The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (36 page)

Erishen fell to his knees and tipped his head back, baring his throat in submission. “Please, honoured one… at least take my
amayi
. He does not deserve exile.”

“And whose fault is it that he now suffers this fate? You and your brother interfered with his mission and got him killed. You yourself broke our laws when you came to this land, and chose the path of the renegade.”

Erishen had no answer to that, since it was all true.

“And yet,” the elder went on, “you have suffered a great deal at the hands of the renegades, I am told. They burned your home and tried to destroy you, is that so?”

“Yes, honoured one.”

The elder sighed. “I cannot promise you will be welcomed home, but if you are able to come to our ship before we sail, I will see you conveyed out of the reach of your enemies. What happens after that may be out of my hands.”

“Thank you. My brother and I will be eternally grateful.”

“Now, leave us. There is much to do before we go.”

“Honoured one.” The leader of the young skraylings made an obeisance. “We invited Erishen-
tuur
to stay until the streets are empty, that he may leave unnoticed.”

“Very well.” The old merchant turned away. “He may stay until midnight. Let him meditate upon his foolish actions until then.”

Mal was woken in the night by Sandy’s return from the skrayling guild-house. He listened in growing despondency to the news and resolved to report to the Privy Council immediately, in the hope of stopping this persecution before it went any further. After a swift early breakfast he saddled Hector and set off for the palace.

The wheels of state turn slowly, however, and the sun was approaching its zenith before a liveried servant arrived to announce that the council were ready to see him at last. He was escorted from the antechamber, across an inner courtyard and into the atrium of the Council Chamber itself, the guards’ pole-arm butts clicking on the stone flags in time with the thud of their booted feet, until they came to a sudden halt before a pair of dark oak doors carved with the royal arms. Two more guards stood at attention either side; they opened the doors, and Mal was ushered inside.

The room beyond was not vast, but the space from the doors to the table at the far end seemed to stretch endlessly away from him. One of the men seated behind the table coughed. Mal remembered himself and bowed, low enough to show his respect for Prince Arthur, whose red hair was the only patch of colour in the sombre company. At the prince’s right hand sat the short hunched figure of Sir Robert Cecil, the Secretary of State; on his left was the Lord High Admiral, Lord Howard of Effingham; and on the admiral’s left the Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas Egerton. The fifth member of the council was very like to Effingham in age and looks, though his silver beard was even longer; Mal guessed him to be Baron Buckhurst, the Lord High Treasurer. If Gabriel’s report was correct, Olivia now had the prince under her thumb, but there was still hope she had not bewitched all of them.

Mal stopped a respectful distance from the polished table, his hands clasped behind his back, head up but eyes respectfully lowered. Sweat trickled down his back, and not only from the sticky heat of a July afternoon. The silence stretched out before him as the five men passed documents between themselves, reminding him of the Venetian Grand Chancellor and his secretaries. At least here he was not in imminent danger of torture. Not yet.

Cecil coughed and tossed aside the sheet of paper he had been reading.

“A very thorough investigation, Master Catlyn.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You must have worked through the night to assemble such a long list of names from Palmer’s paperwork.”

“I had assistance. My colleagues in Lord Grey’s service–”

“Ah yes. Still, such a pity.”

“Pity?” Mal’s stomach lurched.

“Yes, to spend so many hours on such a fruitless exercise.”

“I do not think it fruitless, begging your pardons, sirs. It opens up many avenues of enquiry–”

“Do you presume to tell us how to conduct the administration of the realm, Master Catlyn?”

“No, sir, of course not.” Was the prince in charge here, or Cecil? As Secretary of State, he had taken over many of Sir Francis Walsingham’s responsibilities, if not his spy network.

“As I was saying, a fruitless exercise.” Cecil leaned across the table, fixing Mal with his dark eyes. “I put it to you that Nathaniel Palmer is an innocent party in this. A decoy. You say it is he who fired at the King and then took his own life?”

“Aye, sir.”

“A dreadful slander against an upright citizen, is it not? What cause have you to connect Palmer with the assassin?”

