The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (30 page)

  "What about Master Parrish?" she asked.

  "If he wants to stay, he can sleep in the storeroom," Naismith replied. "Or the barn. Don't trouble your head about him, lad."

  A final niggling thought prompted her to ask: "How did Wheeler get in, sir? The doors were all still locked and bolted on the inside as I had left them, and I doubt he would have blocked his own escape thus."

  "Wheeler confessed to me that he hid in the under-stage and did not leave with the others after the rehearsal. There was no need for him to break in."

  Coby stared at him. "He was there all along?"

  She shivered. What if he had come up whilst she was taking off her corset? That had been a foolish risk to take, to assume she was alone. Had Wheeler known she was upstairs? Perhaps not. As a hireling, he was not privy to the company's secrets: the regular actors had been warned to say nothing about the poem to anyone, and the whole purpose of Coby's watch had been to catch the miscreant in another attempt, not to scare him away. Wheeler must have assumed the theatre was empty that night and everyone gone home to their beds like good Christians.

  "Do not blame yourself," Master Naismith said. "I should have kept a sharper eye on the hirelings and made certain they all left at the end of the day. I will not be so blind a shepherd in future."

  Coby thanked him and made her way up to her attic room. Tonight she would sleep fully clothed, whatever the weather.

  She knelt by her narrow bed and said her prayers: for her family, wherever they might be, for her Dutch friends, and Master Naismith and his family. And for Master Catlyn, standing between the ambassador and who knew how many wicked assassins. There would be no heroic swordplay, she feared; traitors preferred the subtlety of poison, or a close-wielded knife. Even Caesar could not escape such a fate… She shook the thought away. Worrying would not make Master Catlyn any safer. Her only concern for the next few days was to ensure that Suffolk's Men were dressed and on stage when their cues came, so they could do their best to win this contest.

 
 
 

Ned arrived outside Bethlem Hospital just as St Botolph's was tolling ten. He felt as if the forged document tucked inside his doublet were glowing like a beacon, pointing him out as a counterfeit and a betrayer of his friend. He knew that, regardless of Mal's absence, he should go and confess to his involvement in this plot, but he was afraid Kemp would find out and get to his mother in his absence. Besides, the Lieutenant of the Tower would probably have him tortured, just to make sure he wasn't holding anything back.

  He was starting to think the risk of torment might be worth it if it meant getting out of this mess, when a coach drew up outside the hospital and Kemp and Armitage got out. Kemp was dressed as a lawyer again. Ned recalled the two men standing in the doorway right behind his mother, and his nerve deserted him.

  "Right then," Kemp said. "Let's see the paperwork. Yes, very good. This'll do nicely."

  "I've done my bit," Ned said. "Now let me go home."

  "I haven't finished with you yet, Faulkner, not by half. You just come along with us, and keep your mouth shut until I say the word."

  Kemp walked up to the gates of the hospital and knocked. A hatch slid open and the porter peered out. Before the man could say a word, Kemp held up a gold angel. The porter's eyes lit up, and within moments they were inside.

  "We are here on behalf of my client, one Maliverny Catlyn," Kemp said in crisp tones befitting his assumed profession, "to oversee the discharge of his brother from this place." He waved the writ under the porter's nose.

  The porter frowned. "Why ain't he here then? He told me he was in London until Christmas."

  "Master Catlyn is a man of substance now," Kemp said, pressing the gold coin into the man's grimy palm. "If he chooses to send his servants on this errand, what business is that of yours?"

  "None at all, sirs, none at all." The porter pocketed the bribe. "Master Alexander is in the west gatehouse, wonderful well cared for, as you will see."

  Mistress Cooke was equally surprised to see them, and exclaimed woefully at the news they were taking Sandy away. An angelic visitation soon calmed her nerves, however, and they were let into the cell.

  Sandy was crouched in the corner of his bed, eyeing them warily. A book lay open on the blanket nearby.

  "He's a bloody sorry specimen," Armitage said, after the wardress had gone.

  "He'll clean up," Kemp replied. He gestured to Ned to proceed with the plan.

  "Hello, Sandy." Ned stepped a little closer to the bed. "Remember me? Mal's friend?"

