CHAPTER XXXIII
Coby walked along the avenue towards Ferrymead House, her heart pounding. If Master Catlyn's guess was right, she was about to step into a den of villains and traitors who would stop at nothing to conceal their plot. Still, she could not back out now, not with his life riding on the success of their mission.
After a few minutes the house came into view. Red brick wings extended from an older stone building, joining in front to form an elegant modern gatehouse with a stucco panel depicting the Suffolk coat of arms. Above the gatehouse blue-and-white pennants stirred listlessly in the breeze.
She drew a deep breath and walked towards the gates, which stood half-open. A man in Suffolk livery emerged from the darkness within, a loaded crossbow aimed at the ground. Coby froze, praying her face did not betray her.
"Who goes there?"
"J-J-Jacob Hendricks, of Suffolk's Men, with an urgent message for His Grace."
"My lord Suffolk is too unwell to see anyone."
Her heart sank. Was their plan to be thwarted so quickly?
"Wait," the man said. "Is this about the playhouse, the one that burnt down?"
"Yes," she replied. "I bring grave news that his lordship will want to hear as soon as possible."
"You'd better come in."
He led her across the courtyard and into a dark-panelled entrance porch. Coby's footsteps whispered on the terracotta floor-tiles as she followed the man through the passageway beyond and into the great hall. The bare stone walls and elaborate hammerbeam roof belonged to a bygone age, as did the crossed polearms of antique design that were its walls' only decoration. A modern marble fireplace had been added along one side, but it remained a cold, gloomy space, even on a bright summer's day.
On the dais at the far end of the hall, Blaise Grey sat at a long table, flicking rapidly through the pages of a small fat book bound in red leather. He showed no sign of awareness of her presence, even when the retainer announced her in a voice that echoed from the high ceiling. Grey dipped his pen in his inkwell, appearing to copy something from the book onto a sheet of paper. Coby approached slowly, wondering what task could be so absorbing.
At last Grey put the pen down, sanded the sheet he had been working on, and looked up. His face was drawn, as if he had not slept in many hours, and stubble darkened his cheeks above a gold-bronze beard. Eyes grey as the river in winter raked her features.
"You are the boy from the theatre."
"Yes, my lord."
Grey beckoned her over. "I was told you have urgent news for my father. About the fire?"
She approached the dais. The surface of the table was a few inches below her eye-level, and she stared at it rather than endure that cold gaze any longer. Grey swiftly gathered up the papers he had been working on and closed the book, as if not wanting her to catch even a glimpse of their contents. Curiosity roused, she mounted the steps at the end of the dais and swept a low bow.
"Yes, my lord." She clasped her hands behind her back to stop them shaking. "Master Naismith is – is dead, my lord, and Master Rudd, and the theatre burnt to the ground. We are ruined."
She could not help glancing sidelong at a sheet of paper protruding from underneath the book. It was covered in strange symbols like nothing she had ever seen before. A cipher? Mathematics? Or just nonsense, like the fanciful glyphs on magicians' robes?
Grey said nothing for a long moment. Coby looked up, halfexpecting him to be pleased at this reversal to his father's continued alliance with the skraylings. He was not.
"How did this happen? Who was responsible for loading the cannon?"
"I– I was, my lord–"
Though she anticipated the blow, it still sent her reeling. She landed hard on both knees and the heels of her palms. Her side felt like it would gape open and spill her guts over the polished boards. Breath caught in her throat. Tears would only make it hurt more – and perhaps anger Grey further.
"Addle-pated cull! My father is dying in agony–" Grey swept his arm across the desk, sending books and papers cascading to the floor. "I should have you flogged all the way back to London for this."
"I am most truly sorry, my lord," she whispered.
A booted foot caught her on the shoulder and she tumbled from the dais. In the long moment before she hit the floor, she managed to tuck her arms about her ribs and keep her head high enough to avoid cracking it on the tiles.
As she lay there praying for Grey's wrath to subside, a pale metallic gleam caught her attention. A silver and niello button in the form of a Tudor rose, just like the ones on Master Catlyn's livery doublet. She closed her hand over it, hoping Grey hadn't noticed.
"Get up." Grey sighed. "What's done is done. Besides, only a fool would stay in the theatre knowing the cannon was about to explode."
