CHAPTER XXXVII
Mal sat in the window of the guest chamber, picking out a melancholy galliard on his lute. Say what you like about Walsingham, he was gentleman enough to send for Mal's belongings from the Tower. No doubt Baines had pawed through them, but it was a small price to pay. At least the rosary was safely hidden at Ned's house.
A sudden knock at the door made Mal start, and his fingers slipped on the lute strings.
"Come in," he said.
Baines opened the door, but did not enter. "Walsingham wants to see you."
Mal went down to the parlour and found Walsingham seated at the table, poring over a map. Mal coughed politely, and waited. After several minutes Walsingham looked up and beckoned him over.
"Suffolk is dead," Walsingham said without preamble. "The doctor says it was blood fever, from the leg wound."
"Common enough," Mal replied, trying to keep his voice as calm and level as the spymaster's. Certain as he was that Suffolk had taken his own life, he could hardly tell Walsingham that. "I've seen men half his age succumb in less time."
"Indeed. Which means we have only His Grace's word for what happened."
"But – Ah. You mean Blaise. He lives?"
Walsingham inclined his head. "Doctor Renardi was able to save him, though he is sorely wounded and may not rise from his bed for many weeks. He was not too ill to speak of his own part in this, however."
Mal stiffened, wondering what was coming next.
"Grey is young and hot-headed," Walsingham went on, "but apparently not as wild as we were led to believe. He claims that only obedience to his father's wishes made him espouse views against the skraylings, and that he is loyal to Prince Robert and the Queen. In view of this filial loyalty, Her Majesty has been prevailed upon to spare him a decree of attainder."
The cunning devil. It was the truth, in so far as it ran. And Mal could not contradict it without revealing everything he knew about the late duke. Did Blaise still refuse to believe Mal's claims that his father was possessed by a skrayling? Almost certainly. Mal would never have believed them himself a month ago.
"Did he say anything else?" Mal asked.
"Only that one of the Catlyn brothers attacked him, but he confesses he cannot be certain which one. And since the Crown cannot bring a case without a suspect, that is an end to the matter."
Odd. Blaise must surely remember fighting Mal, unless the blood loss from his injury had weakened his mind. Or someone had persuaded him that he did not want Ambassador Kiiren as an enemy.
"Then I am free to go?" Mal asked.
"So it seems," Walsingham replied. He picked up a leather purse that lay on the table. "I think you will go far in Her Majesty's service."
"Sir?"
"Do not look so surprised. Your methods may have been unorthodox, but by exposing Suffolk as the leader of the Huntsmen you have cut the heart out of a dreadful conspiracy."
Mal wished it were true. But if Suffolk were dead, he had failed after all. And the Huntsmen remained untouched.
"A pity we did not catch more of them," Walsingham added.
"Oh? I hoped–"
"That Wheeler and his confederates were Huntsmen? So did we all. Alas they knew nothing. A band of petty malcontents: failed actors, tradesmen whose crafts have been superseded by skrayling wares, those sorts of fellows. Naught they could tell us led back to known Huntsmen's crimes."
"A pity indeed," Mal said, hoping his relief did not show. Wheeler's hysterical ravings had meant nothing then. It was a small consolation. Very small.
Walsingham slid the purse across the table. "A reward for loyal service."
Mal loosened the strings and looked within. The purse contained at least five pounds in gold angels. Not a king's ransom, but more than he had seen in a good long while.
"Thank you, sir."
"Do not thank me. That is a gift from Her Majesty. As you say, your dealings with the ambassador have been very… cordial, to the great benefit of our realm."
Mal nodded. The Queen was notoriously miserly, but she regarded the defence of England as her highest duty.
"Tell me, Catlyn. When you were working for the ambassador, were you approached by anyone?"
"I–"
Walsingham held up a hand. "Do not lie to me. I know you were."
"The Spanish," Mal said after a moment. "And the French."
"Only those two?"
"So far."
"Hmm, I suppose your position was curtailed somewhat early." Walsingham folded his long hands together. "Did either of them make any offers that we could use to our advantage?"
Mal considered. The promptings of the Spanish ambassador, to convert the ambassador to Christianity – and Papism – cut too close to treason, but the French… "I was offered property in France, sir. Some legal fiction to do with my mother."
"Really? How interesting. What was your reply?"
"That if it were brought before an English court, I would be glad of it."
Walsingham laughed sharply. "You are your father's son after all. Well, I suggest you speak again to the ambassador's man, and tell him you have changed your mind."
"Sir?"
"Free passage into France, property, perhaps even entry to the French Court? How should we refuse such an opportunity?"
"You want me to spy on the French, sir?"
Walsingham only smiled. "I do not trust Henri of Navarre's convenient change of faith. A loyal Englishman of Catholic parentage would be of great use over there."
"As you wish, sir." Mal bowed deeply.
