The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (36 page)

  "None. I'm sorry, sir."

  "Will he give himself up?"

  She shrugged.

  "He is not safe, either way." Master Catlyn pushed himself away from the window and came to stand before her. "There is something more I need you to do."

  "Of course, sir." She gazed up into his dark eyes. Anything…

  "You know where Seething Lane is, off the near end of Tower Street?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Run to the house of Sir Francis Walsingham and tell his servants I need to speak to him immediately, here in the Tower."

  Coby stared at him. If Master Catlyn was so intimate with the Queen's private secretary, that could only mean one thing. Her mind ran back over everything she had told him in the past few weeks. Had he been spying on Suffolk's Men all along? Was all this somehow connected to the attacks on the theatre?

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Do not fear for your friends. I have no love for Walsingham or his methods."

  "But you work for him."

  "Yes."

  "Can you not go to him yourself, sir? I am sure he will not listen to a mere errand boy."

  "I must not leave here, not until something can be arranged."

  "I don't understand."

  "Someone has taken my brother captive. A man who looks exactly like me. And the ambassador trusts me with his life."

  "Oh."

  "Quite." He went back to the door. "Wait here for a moment."

  He returned a few minutes later with a letter, unaddressed and sealed with a plain blob of wax.

  "If my lord secretary is not at his house or will not see you, ask for a man named Baines. Do not say who the note is from; Walsingham is not the only one with informants everywhere."

  She tucked the letter into her doublet and left, assuring him of her discretion. If there was one thing she knew, it was how to keep a secret.

 
 
 

Coby delivered the letter as promised then set off for the theatre, her thoughts in turmoil. Master Catlyn an intelligencer? She smiled bitterly at the irony of being set to spy on him.

  Dunfell's account of his master's suspicions came back to her.
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.
Did that mean Walsingham was one of those enemies
? Master Catlyn himself must surely be innocent; why else would they be using his brother against him? Unless it was a threat to ensure his cooperation, as they had done with Ned. That made more sense than trying to pass a madman off as the ambassador's bodyguard.

  By the time she reached the theatre, Suffolk's Men were packing up for the day and heading for their suppers. To her surprise Master Parrish was there, though he was uncharacteristically silent amongst the laughing, chattering actors.

  "Well, how did it go?" Master Naismith asked in a low rumble that was scarcely audible over the hubbub. He turned away for a moment and slapped Master Eaton on the back. "Good work today, Rafe. If that does not win us the contest, I shall eat my boots with gravy."

  Eaton laughed. "It is many a year since we had so mean a supper. Do not wish those days back again, sir!"

  The actor-manager turned back to Coby. "So?"

  "Ah, um, it went well enough," Coby replied, trying to remember what she had said earlier. "Sir, did you really eat your boots, in the old days?"

  "Aye, and count myself fortunate for even that. At least I did not set out barefoot." He laughed. "But enough of reminiscences. What did Catlyn want you for, anyway?"

  "He, uh, wanted to learn how to play Five Beans with the ambassador's guards, since he has nothing to do this evening. He needed me to translate the skraylings' explanations of the rules."

  She grinned, congratulating herself on her quick thinking.

  "Did you warn him how seriously the skraylings take the game? I've heard of men sold into bondage after making an over-ambitious wager."

  "Of course, sir. I did my best to discourage him from playing." She decided it was best to change the subject, before her tongue ran away with her. "Do you really think we can win, sir?"

  "Think it? I know it," he replied loudly, then added in a lower tone, "though if you can put in a good word for us tomorrow with the ambassador, it can do no harm, eh?"

  "No, sir."

  "Lock up here, will you? We're off to the Bull's Head to find out how the Admiral's Men got on. Are you expected back at the Tower this evening?"

  "I don't think so, sir."

  "Well, then, join us for a drink. I've promised the lads a day off tomorrow, to rest their spinning heads before the performance on Thursday."

