The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(100)

"That's easy for you to say," she muttered. He seemed not to hear.

She placed the folded leather in her mouth as instructed. The needle pierced her skin and she fought back a whimper, biting down on the leather strap until she feared she would leave permanent marks in it.

"Breathe," he murmured. "That's right. One more."

One more turned into two more, several more. She began to wish he had let her drink from the bottle. Instead she prayed silently for courage and, above all, chastity. The pain is punishment for my sins. The sin of lust. And pride, to think I could learn to fight like a man.

When it was finally over, he cleaned the skin around the wound once more then bandaged her ribs. He helped her to her feet and held out her doublet so she could put it back on, but she shook her head.

"I will have to soak everything straight away to get the blood out," she said, bending awkwardly to pick up the corset. "My Sunday best, too."

"You are better with a needle than I," he said. "I dare say they will soon be mended."

"But I will not," she whispered. Now her secret was out, how soon before everyone knew?

"I knew there was something amiss," he went on, "that first afternoon in Paris Gardens. But I confess I didn't suspect… this. How long–?"

"Five years," she said. "At first it was just a travel disguise to keep me safe from the soldiers, but then when I lost my family… I had no other choice, apart from whoring. And that I will not do."

He nodded in approval. "I suppose your name is not Jacob, either. What shall I call you?"

"I think you should address me the same as ever, sir," she said after a moment's consideration, "otherwise you may make a slip of the tongue."

"Does no one else know?"

"No. It was never the right time, somehow."

"And now?"

She shook her head. "I must ask you not to tell anyone. I am still not ready to face the world in my true guise."

He fixed her with his dark, intense gaze. "Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you, sir."

"I would do no less for any good friend," he said. "Stay here. I'll fetch you a bucket of water from the mill-stream to wash your bloodied clothes, then I must get back to the Tower."

She crouched to blow out the candle and put away the needles and thread. Why did men never tidy up after themselves?

She paused, basket and candle forgotten for a moment. A good friend, he had called her. Well, it was a place to start – if only she could be sure she could trust him. He was an intelligencer, an informant upon other men. What would he not say, or do, in the service of that spider, Walsingham?

CHAPTER XXVI

So, Hendricks was a girl. It made a strange kind of sense: the beardless chin, the unbroken voice, the refusal to go swimming… If he did not see through the disguise before now, it was hardly surprising. Despite her coyness this afternoon, he had seen enough to guess she scarce needed a corset to conceal her figure. He wondered what she would look like in a gown. Probably no more convincing a woman than any other lad who minced across a stage.

He walked back to the Tower deep in thought. Was there anyone within the world of the theatre whom he could take at face value? Not Hendricks, certainly not Ned; who was next? Naismith seemed too indolent a man to go to the effort of deceit, but he could not say the same about Thomas Lodge. The playwright had the kind of overweening pride that often led men astray. Then there was Wheeler: was he acting alone, or did he have allies?

At least he was now certain Hendricks would keep her mouth shut. He had been careless to confide so much in her, though women had a knack for worming men's secrets out of them without giving anything away in return. Damn her for making a fool of him, and damn himself for being so blind!

As he walked through the outer ward towards the ambassador's quarters, he heard the splash of oars echoing in the tunnel under St Thomas's Tower. Moments later an uncomfortably familiar tableau came into view: a skiff rowed by red-cloaked guardsmen, with a manacled prisoner sitting on the thwarts, head bowed.

"Who is that?" he asked Captain Monkton as the prisoner was led, struggling like a wild animal, up the stairs.

"Some actor suspected of distributing seditious pamphlets." Monkton laughed unpleasantly. "Topcliffe will soon have him speechifying."

The prisoner screamed and redoubled his efforts to break free. The name of Richard Topcliffe was enough to loosen any man's bowels. It was said the Queen's interrogator had been granted permission to set up a torture chamber in his own house in London, the better to develop his own methods of extracting confessions.

As for the identity of the struggling man, he must be Wheeler, the fellow who had tried to steal the play scripts. What was he doing here, unless… Perhaps Hendricks had been right about Wheeler being the author of the scurrilous poem. The city authorities were as edgy as new recruits on the eve of battle, ever since that business with the Guildhall libel back in May.

Wheeler stared wild-eyed at Mal as he was dragged towards the gateway under the Bloody Tower.

"I know you!" he shouted. "You're one of them!"

Monkton looked at Mal, his eyes narrow with suspicion. Mal shrugged, trying to keep his rising fear in check.

"I've never seen him before in my life," he said, and walked briskly up the stairs of St Thomas's Tower before his face could betray him.