The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (10 page)

The gaoler squinted at the writing. “This isn’t the usual clerk’s hand.”

Mal shrugged. “What’s that to me?”

Over the gaoler’s shoulder, he flashed a warning glance at Ned, who nodded back.

“In fact,” the gaoler went on, “this doesn’t look anything like–”

“Let me go, you bastards!” Ned yelled, pulling free of the actor-guards.

He flailed his manacled arms around, hitting the fat gaoler around the head with his metal hand. The man staggered a little.

“You men, get that prisoner under control!”

Mal put a hand under the gaoler’s elbow, but withdrew it just as the man tried to put his weight on it. The gaoler fell to the cobbles with a strangled cry, the piece of paper crumpling in his fist, and Ned kicked him in the head with a yell of triumph.

“That’s for Ben, you slack-gutted toad!”

“Enough! Seize him!” Mal snatched the forged warrant from the gaoler’s hand and turned to the other warders. “See to your master, quick!”

Even as the prison warders began to move, Mal ushered his companions through the gates.

“Quick march! I want these villains in the Tower before they cause any more trouble.”

They set off down St Olave’s Street, taking care to avoid the riverbank just downstream of London Bridge where the real Tower guards moored their boats. A couple of hundred yards further on, Mal led them into a riverside alley as if heading for St Olave’s Stairs, but turned aside at the last minute into a tiny courtyard, barely more than a space between three adjacent buildings whose overhanging upper stories blocked out the grimy sunlight.

“God’s teeth, that was close,” Mal said, taking off his helmet and wiping his brow. “Well done, Ned! And thank you too, lads, you did a splendid job.”

He handed out payment to the actors, who bundled up their costumes in a couple of sacks and rolled up their shirt sleeves, instantly transforming themselves into a gang of labourers who could pass unnoticed in any riverside street. When they had gone, Mal unlocked his friends’ shackles. Ned was grinning like an apprentice on holiday but Gabriel’s face was pale in the gloom, his eyes almost expressionless, as if he dared not believe they had escaped.
A man after my own heart.
 

“Well, gentlemen, time to get you out of here.”

He led them back out into the alley and down to the river, where they caught a wherry downstream to the far eastern end of Southwark. Two horses were waiting for them at a livery stable in Bermondsey Street, along with saddlebags full of food and spare clothing. Mal pressed a purse into Ned’s hand.

“That should be enough to see you safely to France,” he said. “Here are your passports; at least the Privy Council never got around to revoking them.”

“Where shall we go?” Ned asked. “Your estate in Provence?”

“No. That’s the first place they’ll look, if they do come for you. Go to Marseille, and pay Youssef to take you on from there.”

“You think they’ll come after us?”

“Probably not, but it’s best not to assume. Get as far from England as you can, and if you write, do not tell me where you are. The less I know, the better.”

“We cannot thank you enough for this,” Ned said, embracing him.

“No thanks are needed; it was my actions that brought this disaster upon you in the first place.”

“What about the print shop?”

“The soldiers took most of your stock, and I dare say the men won’t want to work there after what happened. I’ll sell off the equipment and set the money against that loan.” He smiled at them both encouragingly. “Let the bastards think us defeated, at least for now.”

“And you?” Parrish asked.

“I’m for the north. If the guisers are behind this attack on us, you and Ned might not be their only targets.”

CHAPTER VII

Coby hitched up her skirt and climbed onto the stile, giving her an unparalleled view over Rushdale. The little river from which the valley got its name wound below her, skirting the outcroppings of pale grey limestone and falling in tiny cascades to pool amongst the thorn trees that edged the meadows. Swallows from the hall’s outbuildings skimmed out over the grass, filling their bellies against the cold of winter. Thankfully the people of the estate had been able to do the same this year; though not bountiful, the harvest had not been as poor as they had feared.

“Up! Mamma, up!”

She turned and smiled down at her adopted son. At a little over two, Kit was walking well now and insisted on accompanying her on her daily hike up the hill, and she had shortened his smocks to prevent them getting too muddy. She bent down and picked him up, sitting him on the cross-rail of the stile and holding him tight around the waist. It was a long tumble down the slope on the other side.

