The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (9 page)

By the time he neared Richmond, the sun was dipping below the palace’s gilt-topped towers and setting the Thames ablaze. Mal followed the road round to the main entrance, where massive octagonal towers of pale stone flanked double doors of solid oak. Above them a gilded and painted bas-relief of the royal arms gleamed in the honey-thick light: golden lions and fleurs-de-lys on a quartered field of red and blue, supported by a larger lion and a unicorn, both with crowns around their necks. On one tower was the royal badge combining a portcullis and a Tudor rose; on the other, a red heart surmounted by a scroll bearing the single word
Loyal
– the late King Henry’s personal emblem. These days the palace was the favourite residence of the Princess of Wales, but her husband visited often, mostly to avail himself of the hunting in the nearby park.

Leaving Hector with a palace groom, Mal crossed the main courtyard and slipped down a narrow passage between two buildings and through a plain arched door. A long corridor stretched left and right, but he carried straight on, eventually emerging behind the palace on the edge of its formal gardens. As he had hoped. A knot of men stood around the near end of the bowling alley, talking and laughing. All were richly dressed in the height of fashion: close-fitting silk doublets heavy with embroidery, a prince’s ransom in lace at collar and cuffs, and curled hair arranged artfully over one shoulder. Mal assumed a carefree air and strolled over to greet them.

“My lords. Gentlemen.”

The hangers-on parted to reveal Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton and current darling of Robert’s court.

“Catlyn, you old rogue! Where have you been these past few weeks?”

Though only a few years younger than Mal the earl looked scarcely more than a boy, with a thin sandy moustache and sparse beard.
No wonder close-trimmed whiskers are all the rage at court, if they seek to flatter this young coxcomb.
 

“I might ask you the same, my lord. London is a dreary place without you.”

“I don’t know why you remain there. Christ’s blood, if I had a pretty wife and a country estate to go home to, I’d leap at the chance.”

Mal smiled politely. It was common knowledge that Southampton was so far in debt as to have been obliged to sell off some of his lands, as well as postpone his wedding to one of Princess Juliana’s ladies-in-waiting.

“How would you like an estate in Ireland?” Southampton went on. “Essex and I have a mind to show that upstart Tyrone the edge of our blades. What say you join us?”

“I would be honoured, my lord, but alas I have business back in London.”

“What business is more important than Her Majesty’s?”

“You have me there, my lord.” He could hardly tell the earl about his campaign against the guisers. Wriothesley’s name had been on Selby’s list, and though that meant nothing either way, one couldn’t be too careful.

“Splendid! We’ll show Raleigh a thing or two, eh?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Southampton turned away, satisfied now that his will had prevailed. Mal cursed silently. The last thing he needed was to be caught in the middle of Essex and Raleigh’s rivalry. Perhaps he could contrive a way out of it: a sudden illness, or an injury sustained in a duel. On the other hand, the invitation suggested an approach to his own problem.

“My lord, a question, if I may?”

Southampton waved a hand, which Mal took for encouragement, though the earl’s attention remained on the game.

“A man of my station can hardly set out upon such a venture unaccompanied, but I am regrettably deprived of my two stoutest companions by an unfortunate turn of events.”

“Oh?”

“The men who assisted me most ably on my mission to Venice have been arrested on charges of sedition. Wholly false charges, I would stake my reputation on it.”

“I see,” Southampton murmured. He clapped his hands as one of the players landed a ball just touching the jack. “Oh, well played, sir!”

“I understand,” Mal went on, “that my lord Essex is well acquainted with the Lord Chancellor, and I wondered if he might be prevailed upon to intervene.”

Southampton turned, and frowned at him. “Who are these men?”

“Ned Faulkner, a printer, and Gabriel Parrish, an actor and playwright.”

The earl sniffed. “Hardly fit companions for a gentleman, Catlyn. Can you not bring someone else?”

Mal reined in his frustration.

“Assuredly, my lord. However it ill befits a gentleman to abandon those who have served him faithfully.”

“Very well, I shall do what I can.”

“You will? Thank you, my lord. I will be forever in your debt.”

Southampton waved his hand dismissively. “I shall mention it to Essex next time I write to him.”

