The Alchemist of Souls: Night's Masque, Volume 1 Read online

  He knelt at the prie-dieu and began to pray that whatever mistake had been made in bringing him here, Our Lady would see fit to right it before his captors resorted to torture.

  He spent a sleepless night alternately pacing his cell and praying. This was worse than the eve of battle. Death at the hands of the enemy was quick and clean compared to the punishment meted out to traitors. The fact that he had not to his knowledge committed treason was no comfort – why else would they drag him in off the streets and throw him in the Tower without charge? He tried not to think about what it must feel like to be disembowelled alive, and failed dismally.

  Some time after dawn the sound of a key scraping in the lock roused him from his contemplations and he leapt up from the prie-dieu, groping at his side for the absent rapier. A yeoman warder peered into the chamber, bleary-eyed and drunk judging by the smell of cheap wine that preceded him into the room. Mal wondered if he should rush the man and try to make his escape, but without planning or accomplices he doubted he would get far.

  The warder limped across the room, burdened by a heavy basket. From it he produced a battered pewter tankard and plate, an earthenware bottle and a loaf of bread. After setting these out on the table the warder left, locking the door behind him.

  Mal went over to the table and sat down to eat. The fear of the night before had subsided into a numb determination to face whatever cruelties his captors were planning. A man weakened by hunger would not resist torment for long.

  He had not managed more than a few mouthfuls of the dry bread, washed down with a small ale, when the warder returned.

  "You're wanted." The man beckoned him through the door.

  Mal's stomach flipped over. So soon?

  He was taken back along the narrow outer ward, still deep in shadow at this time of day, and through a tunnel that pierced one of the inner towers. A steep cobbled road led upwards between high walls, with the vast bulk of the Norman keep looming to their right. The warder turned left at the top of the slope and directed Mal across the green towards a handsome timber-framed house built into the angle of the south and west walls. The L-shaped building looked incongruously domestic against the Herculean masonry all around it.

  He was shown into a wood-panelled antechamber. Benches stood against the wall opposite the fireplace; above them, portraits of middle-aged men in elaborate armour or outdated clothing stared down at him with the indifference of the longdead. Mal distracted himself by going from one to another and reading the inscriptions below each: Thomas Grey Marquess of Dorset, Edward Lord Clinton, Sir John Gage.

  "My illustrious predecessors."

  The man in the doorway was forty or so, well built and a little above middle height, with fair curly hair and beard and a ruddy complexion. His doublet and hose were of sherry-coloured velvet, and his ruff was dyed with saffron. As if on cue, a lion roared in the Tower menagerie, and Mal had to keep his head down as he bowed, to hide a smile. A lion of a man indeed.

  "My lord?"

  "Master Catlyn." The steel in the man's voice belied his courtier's finery.

  "Yessir." Mal didn't quite snap to attention, but his back straightened of its own accord. Old habits died hard.

  "I am Sir James Leland, Lieutenant of the Tower. No doubt you are wondering why I invited you here?"

  Invited? Well, that was one word for it.

  "Yes, sir." Mal swallowed, anticipating the worst.

  Leland walked around him in a slow circle, eyeing him up and down as if he were a horse for sale. Mal stared straight ahead. If Leland thought to intimidate him, let him think again.

  "Not exactly what I expected," the lieutenant muttered. "But I suppose you'll have to do." He paced some more. "Maliverny. French name, isn't it?"

  "My father's second wife – my mother – was Béatrice de Maliverny, from Aix-en-Provence. Being her first-born son, I was named in her family's honour."

  "You are half French, then?" Leland frowned at him.

  "By blood only, sir. I am an Englishman born and bred." Mal could not help adding, "The French are our friends, sir."

  Leland muttered something under his breath, then turned to face Mal again. "How old are you?"

  "Sir?"

  "It's a simple enough question, surely?"

  "I am five-and-twenty, sir."

  "That dagger you were carrying is of fine workmanship. I fancy it is part of a matched set, a mate to a rapier?"

  "Yes, sir." Was that what this was all about? Surely they wouldn't haul him into the Tower over an illegal duel. "I've had lessons from Saviolo himself."

  "Hmm. Italian swordplay is all very well, but what about real fighting? I have been told you served under the Earl of Devon."

  "I was at the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom, and afterwards I fought in Italy against the Turk."

  The lieutenant nodded approvingly. Mal kept his features impassive, trying to follow the course of this interrogation to its logical conclusion. There was none he could see, or none that made any sense.

  Leland cleared his throat noisily. "I have a commission for you, Catlyn. From Her Majesty the Queen, no less."

  Mal stared at him.

  "Have you nothing to say for yourself, man?"

  "I – Thank you, sir." Mal began to laugh, near drunk with relief, then fell silent. Leland did not look amused. "Forgive me, sir, I… Well, after last night I thought for certain I had been arrested for treason."

  "Arrested? I sent Captain Monkton to find you, certainly, since no one knew your whereabouts. If there has been any misunderstanding, well, that is very regrettable."

