The Merchant of Dreams (8 page)

“You don’t really believe that, do you?”

“I told you as much, after you and Hendricks helped me escape.”

“Yes, well, as I recall, in the preceding two days you’d been abducted, tortured, drugged, shot, drugged again – I thought it the ramblings of a tormented mind.”

Mal didn’t seem to appreciate the jest.

“So…” Ned lowered his voice, “the Prince of Wales’ son is a changeling?”

“I suppose you could put it that way,” Mal replied.

“Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

“Who would believe us? I’ve seen enough of the inside of the Tower for one lifetime, thank you.”

Ned glanced back towards the entrance to the gallery. Either Mal was as insane as his brother, or he had fallen into a web of conspiracy that would put the most intricate Catholic plot to shame. He wasn’t sure which alternative was the more terrifying.

After the encounter with Prince Henry Mal felt disinclined to explore further, so after dinner he and Ned lingered in the Great Hall over a flagon of beer and swapped tales of their doings since they had last seen one another. By 3 o’clock Raleigh had still not returned, however, and Mal began to grow restless. Any chance of getting back to London before dark was long gone, and though he had warned Sandy not to expect him until the morrow, it irked him to be idle for so long. He had almost decided to go down and ask the porter again when a page in royal livery approached them.

“M… Maliverny Catlyn?”

“I am he,” Mal replied.

“I have been sent to invite you, sir, to take supper with Sir Walter Raleigh.”

Mal bowed curtly, and turned to Ned.

“Speak to the steward about lodgings for the night, will you, Faulkner?” He gave his friend a wink which he hoped would be interpreted as “and see if you can get any interesting gossip out of the servants whilst you’re at it.”

“Aye, sir.” Ned ducked his head in obeisance, but not before Mal had caught a glimpse of his sly grin.

He considered telling Ned not to get into trouble, but knew that would only have the opposite effect. Instead he turned away and followed the page through the palace to one of the private apartments off the main courtyard. Not for the first time he wondered what Raleigh was doing here, so far from the court. Was he in league with Jathekkil, perhaps even a guiser like the infant prince?

The page conducted him through an anteroom into a large bedchamber that doubled as a parlour. Firelight gleamed on linenfold panelling and on the rich brocades worn by the men gathered around the hearth, and the air was thick with the scent of tobacco.

“Maliverny Catlyn, sir,” the page said with a bow.

Raleigh looked up. Dark eyes met Mal’s own, narrowing in appraisal. Raleigh was about a decade older than himself and surprisingly handsome, with a broad brow and dark hair turning grey at the temples. His elegant pointed beard was likewise touched with silver, and he wore a pearl earring the size of a robin’s egg. Only his wind-burned cheekbones hinted at a more active life than most courtiers. Mal sketched a bow.

“Sir Walter.”

He handed over Walsingham’s letter. Raleigh broke the seal and scanned the contents, nodding to himself and frowning slightly in concentration. At last he looked up.

“So you’re the hero who toppled the mighty house of Grey,” he said in a soft Devonshire accent. He drew on his pipe and after a moment breathed a halo of smoke across the space between them. “I expected at least a Samson, if not a Hercules.”

“Hardly toppled, sir. Brought to its knees, perhaps.”

“A David, then.” Raleigh laughed. “Come, join us. You will not find any Philistines here.”

A servant pulled up a stool, and Mal seated himself on the edge of the company.

“I was just telling Harriot here ‘twas time for a new venture,” Raleigh said, gesturing to a plain-garbed man with receding hair seated on the opposite side of the fire. “And now Her Majesty wishes me to ferry you to Venice with all haste.”

“Indeed.”

“Venice?” Harriot leant forward, his eyes fixed on Mal. “Does Her Majesty seek to create a royal observatory?”

“An observatory?”

“I have certain theories regarding the use of glass–”

“Come now, Harriot,” Raleigh said, “Catlyn is a man of action, not of science. He is not here to discuss optics and mathematics, are ye?”

“No, sir,” Mal replied. “That is more my brother’s realm of knowledge.”

“Really? I should like to meet your brother,” Harriot said.

Mal inclined his head politely. He already regretted mentioning Sandy. “I’m afraid neither of us will be in England long. The weather here is not good for my brother’s health.” He looked around the company for any sign of displeasure that might give away a guiser, but saw nothing untoward.

