Mal couldn't help but glance around the tent, fearful they were somehow being overheard – and not by skraylings. Foolishness. If there was anywhere in London they could speak freely about religious matters without some informant overhearing, it was here.
"My mother was of the Old Faith," he said. "She taught us – she taught me to follow the old ways, but it had to be in secret. The Pope – the Great Father of whom you spoke – declared Queen Elizabeth a heretic and urged his followers to kill her. As a loyal Englishman I cannot of course condone this, but anyone of the Old Faith is suspect. I have no choice but to obey the edicts of the Established Church."
"And if Church say we are demons?"
Mal drew a deep breath. "If I may be honest with you, sir, a month ago I would have said they were right."
"And now?"
"Now I am not so sure. You do not seem like demons to me. Of course the theologians would say this is merely a clever deceit of yours, that in hiding your true nature you prove your demoniacal power… but in truth I could never follow such subtle logic. I have not the wits for it."
Kiiren smiled. "I am glad you not think us demons. We are friends, yes?"
Mal nodded cautiously. He could not help but like the young skrayling, even if half the time Kiiren's conversation made no sense. Perhaps in time he could tease out more of the skraylings' secrets, but only if he retained the trust of his one ally amongst them.
He raised his cup in salute.
"Friends, yes."
As soon as the city gates were open, Coby ran back to Thames Street and told Master Naismith about the intruder. Then she went to St Augustine's church as was her custom, and afterwards ate dinner with the Kuypers, one of the Dutch families of her acquaintance. As Master Kuyper was wont to remind her, the Lord's Day was for contemplation, not worldly matters. It was a relief to forget about the theatre for a while and enjoy the simple company of friends.
She knew she could not long avoid the events of last night, however, and late afternoon found her returning to Thames Street on reluctant feet. Though she was glad to have prevented the theft, she felt guilty about injuring Wheeler; men did not always recover from such hurts.
Master Naismith called her into his study as soon as she got back. He was sitting by the fire, reading by the light of a single candle. The shadows carved deep lines in the old man's features, and for a moment Coby recalled the lamplit visage of the masked intruder.
Naismith looked up.
"I wanted to thank you again, lad, for catching that viper in our bosom," he said. "We are well rid of the cur."
"What has been done with him, sir?"
"He has been handed over to the sergeant of the watch and thrown in the Compter to await trial. Perhaps," he added with a humourless smile, "they should have put him in the Clink, where his erstwhile master could watch over him."
"Wheeler was working for Henslowe?"
"He admitted as much, when pressed."
"Then he has regained his wits," she said with relief.
"Such of them as he ever possessed. He still claims to have no memory of yesterday afternoon or evening, but he did recall Henslowe offering to pay five pounds to anyone who could obtain the manuscript."
"Five pounds?" That was barely half what Lodge had been paid for the play.
"It's a lot of money to a poor player like Wheeler," he said. "Enough to tempt even an honest man to crime."
"But why steal the sides now? We have had the play for almost three weeks, and the contest begins a few days hence – surely it is too late for the Admiral's Men to profit by it now?"
Naismith shrugged. "Perhaps it was done principally to cause mischief, with Henslowe's reward only a side bet. Better to do that as near the performance as possible, no?"
"But why would he want to harm us? It makes no sense for a man to bite the hand that feeds him."
"Who knows why anyone of these dissident fellows chooses to do a thing? There are Puritans enough who will pay their penny entrance fee to the latest play, just to have something new to rail against."
He got to his feet and put the book back on its shelf. It was not the Bible, as would be most fitting for the Lord's Day, but A Mirror for Magistrates, an old book of poems examining the lives – and falls – of England's great men, including kings and dukes. Coby wondered if Master Naismith had been seeking the libeller's inspiration in its pages.
"You think Wheeler wrote the poem as well?"
"Probably. Half these actors are would-be playwrights, are they not?"
"But you did not ask him?"
"I thought it best not to mention it. The fewer people who know, the better. Besides, it is too much of a coincidence for us to be the target of two enemies at once. No, trust me, the villain is caught and our troubles are over."
Coby nodded, wishing she could be as certain.
"P-perhaps I should continue as nightwatchman anyway, sir," she said.
"No need for that now, lad," Master Naismith replied, patting her on the shoulder. "You shall have the reward of your own bed after this."
She smiled, grateful at the reprieve. Though she was still not convinced their troubles were over, she was not keen to spend another night in the empty theatre.
"What about Master Parrish?" she asked.
"If he wants to stay, he can sleep in the storeroom," Naismith replied. "Or the barn. Don't trouble your head about him, lad."
A final niggling thought prompted her to ask: "How did Wheeler get in, sir? The doors were all still locked and bolted on the inside as I had left them, and I doubt he would have blocked his own escape thus."
"Wheeler confessed to me that he hid in the under-stage and did not leave with the others after the rehearsal. There was no need for him to break in."
Coby stared at him. "He was there all along?"
She shivered. What if he had come up whilst she was taking off her corset? That had been a foolish risk to take, to assume she was alone. Had Wheeler known she was upstairs? Perhaps not. As a hireling, he was not privy to the company's secrets: the regular actors had been warned to say nothing about the poem to anyone, and the whole purpose of Coby's watch had been to catch the miscreant in another attempt, not to scare him away. Wheeler must have assumed the theatre was empty that night and everyone gone home to their beds like good Christians.
"Do not blame yourself," Master Naismith said. "I should have kept a sharper eye on the hirelings and made certain they all left at the end of the day. I will not be so blind a shepherd in future."
Coby thanked him and made her way up to her attic room. Tonight she would sleep fully clothed, whatever the weather.
She knelt by her narrow bed and said her prayers: for her family, wherever they might be, for her Dutch friends, and Master Naismith and his family. And for Master Catlyn, standing between the ambassador and who knew how many wicked assassins. There would be no heroic swordplay, she feared; traitors preferred the subtlety of poison, or a close-wielded knife. Even Caesar could not escape such a fate… She shook the thought away. Worrying would not make Master Catlyn any safer. Her only concern for the next few days was to ensure that Suffolk's Men were dressed and on stage when their cues came, so they could do their best to win this contest.