CHAPTER VIII
After church on Sunday morning Mal visited Bethlem Hospital again. To his relief his brother was improving, in both body and spirit. Either Mistress Cooke was being true to her word and giving him more care now Mal was a regular visitor, or… No, he could not let himself dare to think it. Sandy had had lucid spells before, but they never lasted.
The weather had turned cooler again, and they stayed indoors all morning. Mal had bought a book in Paul's Yard which he thought Sandy might like. Something to dispel evil humours, and bring his thoughts to greater order and harmony.
"'The Whetstone of Wit'," Sandy read out, "'which is the second part of Arithmetic: containing the extraction of roots; the cossike practice, with the rule of equation; and the works of surd numbers'." He looked up at Mal. "It's just abridged Euclid, you know."
"You've read it."
He tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice, but Sandy knew him too well.
"I've read everything here a hundred times." He gestured to the small pile of volumes by his bed. "Something twice- or thrice-read will seem fresh in comparison."
Sandy settled down to read the mathematics treatise whilst Mal took out his lute. It took some time to tune, being so sensitive to the changes in the weather. The room was oppressively warm now, and he wondered if he should suggest they go outside, but it was looking like rain again. August was always a race to get the harvest in before the heavens opened.
He started as Sandy clapped his book shut with a loud thump.
"No," Sandy whispered, turning pale.
"What is it?"
Mal went to the door and pressed his ear against the rough wood. A burst of laughter came from downstairs. Not the hysterical shrieks and giggles of the inmates, but a colder, more mocking sound. Visitors.
He looked around. Mistress Cooke had locked the door as usual, but what if she opened it from the outside? Surely she would not do that with Mal in here, but if one of the gentlemen flashed a little gold in her direction, she might think it worth the risk.
"Help me move the bed against the door," he told Sandy, keeping his voice low but firm.
Sandy clutched the book to his chest, his face rigid with fear. Mal sighed and leant his weight against the door, ready to resist entry bodily if need be. He was not about to attract attention to their cell by setting off one of Sandy's fits.
Mal remained at his vigil for what felt like hours, listening to Mistress Cooke and her husband's sycophancies and the cruel laughter of the visitors, and watching Sandy twitch every time footsteps came near their door. Eventually the ward fell silent and Mal returned to his brother's side. This was not going to be easy.
"Sandy?" He sat down on the bed. "I have to go soon and… I don't know when I can return. I have to earn money to pay for our keep."
Sandy said nothing, only stared into the distance.
"If I can't come," Mal went on, "I'll send Ned to see you, all right? You remember Ned?"
"Ned. Short for Edmund. Yes."
"Good. He'll keep you company well enough. I'll have him bring his deck of cards."
"He cheats."
"That he does." Mal forced a smile, and kissed his brother on both cheeks. "It won't be much longer, I promise."
Coby sat down on the grass by the front doors of the theatre, feeling conspicuous. In nearby Paris Gardens, revellers laughed, and a man was singing "The Pangs of Love" to the playing of a lute. A few passers-by gave her curious looks, but probably thought her just a young swain waiting for his sweetheart. If only…
Shortly after five o'clock the gate opened and Master Catlyn entered the theatre field. Coby leapt to her feet and tried not to look too pleased to see him. She led him round to the back of the theatre and unlocked the door. The theatre was of course empty on the Lord's Day, which was why it made such a private practice-space. As they passed through the tiring house and out onto the stage, Master Catlyn handed her one of the two cudgels they used for their practice. They were sturdy lengths of maple, three feet long and an inch and a half thick, shod with iron. Ostensibly for walking, they were a favourite weapon of apprentices, who would often gather to fight on one of the fields outside the city walls, much to the indignation of their elders.
After a few warm-ups and drills they sparred for a while. Master Catlyn's fighting technique was not at all like the moves the players used on stage; instead it involved a surprising amount of grappling and body contact, and she had been thrown to the boards on several occasions. It was at once terrifying and exhilarating, feeling his arms about her or his weight pinning her down. Every night she prayed for forgiveness for her unchaste thoughts, and every day she thought of little except her next meeting with him.
She did not only think and daydream, however. Every spare minute she could get alone, she had been practising moves, sometimes even using her tailor's dummy as a pell. It seemed to be paying off. Master Catlyn did not swear at her quite as often as on previous occasions, and she got a couple of solid blows past his guard towards the end. As he was a good six inches taller than her, with a grown man's strength, she was pleased with herself for managing even that much.
"All right, time for something new," Master Catlyn said, tossing aside his weapon. It rolled across the stage to fetch up against one of the pillars.
"Sir?"
"I want to show you how to disarm a man. Come at me as before."
She advanced towards him, cudgel gripped in both hands. As she let go with her left hand and raised her weapon to strike, he caught her right arm with both hands and twisted it behind her back. The cudgel slipped from her grasp.
