The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (32 page)

“Yes, my lord.”

Mal soon found Sandy, and they arrived in Seething Lane on the heels of a peculiar little procession consisting of several Tower guards carrying a long, heavy bundle, with Grey bringing up the rear.

“The assassin’s body?”

Grey looked from Mal to Sandy, and nodded. They followed him into the dining parlour, Mal still wondering what on Earth was going on. An attack on the King was a serious business, but there was clearly more to it than Grey was saying.

“Light the candles,” the duke said, going over to the window to close the curtains.

Mal gathered up the candlesticks from the table and the soldiers dumped the corpse onto its polished expanse. It was still wrapped in a couple of the guardsmen’s cloaks, now stained dark at what Mal guessed was the head end. Grey waved for the guardsmen to leave, then peeled back the blood-soaked fabric.

Mal winced. Most of the man’s head was missing, his face no more than a bloody pulp of flesh and shattered bone.

“Shot, I assume?”

“He took his own life. My men tried to get to him first, but he must have had it all planned. One pistol for the King, the other for himself.”

“How did it happen? Surely there were guards?”

“He came out of nowhere,” the duke said. “One moment the crowds were cheering, the next his horse leapt the front line and he shot the King.”

“He was mounted?”

“Yes. Damnedest thing, too. Beast looked half-crazed at first, rolling its eyes and curvetting, then it froze like a statue just before the assassin raised his pistol.”

Mal glanced at his brother. “I have seen skraylings control frightened horses like that.”

“Curious that you should mention skraylings,” Grey said, uncovering the rest of the corpse.

It was wearing a loose tunic and trousers of cream and brown wool, woven in a pattern of stripes and triangles. Mal stared at it, dumbfounded.

“A skrayling attacked the King?”

He exchanged glances with his brother. At least now he knew why Grey had been acting so oddly.

“The skraylings would not do this,” Sandy said. “We are a peaceful people.”

Grey appeared not to notice the slip, and Mal could hardly say anything to Sandy without making things worse. He began to wish he had not brought his brother along.

“Perhaps we should look more closely at the body,” he said, placing one of the candlesticks back on the table. The flickering yellow light restored a semblance of life to the pale flesh, and for a moment Mal imagined the man rising, headless, from the table.

“Here,” he went on, trying to distract himself from the troubling vision, “see his hands? His nails are as pink as yours and mine. Skraylings have thick grey nails, more like a dog’s claws.”

He rolled the corpse over, and tugged at the waistband of the trousers. Grey grabbed his arm.

“What in God’s name are you doing, Catlyn?”

“Look.” Mal shook him off and pointed to the base of the man’s spine. “No tail. This is not a skrayling, my lord, it is a human dressed up as to resemble one.”

“He looked enough like a skrayling to me,” Grey replied, though there was doubt in his voice. “Lines on his face and everything.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt they made a good job of it. But that was why he blew his head off, you see? Otherwise we would have too easily discovered it was an ordinary man in paint.”

“They? You mean our traitors?”

“Most likely. Or it could be one of our foreign enemies. Anyone who would benefit if we severed our alliance with the skraylings.”

Grey flicked the cloak back over the bloody corpse and rang for his servants.

“Thank you, Catlyn, you’ve been most helpful. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to wash before I make my report to the Privy Council.”

“Of course, my lord. Come, brother.”

Once out in the street and well out of earshot of Grey, Mal gave vent to his frustration in a volley of curses. All his plans to rescue his family lay in ruins, unless he could somehow exploit this chaos to get Coby and Kit out of the Tower unnoticed.

“This is Olivia’s doing, I’d wager my soul on it,” he said, turning left towards Tower Hill. “Turn the city against the skraylings and get rid of Robert so that she can put a child king on the throne.”

“Henry, or his older brother?”

“It hardly matters, does it? If she has half your talent in bending others to her will, Edward will dance to her tune and not even know he’s doing it.”

