It teetered on the penthouse edge for a moment before falling into the hazard end of the court, and Grey flicked it straight back over the net. Mal returned the ball in a high arc that sent the other man running sideways until he all but collided with the tambour wall. The spectators roared with laughter, and Grey flushed. He scooped his racquet under the ball as it bounced heavily on the wooden floor and sent it flying back to the service end. Mal stopped it with a neat backhand – too neat. Grey watched, grinning in anticipation, as the ball hopped over the net and bounced once, twice–
"Hazard chase, second gallery!" the umpire announced.
The spectators clapped or jeered according to their allegiance and placed further bets.
"Got money on this one yourself, Catlyn?" Grey asked. "Or perhaps you're not your father's son after all?"
Mal bit back a retort. This is no different from duelling, he told himself. Better to keep silent and let the other man's ill temper work in your favour. He served again, focusing all his attention on the flight of the little leather ball.
"So," Grey said, "what have you been doing with yourself since you were sent down?"
Mal froze. "I was not sent down, I left."
The tennis ball whistled past his head, hit the wall with a crack like a pistol shot and ricocheted into the dedans.
"Forty–thirty!" Grey smiled. "Change ends, Catlyn."
From his vantage point halfway along the court, Ned was paying more attention to the players than to the game, of which he knew little and cared less. Mal so rarely talked about his past, it was easy to forget he was the son of a diplomat, as far above a mere scrivener as Prince Arthur was above a gentleman commoner like Mal. This was a rare window on a part of his friend's life he seldom got to see.
"That's merely what I was told," Grey said, preparing to serve.
"What else did you hear?"
"Nothing." Grey wiped his hand on his damp shirt, which clung to his tall, muscular frame. He was handsome enough, Ned had to admit. If you liked cold-eyed arrogant bastards.
A heavily built young man in a gaudy scarlet doublet slashed with yellow silk pushed in front of Ned, blocking his view of the game. Ned was about to push back when he remembered where he was. Muttering under his breath he stepped backwards until he could go no further. He leant against the condensation-damp wall of the tennis court, eyes closed, wishing he was somewhere else, somewhere he didn't feel like a stranger in his own city.
When he opened his eyes he saw another courtier leaning against the wall not far away, watching him slyly from under lowered lids. The youth was no more than sixteen, thin and with a sickly complexion like something found under a stone. Eyes down, mouth shut, Mal had said. But if he was approached, surely it would be rude to say no? Not that he wanted to say yes to anything this creature might propose.
"You. Fellow."
Ned bridled at being so addressed by a mere boy, but ducked his head anyway.
"My lord?"
The youth detached himself from the wall.
"You are Catlyn's man?"
That was one way of putting it. "Yes, sir."
"He is the swarthy fellow playing against Grey?"
"Well, I wouldn't call him swarthy–"
A well-manicured hand slapped him backhanded, rings scraping his cheek.
"Do not talk back to your betters, sirrah," the youth hissed, lifting a silver pomander to his nose.
Ned ducked his head again, not daring to reply. The crowd applauded: Mal had won another point. When Ned looked back, the boy with the pomander was gone.
It was not hard to let Grey win. Mal's pride would not allow him to give in without a fight, but the other man's superior height and reach made him a tough opponent by any standard. Mal hoped he would never have to face him in a duel.
Afterwards they wandered out into St James's Park, where servants brought flagons of chilled Rhenish wine for their refreshment. Young ladies strolled arm-in-arm under the watchful eyes of chaperones or sat on cushions in the shade of beech trees, fussing over lapdogs and pretending not to make eyes at the young men as they passed. The stink and crowds of London might as well be a hundred miles away.
Mal gestured for Ned to wait at a discreet distance. The last thing he wanted was for his friend to overhear anything about his not-so-glorious past.
"So," Grey said at last, putting down his silver goblet, "what is this matter you are so anxious to discuss in private?"
Mal told him about the commission, leaving out the ignominious nature of his arrival at the Tower.
"And you want me to get you out of it?"
Mal hesitated, wondering how best to put it.
"I know we were not close acquaintances at Cambridge, but we have certain… sympathies in common."
"Go on."
"I also know you and your father are not close. But – he has the ear of Prince Robert. If there is anything you can do, I would be eternally grateful."
"We were never the best of friends, I'll grant you that, Catlyn, but one Peterhouse man looks out for another." Grey leant forward. "I'll see what I can do. And since you are looking for work, I have something that might suit you very well."
"You do?" Mal said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. There was no point getting out of Leland's commission if he could not pay back the advance.
"After you left Cambridge, I fell in with some fellows from Corpus Christi. Tradesmen's sons, mostly, but money poured from their purses like Cam water from a drowned drunk. Well, one that I know of has come home to London and is minded to become a gentleman. I can hardly introduce him at Court, but noblesse oblige…"
"What do you need from me?"
