The Merchant of Dreams (7 page)

Coby bit her lip, wanting to interject but knowing her comments would not be welcome. Arrests and executions? No wonder the skraylings were unhappy, even if it was not their own people being punished. She knew what it was like to be a stranger in London, only grudgingly accepted for the work she could do. They must be wondering when the Queen’s anger would turn against them instead of her own people.

“Then you will bring this matter before the Privy Council, sir?” Mal said.

Walsingham smiled ruefully. “Alas, I am in no condition to attend the council, nor am I like to be. Besides, we – or perhaps I should say, they – are not due to meet again until after Easter, and by then it may be too late.”

“Then what are we to do?”

Walsingham waved a trembling hand at his daughter. “Letters of introduction, my dear, for Master Catlyn. One to Sir Walter Raleigh, and one to Sir Geoffrey Berowne. The usual cipher for the latter, in case the Venetians try to intercept it.”

Lady Frances put down her sewing and went to the desk by the window.

“You look surprised, Catlyn,” Walsingham said.

“All London wondered why she did not marry the Earl of Essex,” Mal said in a low voice. “Has she been working for you all this time?”

“They say women’s tongues are loose and prone to gossip; where better, then, to place an informant than amongst the women at court? Essex would have had her with child and packed off to his country estate for the good of her health. I needed her here.”

“An obedient woman is prized above rubies,” Mal said.

Coby wondered if the comment was directed at herself. She stared at the floor, her jaw tightening. He was her employer, and she owed him obedience, she knew that. Would he now expect her to follow Lady Frances’s example? Resuming female garb was one thing, but how was she to converse with other women and learn their secrets, when she had spent the past seven years trying to forget her sex and pass as a boy?

“Raleigh is one of yours also?” Mal asked.

“Not precisely,” Walsingham said. “But he seeks to win his way back into favour with the Queen, so he is grateful for any service he can do her. “

“And Berowne?”

“He is Her Majesty’s ambassador to Venice. A dull fellow, but until now we have had no need of anyone better.”

“You want me to go to Venice, sir?”

“You are the trusted friend of the former ambassador of Vinland. You must find out if the skraylings have made any trade agreements with the Venetians, and if so, to what end.”

“Yes, sir.” Mal paused, and exchanged glances at Coby, who nodded encouragement. “Sir… in France I made good use of local men, those dissatisfied with their king or simply out for themselves. A little money for bribes would not go amiss…”

“I… strongly advise against it,” the spymaster wheezed. “The Venetians are proud of their loyalty to their republic, and do not take kindly to dissent.” He paused for a sip of wine. “Keep a civil tongue in your head when you are there. God knows I have been ruthless in dealing with those who speak out against Her Majesty, but I learnt by the Venetians’ example.”

“You have been to Venice, sir?”

Walsingham shook his head. “Only as far as Padua. I studied at the university there.”

“Padua belongs to the Republic.”

“Yes.”

“Then you can teach me all I need to know,” Mal said, leaning closer.

Walsingham slumped back against his pillows and his eyes closed.

“I think you have wearied my father more than enough,” Lady Frances said. She got to her feet and crossed to her father’s bedside where she stood like an angel at the gates of Eden, arms folded and eyes narrowed as if daring them to challenge her authority. “Come back tomorrow, Master Catlyn, and you shall have your letters.”

Walsingham stirred. “One more word, my dear, before they go.”

He beckoned to Mal, who leant over whilst Walsingham whispered in his ear. Coby strained to hear what they were saying, but the old man’s voice was too faint. Mal nodded several times, then straightened up.

Lady Frances showed them out of the house herself, summoning a servant to return their cloaks. As Mal crossed the threshold, he ventured one last question.

“It would be helpful to my mission to learn as much of Venice as I can. Perhaps Lord Brooke–”

“Alas, Brooke is no longer with us,” Lady Frances replied. “An ague took him, the winter before this.”

“A pity.”

Lady Frances inclined her head in mute agreement, and closed the door.

“Lord Brooke?” Coby asked as they walked away.

“The former ambassador to Venice; he was with Effingham’s party, that day you came to the Rose to find me. I thought he might have some useful insights into Venetian politics.”

