The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (31 page)

“Lady Catlyn?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry!”

Coby finished lacing up the back of Queen Juliana’s gown and stepped out of the way of the other ladies-in-waiting. As the lowliest of the Queen’s attendants she got all the least popular tasks, particularly once the other ladies found out how good she was at mending.

“Why so serious?” Lady Derby whispered, nudging her in the ribs.

“A little tired, that’s all,” Coby lied.

“Not long now,” her companion replied, as if reading her thoughts. “I shall be so glad to get out of this dreary old place. The traitors and the ravens are welcome to it.”

The Queen stepped into her shoes, then the two of them knelt to restore the folds of her skirts to their former neatness.

“It’s traditional,” Coby said as they resumed their places at a discreet distance. Every English king since King William’s day had started his coronation procession from the Tower.

“I heard a most alarming rumour about these apartments,” Lady Derby whispered, glancing about the bedchamber. “They say the skrayling ambassador slept in this very room. In that very bed.”

Coby suppressed a smile. Not in that bed, or so her husband had told her. The ambassador was not accustomed to English fashions, and had preferred the servant’s bed on the floor. “So I believe.”

“Were you here for the ambassador’s arrival?”

“Alas, no.” Another lie. She was hardly about to confess to masquerading as a boy, apprenticed to a theatre company. “It was before… before Sir Maliverny and I met.”

Just saying his name brought back the pain of their separation. Only a few more hours, and his promise would be put to the test.

“Hard to believe it was ten years ago,” Lady Derby said. “I wasn’t at court then, of course, being but a girl.”

They watched in silence as other ladies draped heavy ropes of pearl about the Queen’s neck and fastened an elaborate standing collar of gauze and lace and beadwork to the back of her gown. Diamonds and gold thread winked in the sunlight reflecting off the Thames. Coby found herself unconsciously smoothing her gown, and clasped her hands in front of her. After so many weeks in drab black it was a relief to be wearing pale colours again, even if she couldn’t help fretting about soiling the fine silk. Old habits died hard.

At last the Queen was ready and there was nothing left but to wait until they were summoned down to the outer ward to mount their palfreys. Some of the ladies offered to play cards with the Queen in the dining chamber, a suggestion Juliana gladly agreed to. Coby was debating whether or not to join them when a knock came at the door leading to the Wakefield Tower, on the other side of the ward. She crossed the room and opened the door a crack.

“Kit, what are you doing here?”

“Mother, can I come in?”

Coby looked around, but the bedchamber was now empty.

“Of course, sweetheart. What is it?” As Kit came through into the light, she took in his flushed features and over-bright eyes. “Have you been fighting with the other boys again?”

“No, Mother. But look what Father gave me for my saint’s day!”

He turned his slender body to display a swept-hilt sword, the very image of his father’s rapier in miniature, hanging from his left hip. Coby forced a smile. Dear Lord, how quickly they grow up!

“I hope it’s not sharp,” she said.

Kit pulled a face. “Father said it had to be blunted in case I hurt one of the princes and got sent to the Tower for good.”

“Well, he’s right. It’s not a toy. And you know your Ten Commandments.”

“I know. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But Father has killed men, hasn’t he?”

“Only to protect the people he loves.”

“Then it’s all right for me to kill people too. If someone was hurting you, or Father, or Uncle Sandy.”

“No!”

“Then why did Father give me a sword?”

“Because it’s the mark of a gentleman to wear one.”

“Why?”

“Because lesser men are not permitted to.”

“Why?”

Coby sighed in exasperation. “Because then they would always be killing one another in the streets and God would be angry. Now run along before you’re missed.”

“Yes, Mother.” He flashed a grin at her and disappeared through the door.

So like his father. She smiled to herself, and went to sit with the other ladies. Tonight could not come soon enough.

The inner ward looked like a cross between an army muster and a fairground, hundreds of people and horses milling around in a chaotic swirl of colour and noise. Mal guided Hector into line at the top of the slope leading down to the outer ward, in the second rank of courtiers behind the King’s party. Sandy took his place at Mal’s left hand, looking less assured on his mount. They were dressed identically in dark red damask, with only Sandy’s clean-shaven chin and longer hair to tell them apart. Mal would rather have worn black, all the better to pass unnoticed on their escape from the palace, but black was the one colour that had been banned from this joyous occasion.

