Shakespeare was as good as his word, though he did not come with them on the venture. He pointed out that as a regular actor in the city’s foremost company, his face and voice were too well known for him to pass as a stranger. He did however introduce Mal to a number of players he claimed were reliable, along with a far less savoury fellow with a nice fist for paperwork, and lent him the key to the company’s wardrobe.
“Just make sure you bring everything back straight away.” Shakespeare said. “We’ve got a production of Henry the Sixth tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll need those helmets.”
“Don’t worry. If we’re not done by noon, we’ll be in the Tower together and you’ll have more to worry about than a few missing costumes.”
“And that’s meant to reassure me, is it?”
Mal patted him on the shoulder, took up his burdens and hurried out into the night. Good thing he’d brought Hector, or he might look a bit conspicuous hauling this lot around. Not to mention the likelihood of not getting back to Southwark before they closed the gates at either end of London Bridge.
The gelding looked at him askance as Mal threw the sack of costumes over his back. Mal patted his neck in reassurance and strapped a longer canvas-wrapped bundle alongside the sack. If only Coby still worked for a theatre company. As a tireman she had had far easier access to theatre costumes, and her other skills would have come in handy too. Still, he couldn’t wish her to be in the middle of this lot. Better for her to be safe with Kit in Derbyshire. Assuming they were safe.
At the thought he paused, hands clenching on the rough sacking. If this were retaliation for the attack on Selby, Ned and Gabriel might not be the only targets. He fought the urge to throw the costumes in the gutter, leap onto Hector’s back and ride for Derbyshire that very hour. No. He had entrusted his dear ones to Sandy all this time, and if anyone could deal with the guisers, it was his brother. Tomorrow would be soon enough to ride north, once his task here was done.
The following morning Mal met his accomplices in an alley behind a baker’s and they all changed into their costumes. In scarlet jackets and steel breastplates, the four actors made as impressive a crew of Tower guardsmen as Mal could wish for. The halberds, on the other hand, would never pass muster. What had looked good enough by candlelight wouldn’t fool a child in the unforgiving light of day.
“Leave them here,” Mal said at last. “Better for the gaolers to wonder why we go unarmed, than to notice that we’re carrying painted wood instead of real weapons.”
He himself was not unarmed, though he had dulled his rapier hilt to make it less conspicuous. The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a fight, but he felt naked without the weight of a sword at his side.
“Remember,” he added, as the actors formed up in pairs. “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. I don’t expect them to be suspicious of strange faces – the Tower militia is large enough that the gaolers are unlikely to see the same men every time – but I don’t want them hearing anything out of place. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
One of them put his hand up. “What if the gaolers do ask questions?”
Mal sighed. “You answer them as best you can, and as briefly. You’re actors, aren’t you? Surely you improvise your lines from time to time?”
The man nodded, and Mal turned smartly on his heel and marched out of the alley. With a scuffle of uneven footsteps and not a few muttered curses, the actors followed.
The porter seemed a little surprised by their arrival, but after a glance at Mal’s forged papers he waved them through into the courtyard. The same procedure induced the duty gaoler on the Masters’ Side to conduct them up to the room where Ned and his men were lodged.
As Mal stepped into the room, he caught Ned’s eye and gave a quick shake of the head.
“Which of you men is Edmund Faulkner?”
The printers looked at him oddly, but the false guardsmen had crowded into the room behind Mal, blocking the gaoler’s view.
“I am,” Ned said.
“And Gabriel Parrish?”
“Here.”
Mal gestured to his companions, who produced leg-irons and manacles and closed in on the two men.
“Where are you taking them?” one of the apprentices asked as the fettered prisoners were ushered out of the door.
“That’s no concern of yours, cur.” Mal aimed a backhanded blow at the youth’s head, slowly enough to give him a chance to dodge. “Get out of here, the lot of you. The Privy Council has no use for you small fry.”
