CHAPTER XXVI
So, Hendricks was a girl. It made a strange kind of sense: the beardless chin, the unbroken voice, the refusal to go swimming… If he did not see through the disguise before now, it was hardly surprising. Despite her coyness this afternoon, he had seen enough to guess she scarce needed a corset to conceal her figure. He wondered what she would look like in a gown. Probably no more convincing a woman than any other lad who minced across a stage.
He walked back to the Tower deep in thought. Was there anyone within the world of the theatre whom he could take at face value? Not Hendricks, certainly not Ned; who was next? Naismith seemed too indolent a man to go to the effort of deceit, but he could not say the same about Thomas Lodge. The playwright had the kind of overweening pride that often led men astray. Then there was Wheeler: was he acting alone, or did he have allies?
At least he was now certain Hendricks would keep her mouth shut. He had been careless to confide so much in her, though women had a knack for worming men's secrets out of them without giving anything away in return. Damn her for making a fool of him, and damn himself for being so blind!
As he walked through the outer ward towards the ambassador's quarters, he heard the splash of oars echoing in the tunnel under St Thomas's Tower. Moments later an uncomfortably familiar tableau came into view: a skiff rowed by red-cloaked guardsmen, with a manacled prisoner sitting on the thwarts, head bowed.
"Who is that?" he asked Captain Monkton as the prisoner was led, struggling like a wild animal, up the stairs.
"Some actor suspected of distributing seditious pamphlets." Monkton laughed unpleasantly. "Topcliffe will soon have him speechifying."
The prisoner screamed and redoubled his efforts to break free. The name of Richard Topcliffe was enough to loosen any man's bowels. It was said the Queen's interrogator had been granted permission to set up a torture chamber in his own house in London, the better to develop his own methods of extracting confessions.
As for the identity of the struggling man, he must be Wheeler, the fellow who had tried to steal the play scripts. What was he doing here, unless… Perhaps Hendricks had been right about Wheeler being the author of the scurrilous poem. The city authorities were as edgy as new recruits on the eve of battle, ever since that business with the Guildhall libel back in May.
Wheeler stared wild-eyed at Mal as he was dragged towards the gateway under the Bloody Tower.
"I know you!" he shouted. "You're one of them!"
Monkton looked at Mal, his eyes narrow with suspicion. Mal shrugged, trying to keep his rising fear in check.
"I've never seen him before in my life," he said, and walked briskly up the stairs of St Thomas's Tower before his face could betray him.
One of what? The Huntsmen? If Wheeler somehow knew about that, and said so under torture, Mal's tenure as the ambassador's bodyguard would be over in the snap of a finger. Perhaps literally.
When he entered the Tower, one of the skrayling guards asked for the watchword.
"Shakholaat," Mal replied, hoping he had pronounced it correctly.
The guard inclined his head in acknowledgment and told him the ambassador wanted to see him right away. Mal went up the steps and knocked on the door. There was no reply.
"Your Excellency?"
Still no answer. He unlatched the door and went in.
Kiiren was staring out of the window, hands clasped behind him, spine taut as a bowstring. Mal unstrapped his sword belt and laid the rapier and dagger on the bed. What he wouldn't give for a good clean fight against the bastard behind all this, instead of creeping around the city like a thief in the night.
"Where have you been all day?" Kiiren asked without turning round.
"Out on your business," Mal replied, unbuttoning his doublet. It was the truth, more or less. "I visited Naismith and had a look round his new theatre. I'm concerned about your safety tomorrow–"
"My safety?" Kiiren turned, and Mal saw with shock there were tears in his eyes. "What about your safety? I wait here all afternoon, I do not know if you are alive or dead."
"I am sorry–"
Kiiren all but flew across the room and hugged him tightly, then held him at arm's length.
"I thought I had lost you again, amayi."
"You don't get rid of me that easily," Mal replied with a laugh.
"We will call off this foolish contest," Kiiren said, "and leave here. Someone else can take my place."
"Sir, you cannot." Walsingham would have his head on a pike if he let the ambassador snub the princes like this. "We must catch the men who are plotting against you."
"Why do you care so much for these people? Are you not one of us any more?" He stared at Mal. "Have others turned you against me?"
What others, Mal wanted to ask, but felt it was best not to reveal his ignorance.
"Of course not," he said.
The skrayling's expression softened. "No, I do not think they would ever convince you." He released Mal and walked away. "But I cannot allow you to put your life before mine. You will give up this guarding of body and remain here, where you are safe."