Mal’s heart sank. “He’s not here?”

“He’s in Southampton, reviewing our prospective fleet. But never fear; he’ll be back before Christmas.”

Mal made his obeisance and went to find lodgings for the night. Damn it! By the time Essex heard of the business and deigned to intervene, Ned and Gabriel could be dead. He was going to have to take matters into his own hands, and not in a way that Grey was likely to approve of.

It took Mal most of the next day to find his quarry, since discretion was vital to his plan, but by early evening he found himself outside a shabby lodging-house a few streets from Smithfield. The landlady let him in and directed him to the attic at the top of the house.

Mal took the stairs slowly, going over the plan for weaknesses. He was distracted, however, by the rhythmic creaking coming from the chamber ahead. Evidently the actor’s evening of pleasure had begun early.

Mal grinned to himself and knocked on the door. When no answer came, he knocked again, louder.

“Shakespeare, are you in there?”

A sudden scuffle. He tried the door; it was unlocked. As he made to open it, however, he met resistance. He shoved hard and a man yelped and swore in pain. Mal shouldered his way into the actor’s lodgings.

“God’s light, man, what did you do that for?” Shakespeare was in his shirt and little else, hopping around on one foot. He glared at Mal, who shrugged an apology. “Who are you, anyway?”

“A friend of Gabriel Parrish.”

Shakespeare’s lodgings were as untidy as the man himself, dirty linens overflowing their basket and the remains of a meal on the floor by the bed, as if set out for the mice. The bed itself was a tangle of sheets and bolsters and… naked limbs? A young woman poked a tousled head out of the folds and gave him an appreciative look. Mal nodded back politely.

“Later, Nell.” Shakespeare threw her a coin, and she snatched it from the air before climbing out of bed and retrieving her clothes. It was Mal’s turn to be appreciative. Derbyshire was a long way away…

“You have news of Parrish?” Shakespeare said when his companion had left.

Mal went quietly over to the door and hauled it open, but there was no one there. He glimpsed Nell disappearing down the next turn of the stairs.

“I need your help,” he said, shutting the door, “otherwise, one way or another, Parrish will die.”

Shakespeare sat down on the bed and pulled on his hose.

“That would be a shame. He’s a fine actor.”

“And a rival playwright.” Better test the waters now, before he took the man further into his confidence.

Shakespeare laughed. “Hardly. Oh, these new comedies bring in the crowds, but it’s a passing fashion, you’ll see. Blood and woe, that’s what brings the penny stinkards in. Though come to think of it, why not combine the two?” He wandered over to his desk and snatched up a sheet of paper and a pen. “A wronged woman. Suicide. Deception. And all with a happy ending this time. Yes…”

“Shakespeare?”

“Hmm?”

“About Parrish. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

The actor put down his pen. “In what way?”

“I’m going to get Parrish, and Ned Faulkner and his men, out of the Marshalsea.”

Shakespeare stared at him for a moment then burst out laughing.

“Do you take me for a fool? If you’re caught you’ll hang – or worse.”

“I know,” Mal replied softly.

“Then you have my answer. I know my liver is lily-white: I don’t need an executioner to cut it out and show it to me.”

“I understand.” Mal chewed his lip as if in thought.
Gently does it.
“It is a great hazard, as you say, and only the finest actors in London could carry it off. Perhaps Parrish’s old friends in the Admiral’s Men would be willing to chance it…”

He turned back to the door and laid his hand upon the latch.

“Wait!”

Mal allowed himself a brief grin of triumph before schooling his features to hopeful innocence.

“You’ll do it?”

“God help me, yes,” Shakespeare said with a sigh. “We’ve lost too many fine talents already to these pinch-souled wardens of our morals. What do you want me to do?”

Shakespeare was as good as his word, though he did not come with them on the venture. He pointed out that as a regular actor in the city’s foremost company, his face and voice were too well known for him to pass as a stranger. He did however introduce Mal to a number of players he claimed were reliable, along with a far less savoury fellow with a nice fist for paperwork, and lent him the key to the company’s wardrobe.

“Just make sure you bring everything back straight away.” Shakespeare said. “We’ve got a production of Henry the Sixth tomorrow afternoon, and we’ll need those helmets.”

