The Merchant of Dreams (10 page)

“This reminds me of being on tour with Suffolk’s Men,” the actor said. “Though ‘tis far more pleasant.”

“Aye,” Coby said, emerging from her reverie. “No heaving the wagon out of pot-holes every half-mile, nor walking all day only to sleep in a barn at the end of it.”

“With Naismith’s snoring to keep us all awake. May God rest his soul.”

Coby fell silent again. Mal knew the girl blamed herself for Naismith’s death, even though it had been the work of anti-skrayling seditionists. He draped a companionable arm around her shoulder. She looked up at him with tired grey eyes and seemed about to say something, but evidently thought better of it.

As they passed Deptford Strand, Ned pointed to a handsome timber-framed house backing onto the river.

“Isn’t that where Marlowe was murdered?”

Mal halted, curious. So this was where his fellow intelligencer had met his end. Hardly the low tavern of popular rumour, it looked to be a respectable establishment, a rooming-house or perhaps a private ordinary where a gentleman of modest means could hold a dinner for his friends. Or his enemies.

“Something wrong, sir?” Coby asked as they set off again.

“Just this chill morning air. I’ve become too used to the warmth of Provence.”

Beyond the Strand lay the King’s Yard, where the navy berthed its ships. A forest of masts, bare as winter trees or laden with snowy sails, showed above the warehouses and boat-sheds of the dockyard. Mal wondered if the
Ark Royal
was still there, a sleeping giant waiting out the spring gales before venturing back into the Atlantic. He did not relish the thought of sailing on such a large vessel. Even on his short dock-bound visit with Ambassador Kiiren, the navy’s flagship had rolled disconcertingly in the river swell. He didn’t like to think of what it would be like at sea.

The
Falcon
rode at anchor in the mouth of Deptford Creek, a short way further downriver. The galleon was not so large as the
Ark Royal
, but its clean lines spoke of greater speed and manoeuvrability. Mal counted eight gun ports along the near side, in addition to the smaller swivel-guns on poop deck and fo’c’s’le. Creamy white sails flapped lazily in the rising wind, ropes rattling against the canvas.

He caught Ned eyeing the vessel nervously.

“You’ve seen plenty of ships before, surely?” he said.

“Aye, but I never stepped aboard one in my life.”

“Lucky you,” Mal muttered, hoisting his knapsack higher onto his shoulder.

He left Ned to bid his farewells to Parrish, and turned to Coby, but there was nothing to say that they had not said already. The girl stood with hands clasped behind her back, her mouth tight with emotion. Sandy stepped into the awkward silence.

“Tell my
amayi
I long to see him again,” he said to Mal.

“I shall,” Mal replied, and embraced him. “Take care of my… companion.”

“Ah, Catlyn!” Raleigh was striding along the riverside towards them, but came to an abrupt halt as Sandy turned to face him. “Two of ye? The letter said naught about that.”

“I came only to bid my brother farewell,” Sandy put in before Mal could explain. He bowed. “Alexander Catlyn, at your service, sir.”

Raleigh returned the courtesy. “Your brother says you are a mathematician.”

“It interests me, yes. Though I am no expert.”

“You must call by Durham House and introduce yourself. My friend Thomas Harriot would be glad of another man of learning to talk to.” He turned to Mal. “Well, we must be away, sirs. Time and tide wait for no man.”

Mal beckoned to Ned, who was deep in conversation with Parrish. The lovers embraced and exchanged discreet kisses, then Ned picked up his knapsack. Mal said farewell to Sandy, then there was only time to clasp hands with Coby and kiss her on the cheek before Raleigh pressed them once more to join him in the skiff that would take them out to the
Falcon
.

They climbed into the boat, though there was scarce room aboard for three men in addition to the rowers. Ned perched on a barrel of salt beef whilst Mal tried to make himself comfortable on a sack that crunched slightly as he shifted on it.

“Chunny,” Raleigh said, indicating the sack. “Keeps better than ship’s biscuit, or so I’m told.”

“Dried potato?” Mal peered down at the sack. A wooden plaque carved with a distinctly skrayling emblem had been tied to the string around its neck.

“You know of it?”

“I accompanied the Ambassador of Vinland to a meeting with the guild-masters once,” he said with a grimace. Soldiery could be dull, but listening to merchants’ discussions was enough to send any man to sleep at his post.

