The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(4)

Mal went over to the table and sat down to eat. The fear of the night before had subsided into a numb determination to face whatever cruelties his captors were planning. A man weakened by hunger would not resist torment for long.

He had not managed more than a few mouthfuls of the dry bread, washed down with a small ale, when the warder returned.

"You're wanted." The man beckoned him through the door.

Mal's stomach flipped over. So soon?

He was taken back along the narrow outer ward, still deep in shadow at this time of day, and through a tunnel that pierced one of the inner towers. A steep cobbled road led upwards between high walls, with the vast bulk of the Norman keep looming to their right. The warder turned left at the top of the slope and directed Mal across the green towards a handsome timber-framed house built into the angle of the south and west walls. The L-shaped building looked incongruously domestic against the Herculean masonry all around it.

He was shown into a wood-panelled antechamber. Benches stood against the wall opposite the fireplace; above them, portraits of middle-aged men in elaborate armour or outdated clothing stared down at him with the indifference of the longdead. Mal distracted himself by going from one to another and reading the inscriptions below each: Thomas Grey Marquess of Dorset, Edward Lord Clinton, Sir John Gage.

"My illustrious predecessors."

The man in the doorway was forty or so, well built and a little above middle height, with fair curly hair and beard and a ruddy complexion. His doublet and hose were of sherry-coloured velvet, and his ruff was dyed with saffron. As if on cue, a lion roared in the Tower menagerie, and Mal had to keep his head down as he bowed, to hide a smile. A lion of a man indeed.

"My lord?"

"Master Catlyn." The steel in the man's voice belied his courtier's finery.

"Yessir." Mal didn't quite snap to attention, but his back straightened of its own accord. Old habits died hard.

"I am Sir James Leland, Lieutenant of the Tower. No doubt you are wondering why I invited you here?"

Invited? Well, that was one word for it.

"Yes, sir." Mal swallowed, anticipating the worst.

Leland walked around him in a slow circle, eyeing him up and down as if he were a horse for sale. Mal stared straight ahead. If Leland thought to intimidate him, let him think again.

"Not exactly what I expected," the lieutenant muttered. "But I suppose you'll have to do." He paced some more. "Maliverny. French name, isn't it?"

"My father's second wife – my mother – was Béatrice de Maliverny, from Aix-en-Provence. Being her first-born son, I was named in her family's honour."

"You are half French, then?" Leland frowned at him.

"By blood only, sir. I am an Englishman born and bred." Mal could not help adding, "The French are our friends, sir."

Leland muttered something under his breath, then turned to face Mal again. "How old are you?"

"Sir?"

"It's a simple enough question, surely?"

"I am five-and-twenty, sir."

"That dagger you were carrying is of fine workmanship. I fancy it is part of a matched set, a mate to a rapier?"

"Yes, sir." Was that what this was all about? Surely they wouldn't haul him into the Tower over an illegal duel. "I've had lessons from Saviolo himself."

"Hmm. Italian swordplay is all very well, but what about real fighting? I have been told you served under the Earl of Devon."

"I was at the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom, and afterwards I fought in Italy against the Turk."

The lieutenant nodded approvingly. Mal kept his features impassive, trying to follow the course of this interrogation to its logical conclusion. There was none he could see, or none that made any sense.

Leland cleared his throat noisily. "I have a commission for you, Catlyn. From Her Majesty the Queen, no less."

Mal stared at him.

"Have you nothing to say for yourself, man?"

"I – Thank you, sir." Mal began to laugh, near drunk with relief, then fell silent. Leland did not look amused. "Forgive me, sir, I… Well, after last night I thought for certain I had been arrested for treason."

"Arrested? I sent Captain Monkton to find you, certainly, since no one knew your whereabouts. If there has been any misunderstanding, well, that is very regrettable."

Mal went over the previous evening's events in his mind. He was the one who had bolted like a guilty thing and thus begun the chase. On the other hand, this Captain Monkton had taken great delight in letting him think he was under arrest. Had the captain misunderstood his instructions, or was he merely brutal and malicious?

"Now, about this commission," Leland said. "You are to guard a foreign ambassador who will be visiting England later this summer."

"An ambassador? Of where?"

"Vinland."

"Vinland? But–"

"He is a skrayling, yes. You have an objection to that?"

"N-no, sir," Mal said. His thoughts were racing. Bodyguard to a skrayling? Why had he of all people been chosen for such a task? And how could he get out of it? "I was merely surprised. I didn't know they had an ambassador."

"The savages seem to have taken a while to grasp the idea, but it pleases their fancy to have one now. And of course he must be treated with all the courtesy due a foreign ally."