The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(47)

The actor-manager got to his feet. "Gentlemen!"

The taproom fell silent.

"As you know, there has been a terrible tragedy this day, the loss of our good friend Hugh Catchpenny. Now, melancholy as this business is, some good may come out of it for someone. Suffolk's Men are left a player short, and as you know, we are set to perform before the Ambassador of Vinland next week."

There was a murmur of interest from some of the assembly.

"Yes, I am hiring." He held up his hands. "Only the one part, and that small. Two shillings on the day of performance itself, and an angel if we win."

"What's the play?" someone shouted.

"A new one, by Thomas Lodge, never before played on any stage."

Eaton and Rudd cleared a space amongst the tables, and arranged some stools for themselves and Naismith.

"Not going to join them?" Ned asked Gabriel.

"It's not my place," he replied. "I am the lowliest of Suffolk's Men, barely more than a hireling."

"Early days yet," Ned told him. "You'll be up there with Eaton one day, mark my words."

Gabriel smiled, like the sun breaking through clouds. Ned swallowed. God in Heaven, I can't do this.

"Now, gentlemen," Naismith said, turning to his companions, "let us see what the tide brings in."

The first to approach was a pallid, gangly youth in clothes that had once been apprentice blue but were now faded to colourlessness, where they had not worn to holes. He mumbled a name.

"Say on, lad," Naismith told him. The young actor coughed, then recited:

"Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious… conqueror,

Victorious Titus rue, the tears I shed.

A mother's tears in passion for her son.

And – if thy sons were ever dear to… thee,

O think my son to, be as dear to me!"

"Thank you." Naismith looked around. "Next, please!"

Next up was a short shiny-faced fellow who looked more like a pastry-cook than an actor; indeed the stink of rancid butter preceding him was as good as an advertisement.

"Next!"

Ned turned back to Gabriel. "Where are all the decent players? Usually you can't spit in here without hitting a Tamburlaine or a King Henry."

"All hired by Henslowe or Burbage, or else on tour for the summer. With our three companies tied to London by this contest, there's rich pickings to be had elsewhere."

Hendricks nodded. "We'd only got as far as Sheffield before we were called back by my lord Suffolk, but Master Naismith would have pressed on to York if he could."

When Gabriel got up to go to the jakes, Ned leant across the table. The news of the murder had given him an idea.

"Hey, Hendricks," he whispered. "Do me a favour, will you?"

The boy drained his tankard and frowned at Ned. "Why should I?"

"Because if you don't, Suffolk's Men will lose this contest."

"Is that a threat?"

"No!" He looked around at the other actors, but they were busy watching the auditions, "I'm just worried about Gabe. I don't think he should be left alone right now, not after this attack on Catchpenny."

"You think someone's out to ruin us by murdering our players?"

"Probably not. But better safe than sorry, right? And Gabe's the only one who lives alone." The only one who matters, anyway.

"Can't he stay with you?"

"No," Ned said hurriedly. "Mam's got a cough, and I don't want him to catch it and lose his voice. No, he's better staying at Naismith's."

"Tell him that yourself."

"He won't listen to me. Thinks I fuss over him too much already. That's why I need you."

"All right," Hendricks said at last. "What am I to say?"

"I don't know. Use your wits. Flatter him. Tell him your apprentice lads are crying themselves to sleep with fright over this contest and need a ministering angel."

Hendricks eyed him suspiciously.

"I still reckon you're up to something."

"What do you want me to say? That I'm in love with the man, and can't sleep at night for fear of anything happening to him? There, I've said it." He looked over his shoulder. "Ssh, here he comes."

The Lord High Admiral was a stern, hawk-nosed man in his late fifties, with a sunburnt complexion and an energy that belied his years. He showed the ambassador and the elders around the shipyard, pointing out the differences in design between English and Vinlandic ships, of which he seemed to have a great deal of knowledge. Mal followed behind, with half an ear on the conversation. He had been on a ship scarcely a handful of times, and then only to cross one sea or another on his way to war.

Whilst Effingham pointed out one of the cranes used to lift the masts into position, Mal scanned the dockyard for any sign of potential trouble. There were tools here aplenty that could be used to kill a man, in addition to the weapons proper to naval warfare: cannons with their various forms of ammunition, arquebuses and calivers for the marines, and boarding axes.

"And this," Effingham was saying, "is the pride of our fleet, Ark Royal."

The elders nodded as Kiiren translated, gazing up at the snowy sails of the galleon. Effingham gestured for the skraylings to precede him up the gangplank.