The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (15 page)

“Sir Maliverny! What a lovely surprise!”

Mal bowed as Lady Frances rose to greet him. “The pleasure is all mine, my lady.”

“And how is that fine son of yours?”

“I left him in very good health, my lady.”

“You must bring him to court soon,” the dowager duchess said, “and your wife too. Blaise could do with a reminder of where his family duty lies.”

“Of course, my lady,” Mal replied with another bow.

Lady Frances cleared her throat. “If you came to see my husband, sir, I’m afraid he isn’t here today. Affairs of state take up so much of his time.”

Disappointment warred with relief in Mal’s breast, and an idea came to him. Perhaps his journey needn’t be wasted after all. He took Lady Frances by the elbow and guided her towards the window, out of earshot of the old duchess.

“In truth it is you I came to see, my lady,” he said in a low voice.

“Oh?”

“I need to put a spy in the Earl of Northumberland’s household, but it has to be someone completely unknown to our enemies. I therefore cannot assign any of my own men, lest Selby betrayed them, and my own presence in the vicinity of Syon House would be noted immediately.”

Lady Frances’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

“So you were hoping I might oblige, is that it?”

“I would not want you to put yourself in harm’s way, my lady. But perhaps you have connections you can use?”

Lady Frances pursed her lips, and her dark brows drew together.

“There is someone. A gardener at Richmond Palace–”

“A gardener? How is he to help us? Syon House is on the other side of the river.”

“And with it his lady-love, a maidservant in the Countess of Essex’s service. Fear not, he is a quick-witted lad with a keen memory. I shall speak with him when I next visit the Princess of Wales.”

“Thank you, my lady.”

“And whilst you are here,” she said more loudly, guiding him back towards the fireplace, “you must dine with us, so that you can tell us all about your family. I am so longing to meet Lady Catlyn; when will you bring her out of hiding, Sir Maliverny?”

“Very soon I assure you. But I need a household fit to receive her.” He gave the duchess his most charming smile. “Perhaps you ladies would advise me?”

Dinner passed slowly, for the ladies were far more intent upon giving Mal instructions on the running of his household than on consuming the food on their plates. Mal tried to pay attention whilst discreetly wolfing his own meal; the Greys were wealthy enough to eat well even in times of famine, though in deference to the Lenten season there was more fish on the table than meat.

At last the meal ended and servants brought round fingerbowls and napkins. The dower duchess excused herself, saying she customarily read her Bible in private after meals, though Mal suspected a nap was a more likely habit. He felt drowsy himself, truth be told: his belly was fuller than it had been in months, and the house’s tall glazed windows had distilled the spring sunshine into languid summer heat.

“What I wouldn’t give,” he said, as he escorted Lady Frances to the entrance hall, “for a cup of
caff
è
right now. Just the thing for after dinner.”

“
Caff
è
?
”

“An Eastern beverage I encountered in Venice. Most stimulating, though the bitter flavour takes a little getting used to.” He ignored the pang of guilt at the memory of the equally stimulating company he had enjoyed it in. He had been a bachelor back then, entitled to his pleasures. “I wonder that the habit has not reached these shores yet.”

“I dare say it shall, soon enough. Italian fashions are still very much the vogue at court.”

The coolness of the marble-lined hall was clearing Mal’s head a little, and he recalled his other pressing problem: the identity of Jathekkil’s
amayi
. Surely some clue must lie within these walls, and it would be foolish to leave without at least trying to gain Lady Frances’s aid in finding it. Not here, though; the hard stone magnified the slightest whisper. He inclined his head towards the parlour opposite.

“Might I have a word in private, my lady?”

Lady Frances said nothing, only gestured gracefully for him to lead the way. He ushered her inside and closed the door. It was risking gossip, even scandal, but he dare not risk the servants overhearing.

“My lady, has Lord Grey made any further progress in his own investigations?”

“I do not think so, not beyond what you have told him.”

“Then he has not found anything useful in his father’s papers?”

She shrugged helplessly.

“An unbiased eye might help,” Mal went on. “Blaise loved his father, or at least respected him.”