“Mamma! Mamma! Baa-lambs!” He pointed at the sheep in the meadow below.

“Yes, my pet, baa-lambs. Though they’re not babies any more. See, they’re nearly as big as their mammas now.”

She leant her cheek against his dark curls and closed her eyes, listening to the shrilling of the swallows and the bleating of the sheep. So quiet here, so unlike the clamour and stink of London. It reminded her of her childhood in the little town of Berchem, near Antwerp, though of course there were no hills there. She wondered if Mal ever came up here with his mother, when he was Kit’s age. Perhaps not; managing twin boys must have been wearisome indeed.

“Daddy!”

Coby’s eyes blinked open, and her heart skipped a beat. But she could see no one on the road.

“Are you sure, lambkin?”

He nodded vigorously, and now she could hear the sound of trotting hooves, faint but clear in the cold autumn air.

“It’s probably just Father Whittam on his mule,” she said, though Kit had grown out of the phase of referring to all men as “Daddy”.

The rider reappeared from behind a row of trees: a tall dark-haired man on a chestnut horse, the plume on his low-crowned hat bobbing in time to the animal’s gait. Coby bit back a squeal of delight.

“It is Daddy!”

Hardly daring to believe it, she scrambled down from the stile and lifted Kit onto her hip, then set off down the hill as fast as her feet would take her.

They reached the front courtyard of the manorhouse just as Mal was coming out of the stable. He broke into a run, and a moment later was hugging and kissing them both, and though he was covered in the dust of the road and stank of sweat and horse she didn’t care.

“Praise God you’re both safe,” he said at last, holding them at arm’s length. “I was so afraid–”

“What for?” She put Kit down. “You don’t think–?”“

He put a finger to his lips. “Let’s not speak of it here. Where’s Sandy?”

“Probably asleep. He spends every night keeping vigil over Kit.”

“Very wise. Well, we won’t disturb him now.”

Susanna appeared at the front door of the house and immediately crouched and held out her arms. Kit ran to her, and they disappeared into the house together. Truly, Susanna looked far more like Kit’s mother than Coby did, and she was genuinely attached to the boy. Perhaps it was not surprising, since the Italian girl had lost her own child just before they hired her.

“Come,” Coby said, “why don’t we walk in the garden and you can tell me all about it. Unless you’d rather rest a while?”

“No, I need to stretch my legs a little before I sit down. A walk would be perfect.”

She put her arm in his and they strolled round the back of the house to the walled garden. Rows of apple and pear trees, pruned and trained so that they were no higher than Coby’s chin, stood in ranks to catch the sun, a last few fruits glowing amongst their faded leaves. She glanced up at the house, but all the windows were closed against the damp air.

For long moments neither of them spoke, and Coby began to feel sure Mal had naught but bad news. The last she had heard, Ned and Gabriel had been arrested; were they now dead?

“I fear I may have done something a little rash,” he said at last.

She listened in wonder as he told her of Grey’s instructions, and his alternative solution.

“You broke them out of prison? My love, they’ll arrest you the minute you set foot back in London.”

“Then I won’t go back.”

“You have to. You said you would get rid of the guisers, no matter what it takes.”

He slipped his arm around her waist. “You seem in a great hurry to be rid of me.”

“I didn’t mean right now,” she sighed. “But one day.”

“I know.”

He bent his head and kissed her. At the touch of his lips, all thought of London friends and enemies fled, like autumn leaves blown before a gale. He was here, now, with her. That was all that mattered.

He took hold of her wrist and pulled her behind the yew hedge that bordered the herb beds. From the urgency with which he thrust his hips against hers, his intent was clear.

“What if the servants see us?” she whispered.

“Then they’ll know their master is in love with his wife and overjoyed to be with her again.”

He pulled up her skirts and thrust a hand beneath them. She gasped at the touch, and he drew back with a grin.

“What, still wearing drawers like a boy?”

“I feel naked without them.”

“Naked. I like the sound of that word.”

He pulled at the drawstring and let the loosened undergarment fall to the ground, then cupped a bare buttock in each hand.

“Aah, your hands are like ice!”

“Then let me warm them,” he said, pulling her close and stifling any further complaint with another kiss.

