The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(16)

Coby wondered if the comment was directed at herself. She stared at the floor, her jaw tightening. He was her employer, and she owed him obedience, she knew that. Would he now expect her to follow Lady Frances's example? Resuming female garb was one thing, but how was she to converse with other women and learn their secrets, when she had spent the past seven years trying to forget her sex and pass as a boy?

"Raleigh is one of yours also?" Mal asked.

"Not precisely," Walsingham said. "But he seeks to win his way back into favour with the Queen, so he is grateful for any service he can do her."

"And Berowne?"

"He is Her Majesty's ambassador to Venice. A dull fellow, but until now we have had no need of anyone better."

"You want me to go to Venice, sir?"

"You are the trusted friend of the former ambassador of Vinland. You must find out if the skraylings have made any trade agreements with the Venetians, and if so, to what end."

"Yes, sir." Mal paused, and exchanged glances at Coby, who nodded encouragement. "Sir… in France I made good use of local men, those dissatisfied with their king or simply out for themselves. A little money for bribes would not go amiss…"

"I… strongly advise against it," the spymaster wheezed. "The Venetians are proud of their loyalty to their republic, and do not take kindly to dissent." He paused for a sip of wine. "Keep a civil tongue in your head when you are there. God knows I have been ruthless in dealing with those who speak out against Her Majesty, but I learnt by the Venetians' example."

"You have been to Venice, sir?"

Walsingham shook his head. "Only as far as Padua. I studied at the university there."

"Padua belongs to the Republic."

"Yes."

"Then you can teach me all I need to know," Mal said, leaning closer.

Walsingham slumped back against his pillows and his eyes closed.

"I think you have wearied my father more than enough," Lady Frances said. She got to her feet and crossed to her father's bedside where she stood like an angel at the gates of Eden, arms folded and eyes narrowed as if daring them to challenge her authority. "Come back tomorrow, Master Catlyn, and you shall have your letters."

Walsingham stirred. "One more word, my dear, before they go."

He beckoned to Mal, who leant over whilst Walsingham whispered in his ear. Coby strained to hear what they were saying, but the old man's voice was too faint. Mal nodded several times, then straightened up.

Lady Frances showed them out of the house herself, summoning a servant to return their cloaks. As Mal crossed the threshold, he ventured one last question.

"It would be helpful to my mission to learn as much of Venice as I can. Perhaps Lord Brooke–"

"Alas, Brooke is no longer with us," Lady Frances replied. "An ague took him, the winter before this."

"A pity."

Lady Frances inclined her head in mute agreement, and closed the door.

"Lord Brooke?" Coby asked as they walked away.

"The former ambassador to Venice; he was with Effingham's party, that day you came to the Rose to find me. I thought he might have some useful insights into Venetian politics."

"We shall have to make do with our own wits, then," she replied with a grin.

"Aye." He smiled back, and pulled up his hood against the cold. "Come, let's take a wherry back to Southwark. It'll be curfew soon, and I don't want to get caught on the wrong side of the city gates."

They made their way to the docks where a few wherries still lingered, hoping to make a last penny or two at the end of the day. The snow had abated, but it was even colder out on the river than in the city streets, and they huddled shoulder to shoulder for the crossing. At last the wherry bumped up against Battle Stairs and Coby scrambled up the ice-slick steps, groping for the rail with reddened, nerveless fingers. As they emerged into St Olave's Street, she gave vent to the irritation that had been gnawing at her all the way from Seething Lane.

"Why Raleigh, of all people?" she asked of the night air. "That pompous, arrogant, narrow-minded… heretic!"

"You don't approve of our captain?"

"No I do not."

"But he's one of the heroes of the age," Mal said. "He's been to the New World and back, quelled the Irish, fought the Spanish–"

"Hero of the age indeed! He's naught but a pirate with charming manners."

A trio of drunken tanners staggered across the street towards them, the stink of their trade unmistakable even in the chill air. Mal threw back his cloak to reveal the hilt of his rapier and they backed off, swearing.

"What reason have you to dislike him so?" Mal said, when the tanners were out of earshot.

She sighed. "Perhaps you don't remember. No reason you would, it wouldn't have mattered to you."

"What wouldn't?"

"About three years ago, before we met, Raleigh was very active in Parliament. He's a member for Devon, you know."

"So?"

"So there was a motion to grant wider privileges to the immigrant communities in London. My people were overjoyed to be accepted at last, to have the same opportunities as native-born merchants and craftsmen, to be able to own their workshops and join the city guilds. Little things, perhaps, but they meant a lot to us." She drew a deep breath. "Raleigh spoke against the bill."