The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(32)
He smiled. "There is no such woman, at least not of my acquaintance."
"Then what–"
"One of Ned's fancies, a foolish game he plays with Parrish. I needed a scrap of paper for a laundry list, and there it was."
"Oh."
"I have no means to support a wife," he went on, "and little hope of it hereafter."
He fell silent, and Coby risked a sidelong glance. He was staring at the ground, seemingly unaware of her gaze. His black hair curled like a lamb's in the humidity, though he had barely raised a sweat despite their exertions. Long dark lashes shaded his brooding eyes. She had only to lean over a little and she might kiss him–
He grunted and finished his beer. "Come, let us not speak of such melancholy matters. Your lesson is not over yet."
"I– I think it is. In fact, I think I shall not have time to see you again before you start your work for the ambassador."
It was not what she had planned to say, but she knew it was the right thing to do. If she did not see him, if they did not talk, there could be nothing to betray – and no temptation either. She scrambled to her feet and walked away, not trusting herself to be able to look him in the eye.
The sound of his footsteps approaching caused her to freeze, one hand on the nearby pillar for support. Her heart was pounding.
"If you need my help kicking some little bastard's arse…"
He sounded so deadly serious, she could not help but smile.
"It is a generous offer, sir."
As they headed towards the door, Master Catlyn handed her the cudgels.
"Here, you might as well keep these. They are of no more use to me."
She hugged them to her chest as she showed him out, wishing she could hug him instead.
"Farewell, then," he said, holding out his hand. "Good luck in the contest."
"Thank you." She tucked the cudgels under one arm and shook his hand, trembling a little at his touch. "For everything."
She lingered in the doorway, watching him until he disappeared around the curve of the theatre wall, then closed the door and leant back up on it. Her disguise had always been her armour; right now it felt more like a cage.
Mal ate alone in the attic that night. Ned had taken to spending more and more time with Parrish, which was all to the good since it meant he was seldom around to notice Mal's absences. It made for dull mealtimes, though. He dipped his hunk of bread in the thin pottage, wondering what kind of grand dishes the ambassador would be served. Not stewed cabbage and onions, that was for certain.
As for his other companion of recent weeks… it was probably for the best. He had noticed the way the boy looked at him, ever since that first day in Paris Gardens. At first he had thought it simple admiration, such as he himself had felt for the heroes of his youth – Edmund Campion, Sir Francis Drake, Sir Philip Sidney – but there was a girlish shyness to Hendricks' glances, and more blushes than even a fair Flemish complexion and summer heat could account for. At least it was not the simpering of the young ganymedes who frequented the Bull's Head. He could not have stood that.
Putting aside the empty bowl he took out his next assignment from Baines, but his eyes would not focus on the grid of letters. Damn Walsingham, for trapping him in this conspiracy. How long was it going to take, anyway? A chill ran over his skin despite the closeness of the evening air. Leland had not said when the ambassador was due to leave. What if he stayed in England indefinitely?
On the other hand, twenty-four shillings a week would be enough to get proper care for his brother, away from that dreadful place. Mistress Faulkner might know a reliable woman who would look after Sandy, especially if he continued to improve. And it would be most fitting for the skraylings to pay for what they had done.
With a smile he kicked off his boots and lay back on the bed. Some good was going to come of this after all.
The dream began as it always did, in darkness and cold. Mal was riding through trees, the wet leaves brushing his face. Around him, others were riding too, the only sounds the steady tread of hooves and the snorting of horses reined in. No jingle of harness – it had been muffled before they left – and no conversation. Mal looked around for his brothers. Sandy was a few yards away, separated from him by a couple of other riders; Charles was indistinguishable from the other masked men in the dark.
On they rode in silence, uphill and down and up again until the trees gave way to bracken and scattered birch, and finally to heather and gorse and clumps of rough grass. The constellation of Orion burned high in the northern sky. It was a week after the twins' sixteenth birthday, and only a few days until they were due to go up to Cambridge.
In a hollow by the side of the road, a camp fire flickered. The riders broke into a canter, then a gallop. He could see them to either side of him, hooded figures all alike, now carrying flaming torches. Across the moors they galloped in near silence, as smoothly as on a beach, never stumbling or slowing down. The distant glow drew nearer. Three wagons, drawn into a U-shape, with a fire between them. The silhouettes of men moved against the flame, running in panic. There was a faint crack of musket fire, then they were there, riding around the camp so none could escape. Crossbow quarrels thudded into earth, wood, flesh. Screams rent the air.
A few of the men dismounted, swords drawn. The rest assembled at the open end of the U, watching and waiting. All that could be heard was the moaning of the wind. Then there was a scuffle in one of the wagons, and two riders appeared, dragging a third figure between them. Firelight danced across a tattooed face, turning it into a demonic mask. With quiet methodical movements, the riders tied the skrayling to the wheel of one of the wagons.