The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 (6 page)

  "That is not our custom. I am certain the ambassador will wish to see the plays in their rightful setting."

  "Still, August…" Naismith shook his head. "If I had known sooner–"

  "If the theatre is not ready, it will hurt my standing in the guild. I will have to increase my share of the theatre's profits to four-fifths to compensate for any losses I will make elsewhere."

  "Four-fifths?" Naismith looked faint.

  Coby suppressed a smile.

  "That is fair recompense," she told the skrayling.

  "I will do everything in my power to ensure the theatre is ready in time," Naismith said when he had recovered his composure.

  Cutsnail smiled, showing off his long eye teeth to full advantage.

  "I am certain you will," he said.

 

The purse of crowns weighed heavy in Coby's pocket as she walked to Goody Watson's. She could not have felt more conspicuous if she had been wearing girl's clothes, or none at all. Surely a sharp-eyed cozener had already spotted the tempting bulge or heard the muffled clink of coins? She scanned the crowded streets, but nothing seemed amiss. A few minutes later she reached the house of the tailor's wife without incident, and slipped through the open front door with a sigh of relief.

  She paused on the threshold, sneezing at the dust that filled the air. Gowns, jackets and cloaks of every colour hung from pegs along one wall, whilst doublets, breeches and various linen items were folded in neat piles on shelves or scattered across trestle tables. A variety of hats, most of them black, occupied another set of pegs, and pairs of boots and shoes lurked under the tables alongside boxes of small household goods such as candlesticks and pewter dishes. Goody Watson sat by the window with her mending basket, half an eye on her work and the other half on a portly gentleman who was swaggering up and down, trying out the hang of a hip-length cloak that did nothing for his figure.

  "Mistress Watson?"

  The pawnbroker peered up at her, pressing her spectacles against the bridge of her nose with a work-reddened forefinger.

  "Ah, Naismith's lad!" She put down her work and got to her feet stiffly. "The minute I heard you were back in London, I thought, 'Naismith'll be by any day now'." She looked around, frowning. "Your master ain't sick, is he?"

  "No, just very busy. He sent me–"

  "I'll take it," the portly gentleman said, elbowing Coby aside. "Ten shillings, did you say?"

  Whilst Goody Watson haggled with her customer, Coby wandered around the shop examining the goods on offer. Buying costumes was one thing, but Master Naismith had insisted she get some new clothes for herself too, if she was to be his deputy. What to choose? She picked up a dark green doublet that looked about her own size.

  "I put a few things by for you," Goody Watson said, when the man had gone. "I know what Master Naismith likes. Here."

  She hauled a chest out from under the table and opened it.

  "There, what do you think of that?" she asked, laying out a pair of scarlet velvet trunk hose trimmed with silver braid, complete with matching codpiece. "Belonged to Sir Walter Raleigh when he first came to court. Handed down a couple of times since then, o' course."

  "Very… handsome." She doubted the provenance, but the hose were perfect for the stage. The more eye-catching the better. "I'm sure we can find use for such… striking apparel."

  The tailor's wife produced a succession of fine garments, each with its sad tale of an impoverished gentleman desperate for a few shillings. Coby selected those few that fitted both their requirements and her master's purse, and was about to pay when she remembered her own needs.

  "May I try this on?" she asked, returning to the green suit.

  Goody Watson gestured for her to go ahead, and went back to her mending. Coby turned her back and began unbuttoning her doublet, grateful for the shopkeeper's poor eyesight. She pulled on the garment and was pleased to discover it was not too wide in the shoulders nor yet too long in the sleeve. The waist was a little loose, but she knew a few tailoring tricks to make that less obvious. The matching slops looked as though they might be a reasonable fit, and in any case she wasn't going to try them on in here.

  She was in the middle of changing back into her own clothes when a shadow darkened the doorway. Suddenly aware she was half undressed, Coby shrank into the corner clutching the doublet to her chest like a child with a cradle blanket.

  A man entered the shop, tall and rangy, with black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He looked familiar, but Coby couldn't place him.

