CHAPTER VI
Out in the Strand, Mal reined Hector to a halt for a moment before turning the gelding’s head to the left. Whitehall might be empty, but he had ascertained that most of the court had gone no further than Richmond to escape the threat of plague.
“We’re not beaten yet, lad,” he murmured, patting Hector’s neck.
The gelding jerked his head down as if in agreement, and set off towards Charing Cross.
Mal considered his options as he rode. Grey was not his only connection at court, nor even the most friendly to his cause; surely there was someone else he could prevail upon to secure a swift pardon for Ned and Gabriel? The Privy Council was sadly depleted of late, it was true. His own former patron, Sir Francis Walsingham, had not been replaced when he died, and three other members were so old and infirm they came seldom to court. That only left the current Secretary of State, Robert Cecil, who was an old rival of Sir Francis and thus unlikely to favour Mal’s cause; the Lord High Admiral, whom he knew from his time as Ambassador Kiiren’s bodyguard; the new Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas Egerton; and the Prince of Wales himself.
The admiral he dismissed as too remote a connection and too little interested in the matter. The Prince of Wales might be persuaded to clemency, but it would likely be too slow a process; he was as cautious as his mother, and as proud as his late father. The Lord Chancellor was an unknown quantity; he was a former lawyer and had a reputation as a shrewd legislator, but whose side would he take in this case? There was only one way to find out.
By the time he neared Richmond, the sun was dipping below the palace’s gilt-topped towers and setting the Thames ablaze. Mal followed the road round to the main entrance, where massive octagonal towers of pale stone flanked double doors of solid oak. Above them a gilded and painted bas-relief of the royal arms gleamed in the honey-thick light: golden lions and fleurs-de-lys on a quartered field of red and blue, supported by a larger lion and a unicorn, both with crowns around their necks. On one tower was the royal badge combining a portcullis and a Tudor rose; on the other, a red heart surmounted by a scroll bearing the single word Loyal – the late King Henry’s personal emblem. These days the palace was the favourite residence of the Princess of Wales, but her husband visited often, mostly to avail himself of the hunting in the nearby park.
Leaving Hector with a palace groom, Mal crossed the main courtyard and slipped down a narrow passage between two buildings and through a plain arched door. A long corridor stretched left and right, but he carried straight on, eventually emerging behind the palace on the edge of its formal gardens. As he had hoped. A knot of men stood around the near end of the bowling alley, talking and laughing. All were richly dressed in the height of fashion: close-fitting silk doublets heavy with embroidery, a prince’s ransom in lace at collar and cuffs, and curled hair arranged artfully over one shoulder. Mal assumed a carefree air and strolled over to greet them.
“My lords. Gentlemen.”
The hangers-on parted to reveal Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton and current darling of Robert’s court.
“Catlyn, you old rogue! Where have you been these past few weeks?”
Though only a few years younger than Mal the earl looked scarcely more than a boy, with a thin sandy moustache and sparse beard. No wonder close-trimmed whiskers are all the rage at court, if they seek to flatter this young coxcomb.
“I might ask you the same, my lord. London is a dreary place without you.”
“I don’t know why you remain there. Christ’s blood, if I had a pretty wife and a country estate to go home to, I’d leap at the chance.”
Mal smiled politely. It was common knowledge that Southampton was so far in debt as to have been obliged to sell off some of his lands, as well as postpone his wedding to one of Princess Juliana’s ladies-in-waiting.
“How would you like an estate in Ireland?” Southampton went on. “Essex and I have a mind to show that upstart Tyrone the edge of our blades. What say you join us?”
“I would be honoured, my lord, but alas I have business back in London.”
“What business is more important than Her Majesty’s?”
“You have me there, my lord.” He could hardly tell the earl about his campaign against the guisers. Wriothesley’s name had been on Selby’s list, and though that meant nothing either way, one couldn’t be too careful.
“Splendid! We’ll show Raleigh a thing or two, eh?”
“Aye, my lord.”
Southampton turned away, satisfied now that his will had prevailed. Mal cursed silently. The last thing he needed was to be caught in the middle of Essex and Raleigh’s rivalry. Perhaps he could contrive a way out of it: a sudden illness, or an injury sustained in a duel. On the other hand, the invitation suggested an approach to his own problem.
“My lord, a question, if I may?”
Southampton waved a hand, which Mal took for encouragement, though the earl’s attention remained on the game.
“A man of my station can hardly set out upon such a venture unaccompanied, but I am regrettably deprived of my two stoutest companions by an unfortunate turn of events.”
“Oh?”
“The men who assisted me most ably on my mission to Venice have been arrested on charges of sedition. Wholly false charges, I would stake my reputation on it.”