“As any man should.”

“Of course. But loyalty can blind one to a loved one’s flaws, can it not?” When she nodded thoughtfully, he pressed on. “Let me take a look at the late duke’s papers, as many as we can find. Perhaps right away, before Lord Grey returns from court?”

Mal held his breath, praying that curiosity would get the better of her. He wanted to be there, to ensure that nothing incriminating was conveniently lost.

After a moment Lady Frances grinned like a naughty child. “Yes, why not? And I have an idea where to start.”

She led him through room after room of the mansion’s west wing until Mal was sure they would end up in the Thames. At last she opened a hidden door in the panelling and they went up a narrow flight of stairs to what must surely be the very top of the house. She halted at a low door and sorted through the keys on her chatelaine for a few moments. At last she found the one she was looking for, and the door creaked open into darkness.

“This is the family archive,” Lady Frances said, coughing into her sleeve as a cloud of dust rose around them. “Every letter, household bill and account book since before the Black Death, according to the steward.”

Mal stared in disbelief. Though low-ceilinged, the attic room was a good ten yards long and almost as wide, with one cobweb-festooned window at the gable end. And every square foot of floor was covered with stacks of mouldering paper, some of them as high as his waist.

“It could take a lifetime to sort through this lot, assuming the mice haven’t eaten half of it already.”

“You did say you wanted to see everything.”

“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” He picked up a handful of sheets from the nearest stack. Tailor’s bills, unpaid by the look of them, and several decades old. “Are the late duke’s personal letters here?”

“I’m not certain. They might still be in the library, if my husband has not finished with them.”

“You’ve seen them?”

“Yes, in the desk. It has a great many pigeonholes and drawers.”

“Locked drawers?”

“Some of them, yes.” She looked abashed. “I could not find a key to fit them, and I could hardly ask Lord Grey.”

“I think I can help you there. Please, show me.”

A preliminary search of the desk revealed nothing more incriminating than a collection of letters written by Blaise to his father from school and university.

“How are you going to get into the drawers?” Lady Frances asked, unfolding one of the letters.

Mal extracted a number of skeleton keys from his boots, hat brim and dagger scabbard, placed there against the threat of arrest and imprisonment.

“Fear not, I’ve learnt a few tricks as part of my profession.”

Taught to him by his wife, though he was hardly going to tell Lady Frances that. He began probing the first lock. Lady Frances put aside her husband’s letters and came over to watch.

After a few tries the lock gave way, and its fellow yielded to the same skeleton key. The left hand drawer turned out to be empty, but the right hand one contained a small sheaf of letters in various hands, including several from Lord Burghley.

“Have you found anything?” Lady Frances asked.

Mal showed her the letters.

“Nothing strange about Burghley and my father-in-law exchanging letters,” she said. “He was Lord Treasurer, after all, and had dealings with all the great lords of the realm.”

“And too old, I think, to be a danger. He must be past his threescore years and ten by now.”

“Nearer four score. And in poor health besides. Baron Buckhurst has had to take his place on the council.”

Buckhurst. His name wasn’t on Selby’s list, nor was Burghley’s. Was that significant? Come to think of it, none of the Privy Councillors were named. That boded ill. Mal began to feel more certain than ever that it was the omissions that mattered, not the names on the list.

On a hunch he pulled out both drawers, and let out a low whistle. The empty one was a hand’s breadth shallower than the one he had found the letters in. A secret compartment! Remembering Baines’s training, he took out his riding gloves and felt around cautiously. One could never rule out poisoned needles and other traps. There. The back panel tilted when you pushed on the top and sprang back into place when you let go.

“I’ll need something to hold it open,” he said, and drew his dagger.

A few moments later he was staring at a small bundle of letters tied with silk ribbon. Love letters? Hardly daring to trust his luck he pulled the ribbon loose and began reading.

Right honourable my good and dearest lord, my most humble and bountiful thanks for all your kind wishes for my health. The days wax long in your absence, and my heart is so afflicted that I curse the sun for its mockery of my dark humour. I greatly fear that time will soon be upon me when my soul shall be taken up to Heaven, but I know that with your care I shall be delivered safe into a new life.
 