The printers stared at him for a moment, then two of the apprentices helped the older journeyman to his feet. Mal took care to keep his expression blank, though his heart went out to the man. He remembered all too well the pain such torments inflicted.
When the cell was empty Mal followed them down to the courtyard.
“Here, where are you taking those men?” One of the chief warders waddled across the yard towards them, beard bristling.
“Transfer to the Tower. Sir Richard Berkeley’s orders.”
“And you are…?”
“Captain John White.” Mal puffed out his chest. “First week on the job, and I already drew the plum assignment.”
“Have you a letter from Sir Richard, authorising the transfer?”
“Right here.” Mal handed over the document. Thank the saints he had kept hold of Selby’s confession with the lieutenant’s counter-signature on the bottom; it had given the forger something to work from.
The gaoler squinted at the writing. “This isn’t the usual clerk’s hand.”
Mal shrugged. “What’s that to me?”
Over the gaoler’s shoulder, he flashed a warning glance at Ned, who nodded back.
“In fact,” the gaoler went on, “this doesn’t look anything like–”
“Let me go, you bastards!” Ned yelled, pulling free of the actor-guards.
He flailed his manacled arms around, hitting the fat gaoler around the head with his metal hand. The man staggered a little.
“You men, get that prisoner under control!”
Mal put a hand under the gaoler’s elbow, but withdrew it just as the man tried to put his weight on it. The gaoler fell to the cobbles with a strangled cry, the piece of paper crumpling in his fist, and Ned kicked him in the head with a yell of triumph.
“That’s for Ben, you slack-gutted toad!”
“Enough! Seize him!” Mal snatched the forged warrant from the gaoler’s hand and turned to the other warders. “See to your master, quick!”
Even as the prison warders began to move, Mal ushered his companions through the gates.
“Quick march! I want these villains in the Tower before they cause any more trouble.”
They set off down St Olave’s Street, taking care to avoid the riverbank just downstream of London Bridge where the real Tower guards moored their boats. A couple of hundred yards further on, Mal led them into a riverside alley as if heading for St Olave’s Stairs, but turned aside at the last minute into a tiny courtyard, barely more than a space between three adjacent buildings whose overhanging upper stories blocked out the grimy sunlight.
“God’s teeth, that was close,” Mal said, taking off his helmet and wiping his brow. “Well done, Ned! And thank you too, lads, you did a splendid job.”
He handed out payment to the actors, who bundled up their costumes in a couple of sacks and rolled up their shirt sleeves, instantly transforming themselves into a gang of labourers who could pass unnoticed in any riverside street. When they had gone, Mal unlocked his friends’ shackles. Ned was grinning like an apprentice on holiday but Gabriel’s face was pale in the gloom, his eyes almost expressionless, as if he dared not believe they had escaped. A man after my own heart.
“Well, gentlemen, time to get you out of here.”
He led them back out into the alley and down to the river, where they caught a wherry downstream to the far eastern end of Southwark. Two horses were waiting for them at a livery stable in Bermondsey Street, along with saddlebags full of food and spare clothing. Mal pressed a purse into Ned’s hand.
“That should be enough to see you safely to France,” he said. “Here are your passports; at least the Privy Council never got around to revoking them.”
“Where shall we go?” Ned asked. “Your estate in Provence?”
“No. That’s the first place they’ll look, if they do come for you. Go to Marseille, and pay Youssef to take you on from there.”
“You think they’ll come after us?”
“Probably not, but it’s best not to assume. Get as far from England as you can, and if you write, do not tell me where you are. The less I know, the better.”
“We cannot thank you enough for this,” Ned said, embracing him.
“No thanks are needed; it was my actions that brought this disaster upon you in the first place.”
“What about the print shop?”
“The soldiers took most of your stock, and I dare say the men won’t want to work there after what happened. I’ll sell off the equipment and set the money against that loan.” He smiled at them both encouragingly. “Let the bastards think us defeated, at least for now.”
“And you?” Parrish asked.
“I’m for the north. If the guisers are behind this attack on us, you and Ned might not be their only targets.”