  Whether he meant the spinning of a hangover or the exhaustion of a full day's rehearsals, Coby was not sure. Probably both.

  "You too, of course," he added. "I need you fresh and ready to look after these miscreants on the big day."

  "Of course, sir."

  She glanced at Master Parrish. The actor looked pale and withdrawn, and in no better humour for carousing than herself. He gave her a wan smile in return.

  "Would you help me tidy up, sir?" she asked him, with a meaningful look. "You know almost better than I where everything belongs."

  He nodded acquiescence, and began picking up discarded garments, though he seemed unable to remember what to do with them after that. The other actors appeared not to notice, however; intent on their evening's enjoyment, they filed out into the rosy evening light. Soon the tiring room was empty but for the two of them.

  Parrish went to the door and watched until everyone was out of earshot.

  "Did you speak to Catlyn?" he asked, turning back to her.

  "I told him everything Ned told us."

  "And? Will he protect Ned?"

  She had no answer for him. Master Catlyn had been very angry, and rightly so. No doubt he would do anything to get his brother back.

  Master Parrish enveloped her in an embrace, catching her off-guard.

  "Ned gave himself up this afternoon," he mumbled against her hair.

  She patted his back awkwardly.

  "You should go home," she said, pulling away.

  He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face.

  "Thank you for trying to help," he said at last. "Men like us must stick together, eh?"

  "I was simply doing my Christian duty," she replied. "Now, I really must lock up and meet Master Naismith at the Bull, or he'll be wondering what kept me."

  After Master Parrish had gone she locked the back door of the theatre and crossed the field to Gravel Lane, but she did not go to the tavern as promised. She was in no mood for the actors' chatter this evening. Perhaps she ought to go back to the Tower after all: Master Catlyn was not going anywhere tonight, and she had not had a chance to tell him about the attacks on the theatre. They might be nothing to do with the plot against the ambassador, but what did she know of conspiracies? Older and wiser heads might see a connection where she could not.

  On the other hand, she was not sure how far she could trust Master Catlyn. It pained her to think how naive she had been, trusting a man she had known only a few weeks. What if Master Dunfell was right, and Catlyn was in collusion with Walsingham and the shadowy enemies of the ambassador? Was it too late to apologise to the duke's secretary and fulfil her abandoned mission? She sighed, letting her feet lead her towards London Bridge. After that, she did not know which way to go. East to the Tower, or west, to Suffolk House?

 

After what felt like an interminable wait but was probably less than an hour, Mal heard Walsingham's slow footsteps on the outer stair. He wished this had not been necessary, but if the ambassador's enemies wished to get to him by substituting one twin for the other, they could do that much more easily if Mal left the Tower.

  "Master Secretary." He bowed low as Walsingham entered.

  "Catlyn. I hope this is important."

  "Rest assured, sir, I would not have asked you to come here if there were any alternative."

  Walsingham raised an eyebrow in disbelief, but allowed himself to be shown to the seat at the head of the table. Mal paced back and forth, trying to get his thoughts in order.

  "Well?" Walsingham said.

  "I have reason to believe someone is plotting against the ambassador." There, it was said.

  "Tell me something I do not know," the spymaster replied.

  "You know who is behind this plot?"

  "Of which plot do we speak?"

  "Which plot?"

  "Master Catlyn, my intelligencers bring me news of plots daily. Spare an old man's memory and tell me which one has you so concerned you must drag me from my supper."

  Mal apologised, and told Walsingham everything Hendricks had told him, and as much of Sandy's history as he thought necessary.

  "And it never occurred to you to tell me you had a twin brother?" Walsingham asked, when Mal's account was over.

  "No, sir. He is –
was
locked up in Bedlam, and often so mazed in his wits that I cannot fathom how he could be of use to anyone."

  "But he does have spells of lucidity."

  "Yes, sir."

  Walsingham nodded. "That might be enough to give a desperate man hope."

  Mal hung his head. His own hopes had been raised – and dashed – so many times in the past nine years.