“I’m trying it out in the hope of using it on my next long voyage. I’ve begun growing potatoes on my own estates in Ireland, but the drying of it is an art my tenants are still mastering, so I’ve had to buy this lot from the skraylings.”

“Since they are already experts in the craft, would it not be easier to leave it to them?” Mal asked.

Raleigh smiled. “And give them all the profit on’t? Certainly not.”

A few minutes later the skiff bumped against the hull of the
Falcon
and they climbed the rope ladder to the rail. The sailors paused in their work to touch their woollen caps in acknowledgement of Raleigh’s arrival. Mal noticed a few of them surreptitiously studying him and Ned when they thought the captain wasn’t looking.

Raleigh showed them into the poop, a long narrow cabin with a ceiling barely high enough for Mal to stand upright without scraping his scalp on the planks of the deck above. A row of bunks were built into each side of the cabin under small arched windows, and the rest of the space was taken up by a great table and benches.

“My officers of marines sleep here in times of war,” Raleigh said. “You and your man may make free with it.”

He disappeared through a door at the far end, which Mal guessed led to the captain’s cabin.

The bunks’ sides were built high enough to stop a man falling out as the ship rolled. Two had bedding piled on them: sheets, thin blankets and a bolster, all stained with long use. Mal unstrapped his rapier and stowed it between the mattress and the ship’s side, where it wouldn’t roll around, then set about exploring the confines of their new lodgings. There wasn’t much to inventory: a small locker beneath each bunk, a barrel of what looked to be wine, several lamps hanging from hooks and a storage chest full of pewter tableware.

“This isn’t so bad,” Ned said, looking around. “You told me ships were wretched places.”

“They are, for the most part. The rest of the crew will be crammed cheek-by-jowl belowdecks, sleeping in hammocks and breathing the stink of the bilges.”

“What are hammocks?”

“I’ll explain later. Come, let’s go out on deck and wave farewell to our friends.”

“Tide’s turning, captain!” one of the sailors called out as they emerged from the cabin.

“Raise the anchor, Master Warburton!” Raleigh called up to the poop-deck. “All hands, prepare to make sail!”

Canvas tumbled down from the yardarms and caught the wind, and the ship began to move downstream. Mal stood at the frost-rimed stern rail, watching Deptford shrink slowly into the distance. Before they were more than a hundred yards from the creek he saw Sandy put an arm around Coby’s shoulder, and for a moment it was as if he was seeing himself, watching his old life recede into memory. He shivered, and not just from the cold. The two figures on the shore were the most dear to him in all the world; what if he never saw either of them again?

CHAPTER VII

Coby hardly slept that night, so sick she was with fear of what might happen to Mal. A storm could pound Raleigh’s ship onto the cruel rocks of the Normandy coast, or blow them westwards into the endless ocean. Barbary corsairs could capture them and sell them into slavery. She tried to cheer herself up by imagining leading a rescue party, but it was one thing to venture into Middlesex, barely a dozen miles from home, and quite another to brave two thousand miles of ocean and the unknown perils of Moorish Africa.

When dawn finally came, she gave up on sleep and took herself down to the kitchen, though she had little stomach for breakfast. She hoped Sandy would find some occupation around the house today so that she could get on with her mission. Mal had left her plenty of money for the journey back to Provence, so she easily had enough for a secondhand gown plus some new linen to make head-coverings. Sandy however had other plans. As soon as they had eaten, he put on his cloak and hat and strode out of the back door without a word.

“Where are you going?” The cinder path crunched under her feet as she hurried after him with her own hastily snatched-up cloak over her arm.

“I wish to see London,” Sandy replied.

He paused to open the garden gate, giving her a chance to catch up with him.

“All right, but I’m coming with you.” Mal would never forgive her if Sandy got lost or hurt.

They walked side by side towards London Bridge, their breath frosting in the air.

“You have been to Whitehall Palace?” he asked, as they passed the church of St Mary Overie.

“Once or twice,” she replied, instantly wary.

“Then you can take me there?”

“Why do you want to go to the palace?”

He smiled down at her. “To see an old friend.”

“Very well.” They were almost at the bridge, so they might as well go that way and save on the wherry fare.

