The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(35)

There was no one there, only a small door. It was locked, but peering through the keyhole he could make out a tiny chamber beyond with a carved wooden screen and coloured glass in the windows. A chapel? If so, it had been locked to prevent desecration. He let the tapestry fall and sheathed his blade.

It may have been a false alarm but it reminded him that, skrayling or not, the safety of the person sleeping in this room would be his responsibility. Lurking assassins were only one threat; Baines had told him of men being poisoned by all manner of cunning means. He put his old riding gloves on and ran his hands over the furniture, looking for concealed needles or protruding nails. Whilst examining the beds he even sniffed the sheets, in case they had been suffused with poison. The linen was musty from long storage, with a faint perfume of entombed lavender, but he could smell nothing amiss.

Satisfied he had done everything necessary to fulfil his duties, he returned to the dining room to wait for Captain Monkton.

Monkton's tour began at the old royal apartments south of the White Tower. The Great Hall had been hastily refurbished for the ambassador's visit, with a new timber roof and tiled floor, but the windows were still empty of glass.

"Why go to all this work, when the Queen has palaces aplenty?" Mal asked.

"The Prince of Wales ordered it done," Monkton replied. "All great royal ceremonies begin at the Tower. The Queen stayed here the night before her coronation."

As will the prince, when he succeeds to the throne? Perhaps he already looks ahead to his mother's death.

After a brief examination of the hall Monkton showed Mal up onto the walkway of the inner curtain wall and through each of its towers. There were no prisoners here at the moment nor, Monkton told him, had there been any since the Prince Consort's death. The whole country seemed to have settled into a sombre peace, untroubled by rebellion or religious strife.

"The calm before the storm, no doubt," Monkton said. "When the Queen dies, Robert will come down hard on Catholics. He is his father's son."

Last on their itinerary was Beauchamp Tower, where Mal was shown the bed in which Robert Dudley had died, and the elaborate carving made by his elder brother John many years previously, when he was imprisoned here during Queen Mary's reign.

"Did you meet the Prince Consort?" Mal asked.

Monkton grunted. "I was not here in his day."

He unlocked another door and they went down a narrow stair, emerging on the Tower Green near the lieutenant's lodgings.

There they were shown through the antechamber into a small dining parlour. Leland was pacing up and down before the fire, a sheet of paper in his hand. A stocky man in his midthirties with sunburnt features and bright, almost manic eyes sat watching him, his lips moving silently.

Leland greeted the two men somewhat distractedly, and continued with his pacing, muttering something unintelligible. Monkton appeared to be accustomed to the lieutenant's eccentric behaviour; he went straight over to the table, where a silver flagon steamed, giving off a scent of cinnamon and apples.

"Splendid idea," Leland said. "This damnable language turns a man's throat to dust."

Monkton poured a little of the hot, spiced wine into silver goblets and handed them to Leland, Mal and the stranger.

"Your health, sirs," Mal said.

"The Queen," Leland replied.

"Of course. The Queen."

Mal took a cautious sip. It was the last of the old vintage, its sourness tempered with sugar and spices.

"You have met Thomas Lodge?" Leland asked, gesturing to his other guest.

"No, sir," Mal replied. He sketched a polite bow, unsure of the other man's status. The stranger was fashionably dressed, but his garments lacked the jewels and intricate embroidery that only the very rich could afford.

"Lodge is newly returned from a voyage to the New World," Leland said, "and will be our translator for the ambassador and his party."

So this was the man with whom he would be working for the next few weeks. He would have to keep an eye on him, in case someone tried to use him as a go-between to get to the ambassador.

"You are a sailor?" he asked.

Lodge flushed a deeper shade of red. "I am a poet. You may have heard of A Looking Glass for London and England…?"

Mal racked his memory. Yes, Ned had once mentioned copying some sides of that play for the Admiral's Men.

"I have not heard it played," he said, "but I am told it is very entertaining, especially the casting of Jonah out of the belly of the whale."

Lodge sniffed in disdain. "There is a great deal more to it than spectacle."

Leland stepped into the awkward silence.

"The voyage must have given you many ideas for new plays," the lieutenant said.

"Indeed it did," Lodge replied, looking pleased with himself. "I have sold one already – but I say too much." He put down his wine.

"The Queen of Faerieland," Mal said. Now he knew where he had heard the name before.

Lodge narrowed his eyes. "Are you a spy?"

"Me? No!" Mal laughed nervously. "Merely an acquaintance of Suffolk's Men. I've been taking lessons in Tradetalk from their young tireman."

Lodge raised an eyebrow. "Really? What did you make of it?"

"It was surprisingly simple to learn."