The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (35 page)

“You really think Arthur is preparing to take the throne if Robert dies?” Mal asked them.

“I think people think he is,” Ned replied. “And he’s doing bugger-all to convince them otherwise.”

“Some are saying he’s fled back to his stronghold at Kenilworth, to gather an army,” Gabriel added. “Arrant nonsense, of course; we would have heard if he had.”

“Olivia.” Mal stared into the distance, seeing those jade-green eyes twinkle with mischief. “This is all part of her plan.”

“After that business with Percy, people believe him capable of any wickedness.” Gabriel sighed. “I wish he’d stop playing Crookback and let the princes out of the Tower. It’s not helping his cause one bit.”

“And Kit too. Don’t forget he’s still a hostage.”

“What about the rumours that Edward is sick?” Ned asked. “You reckon there’s anything in them?”

“I pray to God there isn’t. If Edward dies too…” The unspoken words hung in the air.
Then Henry could soon be king.
 

“So what do we do?”

“We try to unravel Olivia’s plans and undo what has been done. Gabriel, you and Will Shakespeare are close to Prince Arthur. Speak to him, urge him to intervene and move his nephews to Whitehall to be with their father. Or to Richmond, if it is true that Edward is unwell.”

“I’ll try,” the actor said. “Though he might not listen to us.”

“Make him listen.” Mal turned to Ned. “How are you doing on those papers of Palmer’s’?”

“Not well. For all he was neat and tidy, the whoreson had appalling handwriting. I’m starting to get the hang of it, though. Give me another day, and I might have your answers.”

“A day, then, but no more. The longer we take, the harder it will be to change the tide of men’s opinion.”

CHAPTER XXIV

Ned rubbed his eyes and stood to stretch his aching back. Two days he’d been working on these damned papers of Palmer’s, with precious little help from anyone. To be fair, most of it made little sense unless you were well-versed in reading legal documents, so Gabriel had been reduced to bringing Ned meals and forcing him to rest once in a while.

“Let me,” Gabriel said, setting down the dirty dinner plates he’d been gathering up. “Sit back down.”

He came round behind Ned and began kneading his shoulder muscles. Ned groaned in pleasure. After a while he recalled that he wasn’t the only one who had been hard at work today.

“Any luck at the palace?”

“None.” Gabriel pressed his thumb into a knot at the base of Ned’s neck, as if for emphasis. “We waited two hours to see Arthur and when we were finally allowed in, that venomous bitch Olivia was there, curled around his chair like the serpent in Eden. All we could do was offer our condolences and leave.”

“Unh. Mal’s not going to be happy about that.”

“You think I’m happy about it?”

On the floor below the front door opened, letting a breeze in to stir the dust on the stairs and blow a draught under the door of the upstairs parlour. Gabriel released Ned, kissed the nape of his neck – sending a delicious shiver down his spine – and went to gather up the dishes. Damn the boy, he could be such a distraction at times!

Gabriel blew a kiss from the doorway and headed downstairs. A few moments later a familiar voice swore loudly, then footsteps sounded on the landing outside, too heavy to be Gabriel’s.

“You heard Gabe’s news, then?”

“Aye.” Mal shook the raindrops off his hat. “Find anything yet?”

“Watch what you’re doing!”

Ned gathered up the documents nearest Mal as fast as he could. The brass-and-steel fingers of his right hand clattered uselessly against the tabletop, and he cursed under his breath.

“Sorry,” Mal said. “Well?”

“Yes, I’ve found something. And it’s more bad news, I’m afraid.”

“Why does this not surprise me? Go on.”

Ned put down the rain-spattered papers and picked out a sheet he’d put aside. “You might recognise the names and signatures on that one.”

Mal took it from him with a raised eyebrow and scanned the first few lines.

“Dear God in Heaven.”

“I told you, you wouldn’t like it.”

“I don’t even remember dealing with Palmer. Mind you, it was six years ago, and there were a great many papers to sign when I came back to England. Not just the deeds to the estate; there were all of Sandy’s affairs to sort out as well.” He sighed and sat down by the fire. “This doesn’t look good. If it gets out, Northumberland will have me on Tower Hill before you can say ‘habeas corpus’.”

