you, sir."
Mal fished two pennies out of his pocket and stepped aboard the little boat. It felt good to have money to spare again.
A few minutes later he disembarked at Horseydown Stairs, a hundred yards downriver from the stockade. Unlike elsewhere on the Thames, there were no wherries waiting to take passengers, only a small boat with a prow carved in the likeness of a seabird's head, moored to the jetty and unoccupied. He assumed it belonged to one of the skrayling merchant vessels that stood at anchor along the Southwark docks. He gave the wherryman an extra halfpenny for his inconvenience, and set off towards the stockade.
The skrayling encampment stood on a narrow strip of ground, bordered on the north, south and west by the Thames and its tributary streams. Only a small wooden bridge connected it to Southwark at the western end. A pleasant enough situation, had it not been for the tanneries and forges upwind. If the intent was to isolate the skraylings whilst keeping them in plain sight, Mal could not think of a better location. It also made it impossible to approach the place unnoticed.
For a moment he considered skirting around the common land south of the encampment – but then why bother to come at all, if he did not improve upon the glimpse he had gained from Tower Hill? He took a couple of deep breaths, like a man steadying his nerves before charging into battle, then took the faint path that ran directly towards the skrayling stockade.
Not satisfied with the protection of river and streams, the builders had added a narrow moat connected to the Thames. On the south side, it was crossed by a wooden drawbridge where a double gate pierced the timber palisade. The gates were open, and skraylings armed with quarterstaves stood at either side of the entrance. The scent of tobacco drifted out across the common, along with unfamiliar cooking smells. He thought of all the strange peoples he had seen on his travels, but none were as strange as these creatures dwelling in his own country.
He paused at the landward end of the drawbridge. Should he announce himself? Seek an introduction to the chief skrayling? He still knew too little Tradetalk to be useful and besides, why would they believe him? He wore no livery, carried no badge to prove his position.
The distant murmur of skrayling voices stilled, and the notes of a woodwind instrument rose in its place. Soft, like a flute, but tuned to an alien key, even stranger than the music of the Turks. And yet the melody was hauntingly familiar, as if… That was it. A lullaby his mother used to sing, in the house by the sea. No. He had never heard it before, did not know it – how could he? Derbyshire was about as far from the sea as anywhere in England. Mal shook his head in confusion. Was he being bewitched? He made the sign of the cross, and the strange feeling faded.
He was uncomfortably aware of the two guards watching him out of the corner of his eye. He swallowed and walked away, heading westwards towards Southwark. His footsteps echoed on the timber planking of the bridge as he crossed the stream, and he had to force himself not to break into a run.
CHAPTER VII
Ned stripped the barbs from a crow quill and cut the tip into a nib. Only one more copy and he was done. Legal papers were not the most interesting of jobs, but at least he could do the work at home and keep an eye on his mother. And with Mal's new connections to draw on, he might even aspire to a post in one of the new scriveneries attached to the Inns of Court.
He had just sanded the last page when footsteps sounded on the stairs and Mal appeared in the doorway.
"Can I borrow a pen and a bit of paper?" Mal asked.
"What do you want it for?"
"A letter."
"Who are you going to write to? You don't have any friends except me." It was cruel, but Mal was at his most handsome when he was vexed.
"I have friends. Blaise Grey, for
Mal fished two pennies out of his pocket and stepped aboard the little boat. It felt good to have money to spare again.
A few minutes later he disembarked at Horseydown Stairs, a hundred yards downriver from the stockade. Unlike elsewhere on the Thames, there were no wherries waiting to take passengers, only a small boat with a prow carved in the likeness of a seabird's head, moored to the jetty and unoccupied. He assumed it belonged to one of the skrayling merchant vessels that stood at anchor along the Southwark docks. He gave the wherryman an extra halfpenny for his inconvenience, and set off towards the stockade.
The skrayling encampment stood on a narrow strip of ground, bordered on the north, south and west by the Thames and its tributary streams. Only a small wooden bridge connected it to Southwark at the western end. A pleasant enough situation, had it not been for the tanneries and forges upwind. If the intent was to isolate the skraylings whilst keeping them in plain sight, Mal could not think of a better location. It also made it impossible to approach the place unnoticed.
For a moment he considered skirting around the common land south of the encampment – but then why bother to come at all, if he did not improve upon the glimpse he had gained from Tower Hill? He took a couple of deep breaths, like a man steadying his nerves before charging into battle, then took the faint path that ran directly towards the skrayling stockade.
Not satisfied with the protection of river and streams, the builders had added a narrow moat connected to the Thames. On the south side, it was crossed by a wooden drawbridge where a double gate pierced the timber palisade. The gates were open, and skraylings armed with quarterstaves stood at either side of the entrance. The scent of tobacco drifted out across the common, along with unfamiliar cooking smells. He thought of all the strange peoples he had seen on his travels, but none were as strange as these creatures dwelling in his own country.
He paused at the landward end of the drawbridge. Should he announce himself? Seek an introduction to the chief skrayling? He still knew too little Tradetalk to be useful and besides, why would they believe him? He wore no livery, carried no badge to prove his position.
The distant murmur of skrayling voices stilled, and the notes of a woodwind instrument rose in its place. Soft, like a flute, but tuned to an alien key, even stranger than the music of the Turks. And yet the melody was hauntingly familiar, as if… That was it. A lullaby his mother used to sing, in the house by the sea. No. He had never heard it before, did not know it – how could he? Derbyshire was about as far from the sea as anywhere in England. Mal shook his head in confusion. Was he being bewitched? He made the sign of the cross, and the strange feeling faded.
He was uncomfortably aware of the two guards watching him out of the corner of his eye. He swallowed and walked away, heading westwards towards Southwark. His footsteps echoed on the timber planking of the bridge as he crossed the stream, and he had to force himself not to break into a run.
CHAPTER VII
Ned stripped the barbs from a crow quill and cut the tip into a nib. Only one more copy and he was done. Legal papers were not the most interesting of jobs, but at least he could do the work at home and keep an eye on his mother. And with Mal's new connections to draw on, he might even aspire to a post in one of the new scriveneries attached to the Inns of Court.
He had just sanded the last page when footsteps sounded on the stairs and Mal appeared in the doorway.
"Can I borrow a pen and a bit of paper?" Mal asked.
"What do you want it for?"
"A letter."
"Who are you going to write to? You don't have any friends except me." It was cruel, but Mal was at his most handsome when he was vexed.
"I have friends. Blaise Grey, for
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