The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(53)

Mal glanced at the ambassador, wondering if this statement was aimed closer to home. Had the ambassador understood the remarks at the admiral's dinner after all? He must surely have been briefed on the political situation in England, even if his people could not understand the details.

D'Arrignan presented Kiiren with an inlaid wooden box containing a gilded spoon and fork. Mal had seen table forks used in Italy, though Englishmen considered them unnecessary and effeminate. After a cursory examination he took the box and handed it to a servant, with instructions to wash the implements thoroughly in case the ambassador wished to use them at dinner.

As he was leaving, D'Arrignan addressed Mal in French.

"My master wishes me to convey his regrets that your family has suffered so much in recent years. Your late mother was truly an ornament of the French court, and she is sadly missed."

"Thank your master for his kind words, sir."

"He also wishes me to say that your mother's family's legal affairs are very… complicated. It is possible that mistakes were made in assigning the dowry, and that her sons may yet be entitled to certain modest estates currently in the possession of our sovereign, Henri."

More bribes, eh? At least the French had the delicacy to couch it in terms that almost sounded reasonable and just. Treason was still treason, however.

"Please tell your master I appreciate his concern for my family. Should any such matter be presented to an English court of law, I would be most happy to accept the outcome."

The diplomat smiled thinly at the rebuff.

"As you wish, monsieur."

Mal was relieved when D'Arrignan left. First the Spanish, now the French; who else was lining up to bribe, threaten or cajole him into betraying his commission?

Master Naismith cancelled the day's rehearsals and called a meeting of the principal actors at his house in Thames Street.

"'Tis a Papist plot to put us out of business!" Rafe Eaton's bellow made the door tremble on its hinges.

Eaton was pacing back and forth, shaking his fist at the ceiling and slopping beer on the floor from the tankard in his other hand. Coby slipped into the dining parlour, trying to stay unnoticed. She sat down at the table not far from Master Parrish, who was staring at nothing, his chin resting on interlaced hands.

"Give it a rest," Master Rudd said, his weary tones so unlike his onstage persona. "It's only words, after all."

"Only words?" Eaton hauled the clown from his seat by the back of his doublet. "Will you still be saying it is only words when you are dragged off to Bridewell to be tortured, like poor Tom Kyd?"

"Gentlemen, please!"

Naismith separated the two men, and Rudd resumed his place at the table.

"He's right," Parrish said quietly. "Kit Marlowe was arrested just because some libeller used the name of one of his plays as a pseudonym. Then they found an old essay of Marlowe's in Kyd's lodgings and arrested him for nothing more than that. Do any of us dare to come under such scrutiny?"

The actors pondered these unhappy events in silence. Though Marlowe had been released from prison almost immediately, he was killed in a brawl only a few days later. To many within the theatre, this seemed too convenient a happenstance.

"It is God's judgement," Rudd said, peering into his tankard as if seeing revelation there. "We have blasphemed and he is punishing us."

Eaton paused in his pacing. "What are you blathering about now, buffoon?"

"This aping of the skraylings," said the clown. "Until they came along we had only pageants and mystery plays, honouring the Lord and telling His scriptures."

"Nonsense," said Naismith. "My grandsire told me there were worldly plays when he was a boy, ere any skrayling ship was seen in these waters."

"But you can't deny the playhouses were not built until after our nations became allies, or that King Henry banned women from playing, just to curry favour with the skraylings."

"No," Naismith conceded. "But God did not do this dreadful deed; it is the act of men. Or a man, at any rate." He peered around the shadowy room, as if expecting the miscreant to leap out and declare himself.

"Who is this Jonah, do you think?" Coby asked.

"Whoever he is, he writes very poor verse," Eaton said. "If 'twere not for the foul libel therein, no one would pay it any mind."

"Might there not be something in the writing?" Parrish said. "All poets have their own style, and we here must know every scribbler in Southwark. Perhaps we might make a guess?"

"You read it out, lad," Master Naismith said, passing the notice to Coby. "I will not dignify it with an actor's oratory."

Coby cleared her throat, and began to read.

"When Christian men should be at prayer

The trumpet sounds and every player

Gathers to hail their great naysayer,

The smith who forges blasphemy.

Alas! 'Tis plain for all to see

A tarnished glass this Mirror be."

Her voice shook, and she eyed Master Naismith anxiously. His features were dark with controlled anger, but he gestured for her to continue.

"Chains of silver bind their souls.

Their capering doth fan the coals

Of Satan's fires and turn the whole