“We could burn it,” Ned said. “No one would have to know.”

“As a last resort, perhaps. No, hold on to it, and we’ll see if we can make an alternative case to distract attention from that particular connection.”

“That won’t be hard.”

“Oh?”

“Palmer was a scrivener-notary.” When Mal looked blank, he added, “They’ve got exclusive rights to deal with contracts and suchlike within the City of London. Lots of mercantile clients, foreign traders especially. A man like Palmer would probably have spoken half-a-dozen languages: French, Spanish, Portuguese, Tradetalk…”

“Skraylings.”

“Skraylings.” Ned gestured to the documents scattered across the table. “Nearly a quarter of his dealings involved skrayling merchants, one way or another.”

“But why would a man who chose to make it his business to deal with the skraylings go and dress up as one and shoot the King?”

“Familiarity breeds contempt, so they say. Perhaps he’d had enough of them.”

“Or perhaps he was a Huntsman, or one of their sympathisers.” Mal shook the document with his name on it. “I had to deal with Palmer because he was one of my brother Charles’s chosen agents. What if Charles singled him out because they had common interests, so to speak?”

“That doesn’t help your case, though, does it?”

“Quite the opposite,” Mal replied glumly.

“So what do we tell Grey?”

“Damned if I know.”

Ned sank his head in his hands. “Time was I could have forged something, neat as you like. Now…” He gestured with his false hand.

“Don’t blame yourself. Whoever set Palmer on this course knew exactly what they were doing.”

“The guisers?”

“Olivia. Whoever was responsible for the earlier attacks on you and me – whether Percy or one of his allies – they were unsubtle to say the least. This new conspiracy relied on finding the one person in London who makes a plausible link between me and a plot to kill the King, and then convincing him to blow his brains out.” Mal sprang to his feet with a curse. “Damn it, the woman probably even wagered on the possibility that I would become involved in the matter. Which means that we have to be very careful what we do next, or we could find ourselves in worse trouble than we are already.”

“Worse? What’s worse than being executed for treason?”

Mal made no answer, only gathered up the papers with a distracted air.

“What about you?” Ned asked, hoping for better news than his own. “Any chance that the horse was stolen and the assassin wasn’t Palmer?”

“Nothing,” Mal said, slamming the stack of documents back down on the table. “I made enquiries in all of Palmer’s old haunts, but no one’s seen or heard of him since before the coronation. Perhaps I should ride out tomorrow and talk to some of his associates outside London.”

“What about Sandy?”

“What about him?”

“Well, he could go and talk to the skraylings, couldn’t he? If anyone can get the truth out of them, surely it’s your brother.”

“A capital idea! I’ll speak to him after supper.” Mal pulled up a stool at the table and selected a quill from the inkstand. “In the meantime, I’ll compile a summary of your findings and we’ll take it to Grey in the morning.”

The sun was sinking behind him as Erishen walked the length of Southwark towards the guild-house. People passed on either side, their faces set like stone. It had been three days, and still there was no good news of the King’s recovery. It was strange to him, to think of a person gone forever with no chance of rebirth; the Christian heaven seemed a poor recompense for being exiled from life.

As he neared the guild-house the mood of the passers-by changed. They hurried along the street with heads bowed and eyes on the ground, as if they could make themselves invisible by not seeing anyone. He turned the corner and halted, staring.

The windows of the guild-house were boarded up – hastily, by the looks of it – and the front door was dented as if someone had taken a small battering ram to it. Excrement was smeared on the boards and on the whitewashed walls, and the sign hanging above the door had been ripped down. Even as he watched, a man walking past made an obscene gesture towards the building then crossed himself.

Erishen glanced up at the first floor windows. These had not been boarded over on the outside, of course, and the glass in them was mostly smashed and missing, but the inner shutters had evidently kept out most missiles. Some of those had been on fire, judging by the scorch marks. Erishen waited, and after a few moments one of the shutters opened a crack. He caught a glimpse of a tattooed face before the shutters closed again.