CHAPTER XXII

Coby stared out of the gatehouse window in horror. Now that the attack was over, the full extent of the damage was all too apparent. Whilst the nobles outside the gate had been intent on protecting the King, the panic on the causeway within had been devastating. Bodies lay strewn where they had fallen in the crush; a few floated face down in the moat, having leapt over the parapet heedless of their heavy robes. Those still standing had either retreated back into the castle or had braved the gate to disperse to their homes.

“We can’t just leave them down there,” she said, turning back to the other ladies. “Some of them may still be alive.”

The ladies-in-waiting stared back at her like sheep confronted by a wolf. Only Lady Frances Grey stirred from where she had been comforting the overwrought queen.

“Lady Catlyn is right,” Lady Frances said. “It is our Christian duty to help those men.”

The duchess chose four of the least frightened-looking ladies-in-waiting, in addition to Coby, and told the rest to take good care of the Queen and the two princesses. Coby crouched by Kit.

“You can help protect the ladies, can’t you?”

Kit nodded and rested his hand on the hilt of the little sword, his brown eyes wide.

“Yes, Mamma.”

“Good lad.”
Pray God it does not come to that.
 

She followed Lady Frances down to the guardroom.

“I shall need any clean linen you may have, and we will have to improvise litters for carrying the dead and wounded away. You–” Lady Frances pointed to one of the guards “–fetch a surgeon; there’s one in Water Lane.”

The men seemed only too glad to have orders to follow, even if they were coming from a woman.

“Now, ladies, this will not be a pleasant task,” the duchess went on. “Find the injured first, and if possible have them moved to the safety of the gatehouse. If you are not certain if a man is alive or dead, leave him for the surgeon to assess. Those that are clearly dead must be taken into the castle for laying out.”

Lady Frances led them out onto the causeway. The devastation looked less severe from down here, perhaps because they could not see all the bodies at once, but the moans of the wounded and the stink of blood and bodily wastes gave the scene a far more hellish aspect. Was this what a battlefield looked like? No wonder Mal never spoke of the years he spent soldiering.

The women picked their way among the fallen. Here nearest the gatehouse the bodies were few in number, dressed in the livery of the Queen’s household guard. Coby left the other ladies to weep and fret over the fallen guardsmen and pressed further on, to where the city guilds’ banners lay abandoned. The men here were no warriors but merchants and craftsmen, ill-prepared for a violent rout. A stout man with an alderman’s gold chain tangled in his white beard lay on his back, staring sightless at the blue sky, apparently uninjured but dead beyond question. Not far away another man lay face down and motionless, his fine robes crumpled and dusty. Coby gently turned him over. Dead also, his nose broken and bloody where he had been trampled to death. A whimper escaped her throat.

“Help me, for pity’s sake!”

She looked up and saw a man stirring, half-hidden by a red and blue banner emblazoned with leaping fish and the crossed keys of Saint Peter worked in gold thread. Coby hurried over and freed the man from the heavy fabric. He was no more than thirty, with receding hair and a face pale as whey above a gingery beard.

“I think my leg is broken,” the fishmonger wheezed, grimacing as he tried to sit up.

“Don’t move.”

Coby lifted the banner and smashed it down on the parapet of the walkway, breaking off a length of about two feet. Perfect. She repeated the process, then took out her knife and began tearing strips from a discarded silk cape. Returning to her patient, she gently bound the lengths of pole either side of his broken leg.

“That should steady it until the surgeon can treat you,” she told him.

She gave the man a final reassuring pat on the shoulder and continued with her search.

At the Tower gatehouse the guards blocked Mal’s way with crossed partizans.

“Sorry, sir, no one is allowed into the Tower without a warrant from the Privy Council. King’s orders.”

“Which king?” Mal asked, dreading the answer.

“King Robert, of course.” The warder squinted at him against the light. “Unless you know different, sir.”

“No. But you know how rumour spreads in times like these. One knows not whom to trust.”

“Quite, sir.”

Mal hesitated. “My wife and son are within–”

“Sorry, sir, no exceptions. If you have a letter for them, I’d be glad to convey it…” The man looked hopeful, no doubt expecting a little silver for his troubles.