“We shall have to make do with our own wits, then,” she replied with a grin.

“Aye.” He smiled back, and pulled up his hood against the cold. “Come, let’s take a wherry back to Southwark. It’ll be curfew soon, and I don’t want to get caught on the wrong side of the city gates.”

They made their way to the docks where a few wherries still lingered, hoping to make a last penny or two at the end of the day. The snow had abated, but it was even colder out on the river than in the city streets, and they huddled shoulder to shoulder for the crossing. At last the wherry bumped up against Battle Stairs and Coby scrambled up the ice-slick steps, groping for the rail with reddened, nerveless fingers. As they emerged into St Olave’s Street, she gave vent to the irritation that had been gnawing at her all the way from Seething Lane.

“Why Raleigh, of all people?” she asked of the night air. “That pompous, arrogant, narrow-minded… heretic!”

“You don’t approve of our captain?”

“No I do not.”

“But he’s one of the heroes of the age,” Mal said. “He’s been to the New World and back, quelled the Irish, fought the Spanish–”

“Hero of the age indeed! He’s naught but a pirate with charming manners.”

A trio of drunken tanners staggered across the street towards them, the stink of their trade unmistakable even in the chill air. Mal threw back his cloak to reveal the hilt of his rapier and they backed off, swearing.

“What reason have you to dislike him so?” Mal said, when the tanners were out of earshot.

She sighed. “Perhaps you don’t remember. No reason you would, it wouldn’t have mattered to you.”

“What wouldn’t?”

“About three years ago, before we met, Raleigh was very active in Parliament. He’s a member for Devon, you know.”

“So?”

“So there was a motion to grant wider privileges to the immigrant communities in London. My people were overjoyed to be accepted at last, to have the same opportunities as native-born merchants and craftsmen, to be able to own their workshops and join the city guilds. Little things, perhaps, but they meant a lot to us.” She drew a deep breath. “Raleigh spoke against the bill.”

“Oh.”

“It did him no good, of course. Parliament was united in favour. But it made Raleigh’s name a byword for prejudice in our community. He hates the Dutch, the Jews, everyone who is not English.”

“And the skraylings?”

She shrugged. “I cannot suppose him to be a friend of the skraylings, for all his travels in their country.”

“Why did you not mention this to Walsingham?”

“We need to get to Venice, don’t we? My dislike of Raleigh is neither here nor there.”

“But you think we should keep an eye on him.”

“I think we would be fools not to.”

She quickened her pace. If only Mal had not had that ill-fated dream, they would be back home in Provence now, snug in their respective chambers. Not running around Southwark in the cold and the dark, and certainly not chasing skraylings to the far side of Christendom.

CHAPTER V

The next morning, Ned was surprised to be asked to ride out to Hampton Court with Mal.

“Not taking Hendricks with you?” he asked as they set out for the livery stables.

“He’s taken against Raleigh,” Mal said, “and I want to give a good first impression. It’s a long voyage to Venice.”

“You’re too soft on the boy.” He glanced at Mal sidelong. “Always were.”

Mal said nothing, but his jaw tightened in that way Ned knew so well. The conversation was at an end, for now at least.

The snow flurries of the previous night had given way to a crisp, clear morning, every fencepost, roof-tile and blade of grass limned with frost. Bankside stood silent, its inhabitants huddled in the warmth of their beds. Ned envied them, and cursed Hendricks silently. If not for the boy’s sulks, he could have stayed snug in his own bed, at least until Gabriel had to leave for the playhouse.

At the livery stables Mal chose a bay gelding for himself and the most placid pony they could find for Ned, who still wasn’t used to riding. It was occasionally useful in his work, though, so he had had to learn. Truth was, he’d had to learn a lot of new skills in the last year.

There had been a time when he resented playing the servant, tagging along at Mal’s heels and deferring to him in public. But Baines had taught him the importance of invisibility. No one paid attention to servants, so they could eavesdrop on their betters in places other men could not go without comment, and pass unnoticed even in the halls of power. And he was curious to see the palace Gabriel had told him so much about. Ned tried to keep his jealousy in check, for fear it would only make matters worse, but it gnawed at him to think of his lover surrounded by rich powerful men who expected everyone to pander to their needs without question. How many of the men they were about to meet had bedded his precious boy? His hands tightened on the reins, and the pony shook its head in protest.

