The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(82)

Armitage paused, his eyes flicking to the blade then back to Ned's face.

"Not so stupid, are you?" Ned muttered. "Kill me if you must, but I'll plant this knife in your guts before I die."

He dodged to one side, but in the narrow space it was child's play for Armitage to block his escape. He was going to have to rely on his wits. With a cry of rage Ned leapt onto the bed, giving himself the advantage of a couple of inches of height, though he had to crouch to avoid hitting his head on the canopy.

Armitage took hold of the two uprights at the foot of the bed and began to shake the whole bedstead from side to side. Ned shifted his weight, trying to keep his footing. The ancient, worm-riddled woodwork was beginning to shake apart under the assault. Clouds of dust fell from the canopy. Ned coughed and spluttered, barely able to see his opponent through streaming eyes. He felt rather than saw Armitage lunge, and rolled aside just in time, landing on the floor next to the bed with a thud and nearly dropping the knife. As he scrambled to his feet, an enormous fist caught him in the ribs with a sickening crunch.

Ned fell backwards, coughing, pain tearing into his side. Armitage grabbed an ankle and began to pull him out of the narrow space. Ned flailed his arms, trying to get a purchase on the wall and bed-frame, and his groping fingers touched cold stoneware: the chamber pot. He snatched it up and hurled the stinking contents into Armitage's face, followed by the pot itself. The big man brushed the missile aside, cursing. Free of Armitage's grasp, Ned launched himself upwards and buried the knife in his opponent's belly.

Armitage roared in pain and enveloped Ned in a piss-stinking bear hug that threatened to crush the life from his body. Ned screamed as his cracked ribs exploded in fresh agony. The hilt of his knife was digging into his own belly now. With a last effort he leant against it, pushing it upwards into the man's chest towards the heart. As blackness took him, he heard Armitage give a strangled moan, and then he was falling…

He came to in a pool of blood and piss, half-buried under his attacker. He drew a cautious breath, and wished he hadn't. He felt like a dog after a bear-baiting, and not one of the winners either. He extricated himself from Armitage's final embrace and limped over to the wash stand. The water was cold but clean, and Ned spent a long time scrubbing at his skin with a damp flannel, trying not to think about what had just happened. He had killed a man. Not a good man, admittedly, but a man nonetheless. Ned knew his Ten Commandments, and whilst kidnapping was not on the list, murder certainly was. If he had ever doubted he was going to Hell for his sins, he could not do so now.

The house was silent; no sound came from the lodgers' rooms below, though they surely could not have slept through the fight. Ned thought back to some of his nights with Gabriel; no doubt the lodgers had long since learnt to ignore the noises from the attic. Clean at last, or as clean as he was ever likely to get, he pulled on his clothes with trembling hands. Where was his mother? She must have been woken by the noise, unless–

He crept down the stairs, sick to his stomach with dread, and made his way down to the ground floor and along the passage to the kitchen. A faint glow from the banked fire gave shape to the room and its meagre furnishings. Ned knelt at the hearth and lit a spill from the embers, then touched the flame to a candle stub and looked about him.

At first he could see nothing amiss.

"Mam?"

There was no reply. He went to his mother's bed and pulled aside the thin woollen hangings, but found only crumpled sheets and blankets. The back door creaked in the morning breeze, making him jump. Perhaps she was out in the garden.

Just as he reached the door, his foot caught against something. He looked down. A pale face stared up at him from the floor.

"Mam!"

He fell to his knees, patting her face and looking in vain for any sign of life. The old woman lay still, not a mark on her, only a slight frown of pain marring her features. Had the shock of Armitage's arrival at such an early hour caused her heart to fail? He took her hand. So cold. But her hands were always cold these days, that didn't mean anything, it didn't mean she was – He probed her wrist with his other hand, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. He pressed the back of her hand to his cheek, tears trickling down to pool where their flesh met.

"I'm sorry, Mam. I'm so sorry…"

After what felt like hours he rose, shaking with exhaustion. Now he really had to get out of here. There was a dead man upstairs, another man kidnapped… The parish priest would see his mother buried. Reluctantly he went back upstairs to gather his few belongings.

"Craven swine!" he screamed at the closed doors. "I should burn the house down with you lot in it."

Only the thought of his mother lying downstairs, and the innocent neighbours in the adjoining houses, prevented him from carrying out the threat.

With only a couple of days left before their performance in the competition, Suffolk's Men were spending every morning and afternoon rehearsing. The theatres had been closed all week in order to increase the public's anticipation of the great event. Nerves were stretched taut as bowstrings, and Coby was still needed as a prompt even though every man knew his lines backwards by now.

Master Parrish arrived late, and was even more distracted than usual. After yet another fluffed speech, he retreated to the back corner of the stage, where Coby was sitting on a stool with their one full copy of the script in her lap.

"May I speak with you privily?" he asked.