The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(130)
"To think I once called you friend," Blaise said, when he had completed his circuit and stood in front of Mal again.
"I was just thinking the same," Mal replied. "You are not the man I thought you were."
"That is ironic, coming from a man possessed."
Ivett carefully placed more pieces of charcoal over his burning tinder. The scent of smoke reminded Mal of the burning theatre. Of a fragment of iron embedded in the duke's leg, the magic-dampening metal intimately mingled with blood. That was the moment Suffolk's plans had unravelled, blown apart by those who hated the skraylings, aptly enough.
"Your father is a monster," he said, looking to Suffolk's retainers for a reaction. "A skrayling in a man's body, just like me."
Blaise snorted a laugh. "And they say your brother is mad."
The men joined in his laughter, though Mal thought he saw doubt in Ivett's eyes. No doubt the young servant had seen too little of the world to be hardened to the brutality of his so-called betters. Still, it might be enough to drive a wedge between man and master. Mal recalled a brief moment of clarity on his ignominious march down to the cellar, when he had stumbled against the table on the dais and landed face down amid Blaise's notes. Peculiar script, like no code he had ever seen.
"That was skrayling writing I saw on those papers, was it not?" he said to Blaise.
A wild guess, but it struck home.
"How else does your father know so much about the skraylings?" Mal continued. "Unless he is one of them."
"Why should I believe you over my own father? You are the monster, you and your brother. I will purge the demons from your flesh, and your immortal souls will thank me for it when we meet in Heaven."
Mal realised Blaise was telling the truth as he saw it, as the Church taught its flock. Once Mal might have agreed, but there was too much human cruelty in Blaise's countenance. Surely a merciful God would not act through such a man.
Blaise bent and blew gently on the coals, the red glow turning his features into a demonic mask. With a last smile at Mal he departed, taking his father's silent, grim-eyed men with him. Mal and Sandy were left alone with the hellish glow of the brazier, and the returning rats.
Coby stared at the empty room in dismay. This was the one Meg had described, was it not? And it looked bare enough to serve as a cell. Yet the door stood wide open, its occupants gone.
She went back out into the passageway and put the plates and pitcher down on a chest that stood under a window. The captives could not have been gone long, and perhaps had been moved in haste since no one had thought to tell the servants yet. She ventured further into the north wing. The next two doors were unlocked, the rooms equally empty of people though properly furnished. The third was also unlocked, but its shutters were tightly closed so that she could see little in the gloom.
"Meg? Is that you?"
Coby jumped at the sound of the woman's voice, then recalled Meg's account of the cook, Mistress Sheldon, being unwell.
"Sorry, m'm," Coby said softly, trying to mimic the maidservant's country accent. "I thought you might want some dinner."
"I told yer to leave me be, clot-brained wench!" Mistress Sheldon shifted on her bed and fell back with a groan. "Now get out."
"Yes, m'm." She backed out and gently closed the door.
Master Catlyn and his brother surely could not be anywhere up here. Where else might they have been taken? She looked out of the window into the courtyard. Opposite was the stable-block, and at its left-hand end the upper storey of the older building jutted out on all sides, a modern timber-framed structure extending the lord's accommodation for greater comfort. Investigating the solar was out of the question unless she wanted another beating from Lord Grey. She sighed, aware that she had set herself an impossible task. How she had ever thought she could rescue Master Catlyn, she did not know.
Her attention was drawn downwards to the courtyard by movement in the shadows of the entrance porch. Blaise Grey emerged from the house, leading a strange little procession towards a low door in the corner of the courtyard. The Duke of Suffolk had his arms around the shoulders of two retainers, doing his best to walk upright despite his evident pain. What were they doing, going down to the cellars? Unless…
Heart pounding, Coby crept down the stairs and along the passageway past the great hall, then made her way outside and crossed quickly to the cellar door. She dared not go in, and yet she could not stay here. Any moment someone might spot her lurking in the courtyard where she had no right to be. The dilemma was solved for her when she heard booted footsteps approaching from within. No chance of crossing the courtyard without being seen. She darted towards the open stable door.
Ned approached the house cautiously, keeping out of sight of the gatehouse. The outer wall on the right looked like his best bet, only a few narrow unglazed windows piercing the red brick surface. Not the gentry's quarters then; most likely a stable block. The brickwork was old enough to be weathered in places. And one thing this city boy knew was how to get in and out of buildings by unconventional routes. Often with another man's outraged wife in hot pursuit.
The wall was not the easiest he'd climbed, and his ascent was not helped by the fear that any moment he would hear shouts, or worse still feel the sting of a musket ball. He reached his chosen window unchallenged, however, and a glance over the sill revealed no movement inside.