  "Mistress Watson." He inclined his head towards the proprietress. "I'm here to redeem my pledge."

  "Back in work at last, eh, Master Catlyn?"

  She got up from her stool and began rummaging around under one of the trestle tables. The man gazed idly around the shop, and seemed to notice Coby for the first time.

  "Don't I know you?" he said, staring at her.

  "Er…"

  "The Bull's Head." He pointed a finger at her, as if in accusation.

  "Er, yes." Now she knew where she recognised him from. She had seen him several times with Gabriel Parrish's former… companion, Ned Faulkner. "I'm with Suffolk's Men."

  "A player." He didn't sound impressed.

  "N-no, I'm the tireman."

  "Really?"

  "Really." His cockiness was starting to irritate her. "I'm here buying costumes for the company."

  The tailor's wife emerged from under the table, holding up a lute in a dusty leather case.

  "Here we go." She held out her free hand. "Four shillings."

  "I think you'll find it was two," Catlyn replied.

  "Two-and-six, then. You was late last month."

  A jingle of coins changed hands and he took the instrument, cradling it in the crook of his arm with absentminded affection.

  "Mistress Watson," Coby said, "can you bundle those clothes up for me? And I'll take this green suit as well."

  She turned away and hurriedly put her own doublet back on, feeling sure his eyes were boring through her shirt to the corset. Her fingers fumbled over the buttons. If he was one of Faulkner's friends, he might be more interested in the lie than the truth.

  "Good day to you, Mistress Watson. Master Tireman."

  She looked round, opening her mouth to return the courtesy, but he was already gone.

 

She returned to Thames Street to drop off the costumes and start work on the silver-laced gown. Usually she spent every performance backstage, helping the actors in and out of their costumes, but there were few changes in today's play and Master Naismith had said her time would be better spent on her other work. There was always plenty of it. Costumes formed a large proportion of the company's capital and they saw a lot of wear – and, not infrequently, tear – when the actors were touring.

  Before settling down to work she slipped down the alley to the small barn behind the house where the touring wagon was kept. Her few mementoes of a former life were hidden in a small box in the hayloft, and she had not had a chance yet to check they were still safe.

  To her surprise the barn doors were not locked. Master Naismith must have forgotten about it, she decided, being distracted by thoughts of the meeting with his investor. Nevertheless she entered warily, senses alert for any sign of an intruder.

  The players' wagon stood where they had left it, taking up almost half the small building. A thin beam of sunlight picked out the gilded unicorn on the wagon's side: the badge of their patron the Duke of Suffolk. To the yeomen and townsfolk far from London, it was a wondrous sight, to be greeted with cheers and whistles; Coby had spent far too many hours trudging along behind it – and helping to heave it out of yet another pothole – to find it the least bit marvellous.

  As she headed towards the hayloft ladder, she caught sight of a movement behind the wagon.

  "Show yourself," she cried out, trying to sound bolder than she felt, "or I shall call for aid."

  She took a step backwards towards the barn door, and the lurker stepped out of the shadows. He was a young man, short but wiry of build, with heavy brows and a stubbled chin, as though he were normally clean-shaven but had decided to grow a beard.

  "Ned Faulkner." Coby frowned. "What are you doing here?"

  "Good to see you too, Hendricks."

  "I hope you're not spying on our rehearsals," she said. "I know you work for the Admiral's Men."

  "Just the odd copying job," Faulkner said. "A man's got to eat, you know."

  "So you
are
spying."

  "No!" He looked sheepish. "I came to see Gabriel. We used to meet here, sometimes."

  Coby folded her arms. "He's not here. As you can see."

  "But he returned to London with you?"

  "Of course. He's at Newington Butts, probably on stage at this very moment."

  Faulkner's eyes lit up. "I must go and see him."

  "And lure him back to the Admiral's Men?" she said. "I do not think so. Besides, he told me he has forsworn your companionship. He does not wish to see you."

  Quick as a snake Faulkner closed the space between them, grasping Coby by the upper arms and pinning her against the barn wall.

