Free The Merchant of Dreams by Anne Lyle Page A

this mission is of the utmost urgency.”
    “Whose letter?” Percy held out his hand.
    Raleigh pointedly threw the paper onto the fire and prodded it with a poker until it was burnt to fragile wafers of soot.
    “As Catlyn says, he is not at liberty to reveal such information.”
    Mal inclined his head in thanks.
    “I fear, sir,” he said to Raleigh, “that others may be curious as to our purpose. Perhaps Master Harriot is right; we should put it about that you are on Her Majesty’s business. We could even take Harriot along, to be our guide in matters optical.”
    The philosopher turned pale. “Oh goodness me, no. Please excuse me, my lords, I am no traveller. You should take Shawe here.” He gestured to his companion, a thin-faced man with faraway eyes. “What say you, Shawe? Would you like to go to Venice?”
    Shawe turned slowly towards Raleigh, as if only just awakened.
    “I regret I cannot be spared so long.”
    “No, I suppose not,” Raleigh said. “Northumberland keeping you busy, eh?”
    “Just so.”
    Mal offered up a silent prayer of thanks. Neither Harriot nor Shawe were the kind of men he wanted to be stuck on a ship with for weeks on end. One would likely never stop talking, and the other was about as cheery as a November afternoon.
    “Well then, we must away with all dispatch,” Raleigh went on. “The Falcon has been berthed at Deptford these past months and wants only provisions to be ready to sail whither you will. Be there for the morning tide on the day after tomorrow, and I’ll have ye in Venice by Easter.”
     
    The steward had assigned them lodgings on the north side of the palace, where the servants of the royal household lived when the court came to visit. The chamber was barely large enough to hold the vast, ancient bedstead, which must have been old in Wolsey’s day. No doubt the Tudors had spurned it in favour of more modern furnishings, but such a grand edifice was too valuable to discard entirely.
    “I suppose we’ll be sharing, then,” Ned said cheerily, leaning on a bedpost. “There’s scarce room to use a piss-pot, never mind set out a cot bed.”
    Mal grunted an affirmative, stifling a belch. Raleigh’s supper had been so generous, it was easy to forget there were food shortages back in London.
    “Just like the old days,” Ned went on. He pulled off his boots and threw himself down on the bed. “If only my old mam could see me now, sleeping on a feather bed in a royal palace…”
    “Ahem.”
    “What?”
    “You’re supposed to be my manservant, remember?”
    Ned stuck out his tongue.
    “In public, perhaps.” He propped himself up on one elbow and looked Mal up and down appreciatively. “Or would you like me to undress you… my lord?”
    Mal gave him a withering look, turned his back and began unbuttoning his doublet.
    “Did you discover aught useful?” he called over his shoulder.
    “Not much. Plenty of gossip about Lady Dorothy; she and Northumberland do not get along, and there’s some doubt as to whether they’ve even consummated the marriage yet.”
    “Servants’ tittle-tattle, and naught to our purpose,” Mal replied. “Go on.”
    Ned listed a few more rumours, none of them of any great interest. Mal finished undressing and crossed to the tiny washstand, where a number of toothsticks stood in a pewter beaker. He picked through them, looking for the least well-used one.
    “Is that all?” he said, when Ned fell silent.
    “Just one thing. Though it’s probably nothing.”
    Mal turned back to the bed, toothsticks forgotten.
    “Tell me.”
    “Walsingham’s dying–”
    “I know that already,” Mal said, getting into bed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    “So guess who’s courting his daughter in secret.”
    “Who?”
    “Blaise Grey. Duke of Suffolk, as he is now.”
    “What?” Mal stared at him. “But if Grey marries Lady Frances–”
    “She’ll be a duchess. It’s a good match for her, especially as she’s older than