  Mal went over the previous evening's events in his mind. He was the one who had bolted like a guilty thing and thus begun the chase. On the other hand, this Captain Monkton had taken great delight in letting him think he was under arrest. Had the captain misunderstood his instructions, or was he merely brutal and malicious?

  "Now, about this commission," Leland said. "You are to guard a foreign ambassador who will be visiting England later this summer."

  "An ambassador? Of where?"

  "Vinland."

  "Vinland? But–"

  "He is a skrayling, yes. You have an objection to that?"

  "N-no, sir," Mal said. His thoughts were racing. Bodyguard to a skrayling? Why had he of all people been chosen for such a task? And how could he get out of it? "I was merely surprised. I didn't know they had an ambassador."

  "The savages seem to have taken a while to grasp the idea, but it pleases their fancy to have one now. And of course he must be treated with all the courtesy due a foreign ally."

  "Of course."

  "The pay is four shillings a day," Leland went on, "also board, lodgings and a suit of livery. You will report here on the twentieth day of August and learn your way around the Tower and the ambassador's quarters."

  Four shillings a day. Twenty-four shillings a week. That was not a sum he could turn down easily, not the way things were going. But August was a long way off. Too long. He cursed under his breath in frustration.

  "Well, what is it?" Leland asked.

  Mal swallowed. It was a gamble, but if they really wanted him for this job… "I am, as you undoubtedly know, sir, out of work at the moment. How I shall shift for myself in the next few weeks, I know not, but I doubt I can find a position for so short a while…"

  "You are asking for a retainer?"

  Mal lowered his gaze. "Yes, sir."

  "Very well," Leland said after a pause for consideration. "Half pay until you start – and of course no board or lodgings."

  Two shillings a day – and now it was barely two weeks until Midsummer Day. Nowhere near enough to pay off what he owed.

  Leland sighed. "Come on, man, out with it."

  Mal could not meet the lieutenant's eye. He feared this was a step too far. "I have some small but pressing debts. I–"

  "How much?"

  "Three pounds, sir." Or thereabouts. He prayed the lieutenant would not ask what the money was for.

&
nbsp; After a long moment Leland began to laugh. "Three pounds. Well, we cannot have His Excellency's bodyguard thrown in the Clink for so paltry a sum. Here." He took out a purse and counted out six gold angels.

  "Thank you, sir," Mal said, pocketing the coins. "I am in your debt."

  "You are in the Queen's debt, not mine. I'll instruct the purser to take it out of your pay."

  "Of course, sir."

  "Someone will be along presently to see you out, and return your blade. Until August, Master Catlyn."

  The moment Leland left, Mal sank down onto a nearby bench, shaking with relief. He had been so certain he was condemned to die – and dammit, Monkton had let him stew here all night in that belief. Did the captain know more than he was letting on, or was he judging Mal by his elder brother's reputation? And then there were the skraylings. If Leland found out why the very sight of the foreigners chilled his heart, he would be back in that cell faster than a sixpence into a whore's bodice.

  He wondered again why he had been chosen. It had not been Leland's decision, that was clear enough. So whose was it? With the Queen herself in seclusion, any orders most likely came from her advisors, the shadowy members of the Privy Council: Puckering, Cecil, Suffolk, Walsingham, Oxford, Pembroke and Effingham. Mal had the uncomfortable feeling he was being used as a pawn in a game where he could see neither board nor pieces, still less the players making their moves.

  CHAPTER II

  The cockerel's cry split the cool damp air, heralding the end of another all-too-brief night. Ned groaned and buried his head under the bolster. How much had they drunk last night? Next time he would stick to beer, regardless of who was paying. Speaking of which…

  He slid out of bed, wincing at the bruises: a parting gift the other night from a pair of disgruntled Tower guards. Rummaging around in Mal's discarded clothes, he found a familiar pair of worn slops, and in the pocket a purse heavy with gold. He counted the coins out slowly to avoid clinking them together. Almost three pounds, less the few shillings Mal had spent on wine and oysters by way of an apology. Where did he get hold of so much money, and so quickly?

  Ned's chest tightened. With that much money Mal could have spent the night with the best whore in Bankside, and yet here he was, back home with Ned. Was it only caution and a desire to be certain of repaying his debts, or had his feelings changed? Best not to dwell on it. Hope was a treacherous mistress.

  Mal muttered something in his sleep. Ned eased back into bed and propped himself up on one elbow, the better to admire his companion's profile in the fragile dawn light. A half-grown-out military crop curled above a smooth tanned brow that led his gaze down to a chiselled nose as perfect as an Italian statue. Black lashes fluttered as Mal's eyes twitched beneath closed lids.

  "No! Leave him alone!" Mal tossed his head from side to side, struggling as if pinned to the bed by invisible hands.

  "Hush, my lamb," Ned whispered.

  His reward was a soft moan and a furrowing of that dark brow. He leant over and kissed the sleeping man's shoulder, savouring the salt sting of sweat – and nearly got his lip split open a second time when Mal sat bolt upright with a cry of fear.

