The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(26)

The skrayling encampment stood on a narrow strip of ground, bordered on the north, south and west by the Thames and its tributary streams. Only a small wooden bridge connected it to Southwark at the western end. A pleasant enough situation, had it not been for the tanneries and forges upwind. If the intent was to isolate the skraylings whilst keeping them in plain sight, Mal could not think of a better location. It also made it impossible to approach the place unnoticed.

For a moment he considered skirting around the common land south of the encampment – but then why bother to come at all, if he did not improve upon the glimpse he had gained from Tower Hill? He took a couple of deep breaths, like a man steadying his nerves before charging into battle, then took the faint path that ran directly towards the skrayling stockade.

Not satisfied with the protection of river and streams, the builders had added a narrow moat connected to the Thames. On the south side, it was crossed by a wooden drawbridge where a double gate pierced the timber palisade. The gates were open, and skraylings armed with quarterstaves stood at either side of the entrance. The scent of tobacco drifted out across the common, along with unfamiliar cooking smells. He thought of all the strange peoples he had seen on his travels, but none were as strange as these creatures dwelling in his own country.

He paused at the landward end of the drawbridge. Should he announce himself? Seek an introduction to the chief skrayling? He still knew too little Tradetalk to be useful and besides, why would they believe him? He wore no livery, carried no badge to prove his position.

The distant murmur of skrayling voices stilled, and the notes of a woodwind instrument rose in its place. Soft, like a flute, but tuned to an alien key, even stranger than the music of the Turks. And yet the melody was hauntingly familiar, as if… That was it. A lullaby his mother used to sing, in the house by the sea. No. He had never heard it before, did not know it – how could he? Derbyshire was about as far from the sea as anywhere in England. Mal shook his head in confusion. Was he being bewitched? He made the sign of the cross, and the strange feeling faded.

He was uncomfortably aware of the two guards watching him out of the corner of his eye. He swallowed and walked away, heading westwards towards Southwark. His footsteps echoed on the timber planking of the bridge as he crossed the stream, and he had to force himself not to break into a run.

CHAPTER VII

Ned stripped the barbs from a crow quill and cut the tip into a nib. Only one more copy and he was done. Legal papers were not the most interesting of jobs, but at least he could do the work at home and keep an eye on his mother. And with Mal's new connections to draw on, he might even aspire to a post in one of the new scriveneries attached to the Inns of Court.

He had just sanded the last page when footsteps sounded on the stairs and Mal appeared in the doorway.

"Can I borrow a pen and a bit of paper?" Mal asked.

"What do you want it for?"

"A letter."

"Who are you going to write to? You don't have any friends except me." It was cruel, but Mal was at his most handsome when he was vexed.

"I have friends. Blaise Grey, for one."

"Grey's not your friend," Ned replied. "If he was, he'd have helped you by now. Trust me, powerful men don't help underlings like us unless there's something in it for them."

Mal glowered, but said nothing.

"I don't think you're writing a letter at all," Ned went on. "I think you're writing a sonnet to that pretty apprentice-boy of Naismith's, the one you've been spending all summer with."

"I am not."

"After all I've done for you…" Ned sighed melodramatically. "Putting you up here, sharing my bed with you–"

"And I'm grateful, truly. But I have a letter to write and you should be at Henslowe's."

Ned shrugged. "It's only eleven."

"That was twelve the clocks struck. Or can't you count either?"

"Christ's hairy arse!" Ned snatched up his satchel and waved at the desk. "Help yourself. I'm off!"

He ran down the stairs without a backward glance, through the kitchen and out into the garden, where his mother was hoeing the cabbages.

"I'll be back for supper," he called over his shoulder as he vaulted the gate.

The mastiffs in the bear-baiting kennels nearby bayed in response to his shout but soon they were well behind him, their clamour lost amongst the cries from the Clink prison. Desperate inmates stretched their arms through barred windows as Ned passed.

"Spare a penny for an old soldier down on his luck, sir," one prisoner rasped through his few remaining teeth.

Ned threw him a pitying glance before turning towards the house opposite the prison. Henslowe was generous in lending money to his employees, but visitors to his house could not avoid the grim reminder of what would happen if they abused that generosity.

Ned knocked on the theatre manager's door and was admitted by a serving girl. He didn't know her name; maids came and went with the turn of the seasons, and they all looked much alike to him. She showed him into Henslowe's study, a gloomy wood-panelled chamber on the first floor overlooking the street.

Henslowe's book chest stood open and empty, its contents piled on the desk and floor. The theatre manager was sifting through a pile of manuscripts bound with string. His greying hair was unkempt and he wore a loose gown over his underlinens and slippers on his feet, as though he had not thought to dress since rising.