"No."
"Please, amayi. For me."
"No," he said more firmly. "Do not ask this of me."
"Why?"
"Because they will kill the man whom they plot to replace me with." Play along with this superstition of theirs, for Sandy's sake. "These Christians are not reborn, and they believe their souls go to a terrible place if they die without a priest's blessing. If that is true, I cannot bring such a fate upon even one of them."
"You were always gentle one, amayi. Very well, I trust you in this."
"Only in this?" Mal took off his doublet and threw it on the bed.
"In all things."
When Mal turned back round to face Kiiren, the skrayling's eyes widened.
"You are hurt, amayi!"
Mal looked down at his shirt. It was spotted with the girl's blood, as if he had done as she feared and taken her maidenhead. Perhaps he had in a way. He smiled to himself. She was not so very plain, to tell the truth. A little too skinny for his tastes but quick-witted, and lively enough to be promising.
"It's nothing," he said. "Just pig's blood, from a careless butcher's boy in the market."
He stripped off the filthy linen, scrubbed it under his armpits, then rummaged around in the chest at the foot of the bed for a clean shirt. After a moment's thought he pulled off the bandages as well, salved the tattoo, and allowed Kiiren to help him with clean dressings. Whilst he was tended, he rehearsed in his head what he was going to tell the ambassador.
Kiiren tied the last of the bandages and planted a moth-wing kiss on his bare shoulder. Mal shrugged him off and pulled on his shirt. Best to get this over with, before Wheeler started naming names in an attempt to stop the agony.
"There is something more I must tell you, sir, though it pains me to do so. Something I would not have you hear from others." He drew a deep breath. "You know there are enemies of the skraylings in England, calling themselves Huntsmen."
"Of course."
"Did you also know there are many of these Huntsmen in the lands where I grew up?"
"It has been reported to me, yes. How else you think I find you?"
"Then you know my elder brother Charles is – or, I should say, was – one of them?"
"Yes."
"Did your informants also tell you that… that I am one too?"
"You?" Kiiren stared at him. "How can this be? To kill your own kind…"
He backed away, the blotched pattern on his face more pronounced than usual.
"I killed no one," Mal assured him. "When I was sixteen, they forced me to join against my will, took me on one of their rides. I… I saw Erishen murdered."
Kiiren muttered something in the skrayling tongue in a venomous tone Mal had never heard from the mild-mannered ambassador before. He looked up.
"Liar," Kiiren spat.
"Sir?"
"If you are Erishen, you cannot have seen his death with living eyes. We are reborn only into bodies of unborn children. If you saw, you are not him."
"I–" Now he was totally confused. If Sandy had not been possessed that night, why…? The murder had been horrible, but surely not so horrible as to make a man lose his wits.
"Why do you lie to me?"
The young skrayling stood toe to toe with Mal, staring up into his face with inhuman amber eyes. Mal could think of nothing to say that would not further incriminate him at this point.
Kiiren turned paler still, if that were possible.
"You are in their pay," he said slowly. "They have taught you our tongue, that you may deceive me better."
"No–"
"Get out."
"Sir!" Mal had to force himself not to grab the ambassador by the front of his silken robes. "I swear to you I am not in the pay of your enemies. Now let me do my job and protect you from them."
He snatched up his sword belt and wrapped it about his waist, adjusting the buckles with military precision until both blades rested in the perfect position for combat. By the time he finished the familiar ritual, Kiiren had calmed down, at least a little.
"Very well," the ambassador said. "Now go. I do not wish to look upon you."
Mal snapped a formal bow and walked out. In the antechamber he halted, the reality of what had just happened finally hitting home, like a wound that goes unnoticed in the heat of battle.
He had come within a hair's breadth of dismissal, endangered Sandy's life and probably lost Kiiren's trust forever. As soon as the ambassador's visit was over, his job would be done and he would never see the skrayling again. The thought should have been comforting.
He paced the antechamber, cursing his stupid mouth. Wheeler probably knew nothing; it was his word against Mal's, and with the ambassador as his ally and protector, Monkton would have been hard pressed to make anything of it. Well, it was too late now.
A pity he had not managed to get more information out of the ambassador whilst the ruse lasted, but he had a few crumbs to go on, not least the confirmation that Kiiren had enemies amongst the skraylings as well as in the city. He would report to Walsingham tomorrow, after the play. All that mattered now was that he was still able to protect the ambassador and, with any luck, find Sandy and bring him back. Best to forget about the skraylings and their heresies, and focus on the here and now. Starting with a good night's sleep.
