The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(18)

She hadn't got a good look at him in the gloom of the pawnshop, nor had she any reason to take notice. Now she took in every detail, her costume-maker's eye matching dress to character. Good-quality but threadbare doublet and hose. An expensive-looking dagger, its wire-bound hilt worn smooth with use, at his right hip. A knotted ribbon of black silk adorning his left earlobe, where a richer man might wear a pearl droplet or other bauble. A well-born man down on his luck, then: ambitious, no doubt bribable… He certainly fitted Master Dunfell's description of the situation.

She glanced from Catlyn to Faulkner and back again. The two were friends but evidently not lovers; Catlyn appeared unmoved by the fact that Faulkner and Master Parrish were exchanging glances and whispers like a courting couple. That suggested one approach, though it was her stratagem of last resort. The risk of exposure was too great.

When Master Eaton paused to take a drink of beer, she seized the opportunity to enter the conversation.

"Do you come to hear plays often, sir?" she asked Catlyn.

"Not as much as I would like," he said, with a polite nod towards Master Naismith. "And I fear that when I am on duty in my new position, my thoughts will be engaged elsewhere."

"You think there's a threat to the ambassador?" It was a crude gambit, but what if she did not get another chance to speak to him?

"Quiet, lad!" Master Naismith turned to her, glowering. In a low voice he added, "Walsingham and Cecil's spies are everywhere."

Chastened, Coby lowered her gaze. Since Sir Francis Walsingham's unexpected recovery from a grave illness three years ago, the rivalry between the Queen's private secretary and his understudy had become intense. It was not wise to attract their attention with careless talk.

A serving-man arrived with supper. Coby poked her horn spoon into the mess of boiled vegetables and gristly grey lumps of something vaguely animal. Tavern food was good work for the jaws, if not the belly.

The conversation turned to a comparison of the two royal princes. Robert, the elder, resembled his father in looks and his mother in temperament, and everyone agreed he would make a great king, perhaps one even more famous than his grandsire Henry the Eighth. It was his younger brother Arthur, however, who was the people's favourite, taking after Henry in his love of jousting and spectacle.

"Shall the princes attend, if we perform at the new theatre?" Coby asked, drawn back into the conversation despite herself. The thought of being mere yards from the Prince of Wales set her stomach a-flutter with nerves.

"Surely you will be invited to play at one of the royal palaces?" Catlyn asked.

Master Naismith recounted Master Cutsnail's instructions, leaving out the matter of whether the theatre would be ready in time.

"Thank you for this intelligence, sir," Catlyn said. "It explains why Her Majesty requires an additional bodyguard for the ambassador."

"This contest is a sham," Dickon Rudd, the company's clown, muttered, pushing away his empty bowl.

They all looked at him.

"How so?" Catlyn asked.

"Do you really think the ambassador will risk offending the Queen by choosing any but her own son's company of players? Mark my words, the Prince's Men will win. I would put good money on it."

Parrish leant forward, a sly smile on his lips.

"You will be close to the ambassador," he said to Catlyn. "Could you not put in a good word for your friends?"

"Why should I care who wins?" he replied. "And what makes you think I have any influence over the skraylings? I cannot so much as speak their tongue."

Coby saw her chance, and seized it.

"I can."

Everyone stared at her.

"Well, I can. Only a little Tradetalk, I confess."

Catlyn looked at her thoughtfully. "Could you teach me?"

"I–" She turned to Master Naismith. She would have to play this carefully if she was not to arouse suspicion. "I have work to do, have I not, sir?"

"I am sure you could be spared one afternoon a week," he said after a moment's pause. Leaning around Rafe's back he added, "A wise man does not turn down an opportunity for advancement."

"I am in your debt, sir," Catlyn told Naismith. "If there is anything I can do for you – within the bounds of my duty to Her Majesty, of course."

"Of course."

Catlyn got to his feet.

"Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business elsewhere."

Coby joined the chorus of farewells and watched him leave. An afternoon a week for, what, almost two months? Surely she could find something out in that time, enough to satisfy Master Dunfell.

CHAPTER V

On his return to the Faulkners' house, Mal was met in the hall by Ned's mother, Mistress Faulkner. In the gloom of the narrow windowless passage her lined features resembled a death mask, pale as wax.

"What is it? Are you unwell, ma'am?"

She shook her head.

"There's a man waiting for you," she whispered. "I had to let him in–"

"What? Where's Ned?"

She held up a finger to her lips.

"Gone to Henslowe's house to do some copying work. I'm not expecting him back until curfew."

"Hell's teeth! Who is this man?"