  "Well, there is only one thing for it," Walsingham said at last. "The ambassador must have a new bodyguard."

  "Sir?"

  "If you are no longer guarding him, then they cannot use your brother as a false replacement. We will have to make the dismissal public, of course, to the damage of your reputation, but…"

  "No." He had wanted release from this job, but not at such a price. "Sir, you cannot."

  "Do you presume to tell me my business?"

  "They will kill my brother the moment he ceases to have any usefulness."

  "Alas, I fear you are correct."

  "But–" Mal stared at the Queen's secretary. "He's my brother."

  "We must all make sacrifices in the name of our Queen and country, Master Catlyn."

  Mal shook his head, desperately trying to come up with a way out of this.

  "Surely you want to know who is behind this?" he asked Walsingham.

  "My agents will look into it, of course."

  "And what will they find? One of the abductors is already dead, the second was no doubt using a false name, and the third…" Mal hesitated. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. No, he would not return betrayal in kind. That crime was on Ned's conscience alone. "I swear on my honour he knows nothing more than he has already told."

  "What do you suggest?"

  Mal took a deep breath. "A two-pronged attack. First, hold the hearing into the deaths of Mistress Faulkner and her killer as soon as possible, and have Ned Faulkner acquitted and released."

  "You think to use him as bait?"

  "This Kemp fellow wanted him dead. He may try it himself this time."

  "And I thought you were merely asking a favour for a friend," Walsingham said, smiling thinly.

  "The favour I ask," Mal said, "is that your agents catch Kemp
before
he kills Ned."

  "I will instruct them to do their best."

  Mal inclined his head in thanks. He was putting Ned in terrible danger, he knew, but it was better than allowing him to be tortured for information he did not have.

  "Second, let me continue in my duties. I will find an opportunity to expose myself to the plotters, that they may be drawn out. The men who took my brother were mere pawns, I am certain. But we may capture a rook, or even a king, if we are patient."

  "And if they succeed?"

  "We must bring the ambassador into our plan. Each time I leave his presence and return, I must give some secret word or sign to prove who I am. If the sign be not given, his guards will arrest me, or rather, my brother."

  "You hazard much," Walsingham said. "If these plotters lay their hands on you, they may kill you."

  "They will most certainly kill my brother if I do not try this."

  "Very well. I will leave it to you to inform the ambassador of his part in this, and to arrange your watchword."

  Footsteps sounded on the stair outside, and the door to the apartments flew open.

  "Sir Francis!" Leland strode into the room, beaming. "To what do we owe this honour?"

  "You will forgive me if I do not rise," Walsingham said. "This damp weather gets into my bones."

  Leland made a sympathetic noise.

  "I came to pay my respects to the ambassador," Walsingham went on. "Alas, I fear I timed my visit very poorly. I had quite forgotten that His Excellency would be seeing no one tonight."

  "Damned peculiar custom," Leland replied. "Still, we have to respect our guest's wishes, eh?" He turned to Mal. "Any trouble at the theatre today?"

  "No, sir, not a thing," Mal said, taking his cue from Walsingham.

  "Excellent, excellent." He bowed to the spymaster. "Would you join me for a cup of wine before you leave, Sir Francis? I would appreciate your opinion on some plans I am drawing up."

  "Of course."

  Walsingham gestured to Mal, who helped him out of the chair.

  "Please pass on my greetings to His Excellency," he told Mal. "I will endeavour to return at a more auspicious time."

  "I am sure you will be very welcome, sir," Mal replied.

  After they had gone, Mal paced the dining chamber, deep in thought. Walsingham apparently did not trust Leland enough to reveal his knowledge of the plot against the ambassador; did that mean he suspected the lieutenant of being involved, or had the spymaster become over-cautious in his old age? Leland made no secret of his contempt for the skraylings, but on the other hand he seemed too blunt and straightforward a man to plot in secret. Either that, or he was a better actor than any at the theatre.