The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(126)

"Not that way!" He grabbed Hendricks' arm. "Let's see if we can get closer without being seen."

He led the boy further down the road, and soon they came to a much smaller track leading to a cluster of farm buildings. They slipped from one to the other, keeping a wary eye out for farmhands. Probably they were all sitting in the sun, enjoying a jug of ale and digesting their dinners before getting back to work. Ned licked his dry lips. A pint would go down perfectly right now.

He stopped and peered around the corner of a barn towards the distant manor-house, waiting for Hendricks to catch up.

"This would be much easier if Gabriel were here," Ned grumbled.

"Why?" Hendricks asked, leaning back against the wall. He looked as though he was going to throw up.

"He could dress up as a maidservant," Ned replied, pointing towards some bushes where laundry was drying, "and get into the house unnoticed."

Hendricks rolled his eyes. "That's rank folly. He would never pass."

"Gabriel was the finest actor of women's roles in London, in his youth."

"And now stubble gilds his cheeks and his voice has dropped an octave. Besides, how many servant girls talk like queens or goddesses?"

Ned stared into the distance, lost for a moment in memory. "I first saw him as Venus, you know, when he was with the Admiral's Men. 'For Dido's sake I take thee in my arms, and stick these spangled feathers in thy hat. Eat comfits in mine arms, and I will sing–'"

"Hush!" Hendricks elbowed him in the ribs.

"You have a better idea?"

"I shall just walk up to the house and present myself," Hendricks replied. "I am still one of Suffolk's Men, and therefore the duke's servant. Since our company is now in sad need of a master, surely it is not so strange that I should seek him out here?"

"That is a very dull plan."

"At the very least I can look about the house, as much as I dare. We still have no proof Master Catlyn and his brother are here. If they are not, we can return to London and no harm done."

"And if they are?" Ned asked.

"Then…" Hendricks looked glum. "Then we need a real plan."

CHAPTER XXXIII

Coby walked along the avenue towards Ferrymead House, her heart pounding. If Master Catlyn's guess was right, she was about to step into a den of villains and traitors who would stop at nothing to conceal their plot. Still, she could not back out now, not with his life riding on the success of their mission.

After a few minutes the house came into view. Red brick wings extended from an older stone building, joining in front to form an elegant modern gatehouse with a stucco panel depicting the Suffolk coat of arms. Above the gatehouse blue-and-white pennants stirred listlessly in the breeze.

She drew a deep breath and walked towards the gates, which stood half-open. A man in Suffolk livery emerged from the darkness within, a loaded crossbow aimed at the ground. Coby froze, praying her face did not betray her.

"Who goes there?"

"J-J-Jacob Hendricks, of Suffolk's Men, with an urgent message for His Grace."

"My lord Suffolk is too unwell to see anyone."

Her heart sank. Was their plan to be thwarted so quickly?

"Wait," the man said. "Is this about the playhouse, the one that burnt down?"

"Yes," she replied. "I bring grave news that his lordship will want to hear as soon as possible."

"You'd better come in."

He led her across the courtyard and into a dark-panelled entrance porch. Coby's footsteps whispered on the terracotta floor-tiles as she followed the man through the passageway beyond and into the great hall. The bare stone walls and elaborate hammerbeam roof belonged to a bygone age, as did the crossed polearms of antique design that were its walls' only decoration. A modern marble fireplace had been added along one side, but it remained a cold, gloomy space, even on a bright summer's day.

On the dais at the far end of the hall, Blaise Grey sat at a long table, flicking rapidly through the pages of a small fat book bound in red leather. He showed no sign of awareness of her presence, even when the retainer announced her in a voice that echoed from the high ceiling. Grey dipped his pen in his inkwell, appearing to copy something from the book onto a sheet of paper. Coby approached slowly, wondering what task could be so absorbing.

At last Grey put the pen down, sanded the sheet he had been working on, and looked up. His face was drawn, as if he had not slept in many hours, and stubble darkened his cheeks above a gold-bronze beard. Eyes grey as the river in winter raked her features.

"You are the boy from the theatre."

"Yes, my lord."

Grey beckoned her over. "I was told you have urgent news for my father. About the fire?"

She approached the dais. The surface of the table was a few inches below her eye-level, and she stared at it rather than endure that cold gaze any longer. Grey swiftly gathered up the papers he had been working on and closed the book, as if not wanting her to catch even a glimpse of their contents. Curiosity roused, she mounted the steps at the end of the dais and swept a low bow.

"Yes, my lord." She clasped her hands behind her back to stop them shaking. "Master Naismith is – is dead, my lord, and Master Rudd, and the theatre burnt to the ground. We are ruined."