The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(42)

"But it is so high," Kiiren said at last. "How do you not fall off in sleep?"

"You… just don't," Mal replied in some confusion, gesturing at the wide expanse of mattress. It made the bed he shared with Ned look like a child's cot.

"It is not our custom to sleep this way."

"I will speak to Sir James," Mal said. "Perhaps the mattress could be moved to the floor, though I'm afraid Your Excellency may find it very draughty."

"What is this word, 'draf-tee'? It was not taught to me."

Along with a great many others, no doubt. Perhaps he should offer to help the ambassador expand his vocabulary in new and interesting directions… He dismissed the thought with an inward smile. Leland would not thank him for teaching the Ambassador of Vinland to curse like a Billingsgate fishwife.

"It means wind coming in through a crack in the wall, or under a door," he said instead.

The ambassador nodded. "And you will sleep in next room, in other bed?"

Mal recalled that it would be empty now Lodge was no longer needed. Tempting, but…

"No, sir. The lieutenant instructed me to sleep in here, the better to protect you."

He reached under the bedstead.

"See, there's a servant's bed here," he said, pulling out the wheeled truckle bed. "Cunning, eh?"

The ambassador seemed impressed by this piece of human ingenuity, and ran the truckle bed in and out of its hiding place several times.

"I will sleep here," he announced, pulling the bed out and kneeling on it. "You have high bed."

"Ah, no, Your Excellency, that is most generous but I cannot, it would be unfitting–"

"I insist."

So, they did teach him the important words.

"The truckle bed won't be very comfortable," he said as a last resort.

"Nor will high bed, if I cannot sleep for fear of falling."

Mal gave up the argument. How he was going to explain this to Leland, he had no idea.

CHAPTER XI

Coby was getting ready for bed when a hammering on the front door made her start. The noise was followed by muffled shouting that sounded like threats. She ran down the stairs two at a time and found Master Naismith by the front door, looking worried.

"Open up, Nocksmith!" the voice came again. "I know you're in there!"

"Is that Master Lodge?" she asked her employer.

She glanced around the hall, hoping to see a walking stick or cudgel to hand. It was high time she made use of Master Catlyn's lessons.

"Aye," Naismith said. "Cup-shot as a rat in a malthouse, by the sounds of him."

"Shouldn't he be at the Tower, aiding the skrayling ambassador?"

Lodge banged on the door again.

"Oi, open up, I say! Or shall I tell th'whole parish how you were cuckolded by–"

Master Naismith unbolted the door and pulled Lodge inside. The playwright tripped on the threshold and made a grab at Coby, who dodged back so that he sprawled on the floor at her feet.

"What is all this, Lodge?"

The playwright stared up at him.

"S'all your fault," he moaned. "I wish to God I'd never heard of Suffolk or his Men."

"What happened?" Coby asked. "We saw you at the Tower this morning–"

"Did you? Did you see it all?"

"Well, not everything. We could not get close."

"Passed over, I was." Lodge mumbled something incomprehensible that sounded more like Vinlandic than English. "Like, like a spare prick at a wedding. Three years, it took me, three puking years…"

He demonstrated by rolling onto his side and throwing up on the floor.

"Tell Betsy to get a bucket of water, lad," Master Naismith told her. "And a mop."

A few minutes later, Coby returned with the unhappy maidservant in tow. Lodge was still moaning incoherently.

"Help me get him to his feet," Master Naismith said.

Coby took hold of one grimy sleeve and together they hauled him up. The playwright stank of brandywine, sweat and vomit. He stared from one to the other with unfocused eyes, then pulled himself free.

"Give it back," he said, gazing wildly around him. "I know you have it here." Seeing the open door of the dining room, he staggered away from them. "Where do you keep 'em, eh? Locked up safe as virgins in a nunnery, I'll be bound."

"What are you talking about?" Master Naismith called after him.

Lodge spun around and nearly fell over again.

"My play." He began to weep. "My beautiful, magnificent play."

His knees crumpled and he sank to the floor, head in hands. Coby exchanged glances with her master, who shrugged. She crouched by Lodge.

"What about your play?"

"He shan't have it," Lodge muttered. "Wasted. All that work…"

"Who shan't have it?"

Lodge looked up, a cunning glint in his pale green eyes. "Suffolk. Snubbing me before the Prince of Wales. If he thinks he can profit from my hard-won scholola – schoraly – learning, he can think again."

"Then you are not in the skrayling ambassador's service?"

"He will have none of me."