“His horse, sir. I followed it–”

“I read the report. A livery horse, open to hire by any that wants it. Is that right?”

Mal bit back the urge to point out that this too was in his report. “Aye, sir. And Palmer was the last to hire it.”

“And this is the whole of your evidence against him?”

Mal hesitated, but he could not say any more without incriminating himself.

“Well?”

“Aye, sir.”

Cecil picked up another sheet of paper, folded like a letter and bearing the greasy stain of a wax seal on its upper edge.

“Would it surprise you to learn that Master Palmer is alive and well?”

Mal stared at him. “Aye, sir, it would.”

He took the proffered letter from Cecil and scanned the few short lines.
Regret to have inconvenienced your lordships… Called away on urgent business… Horse stolen north of Islington….
It looked credible enough, but Mal would stake his life on it being a forgery. If Palmer were alive, why would they need a letter as evidence?

“So you see, Master Catlyn, it could not possibly have been Palmer who shot the King, could it?”

“I suppose not, sir.”

“Indeed I put it to you that your identification of the body was wholly mistaken and prompted by your well-known partisanship towards the skraylings.”

“Sir?”

“The assassin, Master Catlyn, was a skrayling, not a Christian man.”

“No, my lords, I swear. I examined it myself, and my brother confirmed–”

“Your brother Alexander.” This from Egerton, a former lawyer elevated to one of the highest posts in the land and the man who had eventually issued Ned and Gabriel’s pardon. Mal breathed a little more easily.

“Yes.”

“Who spend many years in Bethlem Hospital, and then sojourned among the skraylings. Who last night went to their guild-house on some secret mission?”

So, Cecil and his intelligencers had swayed Egerton to their cause.

“He was making enquiries about Palmer, on my behalf,” Mal said.

“Was he now?”

“Yes, sir.”

Egerton snorted and looked at his colleagues. “I do not think a madman can be considered a very credible witness, do you?”

Mal had no answer. He was not about to agree with the lawyer, but neither was there much point in gainsaying the truth.

“So,” Cecil said, “we have your word that the assassin was Palmer, and Palmer’s own word – countersigned by credible witnesses – that he was nowhere near London on that day. Whom do you think I’m inclined to believe, Master Catlyn?”

The guisers who are pulling your strings. Unless you are one of them yourself.
 

“What do you intend to do about it?” he asked instead. “Hand the body over to the skraylings for identification?”

“Really, Catlyn, do you think us so naive? The body has already been quartered and displayed above the gates of the city. Such a pity the head did not survive in any useful condition. No–” Cecil laced his blunt fingers together “–we shall stamp out this rebellion before it spreads.”

Prince Arthur spoke for the first time.

“The skraylings will be expelled from the realm,” he said, “and forbidden to return on pain of death.”

A little late for that, since they are probably leaving the city as we speak.
“Does that include Sark, Your Highness?”

Arthur turned to his left.

“Eventually,” Egerton conceded. “The island was gifted by Her Majesty the Queen, of blessed memory, and can therefore only be taken away by her heirs. God willing King Robert will recover and enact this reversal; if not, his heirs will surely do so.”

His heirs. Then they are already planning for Edward’s accession. Is Arthur complicit in all this?

“I think our business with Master Catlyn is concluded, don’t you, gentlemen?” Cecil said, glancing around the table.

The other Privy Councillors nodded, and Mal breathed a sigh of relief.

“You are dismissed. But take care, sir; your bias in this matter has been noted.”

Mal bowed and backed out of the council chamber. Though he was relieved beyond measure to have escaped arrest, it was now clear that the conspirators behind the assassin had achieved their principal goal: to expel the skraylings from England. From now on, the guisers would be free to exercise their powers in the capital, with no one to gainsay them.

CHAPTER XXV

The tolling of the city’s bells could mean only one thing: another royal death. Mal stopped a palace servant in the passageway.

“What’s happened? Is the King dead?”

“Prince Edward, God rest his soul,” the man replied, making the sign of the cross.

