The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(14)

"Mistress Watson," Coby said, "can you bundle those clothes up for me? And I'll take this green suit as well."

She turned away and hurriedly put her own doublet back on, feeling sure his eyes were boring through her shirt to the corset. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons. If he was one of Faulkner's friends, he might be more interested in the lie than the truth.

"Good day to you, Mistress Watson. Master Tireman."

She looked round, opening her mouth to return the courtesy, but he was already gone.

She returned to Thames Street to drop off the costumes and start work on the silver-laced gown. Usually she spent every performance backstage, helping the actors in and out of their costumes, but there were few changes in today's play and Master Naismith had said her time would be better spent on her other work. There was always plenty of it. Costumes formed a large proportion of the company's capital and they saw a lot of wear – and, not infrequently, tear – when the actors were touring.

Before settling down to work she slipped down the alley to the small barn behind the house where the touring wagon was kept. Her few mementoes of a former life were hidden in a small box in the hayloft, and she had not had a chance yet to check they were still safe.

To her surprise the barn doors were not locked. Master Naismith must have forgotten about it, she decided, being distracted by thoughts of the meeting with his investor. Nevertheless she entered warily, senses alert for any sign of an intruder.

The players' wagon stood where they had left it, taking up almost half the small building. A thin beam of sunlight picked out the gilded unicorn on the wagon's side: the badge of their patron the Duke of Suffolk. To the yeomen and townsfolk far from London, it was a wondrous sight, to be greeted with cheers and whistles; Coby had spent far too many hours trudging along behind it – and helping to heave it out of yet another pothole – to find it the least bit marvellous.

As she headed towards the hayloft ladder, she caught sight of a movement behind the wagon.

"Show yourself," she cried out, trying to sound bolder than she felt, "or I shall call for aid."

She took a step backwards towards the barn door, and the lurker stepped out of the shadows. He was a young man, short but wiry of build, with heavy brows and a stubbled chin, as though he were normally clean-shaven but had decided to grow a beard.

"Ned Faulkner." Coby frowned. "What are you doing here?"

"Good to see you too, Hendricks."

"I hope you're not spying on our rehearsals," she said. "I know you work for the Admiral's Men."

"Just the odd copying job," Faulkner said. "A man's got to eat, you know."

"So you are spying."

"No!" He looked sheepish. "I came to see Gabriel. We used to meet here, sometimes."

Coby folded her arms. "He's not here. As you can see."

"But he returned to London with you?"

"Of course. He's at Newington Butts, probably on stage at this very moment."

Faulkner's eyes lit up. "I must go and see him."

"And lure him back to the Admiral's Men?" she said. "I do not think so. Besides, he told me he has forsworn your companionship. He does not wish to see you."

Quick as a snake Faulkner closed the space between them, grasping Coby by the upper arms and pinning her against the barn wall.

"Why are you keeping me from him, whelp? Have you become Naismith's guard dog all of a sudden?" He studied her face. "You blush very prettily, you know. Perhaps that's it: you mean to keep me for yourself."

She stared back at him, defiant. "I have no taste for such sinfulness, sir."

"Oh no?" He pressed the length of his body against hers. His lips were almost touching hers and his breath smelt of cheap beer. Her heart began to pound; any moment now he would feel the solid shape of the padded leather bulge sewn into her breeches' front and come to entirely the wrong conclusion. She leaned in closer as if to kiss him, and bit down. Hard.

"Son of a pox-ridden whore!" He pushed her away, wiping his bloody mouth with his sleeve.

"Go. Now." She folded her arms, willing her body not to tremble. "Or Master Naismith will have you whipped all the way back to London Bridge."

Faulkner pushed past her, deliberately knocking her shoulder. "Perhaps you should keep this place locked up, if you want no intruders."

She closed the barn door behind him and sank into the straw, wrapping her arms around her knees. Why had she confronted Faulkner like that, instead of calling upon her master to eject him? Had she become so accustomed to behaving like a young man that she forgot the danger she was in? She forced herself to breathe slowly. It wouldn't do for the other apprentices to catch her blubbing like – well, like a girl.

Emotions mastered, she went back to the house to work on the costumes, her box of keepsakes quite forgotten.

CHAPTER IV

After the visit to Court, Mal took to wearing his rapier every day. He had missed the weight of it on his hip, the reassuring reminder of who and what he was. And if it earned him a few suspicious looks from men, it also drew admiring glances from women. The leftovers from Leland's advance were too precious to waste, though, so glances were all he got.

Leland clearly had no doubt Mal would report for duty. He had already sent a tailor round to the Faulkners' house to measure him for livery.