one."
"Grey's not your friend," Ned replied. "If he was, he'd have helped you by now. Trust me, powerful men don't help underlings like us unless there's something in it for them."
Mal glowered, but said nothing.
"I don't think you're writing a letter at all," Ned went on. "I think you're writing a sonnet to that pretty apprentice-boy of Naismith's, the one you've been spending all summer with."
"I am not."
"After all I've done for you…" Ned sighed melodramatically. "Putting you up here, sharing my bed with you–"
"And I'm grateful, truly. But I have a letter to write and you should be at Henslowe's."
Ned shrugged. "It's only eleven."
"That was twelve the clocks struck. Or can't you count either?"
"Christ's hairy arse!" Ned snatched up his satchel and waved at the desk. "Help yourself. I'm off!"
He ran down the stairs without a backward glance, through the kitchen and out into the garden, where his mother was hoeing the cabbages.
"I'll be back for supper," he called over his shoulder as he vaulted the gate.
The mastiffs in the bear-baiting kennels nearby bayed in response to his shout but soon they were well behind him, their clamour lost amongst the cries from the Clink prison. Desperate inmates stretched their arms through barred windows as Ned passed.
"Spare a penny for an old soldier down on his luck, sir," one prisoner rasped through his few remaining teeth.
Ned threw him a pitying glance before turning towards the house opposite the prison. Henslowe was generous in lending money to his employees, but visitors to his house could not avoid the grim reminder of what would happen if they abused that generosity.
Ned knocked on the theatre manager's door and was admitted by a serving girl. He didn't know her name; maids came and went with the turn of the seasons, and they all looked much alike to him. She showed him into Henslowe's study, a gloomy wood-panelled chamber on the first floor overlooking the street.
Henslowe's book chest stood open and empty, its contents piled on the desk and floor. The theatre manager was sifting through a pile of manuscripts bound with string. His greying hair was unkempt and he wore a loose gown over his underlinens and slippers on his feet, as though he had not thought to dress since rising.
"I don't suppose you have Marlowe's final masterpiece hidden about your person, do you, Faulkner?" he asked, without looking up.
"Umm, no, sir."
Henslowe waved a hand at the piles of paper all around him.
"A fortune invested in the theatre business, and what do I have to show for it? A chest full of feeble scribblings, and not one of them fit to put on for the ambassador."
Ned doubted his words; most of the city's playwrights had sold their work to Henslowe in recent years. All except Will Shakespeare, who wrote exclusively for the Prince's Men.
"Does it have to be something new?" Ned asked, remembering what Mal had told him. "The ambassador's never been to London before, and surely he cannot have heard any of our plays put on in the New World unless they be transcribed into Vinlandic."
Henslowe put down the pile of manuscripts and stared at him.
"You know, you may be onto something."
"And he won't understand a word of it anyway," Ned said, warming to his subject, "so you could just put on something that looks good."
"Looks good… Yes, yes. Pageantry, spectacle, that colour of beast." Henslowe clapped him on the shoulder. "Good thinking, Faulkner. I knew there was a reason I liked you."
Mal finished his writing, sanded and folded it, and put it into his pocket. It was not a letter, nor indeed a sonnet, damned be Ned's lewd imaginings. Though even a sonnet would be easier to explain than the nonsense text he now carried: Baines' latest assignment, a letter transposed into cipher from memory. It was hard enough keeping his intelligence training hidden from Ned, without
"Grey's not your friend," Ned replied. "If he was, he'd have helped you by now. Trust me, powerful men don't help underlings like us unless there's something in it for them."
Mal glowered, but said nothing.
"I don't think you're writing a letter at all," Ned went on. "I think you're writing a sonnet to that pretty apprentice-boy of Naismith's, the one you've been spending all summer with."
"I am not."
"After all I've done for you…" Ned sighed melodramatically. "Putting you up here, sharing my bed with you–"
"And I'm grateful, truly. But I have a letter to write and you should be at Henslowe's."
Ned shrugged. "It's only eleven."
"That was twelve the clocks struck. Or can't you count either?"
"Christ's hairy arse!" Ned snatched up his satchel and waved at the desk. "Help yourself. I'm off!"
He ran down the stairs without a backward glance, through the kitchen and out into the garden, where his mother was hoeing the cabbages.
"I'll be back for supper," he called over his shoulder as he vaulted the gate.
The mastiffs in the bear-baiting kennels nearby bayed in response to his shout but soon they were well behind him, their clamour lost amongst the cries from the Clink prison. Desperate inmates stretched their arms through barred windows as Ned passed.
"Spare a penny for an old soldier down on his luck, sir," one prisoner rasped through his few remaining teeth.
Ned threw him a pitying glance before turning towards the house opposite the prison. Henslowe was generous in lending money to his employees, but visitors to his house could not avoid the grim reminder of what would happen if they abused that generosity.
Ned knocked on the theatre manager's door and was admitted by a serving girl. He didn't know her name; maids came and went with the turn of the seasons, and they all looked much alike to him. She showed him into Henslowe's study, a gloomy wood-panelled chamber on the first floor overlooking the street.
Henslowe's book chest stood open and empty, its contents piled on the desk and floor. The theatre manager was sifting through a pile of manuscripts bound with string. His greying hair was unkempt and he wore a loose gown over his underlinens and slippers on his feet, as though he had not thought to dress since rising.
"I don't suppose you have Marlowe's final masterpiece hidden about your person, do you, Faulkner?" he asked, without looking up.
"Umm, no, sir."
Henslowe waved a hand at the piles of paper all around him.
"A fortune invested in the theatre business, and what do I have to show for it? A chest full of feeble scribblings, and not one of them fit to put on for the ambassador."
Ned doubted his words; most of the city's playwrights had sold their work to Henslowe in recent years. All except Will Shakespeare, who wrote exclusively for the Prince's Men.
"Does it have to be something new?" Ned asked, remembering what Mal had told him. "The ambassador's never been to London before, and surely he cannot have heard any of our plays put on in the New World unless they be transcribed into Vinlandic."
Henslowe put down the pile of manuscripts and stared at him.
"You know, you may be onto something."
"And he won't understand a word of it anyway," Ned said, warming to his subject, "so you could just put on something that looks good."
"Looks good… Yes, yes. Pageantry, spectacle, that colour of beast." Henslowe clapped him on the shoulder. "Good thinking, Faulkner. I knew there was a reason I liked you."
Mal finished his writing, sanded and folded it, and put it into his pocket. It was not a letter, nor indeed a sonnet, damned be Ned's lewd imaginings. Though even a sonnet would be easier to explain than the nonsense text he now carried: Baines' latest assignment, a letter transposed into cipher from memory. It was hard enough keeping his intelligence training hidden from Ned, without
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