The path was broad and straight, but Mal could see no sign of the lovers, nor hear their voices. They must have turned aside into the thick brush for greater privacy. Quite what he was going to do when he eventually caught up with them, he had no idea. Challenge Rutland to a duel? If the earl really was Jathekkil’s amayi, killing him would solve Mal’s immediate problem, but at the price of arrest and possible execution. Nor could Mal attempt to use magic on a waking man; he would have to get too close, and in any case if he were right, Rutland would know himself betrayed.
Mal halted, alert for any sound that might give the lovers away. Nothing but the usual noises of the forest, and in the distance the winding of a hunting horn, receding rather than getting nearer. No help from that quarter then. He was about to move on when a man’s voice, raised in anger, broke the stillness. Mal headed towards it, heedless of the twigs snapping under his boots.
A few moments later he emerged in a clearing. The girl was sitting on a tree stump, head in her hands. Alone. Mal halted a few yards away and sheathed his half-drawn rapier. Elizabeth started at the sound and looked up. Naught but a child, with her face as white as the mist and her eyes and nose red from weeping. Mal fought off the urge to chase after Rutland and give him the beating he deserved, but he could not leave the girl alone in the forest like this. He bowed but did not make any other move towards her, less she flee like a deer.
“Come, let me take you back to my wife,” he said, gesturing towards the path.
Elizabeth hesitated, then got to her feet shakily. Mal held out his hand and she came to him, let him take her arm and guide her through the forest.
“Are you hurt?” he said after a while.
Elizabeth shook her head.
“It was all m-m-my fault,” she said, so quietly Mal had to lean down to hear. “My lord Rutland was showing me a deer path, and we stopped to… to kiss and I–”
She broke off with a sob. Mal fished around in his pocket for a handkerchief, trying to remember the last time he had seen Coby weep, but memory failed him. Perhaps growing up pretending to be a boy had hardened her spirits. Unlike these delicate ladies of the court. Sooth, he wished she were here now dealing with this poor child instead of him.
After a while Elizabeth stopped crying.
“He’ll n-n-never marry me now,” she whispered.
“But you are betrothed to him, are you not? It will cause him a great deal of trouble to get out of the contract, even if you’re not a virgin anymore.”
Elizabeth wiped her nose and looked up at him. “Can you lose your virginity by kissing? Mamma told me the man had to lie on top of the woman and… well, you know.” She blushed scarlet.
“Well, yes… So, he just kissed you?”
“Yes. And then… And then I puked all over his doublet.” Elizabeth burst into tears again.
Mal stifled a laugh. Poor vain Rutland, doing his best to seduce a girl and eliciting only nausea.
“Well perhaps you’ll be more careful in future, and not drink on an empty stomach.”
Elizabeth nodded miserably.
Mal found Hector and the two other horses waiting patiently where he had left them. He helped Elizabeth into the saddle of her roan mare then took the reins of both geldings and led them back towards the palace.
So much for his plans. He might have rescued the girl, but he was no closer to determining whether Rutland was an enemy or merely an irritation. Perhaps he would have better luck back in London, where at least he would be on familiar territory.
CHAPTER XVI
Mal knocked on the door of his brother’s bedchamber. They had come back to the capital with Robert and his retinue at the beginning of October, but instead of returning to his lodgings at Whitehall Palace, Mal had moved back into the house behind the Sign of the Parley. He needed quiet and sobriety to plan his next move, and finally the stratagem had paid off.
“Sandy! Are you awake?”
A faint groan was the only reply. Fearing some new trouble Mal threw open the door. To his relief naught appeared to be amiss, though the fug of qoheetsakhan smoke was thicker than usual. Sandy was sitting up in bed, calm if bleary-eyed, his hair curling in damp elf-locks around his pale brow.
“Rough night?” Mal said, leaning on the bedpost.
“Wearisome. For hours I could not sleep, try as I might–” Sandy gestured vaguely towards the small brazier where he burned the dream-herb “–and then when I did, I tried to patrol the city but was led astray by…”
He broke off, his grave expression turning Mal’s breakfast to lead in his stomach.
“Devourers?”
“No. Something different. A presence, no more. Familiar, but hidden from me. I followed it for a long time, but could not find it.”