Walsingham returned his gaze to the map. Seeing himself dismissed, Mal bowed again and left. Spying on the French, eh? Well, it beat nights spent on guard outside dockside warehouses in the freezing cold and rain, or fighting pointless duels on behalf of overbred young noblemen. And an estate in France was better than none at all. Perhaps he could take Sandy there, and forget about spying altogether.
Suffolk's Men gathered one last time at the Bull's Head. Coby hunched over her ale, feeling the absence of her late master more keenly than ever, here in the place that had been as much his home as Thames Street. The other patrons gave them pitying glances and a wide berth, though whether out of respect for their grief or through satiation of their appetite for gossip, she could not be sure.
Master Eaton was on crutches and he wore a bandage around his head that covered one eye. Gabriel Parrish was there, his scorched hair cut unfashionably short, Ned Faulkner by his side. The two had been inseparable since their return to London. She supposed she ought to be glad some happiness had come out of this dreadful business. There was little enough to go around.
The apprentices had been sent home to their families, now that their master was no longer around to keep them. That was all of them. Master Rudd had of course been killed in the explosion, and both his and Master Naismith's bodies destroyed in the fire. A few pieces of bone had been raked from the ashes and placed in a shared grave, since none could tell whose they were.
"I suppose that is an end to the contest," Coby said, drawing circles in a puddle of spilt beer with one finger. "And I was sure we would win, too."
"Perhaps the Prince's Men will yet play," Eaton said. "I doubt the ambassador cares for our woes."
"They say the duke is dead," Parrish said. "Or dying. At any rate, with Naismith and Rudd both gone and Eaton here maimed, we are a sorry crew indeed. It is a sad end to Suffolk's Men."
"What is to become of their widows?" Master Eaton asked, of no one in particular.
"Master Cutsnail has agreed to cancel all Master Naismith's debts on the theatre," Coby said, "in return for the chest of play-books."
"That is very generous," Parrish said.
"Not really," Coby replied. "Those plays are worth a great deal amongst the skraylings. I think he will make a handsome profit in the end."
"And the skraylings wonder why folk hate them," Master Eaton said.
"What will you do?" Coby asked Parrish, anxious to change the subject.
"Burbage has asked me to join the Prince's Men."
"And will you accept?"
"How can I not? I must work somewhere, and I would rather it were not for Henslowe." He gave Ned a wry smile. "I cannot forgive him for setting that miscreant Wheeler upon us."
Coby forbore from explaining there was more to Wheeler's actions than petty Bankside rivalry. If Walsingham had suppressed news of the conspiracy, she was not going to speak out and risk attracting the spymaster's attention.
"I wish you well," Master Eaton said. "For my own part, I must look to other professions. There is not much call for oneeyed actors."
"You should write a ballad about the fire, and sell it in Paul's Yard," Ned told him.
"I would rather forget the damned fire altogether," he muttered, and rising from the table he limped off in the direction of the jakes.
"What about you?" Parrish asked Coby. "Will Mistress Naismith keep you on?"
She shook her head. "She cannot afford another servant, not now. And what would I do? Sew clothes for her? It is all I know how to do. That, and running around after actors."
"And lock picking," Ned added with a grin. "I know a few fellows who might take you on."
"I would prefer to earn my bread honestly, thank you very much."
"You never did tell us how you learnt the trick of it," Ned replied, unabashed.
"I'm just good with my hands," she said. She thought of the trapdoor again, but it only brought back pangs of guilt. "I think I'm better off plying my needle."
"Come to the Prince's Men," Parrish said, putting his hand on her wrist. "Burbage always has need of reliable tiremen. Most of them are quarrelsome drunks or thieves, by his account."
She shook him off.
"I do not think so. I have had enough of actors."
The truth was, she too wanted to forget about the fire. The thought of entering the Curtain, or any other theatre, filled her with dread. She heard again the roar of flames and felt the heat singeing her face.
"You are still in love with… him," Gabriel said softly.
She nodded, swallowing against the lump in her throat.
"Then go to him," he went on. "Tell him how you feel–"
"He knows," she said wretchedly. Faulkner was smirking, the vile whoreson. "How could he not, after…"
"And?"
"And nothing. I haven't seen him since we got back to London. What if–"
"Do not dwell on such things. The ambassador would not let that happen to his dear friend, the brother of his beloved."
"You really believe what the ambassador told us?" Ned put in. "That Sandy is his long lost love reborn?"
"I saw him appear out of thin air on that boat," Gabriel said, turning to Ned. "If the skraylings can do that…"
"Yes, but…" She sighed. "It is too much to take in."
"Trust me, it will all work out in the end. Catlyn loves you."
"He does?"
Her heart tightened, hardly daring to believe. Mal desired her, he had made that plain, but she was not such a fool as to mistake that for love.
