The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (33 page)

“Aye, sir. Good little thing, steady pace, tireless. Why, what are you wanting a horse for? Would have thought a gentleman like you would keep his own, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“It’s not for me. I’m Sir Maliverny Catlyn, here on the King’s business. That horse was used in an attack on the King this morning.”

The ostler turned pale. “I heard the news. Anything I can do to help the King’s justice, my lord, anything.”

“I need to know who hired that horse last.”

“I heard it was a skrayling what shot His Majesty,” the ostler said. “Haven’t had any of those coming here in years.”

“The assassin may have stolen the horse, but we need to know from whom.” Much as he wanted to set the story straight and exonerate the skraylings, now was not the time.

The ostler cupped a hand to his mouth. “Davy! Who had the hire of Rosie last?”

A groom poked his head round the stall. “Master Nathaniel, same as always.”

“Nathaniel?”

“A notary, Nathaniel Palmer. He has an account with us, seeing as he travels a lot with his work.”

“And where can I find this Nathaniel Palmer?”

The ostler gave him directions to a house just off Bishopsgate Within. Mal thanked the man, and gave him a half-crown for his trouble.

“Feed the mare well, and let her rest,” he told them. “She has been cruelly used, and is in no way to blame for the ill she has helped cause.”

“Of course, sir. God save the King!”

“I hope he does,” Mal replied softly as he left.
Otherwise we will have a child on the throne; a child with a monstrous brother who is bent on taking it – and the kingdom – for himself.
 

When the soldiers came to take Kit back to the other boys, he wasn’t sure whether to be happy or afraid. De Vere would probably not stop taunting him and calling him a girl, and in the Tower there was nowhere to hide from him. On the other hand it had been very boring cooped up with the princesses, who just cried all the time or worse, fussed over him like he was a baby. He stomped down the stairs after the soldiers, wishing his father or Uncle Sandy would come and take him away. At that thought he looked around eagerly. Perhaps the soldiers had lied and he was being taken to his father after all… but then they turned left instead of right and went through the gateway to the inner ward.

As he feared they led him up the stairs into the Bloody Tower, to the portcullis room where he and Robert Sidney shared a bed, and left him there. When they had arrived here two days ago, he and Sidney had pretended they were soldiers in a besieged castle, sent to man the defences and drop boiling water and molten lead on their enemies’ heads. A portcullis wasn’t much use, though, if you were trying to get out rather than stop someone getting in. He leaned over the mechanism, wondering if it were possible to squeeze through the gaps.

Someone pushed him and he toppled forwards, flailing for the nearest beam to steady himself. He turned, panting, to see Sidney smirking at him.

“Sidney, don’t be an ass!”

“Made you squeal.”

“Did not.”

“I heard you. Bet you wet yourself too.”

“Did not.”

“
Pueri!
”

Both boys snapped to attention.

“
Magister
.”

“Is this any proper way for gentlemen to behave?” Master Weston glared at them both. “Cavorting like jugglers when your lord King lies in agonies?”

“
Non est, magister
.”

“Do not imagine that this unfortunate turn of events will prevent you from having lessons. The discipline of learning will take your minds off melancholy thoughts.”

Sidney groaned and trudged through into their chamber. Kit made to follow him, but Master Weston blocked his path with his cane.

“Not you, Catlyn. The prince wishes to speak with you.”

Kit bowed and made his way up the spiral stair to Prince Henry’s chambers. The upper floor of the tower was divided by a wood-and-plaster wall into an L-shaped parlour and a separate bedchamber. Prince Henry sat in a chair by the window, watching him intently. There was no sign of de Vere, and Kit hoped his old enemy had gone back to the adjoining Wakefield Tower, where Prince Edward had his lodgings.

“Your Highness.”

“How did you like my sisters?”

Kit blinked at the prince. “Um, they were very kind to me.”

“Of course they were. And my beloved mother?”

“I didn’t see her much. She looked sad and worried.”

Henry stood up. “You don’t like me, do you, Catlyn?”

Kit stared at the ground. “I…” He had never been very good at lying.