He waited several more minutes, whilst humans passed him and stared. Eventually the grille in the front door of the guild-house slid open, and he hurried across the street.

“Erishen-
tuur
?” a voice hissed.

“
Hä
.”

“Come in, quickly!”

The door itself opened and he was hauled inside, tripping over the threshold. It slammed shut again behind him; just in time. Something slammed into it from the outside, followed by a hammering and muffled shouting.

As Erishen’s eyes adjusted to the dark, he began to make out the faces of nearly a dozen skraylings, tattooed lines stark against their pale skin.

“Erishen-
tuur
, what are you doing here?” one of them asked in Vinlandic.

“I was going to the camp to speak with Chief Merchant Sekharhjarret.”

“Have you not heard? Sekharhjarret is dead.”

Erishen stared at his kinsmen, but they all bobbed their heads in confirmation.

“Dead? How?”

“The humans attacked the camp, the night after their clan leader Robert was hurt. Sekharhjarret went out to try and calm them, but one threw a stone that struck him on the head and he died the next day.”

“I should go.”

“Please, stay, Erishen-
tuur
. The humans saw you come in; they know you are our friend and will hurt you.”

“I need to warn my brother–”

“Tonight. We can protect you in the dreamlands as we cannot on the streets.” Seeing Erishen hesitate, he added, “And if you cannot reach him, you can leave here before dawn, while the humans sleep.”

That was true enough. It would mean dodging the night watchmen, but they were old and feeble. Safer than risking the streets in daylight.

“Very well.”

They led him through the atrium and the now-empty trading hall, up the stairs into one of the wings that faced away from the street. The windows here were intact, at least on the side facing the courtyard.

“How long have you been here?” Sandy asked.

“Since the day of the attack. Some of our merchants were outside the Tower to cheer on the new leader, but they fled in boats.”

“Did they see the killer?”

“No, there were too many humans in the way. But we have heard the stories, that it was one of us who did it. This is a lie.”

“I know.” Sandy told them what he had seen at the house in Seething Lane. “Do any of you know a human named Palmer? He is a scribe and contract lawyer.”

They shrugged. “We deal with many humans. We seldom note their names apart from the principal merchants.”

“No matter–”

“What is going on here?”

Erishen looked round to see an aged skrayling in crumpled robes peering at him. “Greetings, honoured one.”

“Who let this human into our stronghold? And how does he know our tongue?”

One of the younger skraylings took him by the elbow. “This is Erishen-
tuur
, honoured one, come to offer his respects.”

“Does he bring an offer of peace as well?”

“Alas, no, honoured one.” He looked at Erishen. “At least, there has been no talk of peace yet.”

“Hah, you youngsters! Stories first, business later, eh?”

“Business cannot be conducted without a sound understanding of the situation,” Erishen put in.

“We understand the situation well enough. Blame has been put upon us, like the goat in the Christian story, and now we must prepare to leave.”

Erishen looked round at all of them. “You are giving up so easily?”

“We are not warriors, you know that. It is fortunate the humans have not yet managed to set fire to this house of wood, but I think that is only through fear it would destroy their own homes as well.”

“And what about the renegades? Do you abandon your watch over them? Abandon your English friends to their rule?”

The old skrayling made a placatory gesture. “We do not wish to see the Unbound rule any human nation, but what can we do once they have turned the people against us?”

“You believe this is their work, not that of other humans who hate you, such as the Huntsmen?”

Several of the skraylings flinched at the hated name.

“Yes,” the elder said. “We do. Though how it was contrived, we cannot say. The killer was not one of the Unbound, of that we are certain.”

“How?”

“We did not all stand idly in the street waving our handkerchiefs. Our patrols roamed the dreamlands as always, in anticipation of some attack against Elizabeth’s son. They saw nothing untoward.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Erishen looked at the gathered skraylings. It was true that they were not warriors, at least, not as the English understood it. There were skirmishes from time to time, back in Vinland, but the few deaths that resulted were mostly accidents. Fighting to kill was not the skrayling way.

“I want to go back,” he said. “When you leave this land, take us with you. We are your kin–”

“You are stranger-born, like the others,” the elder said. “It is not permitted.”