  "Ned Faulkner," Sandy replied. "Yes."

  "Your brother has sent us to take you out of here."

  "I know."

  Ned paused, dumbfounded. "You do?"

  "It's all part of the plan," Sandy said calmly.

  "Here, what's he talking about?" Armitage said. "You been telling tales, Faulkner?"

  "Not I," Ned said quickly. "Look, I told you he was–"

  "Enough!" Kemp held up his hands. "If he thinks this is his plan, all to the good. Now let's go."

  He unlocked the heavy iron shackles, then produced a pair of much lighter restraints from his lawyer's document wallet and snapped them around Sandy's wrists. The young man winced, though the blued steel bands seemed loose enough.

  "What are those for?" Ned asked.

  "Don't want him causing no trouble, do we?" Armitage growled.

  Ned refrained from commenting that, without a chain between them, the handcuffs would be of little use. There was something odd going on here, something he couldn't quite put his finger on.

  Sandy gathered up the pile of books on the table. "I can't leave these," he muttered. "Mal would be angry with me."

  "All right, we'll take the books," Kemp said. "Armitage, you can carry them."

  "Me?"

  A look from Kemp cowed the big man. Ned wondered what hold Kemp had over him. Something even worse than he had over himself, probably.

  Sandy hugged the books to his chest.

  "It's all right," Ned told him. "You'll have them back as soon as we get to…" He broke off, realising he had no idea where Kemp was taking the young man.

  "To your brother's lodgings," Kemp put in. "Now, come along with me and Ned."

  Ned took off his cloak and draped it around Sandy's shoulders.

  "Here," he said, "it's starting to rain."

  They escorted Sandy out of the ward and across the courtyard. The porter waved them through the gates, bowing obsequiously. "Thank you, sirs. My kind regards to your master."

  Ned helped Sandy into the coach, and they set off southwards down Bishopsgate Street. He wondered if the coach would be searched on entry into the city. Even if it were, what would be found amiss? Sandy was cooperating fully with his abductors, indeed seemed in control of the situation. Which was odd in itself. On the other hand Mal's brother was, after all, insane. Who knew what was going on inside his head?

  In the event, the gate guards' inspection of the coach was curtailed by another of Kemp's seemingly endless supply of angels, and they passed through into the city without further obstacle. Whoever was behind this did not lack for money, Ned reflected. A pity nothing but threats came his own way.

  From Bishopsgate the coach headed south-west down Threadneedle Street. Just before St Pancras they took a sharp turn left towards the river, and after a few more minutes the coach stopped.

  "Out," Kemp told Ned.

  "Why? Where are we?" Ned looked out of the window. On the far side of the river he could see the familiar Bankside skyline, dominated by the bear-baiting and bull-baiting arenas to the east and the theatres to the west.

  "Three Cranes Stairs. Here's the wherry fare." Kemp handed him a meagre two pennies.

  "What about Sandy? Where are you taking him?"

  "That's none of your business. Is it, Catlyn?"

  Sandy said nothing. He had been staring out of the coach window since they entered the city, taking in all the sights and sounds.

  "This is an end to my part, isn't it?" Ned asked in a low voice. "You don't need me any more."

  "That remains to be seen," Kemp said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "This isn't over yet, Faulkner. You think we sprang the idiot boy out of Bedlam for the pleasure of his company? There's bigger matters afoot, my friend. And don't even think about betraying us. You're in this up to your neck, and it's more than your neck that'll get stretched if you fail us."

 

"An audience with the Queen?" Mal asked.

  That explained why servants had been sent at dawn to fetch his replacement livery from the tailor. Kiiren inclined his head in acknowledgment. He was dressed once more in his blue silk robes and looked every inch the foreign ambassador.

  "I fear I have caused great offence," he said. "It is my duty to put things right between our people."

  Just inside the gates of the compound the skrayling honour guard were waiting, mounted on matched bay geldings. Kiiren was escorted to a pretty grey mare and helped to mount; Mal could only assume the chestnut with the white blaze was for his own use.

