The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(94)

"Not all the ballads are invention," Master Catlyn said softly. "That I can vouch for myself."

She stared at him.

"It was a long time ago," he went on, "and I was but a callow boy, led astray by those who should know better. I disavowed their company as soon as I could."

She wanted to believe him. And surely he would not have taken the job as the ambassador's bodyguard if he were still a Huntsman, would he?

"And you think the Huntsmen are behind the attacks on our theatre, and the taking of your brother?"

"I don't know. The man whom you caught–"

"Wheeler."

"Yes. He, and any allies of his, are probably just sympathisers to the Huntsmen's cause. The real Huntsmen would not dare pursue their activities here in London, not with informants on every corner and the might of both princes ready to crush them on the slightest suspicion. But they surely have eyes and ears of their own, and friends at Court. Friends like Blaise Grey."

"The Duke of Suffolk's son? That cannot be. His father is our patron, and a friend of the skraylings."

"The duke may be, but his son is not. And Blaise has income enough to fund a conspiracy, despite the breach with his father. You said Ned told you these villains of his were well supplied with money?"

"Several gold angels at least. And that was just to bribe the warders at Bedlam."

Master Catlyn stood up and walked over to the window. Moonlight silvered his hair and caressed the pommel of the dagger on his right hip.

"I should be out there, looking for Sandy," he muttered, slamming the side of his fist against the stone wall.

"It is long after curfew, sir. You cannot behave in any strange manner that might betray your suspicion of their plans, otherwise…"

He turned abruptly to look at her.

"There is no Otherwise."

"No, sir."

The following morning Coby woke early, startled by the croaking of ravens on the battlements above her window. She washed her face in a basin of tepid water and pulled on her doublet before anyone else stirred.

Master Catlyn finally appeared, dishevelled and grey from lack of sleep, as breakfast was being set out in the parlour.

"You said that Naismith gave you the day off today," he said, taking his place at table.

"Yes, sir."

He poured himself a flagon of small ale, but waved away the platters of bread and cold meats. The servants bowed and retreated.

"Then you must go to the hearing at the Compter," he told her, "and report back here."

Coby put down her hunk of bread. "Are you not going?"

"I think it wise for me to stay away from Ned as long as possible. I already risk much by using you as my go-between; Kemp mustn't suspect that I know about Sandy's disappearance."

She nodded. Otherwise Sandy is dead, she added silently. And there can be no Otherwise.

"Of course, sir. I… I was going to go anyway. Master Parrish is giving evidence, and Master Naismith will be most wroth if he is too distraught to act tomorrow."

"Then you must do your utmost to help your friends." He stood and bowed curtly. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have much to do."

As he left, she thought she heard him mutter Though what, I do not know. She sighed, picked up her woollen cap and headed for the door.

The hearing had been set for eleven o'clock, so she went round to Master Parrish's lodgings first. The actor looked even worse than Master Catlyn, white as new curds and with an uncharacteristic golden haze of stubble around his jawline.

"Will they hang him?" Parrish asked for the hundredth time, as they walked along St Olave's Street towards the Compter.

"I am sure they will not. Master Catlyn has friends in very high places."

"But Ned betrayed him."

"And is forgiven." A small lie, but she had sworn not to reveal Master Catlyn's plan to anyone.

All too soon they arrived at the tall arched doors of the courthouse. The church buildings had been divided up, concealing most of their high vaulted ceilings, but many details of their former purpose remained: narrow Gothic windows, finely carved stone doorways and blank-faced niches that had once held the statues of saints. The nave had been converted into a panelled courtroom, and the magistrate's bench stood where the priest had formerly distributed the Host to the faithful. A fitting end to the corrupt idolatry that had been swept away by the Reformation, Coby had been taught, though she was too young to remember how things had been. To her, the name Catholic had always signified soldiers and enemies; it had nothing to do with ordinary pious folk.

Sixteen men in their Sunday best occupied the front bench: sixteen citizens of the borough where the crime took place, as required by law, to form a jury of Ned's peers. A thin couple in threadbare homespun sat close together near the back of the courtroom, looking duly terrified by the grand surroundings, and a little way along the bench sat the Faulkners' parish priest, blackgarbed as a crow and about as genial. Peering over the heads of the jurors, Coby realised with a shock that what she had taken for an ancient marble tomb was a bier on which lay two corpses, each draped in a linen sheet. There was no sign of Ned.

Feeling somewhat queasy, she allowed Master Parrish to show her to a seat halfway down the room. She sank down onto the bench and stared at her chipped fingernails, praying for the hearing to be over soon. Eventually the magistrate appeared, flanked by not one but two coroners, in robes of black lined with scarlet. The officer of the court rapped his polearm on the tiled floor, and everyone stood.