"Ach, God's teeth!" Master Catlyn let her go, muttering under his breath.
"Are you all right, sir?" Coby asked, stretching her aching arm and flexing her fingers.
"Dropped the damned thing on my foot," he replied. "I swear to God, I would rather fight a man armed with steel than one of these bloody things."
He kicked the cudgel across the stage. Sensing this would be a good time to take a breather, Coby produced two bottles of beer she had hidden in a shady corner of the yard before leav ing the theatre last night. Master Catlyn took one with a muttered apology for his foul language on the Lord's Day.
"Is something the matter, sir? You seem in an ill humour today."
"It's nothing." He uncorked his beer and took a swig.
Coby nodded sympathetically. One thing she had observed about men was that they rarely unburdened their hearts. It was a habit she tried to emulate, though in present circumstances it was so frustrating. There was more to her feelings for him than mere girlish fancy, she was sure: she truly liked Master Catlyn. Well, except when he swore at her. But at least it was proof her disguise still held. She felt certain a gentleman like him would not blaspheme so in front of a woman.
They sat on the edge of the stage in the late afternoon sun, their legs dangling over, like two small boys fishing from a jetty. It reminded her of her childhood, of long hot summer days spent tagging along behind her brother Kees and his friends as they explored the woods and pools around their home town. She felt tears starting to prick her eyes and scrubbed hastily at them with her sleeve.
"Worn out already?"
"I was just thinking of my family. I haven't seen them since…"
"Since the fall of Antwerp?"
She nodded. "Mother wanted to move north, to Amsterdam where we have cousins, but Father insisted we would never be safe with the Spanish in control of the Netherlands, so we took a boat across the Narrow Sea. There was a storm – I don't know if they are alive or dead. I asked everywhere I could when I got to England, but…"
"Both my parents are dead," Master Catlyn said in a quiet voice. "My mother died when I was small, and my father a few years ago. My brothers…"
"Tell me about your sweetheart," she said on impulse. It was like picking at a scab; she knew it was stupid, but there was a grim satisfaction in reopening the wound. "Are you to be betrothed?"
He smiled. "There is no such woman, at least not of my acquaintance."
"Then what–"
"One of Ned's fancies, a foolish game he plays with Parrish. I needed a scrap of paper for a laundry list, and there it was."
"Oh."
"I have no means to support a wife," he went on, "and little hope of it hereafter."
He fell silent, and Coby risked a sidelong glance. He was staring at the ground, seemingly unaware of her gaze. His black hair curled like a lamb's in the humidity, though he had barely raised a sweat despite their exertions. Long dark lashes shaded his brooding eyes. She had only to lean over a little and she might kiss him–
He grunted and finished his beer. "Come, let us not speak of such melancholy matters. Your lesson is not over yet."
"I– I think it is. In fact, I think I shall not have time to see you again before you start your work for the ambassador."
It was not what she had planned to say, but she knew it was the right thing to do. If she did not see him, if they did not talk, there could be nothing to betray – and no temptation either. She scrambled to her feet and walked away, not trusting herself to be able to look him in the eye.
The sound of his footsteps approaching caused her to freeze, one hand on the nearby pillar for support. Her heart was pounding.
"If you need my help kicking some little bastard's arse…"
He sounded so deadly serious, she could not help but smile.
"It is a generous offer, sir."
As they headed towards the door, Master Catlyn handed her the cudgels.
"Here, you might as well keep these. They are of no more use to me."
She hugged them to her chest as she showed him out, wishing she could hug him instead.
"Farewell, then," he said, holding out his hand. "Good luck in the contest."
"Thank you." She tucked the cudgels under one arm and shook his hand, trembling a little at his touch. "For everything."
She lingered in the doorway, watching him until he disappeared around the curve of the theatre wall, then closed the door and leant back up on it. Her disguise had always been her armour; right now it felt more like a cage.
Mal ate alone in the attic that night. Ned had taken to spending more and more time with Parrish, which was all to the good since it meant he was seldom around to notice Mal's absences. It made for dull mealtimes, though. He dipped his hunk of bread in the thin pottage, wondering what kind of grand dishes the ambassador would be served. Not stewed cabbage and onions, that was for certain.
As for his other companion of recent weeks… it was probably for the best. He had noticed the way the boy looked at him, ever since that first day in Paris Gardens. At first he had thought it simple admiration, such as he himself had felt for the heroes of his youth – Edmund Campion, Sir Francis Drake, Sir Philip Sidney – but there was a girlish shyness to Hendricks' glances, and more blushes than even a fair Flemish complexion and summer heat could account for. At least it was not the simpering of the young ganymedes who frequented the Bull's Head. He could not have stood that.