“Perhaps it was Prince Henry,” Mal said, sitting down on the end of the bed. “I hear he’s come up from Hampton Court for his birthday celebrations.”
“Perhaps.” Sandy untangled himself from the sheets and went over to the basin to wash his face. He paused, hands cupped over the water. “What of your news?”
“Who says I have news?”
“I heard it in your voice, when you called out to me.” He splashed his face and rubbed a flannel over his bare limbs.
“No news,” Mal said after a moment, “but an idea. I was clearing out the pantry – you know the rats got in whilst we were away? – and it occurred to me. I don’t need to see a rat to know where it’s been.”
“You’re chasing rats now?”
“No, Shawe. We don’t know where the man is, but we know damned well what he’s up to.”
“Alchemy.”
“Exactly. And wherever he is, he can’t very well stroll down to the village green and buy… I don’t know, a dozen alembics and a pound of quicksilver, can he?”
“I suppose not,” Sandy said, shooing Mal off the bed so he could strip the sweat-soaked sheets.
“So–” Mal scrambled to his feet “–we just need to find out who Shawe’s supplier is here in London, and where the goods are being sent.”
“We?”
“Well, me. Unless you really want to help.” He tried to keep his tone neutral; two could cover the ground better than one, but his brother wasn’t exactly trained in intelligence work, nor could he be relied upon to be subtle.
Sandy wasn’t fooled.
“No, I have plenty to do here,” he said, bundling up the sheets. “If we could keep a maid for more than a few weeks at a time…”
“You’re the one that scares them away,” Mal said, backing out of the room. “Don’t work too hard, all right? I’ll be back before supper.”
He wandered into his own chamber, thoughts already preoccupied with how he was going to go about his search. Glass-blowers – that was the place to start. Shawe would be needing more glass rods like the one Mal had found in the workshop, and other vessels besides. The question was, what should be his own story? He sorted through his wardrobe and chanced upon the dark green silk doublet he had worn in Venice, the night he had met Olivia. Perfect.
His quest led him to the eastern end of Southwark where all the noxious industries were situated, well downwind of the rest of the suburb. As he made his way past a row of tanneries Mal pressed a perfume-drenched handkerchief to his nose, glad for once to be playing the foppish courtier. Barrels half-full of piss stood outside each building, an invitation to the suburb’s male inhabitants to add their own contributions to the trade’s raw materials.
Mal turned down a side street, broader than most if only to allow the passage of supply wagons. One blocked his way now, laden with heavy sacks that were being carried into a workshop. The sign over the door showed a bottle and goblet.
“You there!” Mal waved his handkerchief at one of the labourers. “Move this wagon immediately. I wish to visit your master.”
The man hurried to obey, and after a few moments the wagon creaked forward a few yards to let Mal pass.
The front shop was almost as crowded as the street, piled with crates of beer bottles, perhaps waiting to be loaded onto the same wagon once it was emptied. Display shelves with wooden rails along the front showed off a selection of the workshop’s wares: more bottles, mostly in green and amber glass; small flat sheets, some made up into lanterns or examples of window panels; goblets that mimicked the finer work of Venetian craftsmen for those who could not afford imported glass.
“Can I help you, sir?”
A man of middle years, coarse-featured from daily exposure to the heat and fumes of his trade, stood in the inner doorway. He wore a heavy leather apron covered in scorch-marks and thick gauntlets of the same. The flinty smell of hot glass drifted through the door, reminding Mal of the abandoned workshop at Shawe House.
“I’m here on behalf of my good friend Sir Walter Raleigh,” Mal said. “He has developed an interest in alchemy, and wishes to purchase alembics and suchlike.”
The man sucked in air over his uneven yellow teeth. “Costly work, sir, and I haven’t done anything of its like in a while. But if Sir Walter could provide sketches, I’d be glad to oblige.”
“Then you don’t supply other alchemists?”
“Between you and me, sir–” the glassblower looked around conspiratorially “–most of these alchemist fellows never pay their bills. They may talk of turning lead into gold, but mostly they seem to turn it into debt.”
Mal bristled. “Sir Walter Raleigh is a Member of Parliament and a wealthy man, sirrah, not some charlatan peddling false hope to the gullible.”