Below him the highest peers of the realm escorted their monarch to his coronation: the tall figure of Blaise Grey stood out at the head of the file on the King’s left, and the King’s younger brother, Prince Arthur, on the right, his copper-coloured hair bright in the morning sunlight. Robert himself looked every inch the king, draped in an ermine-trimmed red velvet cloak that fell over the haunches of his mount almost to the ground. Mal wondered idly what they would do if and when the horse relieved itself during the procession. The King could hardly walk into the abbey stinking of horse shit.

As Mal watched, the King turned to share a jest with the Earl of Northumberland and a fold of his cloak fell back. Sunlight flashed on gold-chased armour for a moment, and Mal had to blink away the spots dancing before his eyes. Armour, for a coronation? Robert seemed determined to hammer home to his subjects that they were ruled by a man once more, not a cautious old woman. He certainly sounded pleased with himself, as well he might, having gained by birth what his father and grandfather had both attempted by force and failed: the throne of England.

Behind the King, other senior courtiers rode either side of the two young princes, who were followed by their own escort of companions, including Kit. Mal smiled fondly at the sight of his son sitting so straight and proud on his little grey pony, the new sword on his hip. He noticed however that the other boys scarcely spoke to him. Had they noticed anything strange about him, or were they merely contemptuous of the son of a mere gentleman riding amongst them? Royal favour could be a two-edged sword.

At last trumpets sounded and the procession began to move out through the gate under the Bloody Tower, the horses’ hooves rattling and slipping on the ancient cobbles. Hector tossed his head, unhappy with the combination of crowds and treacherous footing, and Mal patted him reassuringly on the neck. The cavalcade turned right at the bottom of the slope, where the Queen’s party was waiting to follow behind them. Mal glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Coby, but she was probably somewhere at the back behind the Queen’s litter. Still, he was glad to know she was not far away. Perhaps after the coronation ceremony she would be able to sit with him and Sandy and Kit at the feast. It had been far too long since they ate together as a family. Too long since they had been together at all.

The procession moved slowly through the outer ward, out of the main gates and up the long causeway to the gatehouse. The lions in the menagerie watched them pass with languid amber eyes, the huge male flicking his tail idly at the flies buzzing around the bloody remains of his breakfast. From beyond the outer curtain wall of the castle came the muted rumble of voices, rising to a crescendo of cheers as the first mounted figures emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse. A few moments later Mal and Sandy rode into that same echoing darkness, and out again into the blinding light of a July morning. Mal blinked and shaded his eyes–

A shot rang out, echoing around the nearby stone walls. A woman screamed. Mal urged Hector forward, towards Kit.

“The King! The King is down!”

The orderly procession dissolved into a rout, riders scattering into the screaming crowds or turning their horses back against the relentless tide of courtiers still crossing the causeway. Another shot, more muffled this time. Mal scooped a startled Kit off his pony and passed him to Sandy, then turned Hector back towards the gatehouse.

“Stop the procession!” he shouted at them. “Get the Queen and the princesses back into the Tower!”

A familiar slender figure vaulted down from her palfrey and ran to the Queen’s litter, shouting instructions at the bearers. Mal smiled. Trust his wife to take charge in a crisis. He gazed past the Queen’s party, and groaned. The causeway was blocked by dozens of liveried guards bearing partizans. They were trapped here, and who knew how many more assassins lurked in the streets outside the Tower, waiting to pick off any royal target they spotted.

“Stay here,” he told Sandy. “Get Kit into the gatehouse if you can.”

His brother dismounted and led his horse under the gatehouse arch, and Mal steered Hector through the press towards where he had last seen the princes. To his relief Northumberland had mustered a cordon of men around Edward and Henry, backing them against the blank curtain wall in the shadow of the gatehouse. Edward’s mouth was set in a taut line, as if he was readying himself for battle; Henry looked wary but calm. When the younger prince noticed Mal looking his way he smiled slowly, and Mal’s blood ran cold. Dear God, have I misjudged so badly, expecting Jathekkil to wait for his throne?