“It’s all right, you can tell the truth.” He stepped closer to Kit. “But we could be friends, if you wanted. Good friends.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My father may die of his wounds, and then Edward will be king and I will be heir. Unless something happens to him before he has a son.”

“I hope not–” Kit realised this was the wrong thing to say. “I-I-I mean that I hope your father doesn’t die.”

“No. Of course not. But whether he dies now or later, my friends will be important men. Even more important than they are now. I need friends who are loyal to me and no one else. Could you do that, Catlyn?”

Kit swallowed. “I can try, Your Highness.”

“Then you will obey me, before your father or anyone else?”

“Anyone? Even the King?”

“Well, no.” Henry looked annoyed. “That would be treason. And if you breathed a word that I said otherwise, I’d have to have you executed.”

“What?” Kit backed away further, until he was up against the door. The nail heads pressed into his back.

The prince laughed. “You should see your face, Catlyn. Of course I’m not going to have you executed. Not yet, at any rate.”

Kit did not feel reassured.

“You’re pretty good at Latin, aren’t you?” Henry said. “And you draw well, and I dare say you’re itching to practise with that new sword.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Good, I think you’ll make a fine companion. Kneel and swear your loyalty to me, and I’ll forgive you.”

Kit knelt and placed his hands palm together, like he had seen knights do before their liege lords in tapestries and paintings. Please, Father, forgive me. He’s the prince, I cannot refuse.

Henry clasped Kit’s hands in his own. His palms were warm against Kit’s knuckles, and yet the touch made him shiver. Kit longed to tear his hands away and run, regardless of what Henry did to him for it, but the prince had him trapped against the door.

“Do you, Christopher Catlyn, swear allegiance to me, Henry Tudor, your lord and prince, for all your days?”

“I so swear.” His voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Louder, if you will.”

“I so swear.”

“Good. You may rise.”

Kit got to his feet. He felt sure there ought to have been more words than that, something about God and a lord’s duty to protect his vassals, but Henry had always been impatient.

“Now, give me your sword.”

Kit hesitated. “It was a gift from my father–”

“And I am your liege lord now. Give it to me.”

Kit swallowed past the lump in his throat and unbuckled the belt. It almost slipped from his fingers, and he could not look up at the prince as he handed it over. Henry turned away and stared out of the window at the White Tower. Kit supposed he was dismissed, and backed towards the door.

“One more thing,” Henry said over his shoulder. “Don’t think to betray me. I can read your thoughts as you sleep, and learn your innermost secrets.”

“That’s witchcraft,” Kit said, before he could stop himself.

Henry turned, his face like thunder. “It is the divine power of princes. Or do you doubt me already?”

“N-n-no, Your Highness.”

“No, of course not.” He smiled. “You may leave us.”

Henry turned away again, and Kit scrabbled for the door latch behind him. He had never been more grateful to have lessons to go to in his life.

Palmer’s lodgings were in a courtyard off Cornhill Street, a short walk from the Royal Exchange. A sour-faced woman of middling years answered the door, looking him up and down before offering a begrudging curtsey.

“I’m looking for Nathaniel Palmer,” Mal said. He watched the woman’s reaction, but she betrayed no sign that she thought him dead.

“He ain’t here. Gone to visit one of his merchant friends, I’ll warrant.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

She shrugged. “He left the house this morning, like he often does. I said to him, aren’t you staying for the coronation, but he said he had pressing business.”

“Did he say where?”

“No.” The woman frowned. “That was the odd thing. Usually he told me where he was going and how long he would be, but this time he just said not to expect him for a while.”

“Perhaps I had better come in. This is not a matter to discuss in the street.”

“Who are you? And why should I let you into my house?”

“Sir Maliverny Catlyn, on the King’s business. And you are…?”

“Mistress Bell. His landlady.” Her eyes went wide. “This ain’t nothing to do with the shooting, is it?”

Mal nodded curtly. Mistress Bell glanced up and down the street, then opened the door wider. Her dark eyes glinted in the shadows of the passage, eager for gossip.

“So what’s Palmer done, then?” she asked as she showed Mal up a flight of stairs. “I heard it was a foreigner what shot the King, not an Englishman.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” Mal replied. “He may not be involved at all, but it was his horse the killer was riding.”