“My apologies, sir, I didn’t mean to offend you or Sir Walter. As I said, I’d be more than happy to oblige in whatever he needs.”
Mal turned on his heel and walked out of the shop, leaving the glassblower to stammer further apologies in his wake.
There were a few other glass workshops in the district, but none proved any more fruitful than the first. It appeared that alchemical equipment was even harder to obtain than Mal had first thought. But if Shawe was not buying London-made wares, he must either be having them made elsewhere, or perhaps importing them. Mal took a wherry across the Thames and resumed his search amongst the merchant venturers of the City of London.
“Alchemical vessels?” The shopkeeper squinted at Mal over his horn-rimmed glasses. “Yes, we do import them on occasion, sir. Very expensive indeed, though, I must warn you.”
Mal glanced around the showroom, where a king’s ransom in fine glass twinkled in the light of carefully placed candles. Sets of decanters and matching goblets, each on a silver tray, covered a pair of marquetry-work display tables; empty candelabra dripping in glass beads stood among them or hung from the beams above. Behind the counter a row of wooden stands displayed ropes of manufactured pearls that would fool all but the keenest eye, pendant earrings of the same, and brooches studded with false gems of all colours.
“Venetian?” he asked. Some of the glass was a deep blue colour, like the siiluhlankaar crystals. If this trail went cold, perhaps he could find out who imported such rare minerals and trace Shawe that way.
“Naturally, sir. Shipped all the way from Murano, lovingly packed in lambswool and sawdust.”
“So, you can obtain what Sir Walter requires?”
“Most assuredly, sir, though it may take a while. Our last shipment is already spoken for.”
“I see. The wizard earl, I suppose?”
“My lord the Earl of Northumberland is a client, yes.”
“Well of course.” Mal fished a gold angel out of his purse and laid it on the counter. “But there must be many breakages on the way from Venice. Perhaps you cannot always fulfil my lord earl’s orders. And if so, might we lay a deposit against that chance?”
The man ignored the coin, but a faint smile curved his lips and his hands twitched on the counter’s edge as if longing to snatch up the bribe. So, money was assuredly the way to this fellow’s shrivelled heart.
“We always order more than he requests, sir, for that very reason.”
“Then it must chance that by good fortune you are sometimes left with a full shipment.”
“It has happened, yes. An item or two to spare, certainly.”
Mal slid another coin across the table. The shopkeeper’s hands tensed and his eyes flicked rapidly towards the gold on the counter every few seconds as if expecting it to disappear. It was all Mal could do not to laugh in the man’s face.
“Well, then. Perhaps if we are thus fortunate, you can divert any leftovers to Durham Place on your wagon’s way to Syon House.”
“Oh, we don’t deliver to Syon House any more, sir. At least, not the alchemical wares.”
“No?” Mal sniffed his handkerchief, affecting an air of indifference, though his sinews ached like a man readying himself to charge into battle. At last, a clue to Shawe’s whereabouts.
“No. That was the peculiar thing.”
He paused and licked his lips. Mal took out a third angel. Damn, but this was proving to be nigh as expensive as alchemy itself!
“About a year ago,” the shopkeeper went on, “my lord earl gave instructions that further shipments were to be delivered to the Three Horseshoes in Aldgate Without. I assumed they were to be taken north, perhaps to Alnwick Castle itself.”
“Most likely,” Mal said, setting down the last angel next to its fellows. “Well, never mind. I’m sure Sir Walter can make it worth your while to send a delivery to the Strand as well.”
“Of course, sir. It would be a pleasure.” The shopkeeper opened his ledger and selected a pen from the inkstand. “Do you have a list of the items required?”
Mal made a show of searching his pockets.
“Damn, must have dropped the wretched thing in the street. I swear I had it when I set out.”
“No matter, sir. Send a letter at your earliest convenience, and I will advise you when the consignment arrives.”
“Much obliged,” Mal said, and took his leave. The whisper of coins sliding across wood sounded behind him as the shopkeeper gave in to temptation at last.
Aldgate Without, eh? It was certainly on the northern edge of the city, but surely Bishopsgate would make more sense if one were heading for the Great North Road. Wherever Shawe was lurking, Mal would put good money on it not being Alnwick Castle.