“This is it,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Clear evidence of Jathekkil’s
amayi
.”

“I know not that word,
amayi
. It is not Latin, though it sounds much like it.”

“It is a skrayling word, my lady, meaning a trusted companion.” When she looked puzzled, he recalled that she still believed the late duke had plotted against the skraylings, not that he was one of them. “Forgive me. I spend too much time with my brother. I forget that others do not understand our private speech.”

He scanned to the end of the letter.

I pray most earnestly for your own good health and happiness. Your very assured and loving kinsman, Wm Selby. Sent this viijth day of June, 1575.
 

“No, this cannot be correct,” he said aloud. “Selby was a young man when this letter was written. Why would he fear imminent death?”

He sorted through the other letters. This was the last, and some went back as far as the 1540s, written in a boyish hand.

“These are not from the man I arrested.”

Lady Frances tapped a folded letter against her lips.

“Selby. Selby.” Her dark brows drew together in concentration. “The late Sir William inherited Ightham from his uncle, also Sir William Selby.”

Mal swore under his breath. “And did he die twenty-three years ago, as these letters suggest?”

Lady Frances shrugged. “Thereabouts, as I recall. I know not the precise date. Why?”

There was nothing for it but the truth, or some version of it that Lady Frances might believe.

“Our enemies believe in reincarnation, like the followers of Pythagoras. They choose their recruits from those they believe are their dead members reborn.”

“Oh.” Her eyes widened in shock. “Then they are heretics as well as traitors.”

“Indeed, my lady. Now you understand why I must root them out.” He shuffled the letters distractedly. “The person I seek is twenty years old or so. Most likely another courtier, and one more powerful than Selby, judging by their schemes so far.”

“Oh dear Lord.” Lady Frances turned pale and sat down.

“My lady?”

“The Earl of Rutland is courting my daughter Elizabeth. He is twenty-two years old, I believe.”

Another guiser trying to get close to Grey’s network? That was all they needed. “He is only one man. Who else can you think of?”

Lady Frances counted on her fingers. “There’s Nottingham’s eldest, Lord Howard of Effingham. He’s only twenty-one, but he was elected to Parliament last year. Unfortunately his father’s investiture as earl made him ineligible for the Commons, so he left for Ireland under the Earl of Essex.”

“Hmm. A possible candidate, though it leaves the young prince vulnerable. Go on.”

“Northumberland’s brother Josceline is around two-and-twenty also.”

“Christ’s balls! How I would love that strutting codpiece to be discovered a traitor. I’d take great pleasure in gutting him myself.”

Lady Frances ignored the outburst.

“And then there’s Elizabeth de Vere, daughter of the Earl of Oxford,” she went on. “She used to be lady-in-waiting to Princess Juliana, until she married Lord Derby.”

“When was that?”

“Four years ago.”

“The year after your father-in-law died, and less than a year after Prince Henry was born. Do you think perhaps someone wanted her away from court, and away from the prince?”

“If they did, they failed. She is more often at court than at her husband’s home; indeed, it is quite the scandal. She is said to have had affairs with Sir Walter Raleigh and the Earl of Essex, though my sources have been unable to confirm it.”

“The girl has spirit, then, and she’s ambitious.”
Reminds me of someone I once knew…
“Well, that’s given me plenty of food for thought. Thank you, my lady.”

Mal walked home, his mind awhirl. So, two generations of guisers in one family. Just like Sandy and Kit, and possibly the Shawes as well. After all, what better place to raise another guiser than within your own family? Damn it, he had been a fool not to think of it sooner. If he compared Selby’s list against the names Lady Frances had suggested, it might reveal some pattern. Then there were the young candidates themselves. None were sufficiently well-placed to be influential at court, but perhaps not all guisers aimed for high office. A man of power was constrained by duty and could not always go where he pleased. Better to be a relative nobody, or a young wastrel like Jos Percy. Indeed the web of connections to Northumberland made the earl’s brother a very plausible candidate.