The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(108)
"You'll have to lend me an ha'penny, then. And money for beer."
Baines rolled his eyes, but counted out fourpence into Ned's waiting palm.
"Right, now, if you see anyone watching you, make some excuse and leave your friends, all right? Make out you're drunk, and leave the tavern…"
He proceeded to describe the route Ned should take.
"That's a dead end!" Ned squeaked. "What if this fellow follows me in and murders me?"
"Then he'll hang for it. After he's confessed to everything else."
"That's not much of a comfort," Ned muttered, glancing towards the tavern. He desperately needed a piss now, as well as a beer.
At that moment Southwark's church bells began to toll, first one then many together.
"What's going on?" Ned asked. "Surely it's not four o'clock already?"
"Can't be." Baines said, his head cocked on one side in concentration. "That gunfire came from the west, so did the first bells. St Mary Overie, by the sounds of 'em."
"But why–?"
A ripple of screams passed down the street, going west to east.
"Fire!" a man shouted. "Fire in Bankside!"
The moment Baines released his grip Ned was off, muttering desperate prayers as he ran westwards toward the Mirror. Those fleeing the fire stopped for a moment to stare at the young man as he ran past, djellaba billowing in his wake, then they remembered their peril and moved on. The wind was in the west; all Southwark was in danger of burning.
Coby leant back into the padded seat, taking comfort from the warmth of Master Catlyn's leg pressed against her own. She longed to lay her head on his shoulder and… But not here, in front of strangers. Instead she thought back to the afternoon's events, wondering where, how she could have done things better. Something else bothered her, though. Something about their escape from the theatre–
At the end of Gravel Lane the coach turned left, skirting the southern edge of the suburb.
"Where are we going?" Lord Grey asked, craning his neck to look out of the window.
"To our camp," the ambassador replied. "Your father needs best care."
Grey frowned. "Not by your kind. Turn the coach around."
"I do not advise it–"
"Take us to Lambeth," Grey said, his tone brooking no argument. "We can get a wherry to Suffolk House from there."
The duke beckoned to his son and mumbled something in his ear. Grey shook his head.
"It's too far, Father." He looked back at the ambassador. "Lambeth. Now."
The skrayling's eyes narrowed, but he rapped on the roof of the coach and shouted an order in his own tongue. The coach lurched across the road and traced a semicircle through an open field, turning back the way they had come.
No one spoke for a long while. Coby glanced from the ambassador to the duke's son and back. Master Catlyn had told her Grey disliked the skraylings, but surely not enough to risk his father's life, or to disobey his command? She remembered Wheeler. Men could be driven to do desperate things out of fear and hatred.
Grey bent over his father, coughing, and her own throat itched in sympathy. Her lungs felt like the inside of a chimney, scorched and soot-blackened. As if anticipating her need, the ambassador drew a bottle from under his seat, uncorked it and passed it around. It was aniig, lukewarm now but as welcome as cold beer on a summer's day. She took a long gulp then passed the bottle to Master Catlyn, who did likewise before offering it to Grey in turn. The duke's son shook his head, but at a gesture from his father he relented and took the bottle, lifting it to the injured man's lips, though he did not drink any himself.
The road to Lambeth ran across the marsh of the same name towards the Canterbury Arms tavern and, beyond it, the pale tower of St Mary-at-Lambeth next to the bishop's palace. Pollarded willows lined the road, their blunt heads shorn of withies to build the now-ruined theatre. Brown cattle dotted the water meadows, grazing placidly, unaware of the chaos downwind of their pasture. The damp, sunken landscape seemed to echo Coby's misery, and she rubbed her treacherous eyes with a sooty cuff.
At last the coach slowed down, and Master Catlyn leapt out before it had even come to a stop. Leaning out of the window, Coby could see few wherries on this stretch of the river; most of them would have rowed downstream in anticipation of the end of the play and found themselves busy earlier than expected, ferrying the fleeing theatregoers to the north bank. She climbed out of the coach stiffly, glad to have her feet on the ground again.
Master Catlyn hallooed again, and at last one of the small craft turned in their direction.
"Where to, good sir?" the wherryman called up.
"Suffolk House, as quick as you may!"
Master Catlyn returned to the coach and helped Lord Grey to carry the duke down the weed-slick steps to the wherry. Coby watched them, hand to her mouth, fearing they would slip at any moment. At last the duke was safely aboard, and his son joined him.
"I should go home too," she told Master Catlyn as he came back up the stairs. The full enormity of what had happened struck her, and tears started in her eyes. "It's all my fault. I should have been more watchful, and now M-M-Master Naismith is… is…"
Dead. The word stuck in her throat.
"You must be brave, lad," Master Catlyn said, and clapped her on the shoulder. She nodded, pressing her lips together to stop them trembling. "But if your mistress can spare you, come to the Tower before curfew. I want to know everything that happened this afternoon."