The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(77)

"In punishing you for disobeying orders."

"No, ma'am. I would have done the same in his place." Had done the same, on campaign. It was the only way to maintain discipline amongst the lower ranks. He was only glad he had never had to order a man's death.

"You consider yourself as skilled a diplomat as your father?"

Mal blinked at this change of direction. The Queen was as unpredictable a questioner as Walsingham.

"No, Your Majesty."

"Very wise. A diplomat who caused this kind of… upset would not hold his post for long."

"I am of course yours to command, Your Majesty. I will resign my commission forthwith, if that is your desire."

"Hmm."

"Majesty." Kiiren bowed again. "Please forgive my loyal companion; it is my fault alone. I should have more respect for customs of my hosts."

The Queen leant forward slightly, her eyes moving from one to the other of her visitors.

"It seems you have made a powerful ally, Master Catlyn."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Since no hurt has been done, we are willing to overlook this incident – if the ambassador is agreeable."

"Of course, Majesty," Kiiren said in grateful tones.

"It would be a great comfort to our enemies to learn that our two nations were at odds. We will not give them that satisfaction."

"Your Majesty is very wise."

"Now, leave us. We are wearied by all this talk."

The Queen rang a small bell that hung at her side, and a hidden door in the panelling opened. A lady-in-waiting hurried into the audience chamber, bearing a tray of refreshments. Her eyes widened at the sight of the skrayling.

They made their exit, stepping carefully backwards across the crackling rushes until they were out of the royal presence. Mal heaved a great sigh of relief as the doors closed.

"Your people are very fortunate to have so great a queen," Kiiren said, smiling.

"Yes, we are," Mal replied. "England shall not see her like again."

He did not add that his people would not think themselves truly fortunate until they had a king once more.

Ned went straight home after crossing the river. He wanted to stay on Bankside and see if he could make out which way the coach headed next, but he saw Kemp watching him like a hawk as he disembarked and thought better of it. The less he knew, the better. But even that might be too much.

His feet led him towards the Mirror at first, unconsciously seeking the comfort of Gabriel's presence, but as he reached Gravel Lane he changed his mind. He would not be at all welcome if the actors were rehearsing, and if they were not, there was no point in going. Perhaps he should try Gabriel's lodgings, or Naismith's house? Then again, Hendricks had made it pretty clear he was not welcome there either. And whilst Armitage and Kemp were busy enough for the present, there was no telling what they would do when they returned to London. Either Ned had finally outworn his usefulness, or they had some new villainy in store for him. Well, he would not oblige them either way.

There was only one thing for it: he had to get his mother away from here. They had cousins down in Sussex; they could hide out there and Kemp would never find them. How they would shift for themselves in the country, he had no idea, but it had to be better than this. With the thought of perhaps never seeing either Mal or Gabriel again gnawing at his guts, he made his way through the back garden and into the kitchen.

His mother was bent over the fire, stirring an iron pot hanging on a hook. A savoury aroma rose with the steam, making Ned's stomach growl.

"Sit down," his mother said. "I got a nice ham-hock from the butcher's this morning, and there's soup–"

"Mam, we should leave. Now."

He took down the shopping basket from its peg and began filling it with supplies: bread, cheese, a jar of newly pickled onions, and several bottles of beer. After a moment's thought he added a carving knife and a small roasting-spit.

"Leave?" Mistress Faulkner put the lid back on the pot with a clank and sat down at the table. "What are you talking about, our Ned?"

He looked around the kitchen distractedly. What else did they need?

"We have to leave Southwark, Mam."

She cocked her head on one side.

"Have you been getting into trouble again, my lad?"

"It wasn't my fault." He put the basket down with a sigh.

"It never is."

She patted the bench beside her, and he sat down reluctantly.

"If your father was alive," his mother said, "you wouldn't have to scrape around for a living with them actors. I always knew they'd lead you amiss one day… Well, no use crying over spilt milk, eh?"

"I suppose you're right, Mam."

He leant his head against hers, and she put her arm around his shoulder. Her fingers were cold through the thin linen of his shirt, and her breath sounded even more wheezy than usual. How could he ask his mother to go tramping the high roads like a beggar at her age?

"O' course I'm right." She ruffled his greasy hair. "Now, get yourself some supper and stop worrying."

CHAPTER XX

After the audience with the Queen they rode straight back to the skrayling encampment and Kiiren excused himself, saying he must report to the elders. A servant brought a plate of spiced rice scattered with strips of fried meat and chunks of vegetables, and a jug of aniig. Mal picked at the food, pondering the day's events. The fragile alliance between England and Vinland hung in the balance, and he had been the one to disturb the scales by switching his allegiance between the two. Who was this Erishen, that the mere possibility of his existence could rule the fate of nations?