bloody mouth with his sleeve.
"Go. Now." She folded her arms, willing her body not to tremble. "Or Master Naismith will have you whipped all the way back to London Bridge."
Faulkner pushed past her, deliberately knocking her shoulder. "Perhaps you should keep this place locked up, if you want no intruders."
She closed the barn door behind him and sank into the straw, wrapping her arms around her knees. Why had she confronted Faulkner like that, instead of calling upon her master to eject him? Had she become so accustomed to behaving like a young man that she forgot the danger she was in? She forced herself to breathe slowly. It wouldn't do for the other apprentices to catch her blubbing like – well, like a girl.
Emotions mastered, she went back to the house to work on the costumes, her box of keepsakes quite forgotten.
CHAPTER IV
After the visit to Court, Mal took to wearing his rapier every day. He had missed the weight of it on his hip, the reassuring reminder of who and what he was. And if it earned him a few suspicious looks from men, it also drew admiring glances from women. The leftovers from Leland's advance were too precious to waste, though, so glances were all he got.
Leland clearly had no doubt Mal would report for duty. He had already sent a tailor round to the Faulkners' house to measure him for livery.
"It had better not be all crimson velvet and goldwork," Mal muttered as the tailor fussed around him with lengths of measuring paper and a mouthful of pins. "I shall look like a popinjay. And do not pad it overmuch. I must be able to move freely."
The tailor said nothing, only wrinkled his nose at the squalid surroundings. Ned was not the most fastidious of bedfellows, and Mistress Faulkner was too stiff with age to run about after her grown son. Reaching out with one foot Mal slid the chamber pot under the bed. The tailor muttered imprecations under his breath and left as soon as he could, saying that next time Mal would have to come to his workshop, for he would not set foot in the place again, no, not if the Queen herself commanded it.
A few days later, Mal was walking back towards London Bridge after a fitting when two figures stepped out of a doorway into his path. By their elaborately slashed sleeves, Venetian lace ruffs and pearl earrings, he took them to be courtiers, or perhaps the sons of wealthy merchants.
"Forgive me, gentlemen," Mal said with a slight bow.
They did not give way. The slighter built of the two, a youth of sixteen or so, raised a silver pomander to his nose; the scent of cloves and orris root wafted from it, competing with the stink of the river.
"What have we here?" the other drawled, looking Mal up and down. "A sewer rat bearing the weapons of a gentleman. From whom did you steal them, sirrah?"
"They're mine, given to me by my father."
"Really? Is that how you northerners acknowledge your bastards?"
Mal's jaw tightened and he drew his blade a hand's breadth from its scabbard in warning. Passers-by hurried away, their eyes averted.
"Go on," the man said with a mocking smile. "Show us why you deserve the Queen's favour, when so many of your betters have been passed over."
Was that what this was all about, jealousy that he had been chosen to guard the ambassador? What irony, that they so coveted something he would give up in a heartbeat.
He glanced from one to the other. Taking them both would be easy enough, but what good would it do? This could end in one of only two ways: his own death, or an arrest warrant for murder. He slammed the rapier back into its scabbard.
"A coward as well as a bastard," the pomander bearer said with a sniff.
Mal snatched the bauble from the youth's hand and threw it across the street. It flashed in the sunlight, bounced off a shop front with a high sharp note like a hand-bell and plopped into a slimy puddle. A scabby dog trotted over to investigate, but
"Go. Now." She folded her arms, willing her body not to tremble. "Or Master Naismith will have you whipped all the way back to London Bridge."
Faulkner pushed past her, deliberately knocking her shoulder. "Perhaps you should keep this place locked up, if you want no intruders."
She closed the barn door behind him and sank into the straw, wrapping her arms around her knees. Why had she confronted Faulkner like that, instead of calling upon her master to eject him? Had she become so accustomed to behaving like a young man that she forgot the danger she was in? She forced herself to breathe slowly. It wouldn't do for the other apprentices to catch her blubbing like – well, like a girl.
Emotions mastered, she went back to the house to work on the costumes, her box of keepsakes quite forgotten.
CHAPTER IV
After the visit to Court, Mal took to wearing his rapier every day. He had missed the weight of it on his hip, the reassuring reminder of who and what he was. And if it earned him a few suspicious looks from men, it also drew admiring glances from women. The leftovers from Leland's advance were too precious to waste, though, so glances were all he got.
Leland clearly had no doubt Mal would report for duty. He had already sent a tailor round to the Faulkners' house to measure him for livery.
"It had better not be all crimson velvet and goldwork," Mal muttered as the tailor fussed around him with lengths of measuring paper and a mouthful of pins. "I shall look like a popinjay. And do not pad it overmuch. I must be able to move freely."
The tailor said nothing, only wrinkled his nose at the squalid surroundings. Ned was not the most fastidious of bedfellows, and Mistress Faulkner was too stiff with age to run about after her grown son. Reaching out with one foot Mal slid the chamber pot under the bed. The tailor muttered imprecations under his breath and left as soon as he could, saying that next time Mal would have to come to his workshop, for he would not set foot in the place again, no, not if the Queen herself commanded it.
A few days later, Mal was walking back towards London Bridge after a fitting when two figures stepped out of a doorway into his path. By their elaborately slashed sleeves, Venetian lace ruffs and pearl earrings, he took them to be courtiers, or perhaps the sons of wealthy merchants.
"Forgive me, gentlemen," Mal said with a slight bow.
They did not give way. The slighter built of the two, a youth of sixteen or so, raised a silver pomander to his nose; the scent of cloves and orris root wafted from it, competing with the stink of the river.
"What have we here?" the other drawled, looking Mal up and down. "A sewer rat bearing the weapons of a gentleman. From whom did you steal them, sirrah?"
"They're mine, given to me by my father."
"Really? Is that how you northerners acknowledge your bastards?"
Mal's jaw tightened and he drew his blade a hand's breadth from its scabbard in warning. Passers-by hurried away, their eyes averted.
"Go on," the man said with a mocking smile. "Show us why you deserve the Queen's favour, when so many of your betters have been passed over."
Was that what this was all about, jealousy that he had been chosen to guard the ambassador? What irony, that they so coveted something he would give up in a heartbeat.
He glanced from one to the other. Taking them both would be easy enough, but what good would it do? This could end in one of only two ways: his own death, or an arrest warrant for murder. He slammed the rapier back into its scabbard.
"A coward as well as a bastard," the pomander bearer said with a sniff.
Mal snatched the bauble from the youth's hand and threw it across the street. It flashed in the sunlight, bounced off a shop front with a high sharp note like a hand-bell and plopped into a slimy puddle. A scabby dog trotted over to investigate, but
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