"University, yes."
Mal nodded. "Cambridge."
They spoke of libraries and lectures, astronomy and music, but he steered the conversation away from his own sudden departure. If the ambassador did not already know his family history, Mal was not about to tell him now.
In the yard below, servants laid down straw to soak up the worst of the rain, carried piles of cushions to the lords' galleries, or ran back and forth on unknown errands. Three archways at the back of the stage led to the tiring house, and the occasional billow of a curtain or raised voice from within hinted at the frenzy of nervous preparation going on inside.
After about half an hour a small group of men entered the yard and made their way up to the gallery where the ambassador was seated. At the head of the group was the admiral himself, patron of this theatre company. Effingham greeted Kiiren with the same blunt courtesy as on their first meeting, and asked after his health.
Also amongst the party was a thin, stooped figure whose richly coloured brocade doublet and hose contrasted grotesquely with his sallow, wasted features: Lord Brooke, former English ambassador to Venice. He was seldom at court owing to frequent bouts of illness, and Mal was surprised to see him here today. Perhaps he came to discuss diplomacy with Kiiren, under cover of the drama contest.
A rising hubbub from beyond the gates told of a gathering crowd. At last a shrill trumpet sounded in the street and the gates swung open. A multicoloured torrent of people surged through the opening: apprentices in blue, burghers in wine red or rusty brown, rakes in their slashed and embroidered doublets, and of course the whores in their tawdry gowns of scarlet and buttercup yellow. The groundlings jostled for places in the yard, the aldermen and their wives paid their extra pennies for admittance to the galleries and a cushion for their municipal rears. Serving-men stood at the doorways with bottles of beer and baskets piled with bags of hazelnuts. Mal was a little surprised they weren't selling the popped corn he had tried at the fair, though in truth it was more fit for throwing at bad actors than for eating.
Speaking of which… Prominent amongst the crowd were the skraylings in their striped and chevroned tunics; they were frequent theatregoers in any case, but today they had turned out in force, perhaps feeling safer for the presence of their ambassador. The foreigners occupied almost the entire top gallery, having been separated from the locals by a thoughtful doorman.
Soon the theatre was packed to bursting. Some of the crowd had noticed the guests of honour in their gallery and begun pointing them out to their neighbours. At that moment, however, their attention was diverted by a rumble of thunder from the gallery. A boy actor, dressed as a Greek goddess in robes of black, walked onto the stage.
"In poenam sectatur et umbra," the actor intoned.
"For punishment, even a shadow pursues," Lord Brooke added, for the ambassador's benefit.
A man dressed as a lion ran on, roaring, and paced to and fro across the front of the stage, clawing in the direction of the audience. Having seen the real lions in the royal menagerie, Mal found the actor's feeble roars singularly unimpressive.
A second actor, dressed in green and carrying a bow, slipped from the other stage door and hide himself behind a canvas bush, whilst the goddess continued her speech in English.
"A Mighty Lion, ruler of the woods,
Of wondrous strength and great proportion,
With hideous noise scaring the trembling trees,
With yelling clamours shaking all the earth,
Traverst the groves, and chased the wandering beasts.
Long did he range amid the shady trees,
And drave the silly beasts before his face,
When suddenly from out a thorny bush–"
The archer leapt out and drew his bow, nocked with an imaginary arrow.
"A dreadful Archer with his bow ybent,
Wounded the Lion with a dismal shaft."
The invisible arrow was loosed, and the lion clutched his chest and fell to the stage with a roar of agony.
"So he him stroke that it drew forth the blood,
And filled his furious heart with fretting ire;
But all in vain he threatened teeth and paws,
And sparkleth fire from forth his flaming eyes,
For the sharp shaft gave him a mortal wound.
So valiant Brute, the terror of the world,
Whose only looks did scare his enemies,
The Archer death brought to his latest end.
Oh what may long abide above this ground,
In state of bliss and healthful happiness."
The archer and lion stood and bowed, and all three actors left the stage.
"What was all that about?" Effingham grunted. "Damned foolish nonsense."
"It was an allegorical masque," Lord Brooke replied. "See, here comes the dying Brutus carried on a chair, and his Trojan courtiers."
Mal left the ambassador and his guests to enjoy the performance, and withdrew a discreet distance along the gallery, where he had a better view of the audience. Many of them were paying more attention to the ambassador than to the play, and their eyes flicked towards Mal from time to time. He returned their gaze levelly, and they soon looked away.
A disturbance in the crowd caught his eye, but it was only a woman fainting. Perhaps the lion had been too much for her, though it was more likely she was overcome by the press of bodies. In truth there was scarcely space for a would-be assassin to draw his pistol, never mind aim it. Mal retreated to the back of the gallery and considered the party gathered around Kiiren. The admiral could have been behind the attack onboard the Ark Royal, but surely that was too obvious even for him? The rest of the party were unknown to Mal. Once again he found himself wishing he had paid more attention to the goings-on at Court. Any one of these men could be in the pay of France, Spain or the Holy Roman Emperor. And he might never find out who until it was too late.