The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  “Come, let’s find your companions,” he said to Percy. “Then I think I shall go home. I’ve had enough entertainment for one night.”

  CHAPTER XVII

  “The skrayling is here, my lord.”

  “About time too.” Grey took up his cane and rose from his seat, face set as if determined to conceal any pain. “We’ll see her in the privy closet. Have a fire laid, and refreshments brought up.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The duke limped over to a bookcase and ran his fingers over the spines of a row at eye height. Mal suspected he was trying to ease his cramped limbs without seeming to do so.

  “What do you suppose this is all about, Catlyn?”

  “They must have found out about Olivia. Though why Adjaan would insist on meeting us here at the palace and not at the camp, I have no idea.”

  The privy closet was a small panelled chamber on the upper floor, perfect for discreet meetings. A single narrow window admitted some daylight, though on a dull October morning like this, that was little enough. Adjaan was standing by the fireplace, ignoring the hard wooden chairs that were so ill-suited to skrayling anatomy. She wore dark blue robes similar to the ones Ambassador Kiiren had worn to official ceremonies, though more sombre, and a single short braid threaded with turquoise beads hung over her left ear. Erishen’s memories stirred in the back of Mal’s mind; this was a Vinlandic custom, to mark the birth of a child. Those beads would be added to the child’s spirit-guard when he or she was older.

  “Suffolk-tuur, it is an honour to meet you at last,” Adjaan said, bowing in the English manner.

  “Likewise,” Grey replied, taking a seat by the fire. “May I ask, to what do we owe such an unprecedented visit?”

  Adjaan lowered herself carefully into the other chair, leaning forwards so as not to put pressure on her tail bone.

  “I bring grave news from my kinfolk on Sark. And from your friends, Catlyn-tuur: Parrish and Faulkner.”

  “Something has happened to Ned?”

  “Your friend is well, and his heart-mate also. But they have brought news of Captain Hennaq, and Ilianwe.”

  “Olivia escaped. Yes, we know.”

  “You knew and did not tell us?” Adjaan got to her feet. “Are we not allies, then?”

  “I only found out a few weeks ago, and when I came to the camp I was told you had been called away. To Sark, presumably.”

  “I needed to bear my child amongst my own people, as far from yours as possible lest one of the senzadheneth try to take the place of the intended soul.” She folded her arms across her full breasts. “I only returned to convey this news. It seems I should not have bothered.”

  “Forgive us, honoured one.” Mal gestured for her to sit down again. “I should have told the elders in your absence, but since Olivia – Ilianwe – has not been near London yet, we thought the news could wait.”

  “You have seen her?”

  “Yes. She is disguised as a young man, but I have no doubt it is her. She admitted as much to me herself.”

  “You must take me to her,” Adjaan said.

  “We must do nothing.” Grey rapped his cane on the wooden floor, and Adjaan flinched. “This woman is dangerous, and I want her out of my kingdom. If it can be contrived, we will clap her in irons and hand her over to you for transportation to the New World.”

  Adjaan frowned. “I do not think that would be wise.”

  “What?”

  “My people are mistrusted by yours as it is. How will it look if it is found out that we helped capture a human woman and took her over the sea?”

  “We’ll tell them she’s a traitor.” Even as Mal spoke the words, his conscience pricked him. How many lies am I prepared to tell, to keep the truth from those who would never believe it?

  “The outspeaker is right,” Grey said. “It’s one thing to accuse a foreigner of treason, but why would we hand her over to the skraylings for punishment? The people will expect a public execution.”

  “We could fake her death and smuggle her out of the country,” Mal said. “We’ve done it before, for our own people.”

  “I am well aware of your methods, Catlyn. I do not think they will help us in this case.”

  “With respect, my lord–”

  “Enough!” The rap of the cane echoed like thunder in the little room. “Outspeaker, can I call upon your people to be vigilant? We need to be certain that this woman is not using her witchcraft on the Prince of Wales or his family.”

  “Of course, Suffolk-tuur.”

  “For my part, I will arrange for her to be brought to London, so you can do just that. Catlyn, I want a detailed report on her mundane activities. Who she speaks to, where she goes. If I am to arrest the Princess of Wales’s pet, I need cast-iron evidence, do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir. My wife already working on it.”

  “Good, then we are agreed. Outspeaker, it has been a pleasure.”

  After the skrayling had been escorted out, Mal sank to one knee before the duke’s chair.

  “My lord, if you have any mind to clemency… Faulkner and Parrish–”

  “A pardon, is that what you’re asking?” He barked a laugh. “I should have all three of you hanged. I have not forgotten that you disobeyed my orders.”

  “I know, my lord.” Mal swallowed his hatred of this man who held all their lives in his vindictive grasp. “I am most truly sorry, my lord. Loyalty to my friends is my besetting sin.”

  “Get up.” Grey prodded him in the shoulder with his cane. “I cannot abide false modesty.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Mal got to his feet and stood at attention, though he kept his gaze on the floor.

