The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(39)
Leland stepped forward and cleared his throat.
"Carlan rich, sen leeren. Calt toe-cure London an een tourak. Een carlan lish endeth toothache."
The ambassador raised his eyebrows at this unexpected attempt to greet him in his own language, but said nothing. He waited until Leland had finished speaking, then bowed in the English fashion as gracefully as any courtier.
"Kaal-an rrish, Ingilandeth," he said in a clear voice that carried to the back of the crowd, then added in English with only a slight sing-song accent, "We thank you for your kind welcome."
A gasp ran around the assembled company. If a beast in the royal menagerie had spoken, they could hardly have been more astonished.
"W-well, indeed, we are most honoured," Leland murmured. "I… Your Excellency, may I introduce you to His Highness the Prince of Wales and his noble guests?"
Leland waved Thomas Lodge away, and ushered the skraylings towards the royal party. Out of the corner of his eye Mal saw the playwright turn scarlet with impotent rage at being robbed of his moment of glory.
"Your Excellency," Leland said, "this is Robert, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall and heir to the throne of England. Your Highness, this is…"
"I am Outspeaker Kiiren of Shajiilrekhurrnasheth," he said, "and this is eldest of our clan, Judge Sekaarhjarret, and Chief Merchant Hretjarr."
He gestured to the elders, who bowed awkwardly.
"We are honoured to meet you, Lord Outspeaker," Robert drawled, "and your elders also. I trust your voyage was not too unpleasant?"
The introductions droned on, each of the notables in the royal pavilion being presented in strict order of precedence. The visitors bowed to each one, the elders' faces inscrutable behind their masks of tattoos. The ambassador on the other hand seemed to take an interest in everyone and everything. Mal wondered if he was some kind of prince amongst his people, to be entrusted with such an important role so young.
Master Naismith had hired a boat to attend the ambassador's arrival, at a ridiculous price as far as Coby was concerned. She had been surprised by her master's extravagance until she discovered that Mistress Naismith and the other wives had insisted on being taken along as well, to see the Court in all its splendour. Thus it was that Tuesday morning found a dozen people squeezed into a boat meant for half as many.
"You should have hired a larger vessel, Henry," Mistress Naismith said for the hundredth time, as they bobbed amongst the other spectators. "By my troth, if we are not all drowned it will be a miracle."
Coby scanned the crowd of nobles and gentlemen gathered on the wharf, but could not see Master Catlyn. She hoped nothing was amiss.
"There's my lord Suffolk," Naismith shouted over the noise of the crowd.
They all waved their hats in the direction of the man in the great pavilion. Coby had seen their patron at the playhouse on several occasions, but he usually sat in the lords' box above and behind the stage, where he could be seen by the audience as clearly as the play itself. A tall man of middle years with grey in his sandy beard, he wore a well-cut suit of garnet-red silk, elegant but restrained. A younger man, taller still and fairer of hair but with an obvious family likeness, stood at his elbow. Was this the prodigal son Master Catlyn had told her about, now standing there in unity with his father? The skrayling ambassador seemed to be spreading peace by his very arrival in England.
For a moment she thought Suffolk would not deign to notice them, but then he smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgment. Naismith bowed low, causing the boat to rock and the ladies to shriek.
They watched as the ambassador and his companions were introduced to the royal party and courtiers. As usual, Coby paid little heed to the individuals; she was too busy storing away the details of their appearance in her memory. Her eye was caught by a middle-aged man whose heavily padded doublet and trunk hose only served to emphasise his spindly calves, whilst his purple-dyed beard clashed with his florid complexion. Such a look would be perfect for the role of the self-serving Lord Villuppo in The Spanish Tragedy.
"Isn't that Catlyn?" Parrish asked, leaning over her shoulder and pointing.
A slender man dressed in sombre black livery and bearing a long silver-hilted rapier was being introduced to the skraylings. As he swept the black velvet cap from his head and made a formal bow, her breath caught in her throat. He was even more handsome in uniform than in his threadbare doublet and slops. She chided herself for such foolish thoughts; they were worlds apart now and likely to stay that way.
"He is a very picture of manly grace, is he not?" Parrish murmured in her ear.
"I had not noticed," she replied coolly, praying her treacherous complexion would not give her away.
"You dissemble very ill, my dear. I know you spent a great deal of time with him this summer, dallying in Paris Gardens." Parrish placed an arm around her shoulders. "And after I was so careful to warn you."
"Nothing untoward took place between myself and Master Catlyn, I can assure you, sir."
"If you say so."
"I do say so. On my honour."
She glanced around. Luckily the other actors and their wives were too absorbed in the spectacle on the riverbank to pay any attention to their little exchange.
"Now, now, no need to be so stiff about it," he said. "Anyone would think you had a maidenhead to defend."