She slipped a hand down between their bellies and began unbuttoning his breeches. Tempting as it was to take revenge by slipping her own cold fingers inside, she hadn’t the heart for such cruelty. Instead she withdrew her hand as soon as the last button was undone, and let him press against her again.

“Oh sweet Mother of God, Mina, how I have missed thee!” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear.

And how I have longed to hear you call me by that name again.
 

He pushed her back against the damp orchard wall, lifted her up and thrust gently but determinedly inside her.
And they shall be one flesh.
She clung to him as he shuddered in his pleasure, both of them blind to everything but the need to drive away all memory of their separation. She whispered incoherent words of love and kissed his brow, and at last he released her, slumping against the wall with a mazed look on his face.

Coby glanced around to reassure herself they had not been seen, then retrieved her drawers and put them back on. By the time she was respectable again, Mal had fastened his own clothing and was standing by the wall with folded arms and a smug grin on his face.

“Now that was a warm welcome home,” he said. “I should go away more often.”

Coby plucked an apple from a nearby espalier and mimed aiming it at him. He pretended to duck and ran off laughing. She picked up her skirts and chased after him, finally catching up at the back door. He drew her in for another kiss, but she put a finger to his lips.

“Later. You need to go and see Sandy.”

Mal frowned. “Why so grave? Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “I think… Well, you’ll know when you see him.”

He released her and strode into the house without another word. Coby stood on the back doorstep, hugging herself against his sudden, painful absence.
Why could I not have kept my mouth shut a little longer?
But he had to know, sooner or later.

Mal made his way up to the private apartments on the first floor. Sandy had taken the room they had shared as boys, at the end of the east wing. The larger chamber before it, which had once been Charles’, looked now to have been converted to a nursery for Kit, though there was no sign of his son or the nursemaid. He crossed the room, stepping over a fallen toy horse on wheels, and knocked gently on the door.

“Sandy?”

No reply. He eased the door open. The room beyond was dark and the air over-warm and thick with the bitter, tobacco-like scent of
qoheetsakhan
, the skrayling dream-herb. Sandy lay on the bed, fully clothed, hands folded on his chest like a corpse. For a moment Mal thought his brother was dead and his wife had been unable to break the news, and an involuntary cry caught in his throat. Sandy’s eyes snapped open.

“Sandy?” Mal all but ran over to the bed. “I’m here. Speak to me.”

Sandy blinked up at him. “Brother. Back so soon?”

“What do you mean, soon? It’s September.”

Sandy sat up and rubbed his face. “September. Really?”

“Yes, really.” Mal went over to the window and started opening the shutters. “What are you doing still in bed in the middle of the day, anyway?”

“Resting. I’ve been watching over Kit whilst he sleeps, since he’s still too young to wear a spirit-guard–”

“Why?

“His soul needs to put down roots in the dreamlands, if it is ever to blossom. If we cut him off from it now, Kiiren will be lost to us. Perhaps forever.”

“No, I meant why do you need to watch over him? There can’t be that much danger, surely, not this far from London.” He turned back to the room, blinking away the after-images of the sun’s glare. “The guisers–”

He stared at his brother. If he had thought Sandy looked pale in the darkened room, it was nothing to what the cruel light of day revealed. Sandy’s complexion was a sickly white, his skin sagging from features almost as gaunt as they had been back in Bedlam. His dark hair hung lank and tangled around his shoulders, and his beard hadn’t been cut in weeks.

“Dear God, Sandy, have you not given one thought to yourself these past months?”

“I can’t let them near him!” Sandy made to stand, but tottered and would have fallen if Mal had not dashed forward to catch him.

“You’re no use to him like this. Come on, let’s get some food inside you. I can look after Kit.”

With Mal’s help and encouragement Sandy’s condition soon began to improve, and as the weeks passed they fell into a comfortable routine of alternating patrols in the dreamlands. As on their earlier explorations there was no sign of guiser activity, and the devourers kept to the shadows where they belonged. Mal began thinking of ways to persuade Sandy to ease off on the patrolling, so that he could go back to London without having to worry about a relapse. Perhaps Coby was right and they would arrest him the moment he set foot in the capital, but he couldn’t hide here forever.