  "Why are you keeping me from him, whelp? Have you become Naismith's guard dog all of a sudden?" He studied her face. "You blush very prettily, you know. Perhaps that's it: you mean to keep me for yourself."

  She stared back at him, defiant. "I have no taste for such sinfulness, sir."

  "Oh no?" He pressed the length of his body against hers. His lips were almost touching hers and his breath smelt of cheap beer. Her heart began to pound; any moment now he would feel the solid shape of the padded leather bulge sewn into her breeches' front and come to entirely the wrong conclusion. She leaned in closer as if to kiss him, and bit down. Hard.

  "Son of a pox-ridden whore!" He pushed her away, wiping his bloody mouth with his sleeve.

  "Go. Now." She folded her arms, willing her body not to tremble. "Or Master Naismith will have you whipped all the way back to London Bridge."

  Faulkner pushed past her, deliberately knocking her shoulder. "Perhaps you should keep this place locked up, if you want no intruders."

  She closed the barn door behind him and sank into the straw, wrapping her arms around her knees. Why had she confronted Faulkner like that, instead of calling upon her master to eject him? Had she become so accustomed to behaving like a young man that she forgot the danger she was in? She forced herself to breathe slowly. It wouldn't do for the other apprentices to catch her blubbing like – well, like a girl.

  Emotions mastered, she went back to the house to work on the costumes, her box of keepsakes quite forgotten.

 
 
 

After the visit to Court, Mal took to wearing his rapier every day. He had missed the weight of it on his hip, the reassuring reminder of who and what he was. And if it earned him a few suspicious looks from men, it also drew admiring glances from women. The leftovers from Leland's advance were too precious to waste, though, so glances were all he got.

  Leland clearly had no doubt Mal would report for duty. He had already sent a tailor round to the Faulkners' house to measure him for livery.

  "It had better not be all crimson velvet and goldwork," Mal muttered as the tailor fussed around him with lengths of measuring paper and a mouthful of pins. "I shall look like a popinjay. And do not pad it overmuch. I must be able to move freely."

  The tailor said nothing, only wrinkled his nose at the squalid surroundings. Ned was not the most fastidious of bedfellows, and Mistress Faulkner was too stiff with age to run about after her grown son. Reaching out with one foot Mal slid the chamber pot under the bed. The tailor muttered imprecations under his breath and left as soon as he could, saying that next time Mal would have to come to his workshop, for he would not set foot in the place again, no, not if the Queen herself commanded it.

  A few days later, Mal was walking back towards London Bridge after a fitting when two figures stepped out of a doorway into his path. By their elaborately slashed sleeves, Venetian lace ruffs and pearl earrings, he took them to be courtiers, or perhaps the sons of wealthy merchants.

  "Forgive me, gentlemen," Mal said with a slight bow.

  They did not give way. The slighter built of the two, a youth of sixteen or so, raised a silver pomander to his nose; the scent of cloves and orris root wafted from it, competing with the stink of the river.

  "What have we here?" the other drawled, looking Mal up and down. "A sewer rat bearing the weapons of a gentleman. From whom did you steal them, sirrah?"

  "They're mine, given to me by my father."

  "Really? Is that how you northerners acknowledge your bastards?"

  Mal's jaw tightened and he drew his blade a hand's breadth from its scabbard in warning. Passers-by hurried away, their eyes averted.

  "Go on," the man said with a mocking smile. "Show us why you deserve the Queen's favour, when so many of your betters have been passed over."

  Was that what this was all about, jealousy that he had been chosen to guard the ambassador? What irony, that they so coveted something he would give up in a heartbeat.

  He glanced from one to the other. Taking them both would be easy enough, but what good would it do? This could end in one of only two ways: his own death, or an arrest warrant for murder. He slammed the rapier back into its scabbard.

  "A coward as well as a bastard," the pomander bearer said with a sniff.

  Mal snatched the bauble from the youth's hand and threw it across the street. It flashed in the sunlight, bounced off a shop front with a high sharp note like a hand-bell and plopped into a slimy puddle. A scabby dog trotted over to investigate, but backed off whining when the overpowering scent hit its nostrils.