  Outside the compound they were joined by more guards, this time men in scarlet-and-gold royal livery, with banner-bearers in the vanguard. To show the ambassador the way to Nonsuch, Mal wondered, or to protect the skrayling party from unwanted attention? Few of the foreigners ventured outside London nowadays. There had been too many… disappearances.

  The journey to Nonsuch Palace took most of the morning at the gentle pace set by the mare. At each village and hamlet, people flocked to watch the cavalcade pass, waving their hats as the royal banners appeared and then falling silent when they saw the ambassador. A few made the sign of the cross discreetly whilst others cried out "God save the Queen!" or "Christ bless you, Your Honour!" Even this close to London, many had probably never seen a skrayling before.

  As they rode, Kiiren was full of questions about the English countryside: its crops, the manner of their cultivation and the cycle of the year. Mal explained that the main harvest – wheat, barley, peas and beans – was now over, leaving only the autumn fruits and roots to be gathered before the frosts.

  "Your people do not grow many kinds of vegetables," Kiiren observed.

  "Not in the fields," Mal replied. "In gardens."

  He thought of the Faulkners' back garden, with its rows of onions and cabbages and herbs. It seemed a world away from the circles he now moved in.

  If it had not been for dread at the thought of facing his queen, Mal would have enjoyed the journey a good deal. A strong breeze tempered the heat of the sun and blew away all memory of the stink of London. As the riders passed each farm, flocks of swallows weaved through the air above them, filling their bellies with the last flush of summer midges before they departed who knew where.

  At last they neared the fabled palace built by King Henry the Eighth and now inhabited by his widowed daughter Elizabeth. At first nothing could be seen through the trees apart from an unremarkable crenellated gatehouse. As they approached, however, the scale of the building became apparent. Massive octagonal towers rose at each corner of the palace, topped with gilded onion domes flying the royal standard. Thousands of lozenge-shaped panes of glass glinted in the midday sun.

  "It is called Nonsuch because it has no equal in Christendom," Mal said, noting with amusement Kiiren's awed expression. "Perhaps not in the world, unless Your Excellency knows better?"

  Kiiren shook his head. "Your Queen lives in this great place all alone?"

  "Not alone. There are many servants here, to attend to her every whim. I am told her sons visit as often as their duties allow."

  "And her daughters?"

  "There are no daughters, Your Excellency."

  "That is sad indeed. Every woman needs daughters, for sons must leave her."

  "Because only women live in your cities?" Mal asked.

  "Yes."

  "Then where do the men go?"

  "They journey from place to place and trade, as we do here in England. Amongst our own people, and between human peoples also. This is how it has been since long before time."

  "But your people do not live with humans."

  "No. They have their ways, we have ours. We learn from them, they learn from us. Now we learn from you English, and perhaps you learn from us also?"

  "I am sure there is a lot you could teach us," Mal said. "Like how to make those lamps without fire?"

  Kiiren smiled. "That I cannot tell you. Only our women know secrets of making such things. Men trade, or make show of music and storytelling and games of skill and strength, one company against another."

  "Like the theatre contest in London?"

  "Yes, except…" Kiiren glanced at him sidelong. "In my lands, purpose of contest is for choosing of mates."

  Mal was prevented from further enquiry into skrayling customs by their arrival at the gatehouse of the palace. The royal escort led them through a large outer courtyard to an inner one, less spacious but far grander. Rows of dazzling white stucco panels adorned all four sides of the quadrangle, depicting heroes of classical myth and English legend: Hercules, Perseus, Brutus and of course King Arthur, the prince's namesake.

  "You must tell me some of their stories," Kiiren said eagerly, gazing around in wonder.

  "Perhaps after the contest, sir," Mal said. "I would not want to spoil any surprises the players might have in store for Your Excellency."

  The skraylings dismounted, and the ambassador and his bodyguard were escorted alone through the echoing corridors of the palace, across expanses of black-and-white marble floor and up a noble stair into one of the octagonal towers. Mal felt very small and wretched amongst all this magnificence, which was no doubt its purpose. He wondered for the thousandth time how much the Queen had heard about Saturday's incident, and what she made of it. He only prayed he might come out of this with his head and other limbs intact.