The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(50)
Mal refrained from pointing out that the skraylings did not appear to grow facial hair at any age.
"I am told they take their traditions and rules very seriously, my lord," he said. "If you will forgive me–"
He sketched a bow and all but ran from the room, his footsteps echoing round the high ceiling.
Kiiren was pacing a terrace overlooking the river, deep in conversation with the elders. Mal took up his station by a clipped box tree, where he could see most of the gardens at a single glance.
Shaded by the house behind him, the terrace was cool despite the afternoon sun. Balustraded steps ran down to a parterre divided into elaborate geometric shapes by low box hedges, and taller hedges either side framed the view of the river. Mal's attention was not on the formal beauty of the gardens, however, nor on the spectacle of so many ships sailing back and forth on the glittering waters. He scanned the shadowed arbours for lurking threats, calculated lines of sight and angles of attack. After the morning's events, he was taking no chances.
The gardens were disappointingly empty, however. A lone gardener was snipping the deadheads from the roses and tying in the climbing stems, and in the distance he could hear the shouts of a lieutenant of marines drilling his new recruits, but otherwise it was all very peaceful. He was just beginning to wonder if he should ask the ambassador if he wished to return to London yet, when he spotted a figure slipping from bush to bush. Not another so soon?
There was no point calling out; no one apart from the gardener was within easy range, and the intruder would easily get away. Mal stepped back into the shadows of a column and watched.
The man paused in a gap in the hedge, waiting for the gardener to turn his back. He was a short, dark-haired fellow, dressed in dull green and russet as if to go unnoticed in his current surroundings. He wore no cloak that would hide a pistol, and did not appear to be armed with more than a dagger. No immediate danger, then, unless he got a good deal closer to the ambassador.
The gardener picked up his trug and turned towards the next group of rose bushes. For a moment Mal was afraid the intruder would leap out and stab him, but the gardener walked away unharmed. The intruder looked straight at Mal and beckoned.
Mal hesitated. He was not about to walk up to another assassin and let himself be murdered. On the other hand, this could be some kind of contact from Walsingham. He strolled down the steps to the garden, as if going to admire the sundial. Glancing back, he reassured himself that the ambassador was still busy with the elders. He stepped aside into a rose bower and drew his rapier, then walked towards the waiting man.
"What do you want?"
The stranger said nothing, only took out a sealed letter, dropped it on the gravel path and walked away. Mal glanced around, but the gardener had his back to him. Crouching, he retrieved the folded paper. The seal was a plain one, a simple cross within a circle. On the other side were two initials: M C.
He slipped the letter into his pocket and sheathed his blade, then hurried back to the terrace. His only thought was to get the ambassador safely back to the Tower so he could read the letter at his leisure.
CHAPTER XIII
After a quiet supper in the dining room of St Thomas's Tower, the ambassador and the two elders settled down to a game of Five Beans. Greatyard produced a bag of counters and a roll of leather on which was painted the X-shaped board, and the skraylings began haggling good-naturedly over the items to be provided for the bets. The ambassador chose six gifts from the cabinet, much to the annoyance of the elders, who seemed to be disputing their value. Mal excused himself as early as possible, and retreated to the privacy of the small bedchamber.
Taking the letter from his pocket he cracked the seal.
Esteemed sir, it has come to our attention that one true to the Old Faith has, by the Grace of God, been granted access to His Excellency the Ambassador of Vinland. It is the fondest wish of His Holiness that the foreigners be brought to knowledge of Christ for the salvation of their souls, and it is certain that any man who could claim to have converted the ambassador himself would gain eternal salvation. He would also earn the undying gratitude of His Most Catholic Majesty King Felipe, to his undoubted benefit and worship. I pray to Our Lady that this message reaches one whose heart is true, and wish him all success in this endeavour.
Mal crumpled the letter in his fist. Goddam Spanish, using faith as an excuse for conquest. He looked around the bedchamber. Even to possess such a letter was enough to condemn a man. It mattered not that there was no signature, nor any recipient named; the initials on the outside were as good as a noose around his neck. Were they genuinely trying to recruit him, or was this a more subtle ploy, aimed at removing him from his position by exposing him as a Catholic? No matter. He would not give them the satisfaction of either.
He ventured into the ambassador's bedchamber, where one of the lamps rested on the hearth. He dipped the letter into the glowing liquid, but it failed to burst into flames. When he lifted it out, it dripped pale light back into the lamp but was otherwise unharmed. With a sigh he retrieved his tinderbox and placed the damp letter on the hearth, arranging a small heap of wood-shavings and other dry scraps in the centre.
After a few strikes of flint and steel the tinder caught fire. Flame gulped at the dry stuff and spread to the paper, turning it to wisps of black ash that floated about the room in the draught from the fireplace. Only the corner dampened by the skraylings' lightwater remained, the ink smeared into illegibility. He picked it up, wadded it and stuffed it in his pocket. One more thing that Walsingham would never hear from his own lips. Perhaps he should make a list, as Cecil was reputedly so fond of doing.