The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(96)

Parrish made his way through the departing jurors and took his seat next to Coby. A servant came in with goblets of wine for the magistrate and coroners. Somewhere a bell chimed the hour, followed by twelve strokes.

"Damn that priest," Parrish muttered. "Why could he not have kept silent about Ned's absence from church? It was only once, I swear, and then only out of fear of that bastard Kemp."

The officer called the court to order, and the magistrate asked the foreman of the jury to deliver the verdict. The man cleared his throat.

"We, the aforesaid jurors of this case, do agree that the defendant Edmund Faulkner killed and slew Thomas Armitage, in defence of his life and property, and that having fled in shame at his deed, did willingly return and surrender his person to the law, within that same day. We likewise agree that the aforesaid Armitage slew, or did cause to die, Mistress Margaret Faulkner, in the commission of said crime of robbery."

Coby sighed with relief, and squeezed Parrish's hand.

"He's not out of the woods yet," the actor muttered.

Coroner Danby got to his feet.

"On behalf of Her Majesty the Queen, I hereby grant bail of five pounds to the defendant, pending further proceedings. Master Faulkner, you are free to go about this city and not to leave its bounds, upon your own recognisance and the payment of said sum."

A murmur of surprise passed around the court. Such swift and clement dealings were almost unheard-of, and yet five pounds was an enormous sum to a man of Ned Faulkner's means. Coby glanced at Master Parrish and knew he was thinking the same thing. Who, if anyone, would pay the bail?

The jurors and other witnesses filed out, and the clerk of the court began gathering up his notes. Coroner Danby beckoned Ned to approach the bench, and said something to him. Ned nodded and signed the document he was given, and one of the guards who had brought him in removed his chains.

Ned turned towards them, blinking as if awaking from a bad dream, and Parrish rushed forward to embrace him. Coby followed more slowly. As she drew near, she heard Ned ask:

"How can I ever repay you?"

"For coming here, and bearing witness? It was the least I could do."

"No, for putting up the bail money."

"I?" Parrish held him at arm's length. "I would gladly have raised ten times that, had I known, but…"

"Then who?"

Parrish shrugged, and they both looked at Coby.

"This was Mal's doing, wasn't it?" Ned asked wonderingly.

"I suppose so," she replied, then added, in harsher tones than she intended, "He must care about you very much."

She turned on her heel and walked out of the courtroom, tears pricking in her eyes. She wiped them away with her cuff and cursed her selfish jealousy. If Master Catlyn wanted to use his influence to save a friend from the gallows, it was no more than she ought to expect of any Christian. She walked back to the Tower in an ill humour with herself, wishing she could return straight away to Thames Street and forget about everything except the performance tomorrow.

CHAPTER XXV

Mal spent an anxious morning criss-crossing the city on real and imagined errands for the ambassador. At no point was he hit over the head and dragged into an alley by his brother's captors, somewhat to his disappointment.

He had been in a siege or two in his career, but this waiting was worse than any he had endured. What he needed was a distraction, a bodily exertion to ease his tortured mind. He was tempted to head up to Bishopsgate and beat seven shades of Hell out of that whoreson Cooke. He could not risk it, however; if he went anywhere near Bedlam, the villains might learn they were found out and then all would be lost. No, he had no choice but to feign ignorance and wait for them to make their move.

At the very least he could fortify his defences. To that end he made his way westwards to Thames Street and asked for directions to the house of Henry Naismith of Suffolk's Men.

The door was opened by a girl of about fifteen who looked him up and down with a cynical air.

"Maliverny Catlyn, to see your master," Mal said. "On the Queen's business."

The girl's mouth fell open, then she remembered herself, bobbed a curtsey and ushered him down a dark hall and through a half-open door.

"A Master–"

"Catlyn!" Naismith exclaimed, getting to his feet. He waved the girl out. "Not bad news, I hope, sir?"

"Not at all," Mal replied. "I merely have some additional instructions for the morrow."

"Of course, of course, only too happy to oblige. Will you join us for dinner?"

"I… Yes, thank you."

"Excellent." Naismith went to the door. "Betsy! Tell your mistress we have another to dinner."

He returned to his desk, where a fat ledger sat open, and shook sand over the page.

"Please, sit down," he told Mal, tidying away his pens and ink.

Mal closed the door, then sat down gingerly on an ancient stool on the near side of the desk. How to begin, without betraying Hendricks' confidence?

"As I am sure you are aware, sir," he said at last, "the skraylings are not universally loved."

Naismith grunted, and shut the ledger with a thud.

"Tell me something I do not know," the actor-manager said. "I have had men spit on me in the street for going into business with one."