The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (17 page)

“Your Highness, allow me to present my daughter, Elizabeth Sidney.”

Coby tried not to stare. This child was the daughter being courted by the Earl of Rutland? She had heard that the aristocracy often married young, and here was proof of it. Come to think of it, Lady Frances was barely old enough to have a grown daughter.

“Come nearer, my dear. Let me get a good look at you.”

The girl stepped carefully between the cushions, her face pale as milk against her dark hair.

“This is the child Rutland wants to marry?” Princess Juliana asked over the girl’s head.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Well, she’ll need fattening up before she’s fit for the marriage bed,” the princess replied, frowning.

“I was hoping you might take her into your service,” Lady Frances said.

“Another one?” The princess glanced at Coby, who flushed and looked down at her hands.

“As you know, Your Highness, I am with child and have not the strength to chase after a grown daughter. And her grandmother is not a well woman either.”

“Very well. Send her to me next week.” Juliana cocked her head on one side. “I don’t suppose her courses have started yet?”

Elizabeth flushed scarlet.

“No, Your Highness,” her mother replied.

“Hmm. Well, you can tell Rutland he can have her when they do, but no sooner.”

Lady Frances and her daughter curtsied again and withdrew from the royal presence. Just before the duchess turned to leave, Coby swore she saw her wink in her direction. Was this some ploy of Lady Frances’s, to bring Rutland within Coby’s reach? If so it was a callous move, to use her own daughter as a pawn to draw out the guisers. Coby resolved to take the poor child under her wing and protect her as best she could from the harridans at court. The fact that Lady Frances was relying on her to do just that left a sour taste in her mouth, but what choice did she have?

The rest of the morning’s business was of little interest to Coby: an artist who had been commissioned to paint new portraits of the princess’s daughters; a delegation of scholars from the Cambridge college endowed by the princess, bearing a book of moral instruction dedicated to her, and a tailor with dolls dressed in the latest fashions from Spain and Italy. The latter were cooed over by the other ladies-in-waiting, their insistences that they could not do without such dresses for the coming year bringing a gleam of avarice to the man’s eyes.

As the tailor departed, Princess Juliana’s steward stepped forward.

“One final matter, Your Highness, and one that I think will give you great pleasure.” He handed her a letter.

Princess Juliana cracked the seal and read.

“From my cousin Joaquim,” she said, smiling. “And what is this? He sends a gift.”

“What kind of gift, Your Highness?” Lady Derby asked. “Jewels, perhaps, or a popinjay from the Indies?”

“Better than that, Your Highness.” The steward clapped his hands.

For a moment nothing happened. No sound of trumpets, no stamp of feet. Then the silence of the audience chamber was broken by a high, sweet voice, singing. Coby could not quite make out the words or the language; Portuguese, perhaps, like the princess? After a few moments the singer appeared in the doorway: a slender young man, dark of skin and hair and dressed in courtly finery.

“Bartolomeo Pellegrino, Your Highness. A castrato, all the way from Rome.”

The ladies-in-waiting burst into excited whispers at this news. The Italians were famous, or perhaps infamous, for their eunuch singers, castrated before puberty to preserve their youthful voices. Enhanced by the power of an adult male’s lungs, they were said to be the closest one could come on Earth to the voices of angels. Coby saw many of the ladies blush and heard them giggle about how handsome the young man was, and what a pity he was not a man entire.

The song died away, and Bartolomeo walked the length of the presence chamber to bow before the princess and her companions.

“I bring you greetings, Your Highness, from your noble cousin, and his heartfelt wishes for your health and happiness.”

“Welcome to England, Signor Pellegrino. Please, come sit at my feet and tell me all the news of my uncle’s court.”

Coby quietly observed the young man during this exchange. It was true he was very handsome despite being unfashionably swarthy of complexion, with a wide brow, finely curled black hair and eyes of a striking jade green. His voice, as high as a woman’s, had a soft Italian accent, though he spoke surprisingly good English. The other ladies hung on his every word, and laughed prettily at every slightest jest. Coby was content to watch and listen and note which of the ladies showed him the most favour. Lady Derby for one did not seem overly in awe of him, although she feigned interest well; mostly to please Princess Juliana, Coby suspected. Guiser or no, Lady Derby’s ambitions stretched far higher than a court minstrel. Rumour had it that Prince Robert would be visiting soon, to hunt in the park. If so, Coby was ready to do whatever was necessary to keep him and Lady Derby under observation, and perhaps determine the lady’s loyalties once and for all.