“So what are you here for?” a voice from the shadows drawled.

Mal turned towards his interrogator, a pale young man of eighteen or twenty whom he recognised with a start as Josceline Percy, younger brother of the Earl of Northumberland. Not that he should be surprised. Raleigh and Northumberland were as thick as thieves, so what was more natural than that the earl’s brother should be of their fellowship?

“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, my lord,” Mal replied.

Percy got to his feet, eyes glittering in the firelight. Mal realised his own hand had gone to his rapier hilt. Last time he had run into Josceline Percy he had managed to avoid getting drawn into a duel; this time he might not be so lucky. He leant back on his stool, feigning to adjust the lie of the weapon in this confined space.

“Peace, boy,” Raleigh said with easy familiarity. “Master Catlyn is my guest tonight.”

Percy bowed curtly to his host and sat down, though his expression remained alert and disdainful.

“All I can say,” Mal told the assembled company, “is that my mission is for the good of the realm.”

“No loyal Englishman can have quarrel with that,” Raleigh said.

There was a murmur of agreement, though Mal noticed that Percy’s voice was not amongst the loudest. A sign of guilt, or was the boy canny enough not to be seen to be trying too hard?

“Still, a strange time of year to be undertaking a sea voyage,” Percy said, picking up his wine cup and swirling the contents ostentatiously.

“Frobisher risked the North West Passage and returned safely,” he said, matching Percy’s casual tone.
I hope the arrogant little prick turns out to be a guiser, so I have an excuse to run him through.
“The journey to Venice will be a stroll in St James’s Park in comparison.”

“Frobisher’s dead.”

“Of a Spanish bullet, not by Poseidon’s hand.”

“Percy has a point. I would counsel against a winter voyage–” Raleigh held up his hand to forestall interruption by the younger man “–except in this case. The letter makes it clear that this mission is of the utmost urgency.”

“Whose letter?” Percy held out his hand.

Raleigh pointedly threw the paper onto the fire and prodded it with a poker until it was burnt to fragile wafers of soot.

“As Catlyn says, he is not at liberty to reveal such information.”

Mal inclined his head in thanks.

“I fear, sir,” he said to Raleigh, “that others may be curious as to our purpose. Perhaps Master Harriot is right; we should put it about that you are on Her Majesty’s business. We could even take Harriot along, to be our guide in matters optical.”

The philosopher turned pale. “Oh goodness me, no. Please excuse me, my lords, I am no traveller. You should take Shawe here.” He gestured to his companion, a thin-faced man with faraway eyes. “What say you, Shawe? Would you like to go to Venice?”

Shawe turned slowly towards Raleigh, as if only just awakened.

“I regret I cannot be spared so long.”

“No, I suppose not,” Raleigh said. “Northumberland keeping you busy, eh?”

“Just so.”

Mal offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Neither Harriot nor Shawe were the kind of men he wanted to be stuck on a ship with for weeks on end. One would likely never stop talking, and the other was about as cheery as a November afternoon.

“Well then, we must away with all dispatch,” Raleigh went on. “The
Falcon
has been berthed at Deptford these past months and wants only provisions to be ready to sail whither you will. Be there for the morning tide on the day after tomorrow, and I’ll have ye in Venice by Easter.”

The steward had assigned them lodgings on the north side of the palace, where the servants of the royal household lived when the court came to visit. The chamber was barely large enough to hold the vast, ancient bedstead, which must have been old in Wolsey’s day. No doubt the Tudors had spurned it in favour of more modern furnishings, but such a grand edifice was too valuable to discard entirely.

“I suppose we’ll be sharing, then,” Ned said cheerily, leaning on a bedpost. “There’s scarce room to use a piss-pot, never mind set out a cot bed.”

Mal grunted an affirmative, stifling a belch. Raleigh’s supper had been so generous, it was easy to forget there were food shortages back in London.

“Just like the old days,” Ned went on. He pulled off his boots and threw himself down on the bed. “If only my old mam could see me now, sleeping on a feather bed in a royal palace…”

“Ahem.”

“What?”

“You’re supposed to be my manservant, remember?”

Ned stuck out his tongue.

