CHAPTER IV
After the visit to Court, Mal took to wearing his rapier every day. He had missed the weight of it on his hip, the reassuring reminder of who and what he was. And if it earned him a few suspicious looks from men, it also drew admiring glances from women. The leftovers from Leland's advance were too precious to waste, though, so glances were all he got.
Leland clearly had no doubt Mal would report for duty. He had already sent a tailor round to the Faulkners' house to measure him for livery.
"It had better not be all crimson velvet and goldwork," Mal muttered as the tailor fussed around him with lengths of measuring paper and a mouthful of pins. "I shall look like a popinjay. And do not pad it overmuch. I must be able to move freely."
The tailor said nothing, only wrinkled his nose at the squalid surroundings. Ned was not the most fastidious of bedfellows, and Mistress Faulkner was too stiff with age to run about after her grown son. Reaching out with one foot Mal slid the chamber pot under the bed. The tailor muttered imprecations under his breath and left as soon as he could, saying that next time Mal would have to come to his workshop, for he would not set foot in the place again, no, not if the Queen herself commanded it.
A few days later, Mal was walking back towards London Bridge after a fitting when two figures stepped out of a doorway into his path. By their elaborately slashed sleeves, Venetian lace ruffs and pearl earrings, he took them to be courtiers, or perhaps the sons of wealthy merchants.
"Forgive me, gentlemen," Mal said with a slight bow.
They did not give way. The slighter built of the two, a youth of sixteen or so, raised a silver pomander to his nose; the scent of cloves and orris root wafted from it, competing with the stink of the river.
"What have we here?" the other drawled, looking Mal up and down. "A sewer rat bearing the weapons of a gentleman. From whom did you steal them, sirrah?"
"They're mine, given to me by my father."
"Really? Is that how you northerners acknowledge your bastards?"
Mal's jaw tightened and he drew his blade a hand's breadth from its scabbard in warning. Passers-by hurried away, their eyes averted.
"Go on," the man said with a mocking smile. "Show us why you deserve the Queen's favour, when so many of your betters have been passed over."
Was that what this was all about, jealousy that he had been chosen to guard the ambassador? What irony, that they so coveted something he would give up in a heartbeat.
He glanced from one to the other. Taking them both would be easy enough, but what good would it do? This could end in one of only two ways: his own death, or an arrest warrant for murder. He slammed the rapier back into its scabbard.
"A coward as well as a bastard," the pomander bearer said with a sniff.
Mal snatched the bauble from the youth's hand and threw it across the street. It flashed in the sunlight, bounced off a shop front with a high sharp note like a hand-bell and plopped into a slimy puddle. A scabby dog trotted over to investigate, but backed off whining when the overpowering scent hit its nostrils.
The older man caught Mal by the front of his doublet and slammed him against the nearest wall.
"Don't think Grey will protect you, cur," he growled, craning his neck to look Mal in the eye. "His standing at Court is not so high as he likes to think."
"And yours is, I suppose?"
"I am a close friend of Prince Arthur. One word to him, and–"
"And what? Think you he will go against his mother's wishes?"
The man flushed. His was an empty threat and they both knew it. If he had so much influence with the prince, why bother to seek Mal out and threaten him?
He released Mal with a sneer of contempt.
"I shall enjoy watching your fall from grace," he said. "If not I, then someone will bring you down. 'Pride goeth before destruction, and a high mind before the fall'."
He gestured to his companion, who was fishing his pomander out of the puddle.
"Leave it, Jos. A gentleman," he glared at Mal, "does not grovel in the muck."
Mal watched them leave. Was the pomander bearer Josceline Percy, one of Northumberland's tribe of younger siblings? If so, who was his companion? Mal had paid too little heed to Court gossip in the past, knowing that what reached the ears of the common folk was for the most part a confection of lies and exaggeration. Perhaps it was time to start listening. And where better to begin than with those on the very fringes of Court: actors.
? ? ? ?
Coby saw no more of Faulkner in the next few days, for which she was heartily thankful. She had enough to do helping Master Naismith ensure there were no delays in the new theatre's construction. He entrusted her with a great many more errands than usual, and she had been back and forth across London Bridge so many times, her shoes were more holes than leather.
On Friday morning she was sent to Bankside with a message for the foreman in charge of the builders. The new theatre, which was to be named the Mirror, was being built on the western edge of Southwark, in a field next to Paris Gardens. Workmen swarmed over the ladders and scaffolding that covered its sides, putting the finishing touches to the lattices of split branches that filled the gaps between the main timbers. Soon the wattle panels would be plastered over and it would start to look like its rival the Rose, barely a hundred yards to the east.