“You think this villain knocked him on the head and made off with the beast?” She took a key from her pocket and unlocked one of the doors. “This is his room. I sweep it out once a week and collect his laundry. He’s very little trouble.”

The room was plainly furnished in sombre dark woods and woollen drapery, and as neat as one might expect of a tenant with legal training. A desk stood near the window, flanked by shelves and pigeonholes for storing great quantities of documents, all bound up with string and sealing wax. If Palmer were the assassin and had allies in this conspiracy, they had not yet thought to destroy all possible evidence. Mal smiled. This lot would keep Ned occupied for quite a while.

“What did… does Master Palmer look like?”

Mistress Bell gave a description that matched the body on Grey’s table well enough. It was not proof in itself, but better than finding out that the horse had indisputably been stolen. Mal lit a candle, took a scrap of paper from the desk and wrote a note to Grey, sealing it with a plain blob of wax. They would have to confiscate all of Palmer’s papers, and hope they contained clues to the man’s associates.

“Send this to Suffolk House, as fast as you may.” He pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket. “For your trouble.”

“That’s a lot of trouble, sir,” Mistress Bell said, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I’m afraid Master Palmer is in a great deal of trouble. One way or another, I doubt you will be seeing him again.”

CHAPTER XXIII

The Queen’s household was moved back to Saint Thomas’ Tower as soon as the causeway had been cleared. Juliana had protested to the guardsmen that she should be by her husband’s side in this time of crisis, but to no avail. The Privy Council had decreed, in the name of the King, that Robert’s wife and children must stay in the Tower for their own safety until all the conspirators behind the assassination attempt had been arrested. And so they had returned to what had been intended as temporary quarters, feeling more like prisoners than guests under protection.

Coby tried to busy herself about the Queen’s apartments but there was little to do apart from sewing, listening to one of the ladies-in-waiting read, or watching the skrayling ships depart the city. She spent far too much of her time on the latter, wondering where she and Mal would take Kit if the skraylings never returned. Of course she had to get Kit out of here first, the sooner the better.

A wail came from the bedchamber. The Queen. Coby rushed up the short flight of steps.

“Your Majesty?”

Queen Juliana had sunk to the floor in a puddle of silks, and would have fallen entirely if two of her ladies had not knelt and held her up. Coby noticed the door to the Wakefield Tower stood open, and a white-faced page hovered near it, twisting his black velvet bonnet in his hands. She left the Queen to her companions and crossed to him.

“What news?” she asked in a low voice, taking him by the elbow.

“P-P-Prince Edward, madam. He’s taken sick. Naught but a summer fever, the doctor says, but–”

But the prince’s great-uncle, after whom he had been named, had likewise fallen ill and died on the cusp of adulthood. Coby glanced back at the Queen. Poor woman, to have two beloved lives hanging in the thread and no means to save either.

“Take me to my son,” she told the page.

“But–”

“Now!” she muttered, steering him across the bedchamber. “You and I can do nothing here.”

She followed him through the parlour and dining room and down the steps to the outer ward, through the gateway under the Bloody Tower and up to the green. In truth there were few easy routes from one tower to the next, as was no doubt intentional; back when the castle was an important fortress, its strength lay in making it as difficult as possible to pass from the outer curtain wall to the inner.

At the foot of the steps up to the Bloody Tower’s entrance stood a grey-haired yeoman warder. The scarlet tassels on his partizan swung wildly as he moved it to block her entrance. Odd, the little details that stood out in these moments.

“Name and business?”

Coby drew herself up to her full height, which was a good inch taller than the guard. “I am Lady Jacomina Catlyn, and I am here to see my son Christopher.”

“Sorry, madam, no one is admitted to the princes’ presence at the moment, not with fever running riot.”

“Tush, man, there is naught wrong with me, I will not infect anyone.”

The warder shrugged. “Those is my orders, madam, from the Prince of Wales hisself.”

“The prince is but a child, and sick with fever,” she said. “Besides, if everyone is so worried about him, surely he should be removed from here for his own safety?”