  "What is it?" Ned asked softly.

  Mal rubbed his face, then swung his legs out of bed and sat with his head in his hands, breathing ragged as if he had been running. Ned reached out a hand to comfort him, then thought better of it. After a moment Mal got to his feet, stretched as best he could under the low rafters, and scratched his groin.

  "I can't do this," he muttered, picking up his shirt.

  "That's not what you said last night." The words were out of Ned's mouth before he could stop them.

  "What?" Mal popped his head through the neck of the shirt and frowned at him.

  "Er, nothing." Ned wriggled sideways into the warm hollow Mal had just abandoned, and watched him dress. Play of muscles under milky skin, tantalising glimpses of tight arse as the hip-length shirt rose and fell with each movement… He sighed. What was the point of an early rising if you didn't get to use it?

  "Going somewhere?" he asked as Mal pulled on his boots.

  "Just down to the garden. I need to think." He took his rapier down from its peg.

  Ah, that kind of thinking. "Can I watch?"

  "If you will."

  Mal threaded the rapier's scabbard onto his belt. The matching dagger joined it, then he cinched the belt around his hips. Ned ducked as Mal turned to leave. The long, slender blade was meant for the lofty halls and galleries of noblemen's mansions, not cramped attics in the backstreets of Southwark.

  After Mal had gone, Ned lifted the bed-sheet and peered into its musky depths.

  "Never mind, mate. Maybe next time."

  Was that a nod or a shake? With a grunt of effort he climbed out of bed.

  "First sign of madness," he muttered to himself. "Talking to your… self."

  He cast about the room for his own discarded clothing, and remembered the purse. Whatever Mal was up to, he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  Mal drew his rapier and held it up to the light. The rising sun gilded the elegant curves of the hilt and shimmered along the blade. Forty inches of finest Solingen steel, exquisite and deadly.

  Mandritta, reversa, fendente, tonda… His fencing master's voice echoed in his memory as he adopted the terza guardia stance, blade dipping towards the grass.

  He moved through the familiar drills, emptying his mind, becoming the blade. Stepping back and forth along the garden path, the tip of his rapier wove a pattern of glittering arcs above the rows of dew-spangled cabbages, sending butterflies spiralling up like scraps of torn paper.

  "Hey, what are you doing?" Ned cried out as the rapier snicked the head off a flowering onion.

  "Sorry," Mal muttered.

  He wiped the blade on his cuff and sheathed it. Ned looked at him expectantly.

  "Yesterday," Mal said, "I was offered – no, given – a job."

  "But… that's marvellous news!" Ned leapt off the upturned barrel he'd been sitting on. "It is marvellous, isn't it?"

  When Mal did not answer, Ned went on: "Are you… Are you leaving London?"

  "No." Mal looked north and east, towards the dark smudge of the city on the opposite bank of the Thames. "No, you'll have to put up with me for a while yet."

  "Then what's the matter?"

  Mal picked up a stone and threw it at a pigeon that was eyeing the cabbages with interest.

  "The job is to guard the skrayling ambassador."

  "Oh. I didn't know they had an ambassador."

  "Neither did I, until now."

  "So, what are you going to do?"

  "What I should have done a long time ago." He walked back towards the house. "Put on your Sunday best. We're going to Court."

  A young Englishman of noble birth could generally be found in one of two places: on campaign in Ireland, or at Court. Fortunately for Mal, Blaise Grey had managed to avoid the former, so he and Ned made their way to Whitehall Palace, on the Thames west of London.

  Two enormous gatehouses straddled King Street, guarding the east and west entrances to the palace and its gardens. A constant stream of people flowed in and out under the watchful eyes of the royal guard.

  "If anyone asks," Mal told Ned as they neared the gate," you're my manservant. Keep your mouth shut and your eyes down, even if you recognise someone; this isn't the Bull's Head on a Saturday night."

  Whitehall swarmed with courtiers, servants and petitioners, though this hive no longer centred on a queen. Prince Robert took care of much of the kingdom's business, sitting at the head of his mother's Privy Council as de facto regent. On the riverward side of King Street lay the prince's lodging and private gardens. Even if Blaise were there, Mal knew he stood little chance of gaining admittance. In any case, his quarry was far more likely to be found on the other side of the street, in the maze of tennis courts and bowling alleys where the young bloods idled away their hours.

  After making several enquiri
es of servants and getting lost twice, they found Grey in the larger of the palace's two tennis courts. The game was still in progress, so Mal and Ned joined the press of spectators in the mesh-covered galleries running down one side of the court. There was little to be seen without pushing through the throng, though judging by the cries of triumph and anguish from the crowd, the game was reaching its climax.

  Mal glimpsed Blaise's dark blond curls for an instant over the heads of the spectators, then the whole court erupted in deafening cheers that echoed off the white stone walls. Money changed hands, and the crowd began to disperse.