Mal looked back at the sound.

“Not giving you trouble, is she?”

Ned shook his head and forced a smile.

They came within sight of the sprawling red-brick palace just before noon, skirting round the north side of the royal park to approach the enormous gatehouse from the west. Ned dismounted awkwardly, stiff with cold and more than a little sore in the seat.

“Raleigh had better have a roaring fire and a jack of mulled ale waiting for us,” he said as they walked towards the gates.

“This is a royal palace, not the Bull’s Head. Now mind your manners.”

The porter asked their names and business, and Mal showed him his letter of introduction. After glancing at the address the porter turned it over and raised an eyebrow at Walsingham’s seal, then jotted something down in a ledger. Ned tried to read the list upside down, but could not get close enough for a good look.

“Dinner is in an hour, sir,” the porter said, handing the letter back. “Across the courtyard, take the staircase on the left under the archway.”

“I’d like to see Sir Walter first,” Mal replied. “It is somewhat urgent.”

“I’m afraid Sir Walter rode out to Syon House this morning.”

“Will he be back?”

“Aye, like as not. The steward might know for certain.”

Their footsteps echoed from the surrounding walls as they crossed the courtyard. With the Prince of Wales and his court still in London the palace was largely deserted. A lone guardsman in royal livery stood in the far archway, his partisan planted solidly on the paving.

“I don’t like the idea of my comings and goings being written down like that,” Ned muttered, glancing back at the gatehouse. “I’m supposed to be the one watching people, not the other way round.”

The guard looked Mal up and down then waved them both through. A staircase broad enough for several men to walk abreast led up to the Great Hall, where servants were laying trestle tables with snowy linens and bright pewter dishes. Ned tried not to gawp at the tapestries, twice the height of a man and woven in vivid hues of red, blue and gold, or at the elaborately carved hammer beam roof far above them.

“Let’s not get in the servants’ way,” Mal said loudly.

He winked at Ned, and led the way towards a door on the far side of the hall. Unfortunately the next room was just as busy, with more servants coming up the back stairs from the kitchen with baskets of bread and jugs of ale. Ned resisted the urge to steal a piece of bread as they passed; the royal steward would probably have his hand cut off, or worse.

Beyond the service room lay a grand presence chamber, smaller than the great hall, but still resplendent with tapestries. A fire had been lit on the wide hearth, but the room was empty.

“Should we be in here?” Ned whispered.

“No one is stopping us, are they?” Mal said.

Ned paused to warm his arse at the fire, but Mal was intent on exploring further. With a sigh Ned followed him, and found himself in a gallery lined with portraits of the royal family: Queen Elizabeth and her late husband Robert, with the infant Prince of Wales; the prince as a youth in a magnificent suit of engraved and gilded armour; and a more recent portrait of his wife Juliana, surrounded by her four children. The youngest, hardly more than an infant, sat on her lap gazing out intently at the viewer.

“Is that–?”

Ned broke off at the sound of a girl’s voice, raised in laughter.

“Back to the hall!” Mal hissed.

Too late. A wooden ball painted with red and blue stripes came bowling round the corner, followed by a child of about eighteen months old in an embroidered linen smock from which trailed leading strings of ivory silk ribbon. The child from the portrait.

“Harry! Come here!”

A dark-haired girl of about ten or eleven skittered along the polished floor, arms outstretched to catch the boy. She skidded to a halt upon seeing Mal and Ned and put a hand to her mouth. The little prince also paused and looked up at them. For a moment Ned thought he saw an expression of loathing cross the boy’s chubby features, then Prince Henry burst into tears and buried his face in his sister’s skirts.

Mal bowed.

“Forgive us for the intrusion, Your Highness.”

Gesturing for Ned to do likewise he backed out of the gallery, head still bowed.

“What was all that about?” Ned asked when they were out of earshot.

“That… child is the creature who pretended to be Suffolk. His plan was to be reborn as Princess Juliana’s child, and it appears he succeeded.”