The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(21)

Instead he was taken along a short whitewashed passage to a spacious parlour overlooking a walled garden. A gaunt-featured man of about sixty, dressed in a black gown and skullcap, sat in a high-backed chair by the fireplace.

"Maliverny Catlyn, sir."

Walsingham raised a hand in acknowledgment. The servant bowed and withdrew.

"Come closer, Master Catlyn."

Mal approached the Queen's private secretary and stood to attention, eyes fixed on the plasterwork coat of arms above the fireplace. The design was very plain: a horizontal bar on a vertically striped field. Either an ancient blazon, or one chosen by a man with no taste for the fantasies of the modern age.

"You understand why I sent for you?" Walsingham asked. His voice was deep, and surprisingly steady for one in evident ill health.

"No, sir." He had a shrewd idea, but he was not about to admit it.

"Sit down, Master Catlyn." Walsingham gestured to the chair opposite.

"I prefer to stand, sir."

"And I prefer not to crane my neck. Sit."

Mal obeyed. Walsingham leant back in his own chair, and Mal caught himself on the brink of doing likewise. Allowing himself to relax in this man's presence would be a grave mistake. Perhaps literally.

"You were seen at Court on Tuesday, talking to Blaise Grey," Walsingham said.

"He and I were at Peterhouse together. Sir."

"Yes, well, we will come to that later. But as to the present… You would do well to take more care in the company you keep."

"Sir?"

"When the son of one of the most powerful men in England rebels against everything his father stands for, you can be sure it comes to my notice. Blaise Grey attracts malcontents like wasps to a wind-fallen apple. For you to seek him out… well, you must see how that looks."

For once Mal did not have to feign contrition.

"I'm very sorry, sir, I did not think–"

"You young fellows never do. What precisely were you up to?"

"I–" A half-truth was safer than a lie. "Sir James Leland didn't say how long this commission would last, and as I am sure you know, sir, I have no other means of support."

"Hmm. Well, you would do well to seek a better patron than Grey."

"Yes, sir."

Walsingham folded his long pale hands in his lap.

"What think you of the skraylings, Catlyn?" he asked, in the idle tones of a gentleman indulging in scholarly debate.

Mal paused, wondering what answer the spymaster expected.

"I believe they are part of God's creation," he said at last, "for the devil cannot create any living thing, only the semblance of it. I also believe that, since the Bible is the word of God and of His Son, and there is no mention of skraylings therein, the message of Christ is not meant for them."

"Then they are damned?"

"That is for God in His infinite grace to decide, not I."

"A very pretty answer," Walsingham said. "But I speak of policy, not theology."

"May I be frank with you, sir?"

"I wish for nothing less."

"I think they play a dangerous game," Mal replied. "They rely on fear and awe as a protection, on rumours that they possess magicks far more fearsome than the toys and fancies they show us."

"Dangerous to themselves, or to us?"

"Since we are allies against Spain, both."

"Then you think Her Majesty wrong to continue this alliance?"

"Not at all, sir." Mal swallowed. Men had had their hands cut off – or worse – for criticising the Queen. "Far better for them to be our friends than the friends of our enemies."

"Just so. The Spanish would gladly invade England and put a Catholic on the throne if they could muster the forces to do so, the French are allied with our old enemies the Scots… If the skraylings were to abandon us and seek friends in other lands, we would be hard pressed to defend ourselves."

"You fear the French or Spanish have designs on the ambassador?"

"If they have not, they are fools."

"I am already pledged to defend the ambassador with my life, sir, or will be once I take up my duties," Mal said. "Is there aught else you expect of me?"

Walsingham looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I knew your father, you know, in Paris. We were both at the English embassy, during the massacre on Saint Bartholomew's Day. Perhaps he mentioned it?"

"No, he… He didn't like to talk about his work when he came home." Mal paused. "I remember, the summer before my fifth birthday, Mother bought guns for the servants and said there would be no more riding or playing cricket for a while. At the time I was just jealous that Charles was old enough to be given a gun and I was not. Afterwards, I found out she feared reprisals against Catholics."

"You are a Catholic?" The spymaster's voice remained level, but a dangerous glint appeared in his eye.

"My mother was. I do as my queen commands, in all things."

"As should we all." He tapped the arm of his chair absentmindedly, then looked up, fixing Mal with his dark gaze. "Do you know why you were chosen for this commission?"

"Sir James Leland told me it was the Queen's own command."