Coby spent a restless night trying to find a sleeping position that did not feel like she was being stabbed again. The knife wound had not bled through the bandages, thank the Lord, but it was still tender to the touch. She consoled herself with pleasant memories of Master Catlyn's closeness, wishing there was more to remember.
Perhaps the accident had been the hand of Fate, nudging her towards her true destiny. She was bound to be found out eventually, and who better to do that than the man she loved? Of course he might not return her feelings. He had made no move to take advantage of her, though that might simply be because he was a gentleman, not a Bankside ruffian. At least he would not speak of her as the apprentices did of their conquests, or so she hoped. The names they called the poor girls who gave in to their charms made her ashamed to call them friends.
It was all moot anyway. Now he knew her secret, there would be no more fighting lessons, no more running hotfoot across the city with urgent news, no quiet moments of comradeship. He would start treating her like a helpless girl – had done so already, fussing over her and bringing her water to wash her bloodied clothes. Sooner or later someone would notice, and then her five-year adventure would be over. Best to forget she had ever met him.
Lying awake and miserable in the watery light of dawn, she realised with horror there was still much to do before the performance, including delivering the trunks of costumes to the theatre. In the past it had been one of her tasks to help the draymen, but that was out of the question now; she could barely walk without wincing, never mind lift a heavy leather box. There had to be a way out that wouldn't draw Master Naismith's suspicion, something less strenuous that could occupy her time.
As she washed and dressed she ran through everything she could think of. All the arrangements had been made well in advance, even without Master Dunfell's further help: the makeup and wigs were at the theatre, a spare plot-board written out, the costumes checked and re-checked… That was it. There had been a dress rehearsal on Monday, and only she and Master Parrish had stayed behind to put away the costumes. What if they had missed some damage that needed a lastminute repair? And if none existed, it could be made…
Tiptoeing down the stairs in stockinged feet, she took Master Naismith's bunch of keys from their hook by the front door. She put on her shoes, slipped out of the door and round to the barn. Sunlight flooded in as she pushed back the door, catching motes of dust in a glittering whirl and making her sneeze.
Leaving the door ajar to let in some light, she mounted the steps at the back of the wagon. Inside, three large storage trunks awaited her. She unlocked the nearest and went through the folded layers of fabric. It had to be something important, so she could justify being freed from other duties to mend it. And the damage must be obvious and plausible but easy to repair. To ruin the play after all their hard work was unthinkable.
Nothing in the first one fitted the bill, being mainly soldiers' uniforms, shoes and belts. The second was more promising, however. In here were the faerie queen's gown and the doublets belonging to the three princes. The doublets had silver buttons down the front and silver-tipped points at the waist. A lost button or broken cord would be believable, but would take only minutes to replace from the spares in her sewing basket.
She turned her attention to the queen's gown of sapphireblue silk brocade. The outer skirt bore a matching strip of velvet all round the hem, to guard the more fragile silk from damage. It was already worn a little flat where it dragged on the floor, but not enough to be noticeable. And yet what was more natural than for a misstep by young Philip to catch on it and tear a section loose?
Hardly daring to breathe, she took out her knife and cut the velvet guard near the back of the skirt, then began to pull it away from the brocade. She cut the more reluctant stitches as well, to prevent tearing, and soon had a very convincing "accident" on her hands. It would take a good hour to sew it up again, even working quickly – and she was not minded to be too quick.
Ned picked up a Venetian lace ruff, and let it fall. No point in trying to tidy this place; Gabe would hate it, and in any case there was nowhere to put everything. He contented himself with straightening the bed and gathering their dirty linens in a basket to take to the laundress.
He was just peeling an embroidered stocking from its sticking-place on the headboard, when a knock came at the door. He froze. Who could it be at this hour? Gabe would be at the theatre by now, applying makeup and fussing over his costume, and Mal was on duty at the Tower. He cat-footed it over to the door. The rain-soaked, sun-dried wood had warped in its frame, leaving cracks wide enough to see through. A dark eye stared back at him.
"Faulkner?" the visitor asked.
"Who wants to know?"
Ned hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. The ancient timbers would not keep the stranger out for long, not if he were determined to come in. Ned could only hope that, if it came to a break-in, the draper in the shop below would send someone up to investigate the noise.