The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(34)

The door opened, making her start.

"Come," Sandy said. "The guild-house will be closing soon. And bring your belongings. I do not intend to come back here."

"You will have to learn better manners," she muttered, swinging her knapsack over her shoulder, "if you are to spend time amongst good Christian folk."

"Then you can teach me on the way to France."

Gabriel was waiting for them in the kitchen, already wrapped in a threadbare cloak of ruby velvet lined with silvery rabbit fur.

"Don't leave anything valuable behind," Coby said to the actor. "Grey is going to tear this place apart looking for us."

Gabriel looked about the house. "A good point. I will ensure he finds nothing else of interest here."

"Be quick about it," Coby said, following Sandy out of the back door. "I doubt I can delay Master Catlyn."

Though it was nearly dark, the curfew bell had not yet rung and the suburb's streets were still busy. Coby kept glancing over her shoulder as they hurried along St Olave's Street, expecting to see armed men in the duke's blue-andwhite livery in pursuit.

The skrayling guild-house stood on the corner of Bermondsey Street, at the easternmost edge of Southwark. From the outside it looked much like any other mercantile establishment in London, except for the skrayling writing on the sign over the door. Coby had been here once before, on theatre business with Master Naismith. For a moment she saw again the actor-manager lying dead at her feet and smelt the acrid tang of flash-powder, and a cold weight of melancholy settled on her heart.

The main hall of the guild-house was much as she remembered it, though quieter owing to the late hour. Sandy approached one of the benches and spoke in Vinlandic to the skrayling merchant seated there. The skrayling put down his counting blocks and gestured to one of his colleagues. Sandy went over and repeated his question. The second skrayling inclined his head in a gesture Coby had come to recognise as one of cautious agreement, and they proceeded to talk in low tones. Not that she could have understood them, even if they had been talking loud enough. She thought she heard Lord Kiiren's name mentioned at one point, but it was impossible to be certain.

Sandy pulled a string of silver ingots from his doublet and handed them over to the skrayling, who examined them and then counted out a heap of silver coins of various sizes. Sandy scooped them up into a purse, bowed to the merchant and came over to Coby.

"Our business here is done," he said. "The ship leaves on tonight's tide, though we should be aboard before curfew. I think it is safer if we stay hidden here in the guild-house until then."

Coby nodded, relieved at the short delay. It would give Gabriel time to catch them up, and yet was soon enough for them to escape Grey. Or so she hoped. Her prayers had been answered so far, but God's plans were seldom so straightforward.

The hour passed, and still there was no sign of Gabriel.

"We have to go," Sandy said, getting to his feet, "or we may miss the tide."

"What about Gabriel?"

"He is a grown man, is he not? He will have to fend for himself."

"But–"

"It was you who insisted we flee to France. Have you changed your mind?"

"No."

Coby picked up her belongings and followed him out of the guild-house. No sign of the duke's men, thank the Lord, but no Gabriel either. Unless… A figure shrouded in a red hooded cloak was making its way towards them in the wake of a group of labourers. Eventually the labourers turned down Bermondsey Street, leaving their companion behind. Coby embraced Gabriel briefly, then Sandy led them across the wooden bridge at the end of the street and out onto the downs where the skrayling camp stood.

Surrounded by streams and a wooden palisade, the camp was forever isolated from the city. However it seemed to Coby that there was less smoke rising from within than last time she was in London, and fewer lights glowing amongst its trees. Perhaps it was just the cold weather keeping the skraylings subdued, but she remembered Walsingham's comments. If the skraylings and their silver stopped coming, things would go badly for England.

They did not enter the stockade but continued round to Horseydown Stairs on the banks of the Thames, where a small gull-prowed boat waited to take them out to the ship anchored further downriver: a typical skrayling carrack, broad in the waist, two-masted and sturdy to weather the Atlantic crossing. The trip to France should be a Sunday afternoon's stroll in comparison.

Soon their little boat was bumping against the timber side of the ship, and they climbed the rope ladder to the deck. Sandy was greeted warmly by a stout skrayling whose amber-and-turquoise-beaded hair marked him out as a person of status. They spoke briefly in Vinlandic, then Sandy introduced his companions.

"This is Trader Hennaq," Sandy added in English. "He is brother to Chief Merchant Hretjarr, and a distant cousin of Kiiren."

Hennaq bowed to each of them, then beckoned to one of his men, who gave Sandy a round glass lantern that glowed a cool blue-green. Lightwater. He passed it to Coby.

"This vessel does not normally carry passengers," he said, ushering her towards an open hatch. "I am afraid we will have to take shelter in the hold."

"I've had worse accommodations," she said, climbing down into the darkness. "Anyway, it's a short enough crossing to Calais. We'll be there in a few hours at most."