The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (38 page)

With a sick feeling in her stomach she went down the stair, which was so narrow her shoulders brushed both sides. Where would Kit be sleeping? In the prince’s chamber, or somewhere else? She hoped it was the latter, so she kept going down until she reached the lower floor. A lantern burned down here and she had to shield her night-adjusted eyes against its light. The stink of a garderobe somewhere nearby explained the light’s presence. Coby tiptoed past and found herself standing on a walkway above the tower’s portcullis mechanism. On the other side of the passage, two doorways led into a chamber, and a door at the end was no doubt the one that had been guarded last time she was here. Now it stood open to the night, and Coby’s feeling of dread worsened. She opened the nearest door and went in.

It took no more than a glance to confirm that the bed was empty. A chill crept over her heart. Where could the boys possibly have gone at this time of night?

“Kit?” she whispered, praying this was some prank.

Further examination only increased her anxiety. The bed had been slept in, but the bedding lay in tangled disarray and the hollows where its inhabitants had been lying were still warm.

“I thought you were done here?”

Coby whirled and dropped into a crouch, drawing her dagger. A man in black scholar’s robes stood in the doorway, squinting at her through horn-rimmed spectacles perched on a prominent Roman nose. Steel-grey eyebrows sprouted over the spectacle rims, matching his neat silver beard.

“Where is my son?” she hissed. “What have you done with him?”

“Who are you?” His accent was Italian, and he looked familiar from somewhere.

Coby advanced on him, the dagger a reassuring weight in her hand.

“Tell me where–” she broke off, not wanting to give herself away “–where the Catlyn boy is.”

The Italian shrugged. “I am not privy to His Highness’s business.”

“But you knew someone was coming here tonight. You left the doors unlocked and unbolted.”

“Yes.”

“What else do you know?”

When he did not reply, she backed him towards the portcullis mechanism.

“What else?”

He eyed the blade and licked his lips. “He’ll kill me if I say more.”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t.” She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt. Shooting a man was hard enough; she didn’t know if she could stab one.

“Cambridge. They were taking them to Cambridge. That’s all I know, I swear on the Madonna.”

She made a feint towards the Italian and he flinched back, giving her space to turn and run for the outer door. Behind her she could her him raising the alarm, but she ignored it, pounding down the stairs and across the inner ward to the gateway under the Bloody Tower.

She halted, panting. In the faint light of the torches it looked as though Traitor’s Gate was open. So that was how they got out. Cursing under her breath she ran along the outer ward to the rose garden. Mal was still waiting for her, and if she was quick enough they might yet catch the villains who had stolen away her son.

Mal and Ned loitered in an angle of the wall that marked the end of the south moat, just round the corner from the Iron Gate. Midnight had come and gone, and still there was no sign of his wife and son. What if they had been captured? As if in answer, a bell began clanging on the far side of the castle.

“We should get out of here!” Ned hissed.

“No, we wait a while longer,” Mal replied, clutching the curved hand-guard of his rapier so hard he almost expected the metal to bend.

Rapid footsteps echoed from the high walls of the castle. After a while a soft splashing sound came from the moat.

“What was that?”

He leaned over the moat wall and saw a small boat coming towards them.

“Coby?” he whispered under his breath.

It seemed like forever before the little craft bumped against the base of the wall.

“Mal? Is that you?”

“Aye. And Ned. Where’s Kit? Hand him up to me.”

A pause. “He’s gone. Taken.”

Mal swore.

“Ned, hold onto my legs.” He leaned over the wall as far as he could reach without toppling into the moat himself. “Take my hands, my love.”

She leapt and grasped his wrists, and he hauled her up, all the time horribly aware of how conspicuous they must be. Sure enough, a shout went up from a nearby tower, followed closely by the bark of a musket. A nearby capstone exploded, showering Mal with grit. Coby got a foot onto the edge of the wall and scrambled awkwardly over the top. The three of them crouched behind the wall for a moment.

“They took Kit and another boy, I think,” Coby panted. “Through Traitor’s Gate by boat.”

Mal jerked his head towards the river. “Perhaps we can still catch them.”

