."

  "What would you like me to do?"

  She swallowed, caught his cool blue gaze with her own.

  "Come and stay at Master Naismith's for a few days. Tell him you're worried about this attack preying on the boys' thoughts, giving them nightmares, and want to keep them company for a while."

  Parrish smiled. "You have this all thought out, haven't you?"

  "It has been on my mind for a while, yes."

  She looked away, praying he would agree. Faulkner was right. If anything happened to Parrish or, worse still, Philip, their chances of winning the contest would be scuppered.

  "All right," he said at last. "Ned will not be happy about this, but I dare say he'll live."

  He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a brotherly hug. For once she did not shy away. She was beginning to realise she had misjudged this man. He had never been interested in her, not in that way.

  "Thank you, sir," she whispered.

  The temptation to pour out her heart to someone had never been greater. No, she must not succumb. The company was already under threat, without adding new kindling to the flames.

 

At Trinity House Mal was shown into a side-chamber and clean clothes were brought to replace his ruined livery. Mal changed hurriedly, reluctant to let the ambassador out of his sight for a moment. He emerged into the dining hall a few minutes later to find the admiral and his guests sitting at table, along with a number of naval officers. The hapless Captain Fosdyke was not amongst them.

  "… most regrettable," Effingham was saying. "Can't question a dead man, though."

  "The ambassador's assailant is dead?" Mal asked, taking a seat at the far end of the table, where he could see the skraylings clearly. He noticed the elders had placed themselves either side of Kiiren, and wondered how many English noblemen would defend their ambassador so readily.

  "Bled to death," Effingham replied, picking up a gobbet of meat and gesturing with it. "You know how to wield that fancy sword, sir, I'll give you that."

  Mal inclined his head at the backhanded compliment.

  "Do you think the fellow was a Spanish spy, sir?" a young officer asked the admiral, his eyes gleaming with patriotic fervour.

  "Unless Fosdyke finds a purse of doubloons in his hammock, how will we know?" The speaker was an older man, weatherbeaten like the admiral but less richly attired.

  "Not all men betray their country for pay," the young officer replied. "Damned Papists will do anything to harm the Queen's cause."

  "Enough of such talk, gentlemen," Effingham said, gesturing to the skraylings. "Don't want to bore our guests with our petty squabbles, eh?"

  Conversation turned to more friendly matters for a while: the ambassador's voyage from the New World, expeditions of trade and exploration on both sides. What it must be like, Mal thought as he sipped his wine, to sail for weeks without sight of land, and no certainty of reaching the other side? Like marching into battle, he supposed, only against a foe more implacable than any army, and with no means of retreat.

  "I wish more of my men would learn to swim," the young officer said, echoing Mal's thoughts, "but they prefer to put their trust in God."

  Kiiren translated this for his companions.

  "We have seen this in your people," the ambassador said, "but never understood."

  "Damned foolish nonsense, if you ask me," Effingham muttered. "Here, have a slice of quince tart."

  "Thank you, no. We are much sated."

  "Ate too much of the roast goose, eh?" The admiral beckoned to the servants, who cleared the dishes away. "Now, about this play–"

  Kiiren held up a hand. "I am sorry, Effingham-
tuur
, but I cannot talk about contest."

  "I was just going to ask–"

  Kiiren stood up. "Please, you must excuse me."

  He bowed low, and walked out of the room. After a moment's hesitation the skrayling elders did likewise.

  "Damned foreigners!" Effingham slammed his glass down on the table, slopping wine over the tablecloth. "I was only going to ask how many of these contests that young fellow has judged. None at all, I'll warrant. I've seen cabin boys with more hair on their upper lips."

  Mal refrained from pointing out that the skraylings did not appear to grow facial hair at any age.

  "I am told they take their traditions and rules very seriously, my lord," he said. "If you will forgive me–"

  He sketched a bow and all but ran from the room, his footsteps echoing round the high ceiling.

  Kiiren was pacing a terrace overlooking the river, deep in conversation with the elders. Mal took up his station by a clipped box tree, where he could see most of the gardens at a single glance.

  Shaded by the house behind him, the terrace was cool despite the afternoon sun. Balustraded steps ran down to a parterre divided into elaborate geometric shapes by low box hedges, and taller hedges either side framed the view of the river. Mal's attention was not on the formal beauty of the gardens, however, nor on the spectacle of so many ships sailing back and forth on the glittering waters. He scanned the shadowed arbours for lurking threats, calculated lines of sight and angles of attack. After the morning's events, he was taking no chances.