“I see,” Southampton murmured. He clapped his hands as one of the players landed a ball just touching the jack. “Oh, well played, sir!”
“I understand,” Mal went on, “that my lord Essex is well acquainted with the Lord Chancellor, and I wondered if he might be prevailed upon to intervene.”
Southampton turned, and frowned at him. “Who are these men?”
“Ned Faulkner, a printer, and Gabriel Parrish, an actor and playwright.”
The earl sniffed. “Hardly fit companions for a gentleman, Catlyn. Can you not bring someone else?”
Mal reined in his frustration.
“Assuredly, my lord. However it ill befits a gentleman to abandon those who have served him faithfully.”
“Very well, I shall do what I can.”
“You will? Thank you, my lord. I will be forever in your debt.”
Southampton waved his hand dismissively. “I shall mention it to Essex next time I write to him.”
Mal’s heart sank. “He’s not here?”
“He’s in Southampton, reviewing our prospective fleet. But never fear; he’ll be back before Christmas.”
Mal made his obeisance and went to find lodgings for the night. Damn it! By the time Essex heard of the business and deigned to intervene, Ned and Gabriel could be dead. He was going to have to take matters into his own hands, and not in a way that Grey was likely to approve of.
It took Mal most of the next day to find his quarry, since discretion was vital to his plan, but by early evening he found himself outside a shabby lodging-house a few streets from Smithfield. The landlady let him in and directed him to the attic at the top of the house.
Mal took the stairs slowly, going over the plan for weaknesses. He was distracted, however, by the rhythmic creaking coming from the chamber ahead. Evidently the actor’s evening of pleasure had begun early.
Mal grinned to himself and knocked on the door. When no answer came, he knocked again, louder.
“Shakespeare, are you in there?”
A sudden scuffle. He tried the door; it was unlocked. As he made to open it, however, he met resistance. He shoved hard and a man yelped and swore in pain. Mal shouldered his way into the actor’s lodgings.
“God’s light, man, what did you do that for?” Shakespeare was in his shirt and little else, hopping around on one foot. He glared at Mal, who shrugged an apology. “Who are you, anyway?”
“A friend of Gabriel Parrish.”
Shakespeare’s lodgings were as untidy as the man himself, dirty linens overflowing their basket and the remains of a meal on the floor by the bed, as if set out for the mice. The bed itself was a tangle of sheets and bolsters and… naked limbs? A young woman poked a tousled head out of the folds and gave him an appreciative look. Mal nodded back politely.
“Later, Nell.” Shakespeare threw her a coin, and she snatched it from the air before climbing out of bed and retrieving her clothes. It was Mal’s turn to be appreciative. Derbyshire was a long way away…
“You have news of Parrish?” Shakespeare said when his companion had left.
Mal went quietly over to the door and hauled it open, but there was no one there. He glimpsed Nell disappearing down the next turn of the stairs.
“I need your help,” he said, shutting the door, “otherwise, one way or another, Parrish will die.”
Shakespeare sat down on the bed and pulled on his hose.
“That would be a shame. He’s a fine actor.”
“And a rival playwright.” Better test the waters now, before he took the man further into his confidence.
Shakespeare laughed. “Hardly. Oh, these new comedies bring in the crowds, but it’s a passing fashion, you’ll see. Blood and woe, that’s what brings the penny stinkards in. Though come to think of it, why not combine the two?” He wandered over to his desk and snatched up a sheet of paper and a pen. “A wronged woman. Suicide. Deception. And all with a happy ending this time. Yes…”
“Shakespeare?”
“Hmm?”
“About Parrish. You’ll help me, won’t you?”
The actor put down his pen. “In what way?”
“I’m going to get Parrish, and Ned Faulkner and his men, out of the Marshalsea.”
Shakespeare stared at him for a moment then burst out laughing.
“Do you take me for a fool? If you’re caught you’ll hang – or worse.”
“I know,” Mal replied softly.
“Then you have my answer. I know my liver is lily-white: I don’t need an executioner to cut it out and show it to me.”
“I understand.” Mal chewed his lip as if in thought. Gently does it. “It is a great hazard, as you say, and only the finest actors in London could carry it off. Perhaps Parrish’s old friends in the Admiral’s Men would be willing to chance it…”
He turned back to the door and laid his hand upon the latch.
“Wait!”
Mal allowed himself a brief grin of triumph before schooling his features to hopeful innocence.
“You’ll do it?”
“God help me, yes,” Shakespeare said with a sigh. “We’ve lost too many fine talents already to these pinch-souled wardens of our morals. What do you want me to do?”