"It was John Wheeler." The words came out unbidden.
"Who?"
"He was a hireling, a malcontent. Master Naismith dismissed him, but it seems the mischief was already done."
Grey nodded, his expression thoughtful.
"Stay a while, boy. Get yourself to the kitchens and ask the cook for dinner. My father will no doubt want to hear about this."
She thanked him profusely and backed out, bowing low. A narrow escape, but worth a bruising. If Master Catlyn were still here, she now had an opportunity to find him.
The same armed retainer showed her back out into the courtyard and thence into the kitchen in the north wing. The large room was empty of servants, though stacks of used dishes and plates suggested a meal had recently been consumed. He gestured to the leftovers laid out on the table then departed without another word. This was her chance. She looked around for another exit, since she could hardly go back out into the courtyard.
One side of the kitchen was almost completely occupied by a brick fireplace, furnished with spits of various sizes and an oven at the side. A range stood under the window at the far end, iron bars set into more brickwork with charcoal pans beneath. The wall nearest the house was pierced by two low doors with a dresser between. Deciding that the right side was likely to be more conspicuous, since its rooms looked onto the courtyard, she padded towards the door on the left.
? ? ? ?
After Hendricks had disappeared down the drive, Ned considered what he should do next. Even if the boy were right and Mal and Sandy were being held prisoner here, they still had to snatch the two captives from under the noses of who knew how many armed men and make their escape – in a boat moored over a mile away, on the edge of the Syon House estate.
"Shit! Shit! Thrice-damned shit and buggery!"
There was only one choice left. Horses. Mal could ride, and so presumably could Sandy if he put his addled mind to it. And if there was one thing a noble house had no lack of, it was horses.
Ned had seldom had a chance to try his hand at riding. Few people of his acquaintance could afford to keep a horse, and though there were livery stables aplenty from which to hire a nag for the day, where would you take it? Everything a man could ever want lay within the bounds of the capital, or so Ned had always believed. Now he cursed his narrow horizons. There was a whole world out there – and a new world across the Atlantic – just waiting to be explored.
Perhaps this was his day to start. He had been unwilling to ride here, but to ride back at Mal's side, triumphant, now that was a dream to be savoured. He slipped through the doors of the nearest barn. No horses here, just a lot of hay. Stables, that was where horses were kept. Or paddocks. There must be some horses out in the open in this fine weather.
He was making his way back towards the road, thinking it a safer place to be caught than on the duke's property, when a mounted courier came thundering up the drive, heading in the same direction as the one they had seen earlier. Another so soon? His gut clenched in sudden fear. Had Hendricks been caught already?
? ? ? ?
"Sandy, are you awake?"
Mal squeezed his brother's hand, but got no response. They stood back-to-back around one of the pillars supporting the roof of a cellar beneath the great hall, the right wrist of each bound with thin cord to the other's left and a single length of iron chain cinched around both their throats, secured with a padlock. The weals on Mal's exposed back itched where they rubbed against the rough brickwork but thankfully the pain of his earlier torment had subsided. Blaise had been telling the truth when he said the tincture enhanced the rate of healing, though the price was not one Mal would wish to pay again.
He looked around the cellar, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness. Faint shapes of sacks and barrels, such as could be seen in the storerooms of any great house. A flicker of movement that might be a rat. How long were they going to be left down here? Was that the "more drastic measure" Suffolk spoke of? A slow death by starvation, or to be eaten by rats? But the duke didn't look like he was in any condition to take his time over this interrogation. He wanted answers, fast. But what answers?
Sandy stirred and moaned. "Mal?"
"I'm here," Mal replied. His words echoed loudly from the cellar walls, and he lowered his voice. "Did they hurt you again?"
"No. What happened? How did I get here?"
Mal whispered his thanks to Our Lady. His brother was unharmed and lucid, at least for the moment.
"Suffolk has us both captive," Mal replied. "He seems to think we are both possessed by a skrayling called Erishen."
"He is right, in a sense."
"How so?" Mal wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he needed every advantage he could lay his hands on if he was going to get them out of here.
"You remember Erishen's death," Sandy went on, "at the hands of the Huntsmen?"
"Yes," Mal replied, wishing he didn't.
"And the flight into darkness?"
"A little."