The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(142)

"Thank you, sir."

"Do not thank me. That is a gift from Her Majesty. As you say, your dealings with the ambassador have been very… cordial, to the great benefit of our realm."

Mal nodded. The Queen was notoriously miserly, but she regarded the defence of England as her highest duty.

"Tell me, Catlyn. When you were working for the ambassador, were you approached by anyone?"

"I–"

Walsingham held up a hand. "Do not lie to me. I know you were."

"The Spanish," Mal said after a moment. "And the French."

"Only those two?"

"So far."

"Hmm, I suppose your position was curtailed somewhat early." Walsingham folded his long hands together. "Did either of them make any offers that we could use to our advantage?"

Mal considered. The promptings of the Spanish ambassador, to convert the ambassador to Christianity – and Papism – cut too close to treason, but the French… "I was offered property in France, sir. Some legal fiction to do with my mother."

"Really? How interesting. What was your reply?"

"That if it were brought before an English court, I would be glad of it."

Walsingham laughed sharply. "You are your father's son after all. Well, I suggest you speak again to the ambassador's man, and tell him you have changed your mind."

"Sir?"

"Free passage into France, property, perhaps even entry to the French Court? How should we refuse such an opportunity?"

"You want me to spy on the French, sir?"

Walsingham only smiled. "I do not trust Henri of Navarre's convenient change of faith. A loyal Englishman of Catholic parentage would be of great use over there."

"As you wish, sir." Mal bowed deeply.

Walsingham returned his gaze to the map. Seeing himself dismissed, Mal bowed again and left. Spying on the French, eh? Well, it beat nights spent on guard outside dockside warehouses in the freezing cold and rain, or fighting pointless duels on behalf of overbred young noblemen. And an estate in France was better than none at all. Perhaps he could take Sandy there, and forget about spying altogether.

Suffolk's Men gathered one last time at the Bull's Head. Coby hunched over her ale, feeling the absence of her late master more keenly than ever, here in the place that had been as much his home as Thames Street. The other patrons gave them pitying glances and a wide berth, though whether out of respect for their grief or through satiation of their appetite for gossip, she could not be sure.

Master Eaton was on crutches and he wore a bandage around his head that covered one eye. Gabriel Parrish was there, his scorched hair cut unfashionably short, Ned Faulkner by his side. The two had been inseparable since their return to London. She supposed she ought to be glad some happiness had come out of this dreadful business. There was little enough to go around.

The apprentices had been sent home to their families, now that their master was no longer around to keep them. That was all of them. Master Rudd had of course been killed in the explosion, and both his and Master Naismith's bodies destroyed in the fire. A few pieces of bone had been raked from the ashes and placed in a shared grave, since none could tell whose they were.

"I suppose that is an end to the contest," Coby said, drawing circles in a puddle of spilt beer with one finger. "And I was sure we would win, too."

"Perhaps the Prince's Men will yet play," Eaton said. "I doubt the ambassador cares for our woes."

"They say the duke is dead," Parrish said. "Or dying. At any rate, with Naismith and Rudd both gone and Eaton here maimed, we are a sorry crew indeed. It is a sad end to Suffolk's Men."

"What is to become of their widows?" Master Eaton asked, of no one in particular.

"Master Cutsnail has agreed to cancel all Master Naismith's debts on the theatre," Coby said, "in return for the chest of play-books."

"That is very generous," Parrish said.

"Not really," Coby replied. "Those plays are worth a great deal amongst the skraylings. I think he will make a handsome profit in the end."

"And the skraylings wonder why folk hate them," Master Eaton said.

"What will you do?" Coby asked Parrish, anxious to change the subject.

"Burbage has asked me to join the Prince's Men."

"And will you accept?"

"How can I not? I must work somewhere, and I would rather it were not for Henslowe." He gave Ned a wry smile. "I cannot forgive him for setting that miscreant Wheeler upon us."

Coby forbore from explaining there was more to Wheeler's actions than petty Bankside rivalry. If Walsingham had suppressed news of the conspiracy, she was not going to speak out and risk attracting the spymaster's attention.

"I wish you well," Master Eaton said. "For my own part, I must look to other professions. There is not much call for oneeyed actors."

"You should write a ballad about the fire, and sell it in Paul's Yard," Ned told him.

"I would rather forget the damned fire altogether," he muttered, and rising from the table he limped off in the direction of the jakes.

"What about you?" Parrish asked Coby. "Will Mistress Naismith keep you on?"