"I saw the look on his face when you embraced him," Parrish said. "It was the look of a man who loves in spite of his own misgivings." He laughed softly and tightened his arm around Ned. "I should know."
At that moment Master Eaton returned with more beer.
"Here you go," he said, sliding a tankard across the table.
Coby took a deep draught, hoping to calm her nerves.
"Think on my advice," Parrish said. He clapped his hands together. "So, who's for a game of skittles?"
Mal stood before the gates of the stockade. It seemed a lifetime since he had first come here and been half-affrighted out of his wits by the strange music from within. He waited patiently whilst the gate guard informed the ambassador of his arrival.
He was shown through the camp to the same small tent where he had stayed after Bartholomew Fair. Sandy was lying on a heap of cushions, eyes closed and one of the skrayling lodestone necklaces about his throat. The air was thick with the scent of shakholaat.
"How is he?" Mal asked, sitting down on the opposite side of the brazier.
"At peace. For now."
"He used magic to get away from the cellar, didn't he? If he could do that, why did he not try sooner?" It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.
"You are not strong enough to be his anchor."
"But you are?"
Kiiren nodded. "If you had told me about him more soon… Instead I hear it from your friend Hendricks."
Mal looked away. This was not his fault, how could it be? He knew nothing of skrayling magic, wanted nothing to do with it.
"I have been looking at symbols your friend Hendricks drew," Kiiren said, reaching inside his robe.
"The ones from Grey's desk? Are they skrayling writings?"
Kiiren held them under the lamp-stand and stared at them for several moments. "Yes, I believe so. They look very like ancient script of my people. Added to your witnessing, it is enough proof that Suffolk is… Guiser, as you call them."
"Was. Suffolk is dead."
Kiiren looked aghast.
"No. Then where–?"
Mal told the ambassador of his fears, that Suffolk had chosen to be taken to Ferrymead House because of its closeness to the palace.
"If that is true," Kiiren said, "our enemies' reach is greater than we suspected."
"But surely he is no threat at the moment? He is not yet born. And even if the child is a boy, his father and elder brother inherit before him. He cannot come to the throne unless…"
"Unless they die. Yes."
They pondered a while in silence.
"What are we to do?" Mal asked at last.
"Now? Nothing. As you say, he is not yet born. And even with wits intact, he cannot be a threat to us for some years yet."
"Why are they doing this, these skraylings who become humans?"
Kiiren sighed. "Many thousands of years ago, my people were very few, fewer even than now. We were afraid we would die and disappear altogether, but then humans came and after much time became friends of us. But still there were not enough children for those who wished to be reborn. And so some took human form. Those that did grew proud, called themselves gods, and there was war…"
"I do not think that could happen here," Mal said. "We have a God in Heaven, and do not worship men."
"Perhaps not. But to rule in secret, that is wrong."
"They seek to rule us?"
"They think you will take our lands, and those of our friends."
Mal nodded. "They are probably right."
"They are very afraid of you, and will break our oldest laws to protect our land."
"How do we stop them?"
"I do not know," Kiiren said.
"What about Sandy? He was lucid for a while, down in the cellar, better than I had seen him in years, and yet now…"
"That was Jathekkil's doing."
"How? Why?"
"Your brother was kept in irons for long time, yes? This hurt Erishen, made your brother soul-sick. Freeing him, your brother suffered for short while but then recovered."
"But–"
"Touch of iron sends Erishen back into depths of mind. Sandy is sane. But this cannot last. Kept like this –" he gestured to the supine figure "– he will soon be unwell as before."
"But you can make him whole again," Mal said. "Can't you?"
Kiiren shook his head. "Can you mend cup that is smashed to pieces? Ship that founders on rocks?"
"Then you can drive Erishen out, so he may be reborn."
"There is only one way to make it happen. Body must die, as Jathekkil tried with you."
"No. There must be something–"
"There is not. For either of you."
Mal shuddered. "You're saying Suffolk – Jathekkil – was telling the truth? That I have part of Erishen's soul?"
"Did I not tell you you are touched by Erishen?" Kiiren placed two shakholaat cups side by side. "If I pour into one of these, and my aim is not true, will not some fall into second? So it was with Erishen."
"Get it out of me."
"I cannot. Do you not listen to what I say?"
"I don't believe you. You're just saying all this because you want to keep Sandy to yourself."
Kiiren hesitated, looked at Sandy, then back at Mal.
"No. You may have him, if that is your desire. Take him. Go."
"You mean that?"
"Do not ask second time."
Mal stared at his brother. "But… he is not cured."
"There is no 'cure'," Kiiren said wearily. "If he goes with you and wears iron, he remains as he was. If he stays… He will be Erishen."
"So I lose him either way."
Mal rubbed a hand across his face. Was this not what he had wanted all these years, what he had prayed for? An end to the fits, the ravings, the silences? But at what price? He looked once more at his brother's face, serene and so like his own.