“In public, perhaps.” He propped himself up on one elbow and looked Mal up and down appreciatively. “Or would you like me to undress you… my lord?”

Mal gave him a withering look, turned his back and began unbuttoning his doublet.

“Did you discover aught useful?” he called over his shoulder.

“Not much. Plenty of gossip about Lady Dorothy; she and Northumberland do not get along, and there’s some doubt as to whether they’ve even consummated the marriage yet.”

“Servants’ tittle-tattle, and naught to our purpose,” Mal replied. “Go on.”

Ned listed a few more rumours, none of them of any great interest. Mal finished undressing and crossed to the tiny washstand, where a number of toothsticks stood in a pewter beaker. He picked through them, looking for the least well-used one.

“Is that all?” he said, when Ned fell silent.

“Just one thing. Though it’s probably nothing.”

Mal turned back to the bed, toothsticks forgotten.

“Tell me.”

“Walsingham’s dying–”

“I know that already,” Mal said, getting into bed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“So guess who’s courting his daughter in secret.”

“Who?”

“Blaise Grey. Duke of Suffolk, as he is now.”

“What?” Mal stared at him. “But if Grey marries Lady Frances–”

“She’ll be a duchess. It’s a good match for her, especially as she’s older than him.”

“Is that all you can think about? If Grey marries her, he’ll have access to all Walsingham’s papers. He’ll find out everything. The intelligence network, the ciphers… all our secret dealings, here and in France.”

“It’s only a rumour.”

Mal stared up at the carved canopy. This was all he needed. Bad enough to lose his mentor, but to have his affairs put into the hands of the man who had tortured him and Sandy… and now he would be leaving England in two days, not to return for months. He muttered a string of curses, then blew out the candle and lay down with a sigh. There would be no sleep for him this night.

Walsingham kept asking him the same questions over and over. Why wouldn’t he stop? He should know by now that Mal didn’t have the answers. The questions didn’t make sense anyway. Mal looked up, squinting; his eyes refused to focus, as if they did not want to see. No, not Walsingham. It was Grey in the spymaster’s black robe and skullcap.

“I’m afraid this may be a little painful,” Grey said, holding up an obsidian blade.

“No!”

He blinked, and his interrogator’s features changed again, to the sallow complexion and hooded eyes of Josceline Percy.

“So what
are
you doing here?” Percy drawled. He gestured around them, and Mal realised they were no longer in Walsingham’s study. They stood on a rutted track, hemmed in by dry-stone walls. Night was falling, or so Mal thought at first.

“What were you doing here, Erishen?” a voice whispered in his ear. “What did you find out?”

He spun around but there was no one there. The walls were gone too, leaving him exposed in a vast expanse of dark grass. Overhead the sky swirled in hues of pewter and lead as if a storm were brewing. This was not a dream any longer – or at least, not just a dream. This was the night realm of the skraylings, an almost-place beyond the waking world. When he had been here before, it had always been at the instigation of Kiiren or Erishen, but who was it this time?

Jathekkil
.

He dared not say the name aloud, but even the thought of it sent ripples across the dreamscape.

“Not he,” the whisper came again. “Did you think my
amayi
was alone?”

“Who are you?”

His invisible tormentor only laughed.

Ned woke with a cry as something hit him in the face. Mal’s arm. He scrambled out of the way as his bedfellow thrashed in his sleep. The moon, not long past its full, streamed in through the narrow window to reveal Mal’s twisted features.

“Who are you?”

The cry was loud enough to wake the household. Ned launched himself across the bed and clamped a hand over Mal’s mouth. Mal struggled for a moment, then his eyes snapped open.

“Hush!” Ned tightened his grip as Mal writhed underneath him. The movement made him suddenly, inappropriately aware that only a layer of sweat-soaked linen separated their flesh, and he eased backwards a little. Now was not the time. “You were having a nightmare.”

Mal nodded, and Ned cautiously removed his hand.

“Guisers,” Mal hissed. “Here.”

He looked around wildly, as if expecting to see them lurking in the shadows.

“It was just a bad dream,” Ned said. He laid an arm across Mal’s chest and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re safe now.”

Mal turned and caught Ned’s gaze with his own. His eyes were wells of dark water, reflecting Ned’s face back at him.