As they walked, Coby racked her memory. Whom at Court could Sandy possibly call a friend? Until he had been abducted by Suffolk’s hirelings, he had been locked up in Bedlam, for several years at least. Before that… Mal had said he was too ill to attend university, so he couldn’t have made friends that way. And after they rescued him from Suffolk, he went straight into Ambassador Kiiren’s care. The only Englishmen he had met outside Bedlam were his captors: the late duke, his henchmen, and… oh no.

She halted abruptly, earning muttered curses from other pedestrians. Sandy walked on a few more paces before realising he had left her behind.

“What is it?” he asked.

“You’re going to see Blaise Grey?”

“Yes.”

“But… His father wanted to kill you. And he tortured your brother.”

Sandy’s expression hardened. “He knows a great deal more than he guesses. I have need of that knowledge.”

He set off again down the Strand.

“What knowledge?” Coby asked, catching up with him.

“Knowledge I have sought for many years. Or so I hope.”

Coby did not enquire further. It was bad enough when Mal spoke of dreams and portents, but his brother acted as though being possessed by a skrayling was the most normal thing in the world. They walked in silence the rest of the way, giving Coby plenty of time to mull over all the unpleasant possibilities ahead of them. She prayed their quarry would be away from Court, preferably far, far away where even a madman would not seek him out. Having inherited his father’s considerable estates, the young duke could be anywhere in the kingdom.

As they approached the eastern gate of the palace, Sandy murmured, “I think it would be wise for me to pretend to be my brother, at least until we find Grey.”

“And if I refuse to go along with this charade?” she replied in the same quiet tone. “I am his servant, not yours.”

“Do as you wish. But I am going to the palace.”

She sighed and fell into step at his heels, slipping into the familiar role of silent, unregarded manservant. Sandy gave their names and business at the gate, and they were waved through by a guard.

“Where now?” Sandy asked.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “Mal sometimes reported to Sir Francis Walsingham at his office, but that’s the last place you want to go if you don’t wish to be caught masquerading. Ask a porter.”

To her dismay they were told that the duke was indeed present at Court, though he was at a meeting of the Privy Council all day.

“Then we shall wait,” Sandy said.

“All day?”

“You have something else to do?”

She considered telling him about her mission, but decided that the less he knew, the better. The thought of wearing women’s clothes again, of going out in the streets to visit Lady Frances, terrified her enough; facing her friends in such garb was a prospect that turned her bowels to water.

“I hear there are bowling alleys,” she said. “We could go and watch a game for a while.”

Sandy agreed, and they headed into the maze of palace buildings. More than the game itself, such a gathering was a good place to observe the undercurrents of court politics. There might even be some more accurate intelligence to be gleaned regarding Lady Frances and the duke.

Their forward progress was interrupted, however, by a great mass of people crowding the hall they were trying to cross. Coby was all for back-tracking and finding another route, but then a trumpet sounded and cries of “Make way for His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales” rang out. The crowd parted, the nearer half pushing Coby and Sandy back towards the wall, where they were trapped in an alcove against a suit of rusting armour. Coby could see little over the heads of the crowd, so she boosted herself upwards using the plinth of the armour-stand and the nearby wall.

The prince strode through the crowd, face dark as a thundercloud. Petitioners clutched their papers to their chests as he passed, but even the most desperate had more sense than to importune his future monarch in such a mood. A few moments later the councillors emerged from the chamber in twos and threes. Coby recognised the Earl of Essex, and that short, almost hunchbacked figure with him must be Robert Cecil, the Queen’s private secretary. Unlike the rest of the council, the two men looked rather pleased.

The crowd began to disperse, some trailing after the Privy Councillors, the rest resuming whatever business had been interrupted by the prince’s passage. As Coby stepped down from her vantage point, she saw an all-too-familiar figure leaving the council chamber.

Blaise Grey was a good four inches taller even than Mal, though he stooped a little these days, leaning on a silver-topped cane that rapped on the tiles in counterpoint to his footsteps. He resembled his father more than ever, though his curly hair was a lighter shade of honey brown. Coby froze. Last time she had brought news to Grey, he had struck her and then apologised for his burst of temper. A man of such mercurial, choleric humour as Grey needed treating with caution.