The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(116)

Mal thanked him and led the way around an L-shaped courtyard surrounded by buildings that looked easily as old as Saint Thomas’s Tower. Their rooflines were edged with battlements like a castle’s, though their walls were pierced with many large arched windows framed in delicate stonework.

“This is where you lived and studied?” Coby asked as she trotted along at his side.

“Of course. Though it was smaller in my day.” He pointed out a window high on the righthand side. “Those were my chambers. Well, mine and three other lads. I remember one time…”

“What?”

He shook his head. “No, that’s a story for another day. Come, let’s find Lambert.”

Coby paused for a moment, staring at the distant window and wondering what mischief her husband could have got up to in his youth. A pity they were here on such serious business, or she would have wheedled it out of him on the spot.

The master’s rooms were on the ground floor, just off one of the stairwells. Mal knocked and waited. When no one answered, he knocked again, more loudly this time.

“The poor old fellow’s probably deaf by now, or blind,” Mal said in a low voice. “Or both.”

After several minutes’ waiting the door opened, and a man of about sixty peered out. His bald head was covered by a black linen coif, its strings tied awkwardly under his chin so that they tangled in his long silver beard.

“I told you not to disturb me when I–” He squinted up at Mal. “You’re not one of my students. Do I know you?”

“Maliverny Catlyn, magister. I came here in the autumn of eighty-three…”

“Catlyn, Catlyn…? Ah, yes, I remember. That business with Ponsonby and the bucket of eels–”

“Yes, that Catlyn.”

Coby shot her husband a quizzical look. I’ll tell you later, he mouthed. I swear.

“Well, come in, lad, come in.” Lambert peered at Coby. “Though you seem to have a lad of your own now. Come to put him forward for the college, eh?”

“Aye. That is, no.”

Mal glared at Coby, who shrank back a little, confused by this sudden turn of events. Was the old man so dim of sight that he really thought her a boy young enough to be starting college? She supposed it made a change from being a servant.

“The truth is, magister,” Mal went on, as Lambert ushered them inside. “My son here neglects his studies atrociously, and I thought that a glimpse of the opportunities he is missing out on might spur him to greater efforts.”

“Opportunity” was not the first word that sprang to Coby’s mind upon entering the academic’s chamber. “Squalor” was one, though “labyrinth” came close on its heels. Apart from a small bedstead in the far corner, little furniture could be seen, though she supposed it must be there somewhere, under the piles of books, boxes, and elaborate brass instruments which appeared to be sextants that had mated with clocks. Maps, of the night sky as well as the Earth and seas, covered the wall panels, and there were even objects hanging from the ceiling: model ships, bunches of desiccated herbs and, near the window, the skeleton of some flying creature, its bones cunningly reunited as in life. The place looked like a cross between Gabriel’s old lodgings and an alchemist’s workshop. No wonder Mal thought Lambert might be able to lead them to Shawe.

“You should beat him more often,” Lambert said, clearing a pile of debris from what turned out to be a stool. “A good lashing sharpens the mind like a whetstone to a sword.”

“Aye, magister. It always had that effect on me.”

Lambert barked a laugh. “So I recall. Why are you here, then, if not to present your son?”

Mal took the offered seat, and Lambert lowered himself into a chair opposite, crushing several rolled-up documents in the process.

“I’m up here on the King’s business,” Mal said. “You know. The usual game.”

Lambert ran a tongue around his gums and leaned forward. “Taken over from Walsingham, have you?”

“Could say that. So, do you have any likely lads among your students?”

Coby realised Mal was talking about recruiting spies. Had Walsingham come here just like this, twenty years ago, and been given Mal’s name?

“There could be one or two. Though boys these days are not what they were.” Lambert frowned at her, and Coby dropped her gaze, remembering she was playing the dutiful child. “Most of them are mutton-heads and wool-gatherers, and the ones from the Priory are the worst.”

“The Priory?”

“Anglesey Priory. It’s a new school out at Stow. Headmaster reckons he only takes the brightest boys, but I’ve yet to see one who was so much as your equal, Catlyn. And don’t take that as a compliment.”

“Of course not, magister.” Mal got to his feet. “Well, that’s a pity. I seem to have come all this way for nothing. Perhaps I should try one of the other colleges–”

“I did not say I had no one for you. But you will be the best judge of his suitability, I dare say.”

“Is he here now?”

Lambert shook his head. “Gone home for the Long Vacation. You’ve chosen a bad time for such a venture.” His eyes narrowed. “Indeed, a man clever enough to take over from Walsingham would have chosen almost any other time to come here.”