They broke cover and ran, and were soon hidden from view of the Tower by the houses that clustered around the river stairs. Mal untied the boat and waited for the others to get in.

“Come on!” Ned beckoned with his steel hand. “No time for courtesies. Get rowing!”

“Which way?”

“Downstream. The Italian said they were taking him to Cambridge.”

“Italian?”

“I think he was the same man we saw at Ferrymead House. Suffolk’s physician.”

“Renardi. I might have known he’d be one of Jathekkil’s lackeys.”

Mal bent to the oars, glad that Coby had taken a seat in the stern where he could at least see her outlined against the lights of the Tower, even if her face was in shadow. Only her eyes were visible, glinting in the reflections off the water, cold and hard as obsidian. He didn’t envy the men who had taken Kit, if she ever caught up with them.

Mal rowed for as long as he had strength, but they did not catch up with any boat that looked to contain the two young captives. Coby craned her neck, scanning both banks, though it was still too dark to make out much beyond the rough boundary between land and water.

“Do you think we’re close yet?”

Mal released the oars with a sigh and stretched his back.

“I fear they are well ahead of us by now. It was a faint hope, my love, at best.”

“But we have to find him.” Her voice was overloud in the still pre-dawn air and edged with panic.

“We shall. But not this way.” He turned and nudged Ned, who was dozing in the bow. “Take an oar, will you? Sandy and Gabriel will be wondering where we’ve got to.”

Kit woke with a start, wondering why he felt so cold, and why his nightshirt was damp. Then he remembered wetting himself, and the men with the sacks and ropes, and he panicked, thrashing around and banging his head on something that felt like wooden panelling.

“Calm yourself, boy, or you’ll roll overboard!”

A man’s voice, gruff and unfamiliar. Kit lay still, his mind racing. Last night. Men who stole into his room, tied him up and carried him away. But how had they got into the castle? There were high walls and lots of guards; that was why the assassin had waited until the King came out. No one should be able to get inside unless Prince Henry allowed it.

Another thought came to him. What if they had taken him away thinking he was Henry? They were about the same age, and everyone always said they looked like brothers. When these men found out he wasn’t the heir to the throne, they’d be angry and might throw him overboard to drown. He stifled a sob. Where were Father and Uncle Sandy? They would give these villains the beating they deserved.

The thought cheered him up and he lay there for a while imagining his father leaping into the boat, sword drawn, to dispatch both men, and then Uncle Sandy scooping him up and untying him. The boat rocked, and for a glorious moment Kit thought his imaginings had come true. Then someone pulled the sack off his head and he discovered the bitter truth: the only grownups here were three strangers. One looked like he might be the man who first attacked him, though it was hard to be sure. At any rate they all looked villainous, with their ill-kempt hair and beards and their eyes as hard as stones. Two of them wore stained shirts and baggy canvas breeches, like sailors or workmen; the third was better dressed, in a dark doublet and hose, but not a fine gentleman like his father.

One of the workmen helped Kit into a sitting position, then did the same for another small figure lying in the bottom of the boat. Sidney. Kit knew better than to speak, but he tried to catch his companion’s eye. Sidney didn’t seem to notice; his face was pale and streaked with tears.

The man turned back.

“I’m going to untie your hands now, boy, so you can eat breakfast and relieve yourselves without my help. But no foolishness, do you hear me?”

Kit nodded.

“Good.” The man drew a knife. “Because his lordship only said he wanted you boys in one piece. He didn’t say nothing about not hurting you.”

Kit flinched as the man seized his arm, but it was only to hold him steady whilst he cut his bonds. Kit chafed his sore wrists, then took the hunk of bread the man offered him. It was a couple of days old and turning hard, but at least it wasn’t mouldy. De Vere liked to tell tall tales of the prisoners kept in the Tower, and how they were lucky to get anything to eat that the rats hadn’t pissed on first, but then de Vere talked a lot of pigswill. Just because his father was an earl he fancied himself cleverer than the rest of them. Kit had once heard him say that his family was far older than the Tudors and should be on the throne instead of them. Perhaps that was what this was all about. Treason.