  “Mayhap,” said Grey, “these friends of yours know more about what happened than the skrayling woman can or will tell us. Whoever brought the charges against them never did put forward any evidence, so I don’t suppose it will be difficult to persuade Robert it was all a mistake.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I and my friends will be eternally in your debt.”

  “I shall remember those words, Catlyn, you can be sure of that. Now get out of here. I have work to do.”

  Mal backed out of the room, bowing low, and strode off down the corridor, whistling a merry jig. Ned and Parrish back in London! It was the best news he had had in months.

  Life at court did not come to a standstill, however, whilst Mal waited for his friends to return. The Prince of Wales had announced that his younger son would be breeched on his next birthday, and that a tournament would therefore be held in the little prince’s honour, in addition to all the usual court ceremonial. The Princess of Wales had of course come back to London for the occasion, and Mal had at last been able to join his wife and son in their guest apartments at Whitehall Palace.

  “What’s beeching, Daddy?” Kit asked as they set off for the tiltyard.

  Mal smiled. “Breeching. It’s when a boy is put into grownup clothes.”

  Kit nodded. “Will I be beeched, um, breeched?”

  “Soon. When you’re old enough.”

  “How old?”

  “Perhaps when you’re five, like Prince Henry.”

  “I’m three an’ a quarter.” Kit looked up at him with wide brown eyes. “I’m a big boy.”

  “I know. Now watch where you’re walking. We don’t want you falling down the stairs, do we?”

  At the Holbein Gate they had to wait with the other minor courtiers whilst an army of heralds and palace servants guided all the spectators to the correct seats.

  “Sir Maliverny Catlyn,” he said to the steward when they reached the gateway. “And family.”

  “This way, sir. Gentlemen’s seats on the left.”

  They followed the steward’s directions, past a great canopied stand where the Prince and Princess of Wales were enthroned. Prince Arthur sat at his brother’s right hand, along with senior courtiers including the earls of Northumberland and Essex, and in front of them the birthday boy himself, P
rince Henry, resplendent in… full armour? Mal stared for a moment, slack-jawed, then remembered himself and looked away.

  They found Sandy already seated about halfway up the stand, glaring at anyone who tried to sit too close to him. He broke into a smile at the sight of Kit, but when the boy did not immediately run to him like he used to do, the expression on his face was heartbreaking. We did the right thing, Mal told himself, and forced a smile as he took his own place, next to his wife. She had tactfully placed Kit on the bench between herself and Sandy.

  “Prince Arthur’s idea, no doubt,” Mal muttered to her, nodding towards the lists below. “He does like to remind people how much he takes after his grandfather.”

  “Did you see Prince Henry all in armour?” Coby whispered. “I thought this was an entertainment for his benefit. He is participating?”

  “Looks like it. And his older brother too. See, there’s Edward, by the tents.”

  He pointed to the competitors’ pavilion, where eight year-old Prince Edward, likewise clad head to foot in plate armour, was talking animatedly to a man whom Mal did not recognise.

  “That sounds somewhat rash,” Coby said, “to risk both the Prince’s heirs like that. What if one or both is hurt?”

  What indeed? A simple accident, and Prince Henry would be heir to the throne after his father’s death. Mal’s hand strayed to the hilt of his rapier. He should stop this, before something terrible happened. But who would listen? He could hardly denounce Prince Henry before the crowd, not if he wanted to keep his own head.

  Trumpets blared, and Mal’s heart turned over in his chest. He had never cared much for jousting, but too much was at stake today.

  “I want to see, I want to see!” Kit bounced up and down ineffectually.

  Coby lifted the boy up onto the bench, steadying him with a hand around his waist. “There, see the horses now?”

  To Mal’s relief the first jousters were adults: the Earl of Southampton, and… He frowned at the banner. The Earl of Rutland? Were the guisers out in force today, or was Manners simply showing off in front of his betrothed? The two combatants trotted up to the royal stand and saluted the Prince of Wales, their blued-steel armour flashing in the rich autumn sunlight. Hours of painstaking craftsmanship, costing hundreds of pounds, only to dent and scratch it for an afternoon’s entertainment. Mal supposed a lack of concern for such matters was what separated the nobility from a mere gentleman commoner like himself.

  The two earls wheeled their mounts and cantered to opposite ends of the list. Trumpets sounded again, the herald lowered his flag and the riders kicked their horses into a gallop, thundering towards one another down the narrow field. The ground trembled under their passing hooves, and the crowd held its collective breath until the moment of impact. The lances clashed and shivered into splinters and the crowd roared.

  Mal turned to his son. Kit was staring silently at the Earl of Southampton, who rode past with shattered lance held high.

  “Why are the men fighting, Daddy?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

  “It’s just a game, pet. They’re showing what good riders they are, to stay on their horses even when they’ve been hit.”

  “Oh.”

  “Don’t worry, no one will get hurt.” God willing.

