The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(93)

"Don't I know you?" Ned asked him.

The man peered at him, but said nothing.

"I saw you in the Bull's Head, when Naismith was hiring," Ned went on. "You're an actor, right?"

"Now and again," the prisoner said with a shrug. "Beats real work."

"Ned Faulkner. Philip Henslowe's copyist, amongst other things."

"John Wheeler," the man grunted. He looked Ned up and down. "They say you killed a man."

"He broke into our house and–" He could not say it out loud, not in this place. "It was kill or be killed."

To Ned's surprise, Wheeler broke into laughter. "Then I should count myself lucky the fellow who did this was armed with naught worse than a three-legged stool."

He touched the bruise gingerly, and winced.

"Are you – were you playing in the contest?" Ned asked.

"Not any more. I had a small part with Suffolk's Men, but…" He moved his leg, rattling the chain that pinned him to the wall.

"They play for the ambassador tomorrow, I hear," Ned said.

"Without me. Not that I care."

"Oh?"

"My part is already played," Wheeler said with a smirk.

Ned stared at him. Was this the fellow who had been sowing discord amongst Suffolk's Men with libellous doggerel? He launched himself across the gap that separated them, and pinned the unsuspecting actor to the floor.

"I should beat you into a bloody pulp for what you've done," Ned growled, and punched Wheeler in the mouth, splitting his lip. "That was for Gabriel."

The rest of the prisoners whistled and stamped their feet at this new entertainment. Wheeler pulled his arms free, shielding his battered face with one and reaching for Ned's wrist with the other. His groping fingers connected with Ned's nose and clawed at the tender flesh within, sending spikes of agony through Ned's skull. Ned caught the man's hand and forced it back to the floor, arching his own back to increase the space between them.

The purse swung free of Ned's half-unfastened shirt and Wheeler made a grab for it with his free hand, twisting the cord tight. As Ned tried to pull away, Wheeler pushed upwards, flipping Ned over onto his back. He did not press his advantage, however, but got to his feet and staggered backwards. Ned scrambled up after him, testing the limits of his shackles. Nowhere near long enough, unless Wheeler was prepared to advance.

"Ready for another bout?" he growled, retreating a little in the hope that his opponent would follow.

"You're not worth swinging for, Faulkner." Wheeler spat blood into the straw.

"You've already earned your hempen collar, and more," Ned replied. "Spreading sedition is near enough to treason that they will gladly gut you like a herring for it."

Wheeler turned pale for a moment, then regained his composure.

"No one can prove anything. This," he touched his forehead, "this was a mistake, I grant you. But it's the boy's word against mine."

"So you've taken to beating up children, as well as spreading lies?" Ned sneered. "You're a worse coward than I took you for, John Wheeler."

"At least I walk out of here, tomorrow or the next day. Or the one after that. You they'll save for the Michaelmas Assizes."

Ned swallowed. A whole month? Surely Mal would get him out of here before then?

Wheeler swayed again, stumbled against the wall and slid down to a sitting position. His face was pale and clammy, as if he were about to vomit. Several of the prisoners jeered or threw filth at the actor. Ned turned away in disgust and returned to his own station.

When it became obvious neither of them could be provoked into further fighting, the other prisoners lost interest. All but one, who continued to watch them closely whilst feigning not to. A spy? It was common practice to put informants amongst prisoners, to gain their confidence and trick them into betraying themselves. Ned felt certain it was more than coincidence that had placed him right next to Wheeler. But was it Providence at work, or did a more sinister hand direct his fate?

Master Catlyn was delighted at Coby's report, though she protested it was little enough intelligence to go on. He pressed her to stay the night in the ambassador's quarters, offering her the use of the canopied bed in a side room. There was no door, only an open archway, but the curtains of the bed gave enough privacy for her to feel at ease, provided she did not undress completely.

Before they retired for the night they took supper in the small parlour between the ambassador's bedchamber and the dining hall. She told Master Catlyn about the poem and Wheeler's attempted theft, and her theory that they were part of a stratagem to spoil the contest and perhaps even harm the ambassador.

"There is certainly a great deal of malice directed at the skraylings and anyone associated with them," Master Catlyn said when she had finished, "though whether from one source or several, I would not like to conjecture."

"Do you have any idea who it might be?"

"Unfortunately, yes." He sighed. "Have you heard of the Huntsmen?"

"Only rumours. I have heard there are scurrilous ballads about their activities, but Master Naismith will not have them sung in his presence. His fortune depends upon our company's alliance with the skraylings."