A little heartened by having some food in his stomach, Kit looked around properly for the first time. The sun was above the horizon now, on their right hand side, which meant they were travelling north. Quite where they were, though, he had no idea. A sea of reeds stretched in all directions, and the water their boat moved on was wreathed in mist. Little birds twittered all around them, like grasshoppers in a meadow. Craning his neck, Kit could just make out low hills on the western horizon, and a dark smudge that might be London. His throat tightened and he tugged the rough blanket closer about his shoulders. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t.

But as the city slipped further behind them, his vision blurred.
Please, Uncle Sandy, it’s your turn to come and find me this time.
He wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it comforted him a little.

Sandy and Gabriel were waiting for them on Deptford Strand. As the boat bumped against the jetty and Sandy realised that Kit was not with them, he let out a pitiful wail. Mal leapt ashore and took his brother in his arms.

“We’ll find him, I swear,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to Sandy’s and opening his mind willingly to the storm of grief.

It felt like hours later when Coby gently prised them apart, though the sun still hovered on the horizon so it could not have been more than a few minutes. Sandy was calm at last, but Mal felt as if the marrow had been scoured from his bones, leaving him hollow.

“Come on,” she said quietly, “we can’t stand around here all morning. We know where they’re taking Kit, so we just have to catch up with them.”

“How? They have a head start.”

“I don’t know how, but we have to try.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Could Sandy find him, once we’re away from the other guisers?”

“Perhaps. But I don’t want to overtax him. You said they were taking Kit and the other boy to Cambridge.”

“Yes, but… Oh. Shawe.”

“Indeed. I don’t know what the bastard is up to, but I cannot think it bodes well for our son. And we may need every ounce of strength that Sandy and I have if we are to overcome our enemies’ magic.”

“Well you can’t cross the river here,” Ned said. “Not unless you know your way across the Isle of Dogs and through the marshes to the Great Cambridge Road. And you can’t go anywhere near the Tower, that’s for sure.”

Mal let out a growl of incoherent frustration. “And the city gates will all be watched. Henry must know by now that we know Kit has been taken. How the hell are we to get to Cambridge?”

“Leave it to me,” Ned said with a wink.

Southwark was stirring by the time they got back to the Sign of the Parley. Ned unlocked the gate and ushered everyone inside, glancing nervously up and down the street. Just when he thought he and Gabriel might be able to forget about the guisers, the bastards went and did something like this. Poor little mite, stolen away from everyone he knew!

He shut and bolted the gate behind them and joined his friends in the kitchen.

“So, what’s this plan of yours?” Mal asked.

Ned gestured to Gabriel, who was grinning like a child with a secret.

“Burbage has been thinking of sending the Prince’s Men on the road,” Gabriel said, “since the theatres are all closed now. You can travel with us until we’re safely out of London, then ride ahead to Cambridge and we’ll catch you up when we can.”

“And Burbage can furnish you with disguises as well,” Ned added. “Wigs, false beards, the lot.”

“That’s perfect,” Coby said, and turned to Mal. “Isn’t it perfect?”

He nodded cautiously. “How soon could you get the players together? We need to leave as soon as possible.”

“I’ll have them rounded up before noon,” Gabriel said.

“Noon? That’s too long,” Mal muttered.

“You’ll be of no use to the lad if the prince claps you in irons.” Ned went over to the hearth and got out his tinderbox. “Besides, you can’t leave without some breakfast inside you. You look fit to faint, the pair of you.”

Mal glanced at his brother, who sat hunched over at the far end of the table, head in his hands.

“Very well.”

“I’ll be off then,” Gabriel said, rising from his seat.

Sandy looked up abruptly.

“Can we trust these actors?” he asked. “We still don’t know who all the guisers are, or their lackeys. What if Burbage, or Shakespeare, or–”

“Of course we can trust them,” Ned said. “Shakespeare helped get me and Gabriel out of the Marshalsea, remember? If he’s a guiser, I’m a Moor. And Burbage is too much the drunken whoremonger to be of any use to anyone.”

“I’ll go with you,” Coby said to Gabriel. “I can pick out some costumes for disguises and run errands.”