The days passed, but the Prince of Wales did not come to Richmond with his courtiers, nor did Mal visit on business of his own, and Coby began to regret this whole plan. She was making little headway with Lady Derby, who frequently disappeared on business of her own, often to Syon House according to the other ladies-in-waiting. Of course they all assumed she was visiting one of her lovers, or perhaps just gossiping with Essex’s sister, but Coby became increasingly convinced that Lady Derby was in league with the alchemist, Matthew Shawe. Why else visit a house where neither Essex nor Raleigh had been seen in months?

She went to the window of her apartments, from which she could just see the corner of Syon House if she pressed her face against the glass. Cream stone battlements rose above the line of trees, like a child’s wooden castle.

“Your son is very beautiful.”

Coby looked around with a start. Bartolomeo stood in the doorway, his head cocked on one side. She followed his gaze to the bed, where Kit lay sprawled as carelessly as a puppy, one hand pressed to his plump cheek. Susanna, half-hidden by the long velvet curtains framing the other window, paused in her sewing. The arrival of a visitor was of no immediate concern to her, as long as Kit was not disturbed.

“Thank you,” Coby said to the young man. When he did not immediately respond she added, “You speak very good English.”

“I learnt it from songs. I like your English music: your William Byrd and John Dowland.”

His voice was husky, like a boy’s on the verge of breaking. Or like a girl pretending to be a boy. Coby wondered if that was what she had sounded like, when she was being Jacob. No wonder everyone had thought she was younger than she claimed to be.

Bartolomeo nodded towards Kit. “He looks like his father?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, he does.”

“A handsome man, then.”

“You can tell me, when you see him for yourself.”

“Oh?”

“He wrote to say he would visit soon.”

“To see his son. And you.”

“Yes.”

She gestured to the stool at her side, where Susanna had been sitting until she complained that the light was not good enough. Bartolomeo sat down, folding his long elegant hands in his lap. This close, Coby see that his cheeks were as hairless as a girl’s, and she couldn’t help wondering if the rest of his body was the same. A warm flush crept up from her collar. She cleared her throat.

“How are you finding England?”

“Cold.” Bartolomeo smiled, but Coby sensed a double meaning behind the word. Strange; the Princess had welcomed him, and the other ladies-in-waiting were already making wagers as to which of them he would fall in love with. Perhaps he was all too aware that he was no more than a pawn in their petty rivalries.

“We have had several bad winters in recent years,” she said, “but it is certainly colder here than Italy.”

“You have been to my country?”

“Only once. A journey to Venice, on the Queen’s business.”

“And how did you like it?”

“It was… different.”

Bartolomeo laughed. “Now you know how I feel. Everything is different here, not just the weather: the churches, the manners, the food–”

“You do not like English food?”

“It is very…” He broke off, frowning, as if searching his memory for the right word. “Heavy,” he said at last, patting his belly ruefully.

“Princess Juliana keeps a good table. The food here is richer than I have been used to, I must confess.”

“You have not always been a lady?”

This time his dual meaning was surely unintended, yet it still gave Coby pause.

“No. My parents were not of gentle birth.” Again, the Italian’s questions pressed into areas she did not wish to become common currency around the court. “Tell me about your own travels. Have you been to Venice yourself?”

“Alas, no. I grew up in the countryside near Rome, and travelled to the Eternal City as a boy.”

He fell silent, and Coby cursed herself for reminding him of his cruel treatment by the choirmasters.

“But more recently, you were in Portugal,” she said.

“Yes, at the court of Prince Joaquim.”

He proceeded to tell an amusing story about the prince’s pet monkey, which liked to ride in a cart pulled by a little dog and which had been trained to laugh at all the prince’s clever jests.

Kit stirred at their laughter, and Bartolomeo leapt to his feet.