She found the foreman deep in conversation with a man she had never seen before. He was of middling years, with lank mousy hair parted in the centre above a round, clean-shaven face. Plainly dressed in a dark brown worsted doublet and hose, there was not a bit of lace or other frippery about him except for a heavy gold neck chain from which hung a unicorn badge. Another servant of their patron, and an important one at that.
At last the foreman made his courtesies and returned to his work. Coby ran after him and delivered her message, but as she turned to leave she found herself being addressed by the stranger.
"You are Naismith's tiring man?"
"Yes, sir. Jacob Hendricks, sir."
"I am John Dunfell, His Grace's private secretary." He motioned her aside, out of earshot of the workmen. "It has come to my attention that this theatre–" he broke off and looked around at the building with a grimace of distaste "–will be required in the entertainments for the Ambassador of Vinland."
"Indeed, sir."
"Indeed. Well, we must not disappoint or embarrass His Grace. I have therefore been charged with overseeing the completion of the building."
Coby nodded, unsure why she was being told this information. Unless Master Naismith did not yet know?
"If you wish me to convey any message to my master–"
Dunfell held up his hand. "Master Naismith is already informed of my intent. It was you I wished to see."
"Me, sir?" Her voice cracked, and she hid her embarrassment with a cough.
"You are a bright, trustworthy lad," Dunfell said, placing an avuncular arm across her shoulders. "Naismith would surely not rely on you otherwise. A man of talent can go far, with the right patronage, howsoever humble his birth. Your father is a tailor, I am told."
"Yes, sir," she lied; in truth he was a locksmith, but how else to explain her skill with a needle? "But… he may be dead for all I know."
"An orphan? Well, that need be no obstacle. It is in my power," he leaned closer, "to offer you preferment in the duke's service."
"That would be very generous of you, sir."
"Of course you would have to prove your worth."
"Sir?"
"A small task only. And, I am sure, well within your power." When Coby did not reply, he went on. "There is a man whom you may know, one Maliverny Catlyn. He lives in Bankside, or thereabouts."
Catlyn. Where had she heard that name before? Oh, no. Not him.
"Ah, you do know him, then?" Dunfell said.
"By sight, sir, that is all."
"Then you are to acquaint yourself further with this gentleman, and report back to me what you find. His history, character…"
"You want me to spy on him, sir?"
Dunfell nodded approvingly. "I knew you were a sharp lad when I set eyes on you. And a discreet one too, I'll warrant."
"Of course, sir."
"As you may be aware," he said, lowering his voice, "His Grace takes a great interest in all the affairs of our allies the skraylings, the better to advise His Highness the Prince of Wales. It has come to His Grace's attention that the skraylings are by no means as united as we have been led to believe. There is dissension amongst their ranks –" he pursed his lips in disapproval "– even with regard to the ambassador being sent to England."
"That is indeed grievous news," Coby said.
"Indeed. Worse still, this fellow Catlyn, who has been appointed as the ambassador's bodyguard, may owe his position to the scheming of the ambassador's own enemies. Our very alliance with Vinland could be at stake."
Coby stared at Dunfell. "This – this is too great a task for me, sir, I cannot–"
"Nonsense. I ask but a small thing, do I not? A mere acquaintance, a few questions asked as of a new friend… Surely I do not need to tell your master of your disloyalty?"
Coby shook her head miserably.
"Very well," she said. "I will do what I can to make friends with this man."
Ned sat at a table by himself, nursing a pint of beer and keeping an eye on the door. His stomach growled. If Mal didn't turn up soon, he'd be having dinner by himself.
The low-ceiling taproom held the July heat like a brick oven, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke and laughter. A favourite of both of Southwark's principal companies of players, the Bull's Head was the natural resort of every hireling actor on the lookout for work, as well as those gentlemen whose pleasure it was to mingle with the more famous denizens of the city's underbelly.
Ned spotted Gabriel Parrish weaving through the crowd, his bright hair unmistakable in the shadowy taproom. No wonder he had earned the nickname "Angel" before ever he ventured onstage. Ned sighed, remembering how those forget-me-not blue eyes could darken with pleasure in an instant.
Just as it seemed Gabriel would pass by without a sign of recognition, he paused and looked straight at Ned. He did not smile, but at least he did not frown or sneer. Ned swallowed past the lump in his throat, and found himself getting to his feet almost against his will.
"Gabe." He never called Parrish by his nickname in public. It didn't seem right, somehow.