  The gardens were disappointingly empty, however. A lone gardener was snipping the deadheads from the roses and tying in the climbing stems, and in the distance he could hear the shouts of a lieutenant of marines drilling his new recruits, but otherwise it was all very peaceful. He was just beginning to wonder if he should ask the ambassador if he wished to return to London yet, when he spotted a figure slipping from bush to bush. Not another so soon?

  There was no point calling out; no one apart from the gardener was within easy range, and the intruder would easily get away. Mal stepped back into the shadows of a column and watched.

  The man paused in a gap in the hedge, waiting for the gardener to turn his back. He was a short, dark-haired fellow, dressed in dull green and russet as if to go unnoticed in his current surroundings. He wore no cloak that would hide a pistol, and did not appear to be armed with more than a dagger. No immediate danger, then, unless he got a good deal closer to the ambassador.

  The gardener picked up his trug and turned towards the next group of rose bushes. For a moment Mal was afraid the intruder would leap out and stab him, but the gardener walked away unharmed. The intruder looked straight at Mal and beckoned.

  Mal hesitated. He was not about to walk up to another assassin and let himself be murdered. On the other hand, this could be some kind of contact from Walsingham. He strolled down the steps to the garden, as if going to admire the sundial. Glancing back, he reassured himself that the ambassador was still busy with the elders. He stepped aside into a rose bower and drew his rapier, then walked towards the waiting man.

  "What do you want?"

  The stranger said nothing, only took out a sealed letter, dropped it on the gravel path and walked away. Mal glanced around, but the gardener had his back to him. Crouching, he retrieved the folded paper. The seal was a plain one, a simple cross within a circle. On the other side were two initials: M C.

  He slipped the letter into his pocket and sheathed his blade, then hurried back to the terrace. His only thought was to get the ambassador safely back to the Tower so he could read the letter at his leisure.

 
 
 

After a quiet supper in the dining room of St Thomas's Tower, the ambassador and the two elders settled down to a game of Five Beans. Greatyard produced a bag of counters and a roll of leather on which was painted the X-shaped board, and the skraylings began haggling good-naturedly over the items to be provided for the bets. The ambassador chose six gifts from the cabinet, much to the annoyance of the elders, who seemed to be disputing their value. Mal excused himself as early as possible, and retreated to the privacy of the small bedchamber.

  Taking the letter from his pocket he cracked the seal.

 

Esteemed sir, it has come to our attention that one true to the Old Faith has, by the Grace of God, been granted access to His Excellency the Ambassador of Vinland. It is the fondest wish of His Holiness that the foreigners be brought to knowledge of Christ for the salvation of their souls, and it is certain that any man who could claim to have converted the ambassador himself would gain eternal salvation. He would also earn the undying gratitude of His Most Catholic Majesty King Felipe, to his undoubted benefit and worship. I pray to Our Lady that this message reaches one whose heart is true, and wish him all success in this endeavour.

 

  Mal crumpled the letter in his fist. Goddam Spanish, using faith as an excuse for conquest. He looked around the bedchamber. Even to possess such a letter was enough to condemn a man. It mattered not that there was no signature, nor any recipient named; the initials on the outside were as good as a noose around his neck. Were they genuinely trying to recruit him, or was this a more subtle ploy, aimed at removing him from his position by exposing him as a Catholic? No matter. He would not give them the satisfaction of either.

  He ventured into the ambassador's bedchamber, where one of the lamps rested on the hearth. He dipped the letter into the glowing liquid, but it failed to burst into flames. When he lifted it out, it dripped pale light back into the lamp but was otherwise unharmed. With a sigh he retrieved his tinderbox and placed the damp letter on the hearth, arranging a small heap of wood-shavings and other dry scraps in the centre.

  After a few strikes of flint and steel the tinder caught fire. Flame gulped at the dry stuff and spread to the paper, turning it to wisps of black ash that floated about the room in the draught from the fireplace. Only the corner dampened by the skraylings' lightwater remained, the ink smeared into illegibility. He picked it up, wadded it and stuffed it in his pocket. One more thing that Walsingham would never hear from his own lips. Perhaps he should make a list, as Cecil was reputedly so fond of doing.