"Do it," he said. "I will not see him suffer any longer."
Kiiren inclined his head, mumbling thanks in a garbled mixture of English and Vinlandic.
"Enough," Mal said. "I have to go, before I change my mind."
He got to his feet, pulled on his boots and walked out of the camp without looking back. Night was falling fast. He had better get back before curfew. But back where? Not the Faulkners' house. Gabriel had moved in with Ned, and Mal was not about to intrude on them.
Walsingham's money lay heavy in his pocket. Thirty pieces of silver. He had to wrap his arms about his chest to stop himself from throwing the purse in the river. As he approached the bridge at the near end of St Olave's Street, a slight, fairhaired figure jumped down from the railing. Hendricks. Her grin faded as she realised he was alone.
"Sir?"
He shook his head, and they walked into Southwark together, the darkness gathering around them like a cloak. He glanced at her profile as they walked, recalling that first day in Paris Gardens.
"What of your friends?" he asked, more to take his mind off Sandy than out of real interest.
She told him about Parrish and Eaton, and the disbanding of Suffolk's Men.
"And you?"
"With my master gone, I have no other employ."
He laughed bitterly. "That makes two of us. Unless you count Walsingham, and he has not charged me with any duties. Yet."
It was not quite the truth, but he was too weary to explain. Perhaps tomorrow. After he had drunk himself into oblivion, and sobered up again.
"You're going to work for Walsingham?" she asked.
"I need something to occupy my days. And I must confess that ciphers are intriguing."
"I could help," she said, glancing up at him shyly.
"You?"
"Why not? Did we not work well together?"
He stopped, and drew her aside into an alley, where none could see.
"It is too dangerous for a woman," he said softly.
"Then you do think of me as a woman."
In the gloom he could barely make out the pale blur of her features, but he could hear the smile in her voice. By way of a reply, he put his arms around her and bent to kiss her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and rose on tiptoe; at the pressure he let out an involuntary hiss of pain. Muttering an apology she transferred her hands to his waist. Her lips burned against his, and he drank from them like a man parched. Or frozen.
As she pressed against him, he felt something… hard. In her breeches.
"What in God's name–?"
"Um, just part of my disguise," she said, pulling away slightly. "Got to have something in there for the look of it."
"Oh. Of course."
He kissed her again, partly to reassure her that it didn't bother him, but mostly because he needed to forget the past hour. He stroked her temples, her hair, the small of her back, the tight curve of her arse… She trembled. Damn, still a virgin, of course. He moved his hand back to her waist. She pressed against him, willing but tense as a deer under the hunter's gaze. After a few minutes they both realised she wasn't the only one with a bulge in her breeches.
"If you like me this way," she said with an embarrassed laugh, "I shall remain a boy. It is what I am used to."
He released her, abashed. It had been one thing to lie with Ned when he was lonely and in need, but a boy… Here in England they might be safe enough if they were discreet, but in France it would be a very different matter. Rumour had it Francis Bacon's brother was nearly burnt at the stake for molesting one of his pages, and had to flee home to England in disgrace.
"That cannot be," he said. "If you insist on remaining in this guise, then you and I cannot be lovers."
"No!" She bit her lip. "What… what about Ned and Gabriel? If they can be happy together, why cannot we?"
"They are grown men and, more importantly, men of little consequence. I have brought myself to the notice of those in power, and must therefore remain above the law. In the eyes of the world, at least."
"And where those eyes cannot pierce?" she said, glancing at the shadows about them.
She looked so hopeful – but he would have to dash those hopes, for both their sakes.
"You are a woman – and a child. You cannot understand."
She folded her arms, her eyes glittering with indignation.
"How like a man! You think because I am a woman I am weak and useless. Well, Master Maliverny Catlyn, next time you are taken captive and in peril of death, I shall not come to your rescue."
She marched back out into the street, head held high. He burst out laughing and followed her.
"You have me there." He weighed the purse in his pocket. A dozen angels; and more to come, if he took up Walsingham's suggestion. "Very well, I will take you into my service. I owe you that much at least."
She halted and turned back.
"Service? I will not be your doxy."
"Honest employment, I swear." Though it will be a sore trial of my honour, if I am to be chaste. "I am a man of substance now. I cannot do without a valet to look after my wardrobe. That is what you do, is it not, tireman?"
She grinned at him. "Yes. That is what I do."
"Then it is agreed." He held out his hand, and she grasped it firmly. "Come, let's find an inn for the night, and tomorrow, lodgings."
She fell in at his side and they walked down St Olave's Street in companionable silence, leaving the skrayling camp and guild house far behind. One day he would go back for Sandy. One day. Until then, he had another young soul in his charge. Perhaps he would make a Catholic of her yet. Making an honest woman of her; now there was a challenge.