people's favourite, taking after Henry in his love of jousting and spectacle.
"Shall the princes attend, if we perform at the new theatre?" Coby asked, drawn back into the conversation despite herself. The thought of being mere yards from the Prince of Wales set her stomach a-flutter with nerves.
"Surely you will be invited to play at one of the royal palaces?" Catlyn asked.
Master Naismith recounted Master Cutsnail's instructions, leaving out the matter of whether the theatre would be ready in time.
"Thank you for this intelligence, sir," Catlyn said. "It explains why Her Majesty requires an additional bodyguard for the ambassador."
"This contest is a sham," Dickon Rudd, the company's clown, muttered, pushing away his empty bowl.
They all looked at him.
"How so?" Catlyn asked.
"Do you really think the ambassador will risk offending the Queen by choosing any but her own son's company of players? Mark my words, the Prince's Men will win. I would put good money on it."
Parrish leant forward, a sly smile on his lips.
"You will be close to the ambassador," he said to Catlyn. "Could you not put in a good word for your friends?"
"Why should I care who wins?" he replied. "And what makes you think I have any influence over the skraylings? I cannot so much as speak their tongue."
Coby saw her chance, and seized it.
"I can."
Everyone stared at her.
"Well, I can. Only a little Tradetalk, I confess."
Catlyn looked at her thoughtfully. "Could you teach me?"
"I–" She turned to Master Naismith. She would have to play this carefully if she was not to arouse suspicion. "I have work to do, have I not, sir?"
"I am sure you could be spared one afternoon a week," he said after a moment's pause. Leaning around Rafe's back he added, "A wise man does not turn down an opportunity for advancement."
"I am in your debt, sir," Catlyn told Naismith. "If there is anything I can do for you – within the bounds of my duty to Her Majesty, of course."
"Of course."
Catlyn got to his feet.
"Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business elsewhere."
Coby joined the chorus of farewells and watched him leave. An afternoon a week for, what, almost two months? Surely she could find something out in that time, enough to satisfy Master Dunfell.
CHAPTER V
On his return to the Faulkners' house, Mal was met in the hall by Ned's mother, Mistress Faulkner. In the gloom of the narrow windowless passage her lined features resembled a death mask, pale as wax.
"What is it? Are you unwell, ma'am?"
She shook her head.
"There's a man waiting for you," she whispered. "I had to let him in–"
"What? Where's Ned?"
She held up a finger to her lips.
"Gone to Henslowe's house to do some copying work. I'm not expecting him back until curfew."
"Hell's teeth! Who is this man?"
She shrugged. "Never seen 'im before. He said he was come to talk to you about this new job."
Dear God, not another disgruntled young cockscomb looking for a fight. It was bad enough being accosted in the street, without them following him home and frightening poor old women out of their wits.
"Go and visit one of your neighbours," he told her. "I'll get rid of him."
She bobbed her head gratefully and hurried out of the door. Mal waited until she was out of earshot, then opened the door to the Faulkners' parlour.
A solidly built man of about forty stood to one side of the window, leaning against the crumbling lath-and-plaster wall. From his mousy brown hair to his workaday brown boots, he was as ordinary a man as Mal had ever seen. He made no move as Mal entered the room, only watched him calmly as if he were the host and Mal the unwelcome visitor.
"Who are you?" Mal said, drawing his rapier.
The man's eyes flicked to the blade then he raised his hands, holding them away from his own weapons.
"You can call me
"Shall the princes attend, if we perform at the new theatre?" Coby asked, drawn back into the conversation despite herself. The thought of being mere yards from the Prince of Wales set her stomach a-flutter with nerves.
"Surely you will be invited to play at one of the royal palaces?" Catlyn asked.
Master Naismith recounted Master Cutsnail's instructions, leaving out the matter of whether the theatre would be ready in time.
"Thank you for this intelligence, sir," Catlyn said. "It explains why Her Majesty requires an additional bodyguard for the ambassador."
"This contest is a sham," Dickon Rudd, the company's clown, muttered, pushing away his empty bowl.
They all looked at him.
"How so?" Catlyn asked.
"Do you really think the ambassador will risk offending the Queen by choosing any but her own son's company of players? Mark my words, the Prince's Men will win. I would put good money on it."
Parrish leant forward, a sly smile on his lips.
"You will be close to the ambassador," he said to Catlyn. "Could you not put in a good word for your friends?"
"Why should I care who wins?" he replied. "And what makes you think I have any influence over the skraylings? I cannot so much as speak their tongue."
Coby saw her chance, and seized it.
"I can."
Everyone stared at her.
"Well, I can. Only a little Tradetalk, I confess."
Catlyn looked at her thoughtfully. "Could you teach me?"
"I–" She turned to Master Naismith. She would have to play this carefully if she was not to arouse suspicion. "I have work to do, have I not, sir?"
"I am sure you could be spared one afternoon a week," he said after a moment's pause. Leaning around Rafe's back he added, "A wise man does not turn down an opportunity for advancement."
"I am in your debt, sir," Catlyn told Naismith. "If there is anything I can do for you – within the bounds of my duty to Her Majesty, of course."
"Of course."
Catlyn got to his feet.
"Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have business elsewhere."
Coby joined the chorus of farewells and watched him leave. An afternoon a week for, what, almost two months? Surely she could find something out in that time, enough to satisfy Master Dunfell.
CHAPTER V
On his return to the Faulkners' house, Mal was met in the hall by Ned's mother, Mistress Faulkner. In the gloom of the narrow windowless passage her lined features resembled a death mask, pale as wax.
"What is it? Are you unwell, ma'am?"
She shook her head.
"There's a man waiting for you," she whispered. "I had to let him in–"
"What? Where's Ned?"
She held up a finger to her lips.
"Gone to Henslowe's house to do some copying work. I'm not expecting him back until curfew."
"Hell's teeth! Who is this man?"
She shrugged. "Never seen 'im before. He said he was come to talk to you about this new job."
Dear God, not another disgruntled young cockscomb looking for a fight. It was bad enough being accosted in the street, without them following him home and frightening poor old women out of their wits.
"Go and visit one of your neighbours," he told her. "I'll get rid of him."
She bobbed her head gratefully and hurried out of the door. Mal waited until she was out of earshot, then opened the door to the Faulkners' parlour.
A solidly built man of about forty stood to one side of the window, leaning against the crumbling lath-and-plaster wall. From his mousy brown hair to his workaday brown boots, he was as ordinary a man as Mal had ever seen. He made no move as Mal entered the room, only watched him calmly as if he were the host and Mal the unwelcome visitor.
"Who are you?" Mal said, drawing his rapier.
The man's eyes flicked to the blade then he raised his hands, holding them away from his own weapons.
"You can call me
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