The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(23)

Mal made his obeisance and went to find lodgings for the night. Damn it! By the time Essex heard of the business and deigned to intervene, Ned and Gabriel could be dead. He was going to have to take matters into his own hands, and not in a way that Grey was likely to approve of.



It took Mal most of the next day to find his quarry, since discretion was vital to his plan, but by early evening he found himself outside a shabby lodging-house a few streets from Smithfield. The landlady let him in and directed him to the attic at the top of the house.

Mal took the stairs slowly, going over the plan for weaknesses. He was distracted, however, by the rhythmic creaking coming from the chamber ahead. Evidently the actor’s evening of pleasure had begun early.

Mal grinned to himself and knocked on the door. When no answer came, he knocked again, louder.

“Shakespeare, are you in there?”

A sudden scuffle. He tried the door; it was unlocked. As he made to open it, however, he met resistance. He shoved hard and a man yelped and swore in pain. Mal shouldered his way into the actor’s lodgings.

“God’s light, man, what did you do that for?” Shakespeare was in his shirt and little else, hopping around on one foot. He glared at Mal, who shrugged an apology. “Who are you, anyway?”

“A friend of Gabriel Parrish.”

Shakespeare’s lodgings were as untidy as the man himself, dirty linens overflowing their basket and the remains of a meal on the floor by the bed, as if set out for the mice. The bed itself was a tangle of sheets and bolsters and… naked limbs? A young woman poked a tousled head out of the folds and gave him an appreciative look. Mal nodded back politely.

“Later, Nell.” Shakespeare threw her a coin, and she snatched it from the air before climbing out of bed and retrieving her clothes. It was Mal’s turn to be appreciative. Derbyshire was a long way away…

“You have news of Parrish?” Shakespeare said when his companion had left.

Mal went quietly over to the door and hauled it open, but there was no one there. He glimpsed Nell disappearing down the next turn of the stairs.

“I need your help,” he said, shutting the door, “otherwise, one way or another, Parrish will die.”

Shakespeare sat down on the bed and pulled on his hose.

“That would be a shame. He’s a fine actor.”

“And a rival playwright.” Better test the waters now, before he took the man further into his confidence.

Shakespeare laughed. “Hardly. Oh, these new comedies bring in the crowds, but it’s a passing fashion, you’ll see. Blood and woe, that’s what brings the penny stinkards in. Though come to think of it, why not combine the two?” He wandered over to his desk and snatched up a sheet of paper and a pen. “A wronged woman. Suicide. Deception. And all with a happy ending this time. Yes…”

“Shakespeare?”

“Hmm?”

“About Parrish. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

The actor put down his pen. “In what way?”

“I’m going to get Parrish, and Ned Faulkner and his men, out of the Marshalsea.”

Shakespeare stared at him for a moment then burst out laughing.

“Do you take me for a fool? If you’re caught you’ll hang – or worse.”

“I know,” Mal replied softly.

“Then you have my answer. I know my liver is lily-white: I don’t need an executioner to cut it out and show it to me.”

“I understand.” Mal chewed his lip as if in thought. Gently does it. “It is a great hazard, as you say, and only the finest actors in London could carry it off. Perhaps Parrish’s old friends in the Admiral’s Men would be willing to chance it…”

He turned back to the door and laid his hand upon the latch.

“Wait!”

Mal allowed himself a brief grin of triumph before schooling his features to hopeful innocence.

“You’ll do it?”

“God help me, yes,” Shakespeare said with a sigh. “We’ve lost too many fine talents already to these pinch-souled wardens of our morals. What do you want me to do?”



Shakespeare was as good as his word, though he did not come with them on the venture. He pointed out that as a regular actor in the city’s foremost company, his face and voice were too well known for him to pass as a stranger. He did however introduce Mal to a number of players he claimed were reliable, along with a far less savoury fellow with a nice fist for paperwork, and lent him the key to the company’s wardrobe.

“Just make sure you bring everything back straight away.” Shakespeare said. “We’ve got a production of Henry the Sixth tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll need those helmets.”

“Don’t worry. If we’re not done by noon, we’ll be in the Tower together and you’ll have more to worry about than a few missing costumes.”

“And that’s meant to reassure me, is it?”

Mal patted him on the shoulder, took up his burdens and hurried out into the night. Good thing he’d brought Hector, or he might look a bit conspicuous hauling this lot around. Not to mention the likelihood of not getting back to Southwark before they closed the gates at either end of London Bridge.

The gelding looked at him askance as Mal threw the sack of costumes over his back. Mal patted his neck in reassurance and strapped a longer canvas-wrapped bundle alongside the sack. If only Coby still worked for a theatre company. As a tireman she had had far easier access to theatre costumes, and her other skills would have come in handy too. Still, he couldn’t wish her to be in the middle of this lot. Better for her to be safe with Kit in Derbyshire. Assuming they were safe.