Mal echoed the gesture absentmindedly. Dear God, that meant Henry was now Prince of Wales… He ran out into the courtyard and shouted to a groom to fetch his horse.

The city streets were crowded with citizens debating the latest news, but the people scattered as Mal spurred his mount onward, through Ludgate and down to London Bridge. One thought blazed in his mind: that he had to get Coby and Kit out of the Tower before another day dawned on this benighted kingdom.

After a brief stop in Southwark to gather everything he needed, he rode back into the city and along Thames Street to the Tower. Approaching the castle gate he adopted what he hoped was an authoritative air.

“I wish to speak to my wife, Lady Catlyn,” he told the older of the two guards, a stout fellow of about forty with streaks of grey in his spade-shaped beard. “I’ve brought clean clothes for her and my son.”

The guard squinted at Mal from the archway and stepped forward into the sunlight.

“Sorry, sir, no one’s allowed in or out except to collect their dead. Privy Council’s orders.”

“But you could bring her to the gate, could you not? As long as I do not enter the Tower and she does not leave, there can be no problem.”

The guard scratched his beard. “I suppose not.”

“Well, then.” Mal folded his arms and gave the man an expectant look. After a few seconds he took the hint.

“Right you are, sir.”

Mal watched him cross the causeway and disappear through the gate of the Byward Tower, then turned his attention back to the gatehouse.

“This is where the Queen and her ladies were lodged after the attack on the king?” he asked the other guard.

“How’d you know that?” The younger man’s brow wrinkled in suspicion.

“Because I was here that day, helping to convey His Majesty to safety.”

The guard’s eyes widened, and he looked at Mal with more respect.

“That’s right, sir. The chamber above isn’t used for much in peace time.”

Mal nodded thoughtfully. It had a good view of the space in front of the gates, and perhaps of the causeway; an ideal place from which to direct operations. He wondered if Olivia had somehow managed to slip ahead of the procession and make her way up there. Afterwards, no one would have questioned her presence in the Queen’s sanctuary. The woman left nothing to chance, that was plain.

The minutes passed painfully slowly, but at last the first guard returned with Coby. Her expression remained guarded, hands clasped tight at her waist as she crossed the causeway. He couldn’t blame her. He had promised to get Kit out of London, and he had failed. The fact that it was none of his own fault didn’t matter.

When at last she reached the shadow of the gatehouse, he allowed himself to step forward a pace and hold out his arms in greeting. She hesitated before stepping into his embrace.

“If you love our son, feign gladness,” he whispered in her ear. “I must speak to you privily.”

To his relief she slipped her arms around his waist, though she trembled almost as much as she had that very first time he held her, in the shadows of an alley where her male guise would not attract attention. Tentatively, still fearing she might recoil, he kissed her brow, then released her and went over to the first guard.

“Look here,” he said in a low voice, glancing back towards Coby. “I haven’t had the pleasure of my wife’s company in many nights, if you know what I mean.”

The guard gave him a quizzical look. Mal took a silver crown from his purse and pressed it into the man’s hand.

“One of these for you and your comrade here, and another for yourself when we’re done. For the hire of the chamber above.”

“That’s very generous, sir.”

“Not at all. You men work hard in the defence of the Crown, you deserve a little pleasure of your own.”

Mal took his wife’s arm and they were shown up to the chamber above the guard-room. A couple of cots stood against the wall, surrounded by empty barrels, bundles of kindling and other detritus of soldiering. Mal thanked the man, then closed the door and waited, listening for his retreating footsteps. When he was certain no one was eavesdropping, he led Coby over to one of the cots.

“Just for the look of it,” he said, “in case we’re interrupted.”

For a moment he thought she would refuse. Well, she had every right to doubt him until he had proven himself. He sat down on the cot and gestured for her to sit beside him. “First we need to get you and Kit out of here.”

She smiled at last, with a shadow of the mischief they used to delight in sharing. “I was already working on a plan, but your advice would be welcome.”

He listened to her description of the reconnoitre, nodding and prompting for more information at intervals.

“The eastern exit? That must be the one they call the Iron Gate. You will leave tonight?”