“Don’t worry. If we’re not done by noon, we’ll be in the Tower together and you’ll have more to worry about than a few missing costumes.”

“And that’s meant to reassure me, is it?”

Mal patted him on the shoulder, took up his burdens and hurried out into the night. Good thing he’d brought Hector, or he might look a bit conspicuous hauling this lot around. Not to mention the likelihood of not getting back to Southwark before they closed the gates at either end of London Bridge.

The gelding looked at him askance as Mal threw the sack of costumes over his back. Mal patted his neck in reassurance and strapped a longer canvas-wrapped bundle alongside the sack. If only Coby still worked for a theatre company. As a tireman she had had far easier access to theatre costumes, and her other skills would have come in handy too. Still, he couldn’t wish her to be in the middle of this lot. Better for her to be safe with Kit in Derbyshire. Assuming they were safe.

At the thought he paused, hands clenching on the rough sacking. If this were retaliation for the attack on Selby, Ned and Gabriel might not be the only targets. He fought the urge to throw the costumes in the gutter, leap onto Hector’s back and ride for Derbyshire that very hour. No. He had entrusted his dear ones to Sandy all this time, and if anyone could deal with the guisers, it was his brother. Tomorrow would be soon enough to ride north, once his task here was done.

The following morning Mal met his accomplices in an alley behind a baker’s and they all changed into their costumes. In scarlet jackets and steel breastplates, the four actors made as impressive a crew of Tower guardsmen as Mal could wish for. The halberds, on the other hand, would never pass muster. What had looked good enough by candlelight wouldn’t fool a child in the unforgiving light of day.

“Leave them here,” Mal said at last. “Better for the gaolers to wonder why we go unarmed, than to notice that we’re carrying painted wood instead of real weapons.”

He himself was not unarmed, though he had dulled his rapier hilt to make it less conspicuous. The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a fight, but he felt naked without the weight of a sword at his side.

“Remember,” he added, as the actors formed up in pairs. “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. I don’t expect them to be suspicious of strange faces – the Tower militia is large enough that the gaolers are unlikely to see the same men every time – but I don’t want them hearing anything out of place. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

One of them put his hand up. “What if the gaolers do ask questions?”

Mal sighed. “You answer them as best you can, and as briefly. You’re actors, aren’t you? Surely you improvise your lines from time to time?”

The man nodded, and Mal turned smartly on his heel and marched out of the alley. With a scuffle of uneven footsteps and not a few muttered curses, the actors followed.

The porter seemed a little surprised by their arrival, but after a glance at Mal’s forged papers he waved them through into the courtyard. The same procedure induced the duty gaoler on the Masters’ Side to conduct them up to the room where Ned and his men were lodged.

As Mal stepped into the room, he caught Ned’s eye and gave a quick shake of the head.

“Which of you men is Edmund Faulkner?”

The printers looked at him oddly, but the false guardsmen had crowded into the room behind Mal, blocking the gaoler’s view.

“I am,” Ned said.

“And Gabriel Parrish?”

“Here.”

Mal gestured to his companions, who produced leg-irons and manacles and closed in on the two men.

“Where are you taking them?” one of the apprentices asked as the fettered prisoners were ushered out of the door.

“That’s no concern of yours, cur.” Mal aimed a backhanded blow at the youth’s head, slowly enough to give him a chance to dodge. “Get out of here, the lot of you. The Privy Council has no use for you small fry.”

The printers stared at him for a moment, then two of the apprentices helped the older journeyman to his feet. Mal took care to keep his expression blank, though his heart went out to the man. He remembered all too well the pain such torments inflicted.

When the cell was empty Mal followed them down to the courtyard.

“Here, where are you taking those men?” One of the chief warders waddled across the yard towards them, beard bristling.

“Transfer to the Tower. Sir Richard Berkeley’s orders.”

“And you are…?”

“Captain John White.” Mal puffed out his chest. “First week on the job, and I already drew the plum assignment.”

“Have you a letter from Sir Richard, authorising the transfer?”

“Right here.” Mal handed over the document. Thank the saints he had kept hold of Selby’s confession with the lieutenant’s counter-signature on the bottom; it had given the forger something to work from.