“Please, forgive me, I did not mean to disturb your child–”

“There is nothing to forgive. He usually wakes from his nap around this time.”

“Then I will leave him to your care. Good day, Signora Catalin.”

He bowed and left before Coby could return the courtesy.

“Well, what do you make of that?” she said to no one in particular, staring at the closed door. “Surely he did not have to leave in such haste?”

She went over to the bed and held out her arms to Kit, but he scrambled down the far side and ran over to Susanna. The nursemaid put down her sewing and picked him up. Coby suppressed a pang of jealousy. After all, he was no more her son than he was Susanna’s.

“You cannot trust that one, mistress,” the girl said, setting Kit down on the window seat so he could look out into the garden.

“Oh? Why do you say that?”

“Because he lies. He says he has never been to Venice, and yet I would swear he is as Venetian as I am. I hear it in his voice.”

“Venetian? But why would he lie about something like that?”

“Because he is here to spy on you, perhaps?”

Coby turned away. Why would the Venetians want to spy on her? It had been years since her little adventure in the republic, and anyway if they were interested in anyone, it would be Mal. He was the one who had wrecked all their plans for an alliance with the skraylings. But perhaps they meant to get to him through her and Kit, just as the guisers had done. She sighed. The last thing they needed was more enemies. She would write to her husband immediately and warn him. No, perhaps it was better not to. Bartolomeo could be using his closeness to the princess to read the correspondence passing through her couriers. Better to wait, and watch, and listen. Mal knew how to be circumspect on his own account, and soon he would be here and she could warn him in person. God willing, she would not have to wait too long.

CHAPTER XII

“I could murder some ale,” Ned growled into his glass of mint tea.

Steam condensed on his face, mingling with the sweat that trickled down from his hairline. God’s teeth but he hated this place! He had thought Marseille hot enough, but al-Jaza’ir could have been the borderlands of Hell. Was, for all he knew. Perhaps one day the parched ground would open up to reveal firepits full of damned souls, and he would be taken down to the fate that he knew awaited all his kind.

“Who needs ale?” Gabriel murmured, opening the little wooden box in front of him. Inside nestled several cherry-sized balls of
hashish
, a local sweetmeat made from date paste, hemp leaves and spices.

Ned reached out with his good hand and closed the lid.

“You’ve had enough of that already.”

Gabriel squinted at him through gilt lashes. His high cheekbones were sun-scorched and flaking, and his fair hair bleached almost white, and yet he was as beautiful as ever, especially when he smiled. Nowadays though he only smiled after a morsel of
hashish
. The rest of the time he sank into melancholy, pining for his London friends – and the stage.

“All right.” Ned took his hand away. “But only one more. Youssef will thrash us from here to the New World and back if we come aboard anything less than sober.”

Gabriel paused with the sweetmeat halfway to his mouth.

“We’re going to the New World?”

“No, just back to Marseille. God’s teeth, Gabe, has that stuff stolen all your wits?”

The actor looked contrite and replaced the
hashish
in the box.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, love.”

“I’m sorry too. I wish I’d never dragged you into this mess.” He looked around the tavern, if you could call it that in the absence of strong drink. “What’s Youssef up to, anyway? I thought this was a quick in-and-out mission. Sell the goods, fill the hold and back to sea.”

Gabriel shrugged. “You know our captain.”

“Do we, though? He may be Mal’s friend, but he says little enough to the rest of us.”

“It’s not easy when he speaks no English.”

“True, but you speak a bit of French. Can’t you worm your way into his confidence?”

“To what end? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life scrubbing decks, Ned. We need to find proper work, something better suited to our talents.” He leaned closer. “Mal must know people in Paris. What if you write to him…?”

“And how is he to reply? He made us promise not to tell him where we are.”

Gabriel slumped back down in his seat, staring at the wooden box.

At that moment the curtain over the doorway lifted and Simon Danziger entered the tavern. Though only twenty years old, the Dutchman was already a seasoned member of the
Hayreddin
’s crew and its chief carpenter, having learned the craft from his father in Marseille. Danziger pulled off the scarf covering his straw-coloured hair and called for a pot of tea, and Ned beckoned him over to their table.