The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(7)

Someone handed him a racquet and he followed Grey through a side door onto the tennis court. A few of the departing courtiers drifted back, curious to see how long the newcomer would last.

Mal was out of practice and Grey had a good four inches on him, but he managed to hold his ground, at least to begin with. He's playing with me, he realised after a poor shot gained him a point. He feigned clumsiness on his next return. Grey, falling for the feint, tapped the ball into what should have been empty space – to find Mal there.

"Thirty all!" the umpire announced.

Surprised murmurs echoed around the gallery, and by the sounds of it, bets were placed.

On the far side of the drooping net, Grey twirled his racquet in one hand and shifted his weight from foot to foot. Mal smiled. Impatience: that would be his opponent's weakness. He strung out the moment as long as he dared then served, sending the leather ball bouncing off the left-hand wall and onto the sloping penthouse above the galleries.

It teetered on the penthouse edge for a moment before falling into the hazard end of the court, and Grey flicked it straight back over the net. Mal returned the ball in a high arc that sent the other man running sideways until he all but collided with the tambour wall. The spectators roared with laughter, and Grey flushed. He scooped his racquet under the ball as it bounced heavily on the wooden floor and sent it flying back to the service end. Mal stopped it with a neat backhand – too neat. Grey watched, grinning in anticipation, as the ball hopped over the net and bounced once, twice–

"Hazard chase, second gallery!" the umpire announced.

The spectators clapped or jeered according to their allegiance and placed further bets.

"Got money on this one yourself, Catlyn?" Grey asked. "Or perhaps you're not your father's son after all?"

Mal bit back a retort. This is no different from duelling, he told himself. Better to keep silent and let the other man's ill temper work in your favour. He served again, focusing all his attention on the flight of the little leather ball.

"So," Grey said, "what have you been doing with yourself since you were sent down?"

Mal froze. "I was not sent down, I left."

The tennis ball whistled past his head, hit the wall with a crack like a pistol shot and ricocheted into the dedans.

"Forty–thirty!" Grey smiled. "Change ends, Catlyn."

From his vantage point halfway along the court, Ned was paying more attention to the players than to the game, of which he knew little and cared less. Mal so rarely talked about his past, it was easy to forget he was the son of a diplomat, as far above a mere scrivener as Prince Arthur was above a gentleman commoner like Mal. This was a rare window on a part of his friend's life he seldom got to see.

"That's merely what I was told," Grey said, preparing to serve.

"What else did you hear?"

"Nothing." Grey wiped his hand on his damp shirt, which clung to his tall, muscular frame. He was handsome enough, Ned had to admit. If you liked cold-eyed arrogant bastards.

A heavily built young man in a gaudy scarlet doublet slashed with yellow silk pushed in front of Ned, blocking his view of the game. Ned was about to push back when he remembered where he was. Muttering under his breath he stepped backwards until he could go no further. He leant against the condensation-damp wall of the tennis court, eyes closed, wishing he was somewhere else, somewhere he didn't feel like a stranger in his own city.

When he opened his eyes he saw another courtier leaning against the wall not far away, watching him slyly from under lowered lids. The youth was no more than sixteen, thin and with a sickly complexion like something found under a stone. Eyes down, mouth shut, Mal had said. But if he was approached, surely it would be rude to say no? Not that he wanted to say yes to anything this creature might propose.

"You. Fellow."

Ned bridled at being so addressed by a mere boy, but ducked his head anyway.

"My lord?"

The youth detached himself from the wall.

"You are Catlyn's man?"

That was one way of putting it. "Yes, sir."

"He is the swarthy fellow playing against Grey?"

"Well, I wouldn't call him swarthy–"

A well-manicured hand slapped him backhanded, rings scraping his cheek.

"Do not talk back to your betters, sirrah," the youth hissed, lifting a silver pomander to his nose.

Ned ducked his head again, not daring to reply. The crowd applauded: Mal had won another point. When Ned looked back, the boy with the pomander was gone.

It was not hard to let Grey win. Mal's pride would not allow him to give in without a fight, but the other man's superior height and reach made him a tough opponent by any standard. Mal hoped he would never have to face him in a duel.

Afterwards they wandered out into St James's Park, where servants brought flagons of chilled Rhenish wine for their refreshment. Young ladies strolled arm-in-arm under the watchful eyes of chaperones or sat on cushions in the shade of beech trees, fussing over lapdogs and pretending not to make eyes at the young men as they passed. The stink and crowds of London might as well be a hundred miles away.

Mal gestured for Ned to wait at a discreet distance. The last thing he wanted was for his friend to overhear anything about his not-so-glorious past.

"So," Grey said at last, putting down his silver goblet, "what is this matter you are so anxious to discuss in private?"