"The fellow needs to be seen in the company of gentlemen, learn a few graces – perhaps the art of the sword?"
"Why does he not hire a fencing-master, if he is so rich?"
Grey shook his head. "I urged him to, but he would have none of it. 'Filthy swiving Italians', he called them, and refused to have them in his house. But a stout Englishman like yourself… Shall I write you a letter of introduction?"
Mal was inclined to refuse. It was bad enough that he had to crawl to the likes of Grey; he had no wish to renew his acquaintance with the sort of men Grey favoured as friends. But it appeared he had little choice.
"Thank you," he said at last. "That would be most generous."
"'Tis trifling. What are friends for?" He waved away the servant offering to refill his goblet. "Where shall I send it?"
"Address it to Deadman's Place, Southwark; first house past Maid Lane. I will be lodging there for the summer."
"You're living in Southwark? God's bones, Catlyn, no wonder you're going nowhere. The sooner you remember who you are and where you belong, the better. I'll have that letter to you by morning. Swear to me you'll take the job, and get yourself some decent lodgings."
Mal made a vague, noncommittal noise. No work for months, then two jobs come along at once – and both of them an uncomfortable link to his past. The Fates were conspiring against him, of that he was certain.
"All right," he said at last. "I'll see this shopkeeper of yours. But I make no promises. I owe no loyalty to you or your friends."
"Oh I think you do," Grey said. "You can wash the blood away, Catlyn, but the stain will always be there. Always."
Contrary to Grey's promises, no letter arrived the next day, nor the day after. Mal was by turns relieved and annoyed. He considered seeking Grey out, but did not want to appear too desperate. In any case, one did not press a duke's son to hurry with his favours.
A week passed, and the matter of the fifty-two shillings still had to be dealt with. So it was that on Midsummer Day, Mal walked up to the gates of Bethlem Hospital with a heavy heart. Every time he came here, he swore it would be the last. Every time…
He rapped on the door set into the tall wooden gates and waited. After several minutes it opened a crack, and the stubble-jawed porter poked his head out.
"What is it?"
"I have your money," Mal said, tapping his pocket.
The porter's eyebrows lifted, and his sneer twisted into an ingratiating smile.
"Come in, sir, come in."
He unbolted the gate and Mal went through into the courtyard, wrinkling his nose at the smell from the nearby cesspit. It was a wonder the patients hadn't all died of plague long ago. Judging by the screams coming from the nearby Abraham Ward, however, they were still very much alive.
"You go right on in, sir," the porter said. "Mistress Cooke will see to you."
He looked expectantly at Mal. who grimaced but gave the man thruppence from his purse, "to oil the hinges of the gate" as the fellow liked to put it. Much as Mal disliked the fact, he would need to come back here at least once more.
"I have to ask for your blade as well, sir," the porter added. "New rules, sir."
"He has become dangerous of late?"
"Lord bless us, no, sir! He's been gentle as a lamb since you was last here." He shook his head. "There was this young gallant, see, showing off to his lady in the Abraham Ward, and one of the inmates got hold of his rapier. Nasty mess, it was, sir. We don't want any more trouble like that."
Mal drew his dagger and handed it to the porter. He was tempted to point out that anyone who thought taunting the insane was a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon deserved everything he got.
"I trust such visitors are not allowed into my brother's lodgings," he said. "I pay you well to keep him secluded."
"Of course not, sir." The man grinned nervously.
He was lying, of course. The occasional visitors paid for the little luxuries that made the keepers' lives bearable in this vile place. He hoped Sandy had afforded them little entertainment.
The western gatehouse provided accommodation for patients whose families were willing to spend a little extra on their keep. Like the eastern gatehouse it had rooms on the ground floor which opened into the gateway itself, and several chambers above. Originally interconnecting, these had been subdivided to create a corridor with locked doors to either side and a narrow window at each end. The lodgings were a little more comfortable than the main ward where the meaner inmates were kept, but it was a melancholy place nonetheless.
After a few moments Mal's eyes adjusted to the gloom and he spotted a woman of middle years coming out of one of the rooms, accompanied by a pale-faced girl of about fourteen. Their aprons were smeared with filth, and the girl carried a brimming chamber-pot.
"Mistress Cooke?" he called out. "I'm here to see my brother."
"O' course, sir." She fumbled through the bunch of keys hanging from her belt. "I was just in there a few minutes ago, happily for you. All cleaned up, he is, sir."
The chamber was about the size of the one in which Mal had been shut up at the Tower, though without the luxury of a fireplace or glazed windows. The only furnishings were a narrow cot bed against one wooden side-wall and a rickety table bearing a small pile of books. The rushes on the floor had long since been trampled into a layer of matted filth that stuck to the soles of Mal's boots.