The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(15)

"Lady Frances."

"Master Catlyn." Lady Frances blocked his way into the bedchamber. "I suppose you are here to see my father on the usual business."

"Yes, madam."

"He is… not a well man. I will not have him troubled by ill news from abroad. You bring ill news?"

"There is seldom good news in our line of work. Please, Lady Frances; I swear I will not keep him long."

She sighed, but bowed her head and let them pass.

The bedchamber was warm and stuffy despite the cold winter evening. Sir Francis Walsingham lay in the great carved and canopied bed, his face as pale as the candles that burned on the table nearby. Like the candles his flesh had a translucent appearance, as if he were already insubstantial as a ghost. Coby regarded Lady Frances in renewed sympathy; she had not been exaggerating her father's illness.

The spymaster's heavy-lidded eyes opened.

"Catlyn?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Sir Francis." Mal knelt by the bed. "Sir, I will be brief. I bring grave news; the skraylings are planning an alliance with Venice."

Walsingham's expression became more alert, and he struggled to sit up. His daughter hurried to help him, propping him up with bolsters. "Are you sure?"

"I have it on the best authority," Mal replied.

He began telling Walsingham about the shipwreck and their journey to Sark. Coby noticed he said nothing about the dream that had led them to the wreck, or his unease in the cathedral. She could hardly blame him; men had been burned at the stake for less.

Lady Frances resumed her seat by the bed, and busied herself sewing a sleeve onto a new linen shirt. Coby couldn't help noticing that, although she never once looked in their direction, her expression changed from moment to moment, as if she were listening to every word and filing it away. Her father's daughter in more than looks, it seemed.

"This bodes ill for our kingdom," Walsingham said when Mal finished his tale. "If the skraylings take their trade elsewhere, Her Majesty's coffers will be much the emptier. But what do you make of the business? You seem very certain of your informant."

"We are but one small island," Mal said, "and the New World is very large. It was inevitable, I think, that the skraylings would not be content with our friendship alone. The Spanish they despise, and with good reason: King Philip's hubris in claiming the New World for the Pope was not well-judged. The French crown is…" He broke off with a laugh. "I've lost count of how many assassins have tried to murder King Henri. My… ah… manservant and I stopped at least two during in our time in Paris."

Walsingham's expression grew distant, and Mal glanced at Lady Frances briefly before continuing.

"The Holy Roman Empire is too strongly allied with the Pope," he said, "as is much of Italy. And then there is Venice."

"Ah, the Serene Republic." Walsingham turned his attention back to his visitors. "Yes, they have long been out of favour with His Holiness. The enemy of our enemy should be our friend, but when it comes to business, a Venetian would sell his own grandmother. An alliance with the skraylings would allow them to reclaim their position as the trade centre of the Mediterranean."

He coughed, each spasm racking his frame. Lady Frances poured wine and passed the cup to her father.

"I confess I have been expecting something like this for a while," Walsingham went on when he had recovered his breath. "Ever since Naismith's theatre burnt down, relations between England and the skraylings have cooled. At first I hoped it was a temporary setback, a misunderstanding over our ability to control seditious elements within the realm. After you left for France, the Privy Council ordered a great many arrests and executions, and yet the number of skrayling ships coming to London continues to decline."

Coby bit her lip, wanting to interject but knowing her comments would not be welcome. Arrests and executions? No wonder the skraylings were unhappy, even if it was not their own people being punished. She knew what it was like to be a stranger in London, only grudgingly accepted for the work she could do. They must be wondering when the Queen's anger would turn against them instead of her own people.

"Then you will bring this matter before the Privy Council, sir?" Mal said.

Walsingham smiled ruefully. "Alas, I am in no condition to attend the council, nor am I like to be. Besides, we – or perhaps I should say, they – are not due to meet again until after Easter, and by then it may be too late."

"Then what are we to do?"

Walsingham waved a trembling hand at his daughter. "Letters of introduction, my dear, for Master Catlyn. One to Sir Walter Raleigh, and one to Sir Geoffrey Berowne. The usual cipher for the latter, in case the Venetians try to intercept it."

Lady Frances put down her sewing and went to the desk by the window.

"You look surprised, Catlyn," Walsingham said.

"All London wondered why she did not marry the Earl of Essex," Mal said in a low voice. "Has she been working for you all this time?"

"They say women's tongues are loose and prone to gossip; where better, then, to place an informant than amongst the women at court? Essex would have had her with child and packed off to his country estate for the good of her health. I needed her here."

"An obedient woman is prized above rubies," Mal said.