“Alas, I have neither pen nor paper.” He looked over his shoulder at the sun, now well past its zenith. Still a good few hours until curfew. “I shall be back in all haste, with letters for both of them. Have you seen a gelding hereabouts? Chestnut, sixteen hands, white stocking on his near hind fetlock? I rode him in the procession, but I was called away on the King’s business.”

“A fair few beasts was rounded up, sir. Can’t remember all of them.”

An idea came to him. “What about the horse the assassin was riding?”

The guard shrugged.

“Send a message to the stables. I want that horse found and brought to me, immediately.”

“The chestnut, or the other one?”

“Both.” When the guard did not make a move to obey, he added, “Now. Or must I report your negligence to my lord the Duke of Suffolk?”

“No, sir. Right away, sir.” He ducked into the gatehouse for a moment before setting off down the causeway.

Mal turned back to Sandy. “Go home, and let Ned know what’s happened. I’ll be back before curfew, God willing.”

“I should–”

“There’s nothing you can do. Kit will be as safe in there as anywhere. Please, Sandy.”

His brother said nothing; the taut line of his mouth and the distrustful look he gave Mal made words unnecessary. After a moment he turned and walked away. Mal let out a long breath. He had more important things to deal with than Sandy’s sulks.

In the time it took for the guard to return with the horses, Mal had managed to persuade his fellows to provide paper and ink to write a letter to Coby. There was nothing to seal it with, of course, and he dared not send anything too obviously ciphered, so he wrote a simple but heartfelt message wishing her well and praying that he would see both her and Kit soon. He handed it over, along with a few coins to speed it on its way.

“There you go, sir,” the first guard said, passing him Hector’s reins. “And here’s the other one you was asking about.”

“This is it? You’re certain?”

The second horse was a sturdy grey nag, dwarfed by Hector. Mal looked it over, noting its well-worn shoes and the sores in the corners of its mouth where the bit had rubbed.

“A hard-worked beast.”

“Aye, sir. The stablemaster says he would never have let a mangy beast like that go out in the King’s coronation procession.”

“Good. Now we shall find our man,” Mal said with a smile. “He may have killed himself, but he forgot one rather large witness.”

“Oh?”

“Every horse knows its way home. I intend to let this one loose, and follow it.”

He mounted Hector, leaned over the pommel of his saddle and gave the nag a slap on its rump. It made no move. He slapped it again. The horse turned and looked at Hector. Mal sighed. Of course. It would not want to take the lead with a larger, more dominant animal around. He dismounted and handed Hector’s reins to the guard.

“Keep him here, will you? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

With a prayer to Saint Michael that the creature wouldn’t outrun him in the crowded streets, he led the nag a little way down the street and gave it another slap on the rump. It whinnied and broke into a trot. Mal jogged along behind it, ignoring the strange looks he got from passers-by.

“You’re going to have to run faster than that, my lord!” a man shouted, to uproarious laughter from his companions.

The nag led Mal about half a mile westwards then turned right, heading up Gracechurch Street towards Bishopsgate. Mal laboured after it, breath grating his throat, cursing his idleness these past few years. Time was he would have thought nothing of such a chase; now he was sweating and panting like an old man.

Thankfully his tormentor slowed as it approached the gate, finding its way blocked by the guards.

“Let it through,” Mal wheezed as he jogged up. “We’re on the King’s business.”

The gate guards stepped aside, and the chase began again. The street beyond was near empty, and the nag’s steady trot increased in pace. At least the road was flatter here. Mal broke into a run, hoping that this burst of speed meant the beast was nearing home.

Sure enough it slowed after another quarter of a mile and trotted up to the gates of a livery stable. Mal stumbled to a halt, his heart sinking. It was as he feared. This was a hired horse. Most likely the assassin had given a false name and the trail would go cold. Still, he had to try.

By the time he reached the stable, a groom had taken hold of the grey nag’s bridle and was leading it into a stall.

“You looking for a mount, sir?”

Mal turned to look at the man who had addressed him: a short, red-faced ostler in a greasy jerkin, stinking of his trade.

“That one,” he wheezed, pointing a shaking hand at the nag.

The ostler looked Mal up and down. “I think you’ll need a bigger beast than our Rosie, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Rosie? Is that the creature’s name?”