His eyes travelled upwards, paused at her breasts, then examined her face for several moments. She returned his gaze with a strange feeling of detachment. She had imagined being found out in so many different ways – including being injured – that it was almost as if it had already happened.
"You are a girl," he said at last.
She nodded.
"Well, maid or man, that cut needs stitching. Do you have needles and thread here?"
"In the tiring house," she said, trying to breathe slowly.
"Good." He glanced around. "I will also need clean linen. And a candle." He set off for the stage door. "And some wine or brandy, if you have it."
"The candles are in the office, in a box under the table," she rasped. "And if you look behind the stack of new seat-cushions, you'll find a small glass bottle wrapped in a bit of sacking."
"All right." He looked back at her, concern in his eyes. "Take that damned thing off and sit down."
She leant against one of the two pillars and unlaced the corset, listening to Master Catlyn clattering about in the tiring house. He had taken the revelation so calmly, like it was nothing out of the ordinary. She didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Mostly she felt like she was going to be sick.
By the time he returned, she was sitting against the base of the pillar, clutching the front of her shirt against her breasts and feeling horribly naked. He knelt at her side, set down his armful of supplies and pulled up the shirt just high enough to expose the wound.
"Hmm, not too long or deep, but a stitch or three will help it heal cleanly," he said.
He rummaged in the sewing basket and produced a skein of silk thread and the curved needle she used for mending props and padded costumes. She winced at the thought of it being stuck into her own flesh.
"Is this the right stuff?" he asked, holding up a bottle. The blue-green glass had a knobbly texture, like cobblestones.
"Yes. Master Naismith bought it from a skrayling apothecary. It is accounted a sovereign remedy for stage nerves."
Master Catlyn uncorked the bottle and sniffed. His eyebrows went up, and he began to cough.
"That should do the job very well," he said faintly.
He took one of the squares of linen and upended the bottle against it. The sharp scents of juniper, mint and distilled spirits filled the air.
"This will sting somewhat," he said, bending closer.
"I thought you wanted me to drink – owww!"
"I did warn you."
He cleaned the wound, probing gently around it with rough-tipped fingers. She had been looking away, staring up at the empty galleries, but now she turned her gaze to his head, which was level with her breasts as he bent over to examine the wound. Her heart felt like it would break free of her chest, it was pounding so hard. Surely he must be able to hear it?
"Right," he said, straightening up. "Now to get down to business."
He began to unstrap his sword-belt. She swallowed hard and clutched the shirt tighter. She was alone with a man, a man who knew her sex and had touched her naked flesh…
"What, you think I would ravish you, and you in such a sorry state?"
Coby looked away, afraid he would see willingness in her eyes. Would it be ravishment if she wanted him?
He slid the dagger scabbard from his belt and put it aside, then folded the belt, right sides together.
"You'll want to bite down on that, if you've never been stitched before," he said. "Your master won't thank me if you bite through your tongue."
He lit the candle with a flint and tinder, then held the point of the needle in the flame.
"W-what are you doing?"
He looked up, smiling. "You're not the only one with a skrayling trick or two up your sleeve. I learnt this one on campaign." He turned his attention back to the needle. "Burning off the grease and dirt helps prevent the wound from festering."
"You're going to stitch me up with a hot needle?" she squeaked, shuffling around the pillar.
"It will cool very quickly," he replied, shaking it in the air. "Here, I'll quench it in your tincture, just to be certain."
The needle hissed as it came into contact with the liquid. Coby shuddered.
"Come now," Master Catlyn said, threading the needle. "If you want to be a man, you'll have to learn a man's courage."
"That's easy for you to say," she muttered. He seemed not to hear.
She placed the folded leather in her mouth as instructed. The needle pierced her skin and she fought back a whimper, biting down on the leather strap until she feared she would leave permanent marks in it.
"Breathe," he murmured. "That's right. One more."
One more turned into two more, several more. She began to wish he had let her drink from the bottle. Instead she prayed silently for courage and, above all, chastity. The pain is punishment for my sins. The sin of lust. And pride, to think I could learn to fight like a man.
When it was finally over, he cleaned the skin around the wound once more then bandaged her ribs. He helped her to her feet and held out her doublet so she could put it back on, but she shook her head.
"I will have to soak everything straight away to get the blood out," she said, bending awkwardly to pick up the corset. "My Sunday best, too."
"You are better with a needle than I," he said. "I dare say they will soon be mended."
"But I will not," she whispered. Now her secret was out, how soon before everyone knew?
"I knew there was something amiss," he went on, "that first afternoon in Paris Gardens. But I confess I didn't suspect… this. How long–?"
"Five years," she said. "At first it was just a travel disguise to keep me safe from the soldiers, but then when I lost my family… I had no other choice, apart from whoring. And that I will not do."
He nodded in approval. "I suppose your name is not Jacob, either. What shall I call you?"
"I think you should address me the same as ever, sir," she said after a moment's consideration, "otherwise you may make a slip of the tongue."
"Does no one else know?"
"No. It was never the right time, somehow."
"And now?"
She shook her head. "I must ask you not to tell anyone. I am still not ready to face the world in my true guise."
He fixed her with his dark, intense gaze. "Your secret is safe with me."
"Thank you, sir."
"I would do no less for any good friend," he said. "Stay here. I'll fetch you a bucket of water from the mill-stream to wash your bloodied clothes, then I must get back to the Tower."
She crouched to blow out the candle and put away the needles and thread. Why did men never tidy up after themselves?
She paused, basket and candle forgotten for a moment. A good friend, he had called her. Well, it was a place to start – if only she could be sure she could trust him. He was an intelligencer, an informant upon other men. What would he not say, or do, in the service of that spider, Walsingham?