Cambridge a few years ago. Very moving."
"A pleasure to meet a man who appreciates the dramatic arts," Naismith said. "Is that why you were appointed to guard the ambassador?"
"I am not at liberty to say," Catlyn replied with a smile.
Rafe Eaton got to his feet.
"Any friend of Faulkner is a friend of yours, eh, Parrish? And any friend of Parrish is a friend of ours." He slapped Catlyn on the back. "Sit down, sir, sit down!"
To Parrish's evident disappointment, Catlyn did not take the proffered space on the settle but pulled up a stool and sat at the end of the table. Faulkner rested his elbows on the back of the settle, his left hand dangling inches from Parrish's head. The actor seemed oblivious to his presence, though Coby noticed how he leant back casually in his seat so that his hair brushed against Faulkner's fingers.
"Have you dined?" Master Naismith asked Catlyn.
"No, not yet."
"Please, be my guest," he said. He glanced at Faulkner and added, somewhat grudgingly, "Both of you."
Faulkner's eyes lit up, and he slid around the settle into the seat beside Parrish.
"We are only having the ordinary," Naismith told them. He turned to Coby. "Run and tell Joan we are now seven altogether, there's a good lad."
She squeezed past Rafe and Catlyn and went in search of the tavern cook. By the time she had returned from her errand, beers had been poured and Rafe Eaton was engaged in a lengthy account of their latest travels. She slipped onto the seat next to the actor so as not to disturb the performance. This put her opposite Faulkner, and on Catlyn's left.
She hadn't got a good look at him in the gloom of the pawnshop, nor had she any reason to take notice. Now she took in every detail, her costume-maker's eye matching dress to character. Good-quality but threadbare doublet and hose. An expensive-looking dagger, its wire-bound hilt worn smooth with use, at his right hip. A knotted ribbon of black silk adorning his left earlobe, where a richer man might wear a pearl droplet or other bauble. A well-born man down on his luck, then: ambitious, no doubt bribable… He certainly fitted Master Dunfell's description of the situation.
She glanced from Catlyn to Faulkner and back again. The two were friends but evidently not lovers; Catlyn appeared unmoved by the fact that Faulkner and Master Parrish were exchanging glances and whispers like a courting couple. That suggested one approach, though it was her stratagem of last resort. The risk of exposure was too great.
When Master Eaton paused to take a drink of beer, she seized the opportunity to enter the conversation.
"Do you come to hear plays often, sir?" she asked Catlyn.
"Not as much as I would like," he said, with a polite nod towards Master Naismith. "And I fear that when I am on duty in my new position, my thoughts will be engaged elsewhere."
"You think there's a threat to the ambassador?" It was a crude gambit, but what if she did not get another chance to speak to him?
"Quiet, lad!" Master Naismith turned to her, glowering. In a low voice he added, "Walsingham and Cecil's spies are everywhere."
Chastened, Coby lowered her gaze. Since Sir Francis Walsingham's unexpected recovery from a grave illness three years ago, the rivalry between the Queen's private secretary and his understudy had become intense. It was not wise to attract their attention with careless talk.
A serving-man arrived with supper. Coby poked her horn spoon into the mess of boiled vegetables and gristly grey lumps of something vaguely animal. Tavern food was good work for the jaws, if not the belly.
The conversation turned to a comparison of the two royal princes. Robert, the elder, resembled his father in looks and his mother in temperament, and everyone agreed he would make a great king, perhaps one even more famous than his grandsire Henry the Eighth. It was his younger brother Arthur, however, who was the
"A pleasure to meet a man who appreciates the dramatic arts," Naismith said. "Is that why you were appointed to guard the ambassador?"
"I am not at liberty to say," Catlyn replied with a smile.
Rafe Eaton got to his feet.
"Any friend of Faulkner is a friend of yours, eh, Parrish? And any friend of Parrish is a friend of ours." He slapped Catlyn on the back. "Sit down, sir, sit down!"
To Parrish's evident disappointment, Catlyn did not take the proffered space on the settle but pulled up a stool and sat at the end of the table. Faulkner rested his elbows on the back of the settle, his left hand dangling inches from Parrish's head. The actor seemed oblivious to his presence, though Coby noticed how he leant back casually in his seat so that his hair brushed against Faulkner's fingers.
"Have you dined?" Master Naismith asked Catlyn.
"No, not yet."
"Please, be my guest," he said. He glanced at Faulkner and added, somewhat grudgingly, "Both of you."
Faulkner's eyes lit up, and he slid around the settle into the seat beside Parrish.
"We are only having the ordinary," Naismith told them. He turned to Coby. "Run and tell Joan we are now seven altogether, there's a good lad."
She squeezed past Rafe and Catlyn and went in search of the tavern cook. By the time she had returned from her errand, beers had been poured and Rafe Eaton was engaged in a lengthy account of their latest travels. She slipped onto the seat next to the actor so as not to disturb the performance. This put her opposite Faulkner, and on Catlyn's left.
She hadn't got a good look at him in the gloom of the pawnshop, nor had she any reason to take notice. Now she took in every detail, her costume-maker's eye matching dress to character. Good-quality but threadbare doublet and hose. An expensive-looking dagger, its wire-bound hilt worn smooth with use, at his right hip. A knotted ribbon of black silk adorning his left earlobe, where a richer man might wear a pearl droplet or other bauble. A well-born man down on his luck, then: ambitious, no doubt bribable… He certainly fitted Master Dunfell's description of the situation.
She glanced from Catlyn to Faulkner and back again. The two were friends but evidently not lovers; Catlyn appeared unmoved by the fact that Faulkner and Master Parrish were exchanging glances and whispers like a courting couple. That suggested one approach, though it was her stratagem of last resort. The risk of exposure was too great.
When Master Eaton paused to take a drink of beer, she seized the opportunity to enter the conversation.
"Do you come to hear plays often, sir?" she asked Catlyn.
"Not as much as I would like," he said, with a polite nod towards Master Naismith. "And I fear that when I am on duty in my new position, my thoughts will be engaged elsewhere."
"You think there's a threat to the ambassador?" It was a crude gambit, but what if she did not get another chance to speak to him?
"Quiet, lad!" Master Naismith turned to her, glowering. In a low voice he added, "Walsingham and Cecil's spies are everywhere."
Chastened, Coby lowered her gaze. Since Sir Francis Walsingham's unexpected recovery from a grave illness three years ago, the rivalry between the Queen's private secretary and his understudy had become intense. It was not wise to attract their attention with careless talk.
A serving-man arrived with supper. Coby poked her horn spoon into the mess of boiled vegetables and gristly grey lumps of something vaguely animal. Tavern food was good work for the jaws, if not the belly.
The conversation turned to a comparison of the two royal princes. Robert, the elder, resembled his father in looks and his mother in temperament, and everyone agreed he would make a great king, perhaps one even more famous than his grandsire Henry the Eighth. It was his younger brother Arthur, however, who was the
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