“Don’t just stand there, Catlyn!” Grey loomed over him, eyes blazing. “Get down to the quayside and commandeer the largest skiff you can find. Quickly, or the King may die.”

Kit watched his father leave, swallowing past the lump in his own throat. What was happening? Had someone shot the King? He couldn’t see much from here, even high up on his uncle’s horse. Lots of splendidly dressed men were riding back and forth, like a tapestry picture of a battle come to life, but in the stories no one ever talked about the screaming. Kit wanted to put his fingers in his ears, but that would mean letting go of the reins. He looked around for Uncle Sandy, but it was dark under the gatehouse and all the women were screaming…

Movement caught his eye, and he turned back to the scene outside the castle gates. It was too bright out there to see properly, but he thought he saw a group of men riding towards him, their faces grim. Kit drew his sword. It was all right to kill people to protect your loved ones. He gripped the hilt tighter.

“Out of the way, you addle-pated knave! Make way for the Prince of Wales!”

Kit tried to steer his horse out of the men’s path, but the gelding whinnied and stamped its feet. Kit grabbed for the mane with both hands, forgetting he was holding the sword. The horse reared as the blade slapped into its neck and Kit slid backwards, screaming – into the arms of his mother.

“There, I’ve got you.” She set Kit down on his feet and slapped Hector’s rump, sending him charging towards the princes’ party.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, woman!”

“Protecting the Queen,” Kit’s mother shouted back. “Come along, Kit.”

She guided him towards a door in the archway. Prince Henry’s big sisters were already there, trying to walk and cling to one another at the same time. Kit heard a laugh behind him.

“Go on, Catlyn, go with the other girls.”

It was de Vere, Kit was sure of it, though he could not see the older boy in the darkness. He looked away, not wanting them to see his flushed cheeks. If only Father hadn’t taken him from his pony, he’d be with the princes now, not shut away with the girls. It wasn’t fair.

“Where’s Uncle Sandy?” Kit asked as his mother hurried him into the gatehouse. “I want to go back to Father.”

“And your father wants you safe in here. Come along.”

Mal jogged back up Tower Hill, pushing his way through the remaining crowds. Some of the citizenry had fled in panic, but most seemed more interested in finding out what would happen next. At last he reached a cordon of Tower guardsmen, holding back the throng with levelled partizans. One of them pointed his weapon at Mal.

“Let me through, you fool. Or would you rather the King died?”

He was saved from further argument by Lord Grey beckoning him over. The guardsman muttered an apology and let him through.

The space inside the cordon was empty but for a knot of men surrounding the King, who had been laid on his crumpled velvet cloak. All his fine armour had been removed apart from the pieces covering his right leg. The padding of deep red quilted silk covering the rest of his body looked unpleasantly like flayed flesh. Mal tore his gaze away and addressed Prince Arthur, who was kneeling by his brother.

“Your Highness?”

Arthur’s head jerked up. His fine-boned visage was pale as paper. “What is it?”

“Your Highness, I have a boat waiting to take the King to the palace.”

When the prince did not immediately respond, Blaise Grey answered for him.

“Thank you, Catlyn. Come, let us clear the way.”

Mal followed him back to the cordon. Grey shouted orders to the guards, who parted in the centre and began pushing the crowd apart, wielding the butts of their partizans against the more reluctant.

“Make way for King Robert! Make way for the King!”

For a moment Mal feared the crowd would fight back. If that happened, God help His Majesty. But at last they began to move, shuffling back against the curtain wall and the houses opposite to stand with heads respectfully bowed as their king was carried past.

Mal led the sorry procession down to the quayside, and the King was carefully lifted into the waiting skiff. To Mal’s surprise, Grey did not get into the boat.

“You and I have work to do,” he said in a low voice. “How much did you see of the assassin?”

“Nothing, my lord. I was too far back, and the light was in my eyes. Why, what happened?”

Grey gave him a strange look. “Find your brother. Quickly. And when you do, bring him to Seething Lane.”