  Southampton and Rutland made two more passes, equally without mishap, though Rutland won the bout for breaking all three of his lances to only two of Southampton’s. They trotted back to the royal stand and saluted the princes again. Prince Henry sounded happy as he congratulated Rutland in his piping child’s voice, but the formal words robbed the exchange of any personal meaning. Damn it, there had to be a better way to identify their enemies! If only they bore a mark, like witches were said to do, or had some vulnerability that was simple to test. As it was, a guiser bound in iron was indistinguishable from any other human. Bound in iron. Or steel. Such as armour…

  A shiver of horror and hope ran over Mal’s skin. If Prince Henry died jousting, Jathekkil might be destroyed. He looked across at Sandy, who frowned slightly. Mal leaned around behind Coby to whisper in his brother’s ear, but his words were drowned out by another fanfare. A squire dressed in royal livery brought a pony up to the stand, and Prince Henry was escorted down to it by his uncle. Prince Arthur hoisted the boy into the saddle from the offside, being careful to avoid the large shield that had been affixed to the saddlebow. So, they were taking no chances after all.

  Prince Henry shook the reins and kicked his armoured heels, and the pony trotted to the far end of the lists. At the other end his brother already waited, his face serene. Had he been bewitched, to ensure his youthful enthusiasm did not get the better of him – or to ensure that it would? The two boys’ ponies broke into a canter. Ten yards… five… and they were past one another, without a point having been scored. Just a warm-up pass, then. He breathed out unsteadily.

  The princes turned in unison and couched their lances for a second pass. With their visors down, neither boy’s mood could be judged. Mal motioned wordlessly to Coby. Taking the hint she pulled Kit closer, ready to hide his face if things went amiss.

  Again the ponies cantered down the long narrow space, their riders barely able to see over the barrier between them. This time as they clashed, their lances struck home, impacting their shields. Prince Edward gave a muffled whoop as he rode past, but the buffet had been too much for Prince Henry and he slid from the saddle. The crowd’s roar of approval turned to cries of anguish, but one voice rose above them all.

  “Amayiiii!”

  A slight figure vaulted down from the royal stand and ran to the prince, skidding to a kneeling halt over him. Stewards and squires ran up, surrounding them, but for a few brief moments Mal’s view was clear, and he locked gazes with the young man who had cried out. It was Josceline Percy.

  Mal exchanged glances with his brother. Kit was watching the scene wide-eyed and silent.

  “We could hardly have planned it better ourselves,” he whispered. “Now we know another of them.”

  “You think this was our enemies’ doing?”

  Mal shrugged. “I cannot see the purpose in it, but who else would be able to convince Prince Robert to put his sons’ life in danger?”

  The news was soon announced: Prince Henry had suffered a broken collarbone. This was not immediately life-threatening, but in Mal’s experience a severe fracture could lead to infection and even death. On the other hand the royal physicians often had some training in skrayling medicine, so the likelihood of the prince recovering was good.

  Nevertheless the rest of the tournament was cancelled, and the crowd slowly dispersed amid a rumble of gossip. All attention seemed to be on the two young princes, of course; no skraylings had been invited to the event, not even Outspeaker Adjaan, so no one outside Mal, Sandy, Coby and the guisers themselves was likely to have any idea of the significance of Josceline Percy’s outburst.

  “Take Kit to bed, but come and find me later when he’s asleep,” Mal told Coby. He turned to his brother, “Perhaps you’d better go with them, in case this accident sets off a fit.”

  Sandy nodded and lifted Kit onto his shoulders, the better to avoid being trampled by the throng.

  Mal bade his son good night and watched until the three of them had disappeared through the gatehouse, Kit swaying on his uncle’s shoulders as he pretended to aim a lance at the guards’ partisans. Mal smiled ruefully. Children forgot so quickly; they did not brood over upsets like their elders were prone to do. He turned on his heel and headed for the Prince’s lodgings. Little Henry had no doubt been conveyed to his apartments there, as soon as the court physician had ascertained he was in no immediate danger.

  Most of Prince Robert’s household were gathered in the great hall, standing around in knots with grave expressions on their faces. Mal passed through the crowd, but the one face he was seeking was absent. Most likely Percy was with his amayi, ready to see him through another rebirth should things go badly. Mal didn’t envy him; no doubt
the little prince was surrounded by his mother and her women, fussing and weeping and getting in everyone’s way. He just hoped Coby could get away from her duties soon. He needed someone to talk this over with, someone clearer-headed than his brother.

  He circulated among the courtiers for a little longer, but learned nothing new. No one dared blame Prince Robert for letting his sons indulge in such a dangerous activity, so everyone else connected with the tournament came under scrutiny: the armourers for failing to make the shields large enough, the master of arms for not training Prince Edward properly, even Prince Henry’s pony for not bearing him safely. Mal soon left them to their pointless arguments and went up to his own room to await Coby’s return.

  The household being in chaos, he hailed the first servant he saw and ordered the man to bring up some supper and a flagon of wine. The hearth in his room was cold, so he laid a new fire himself and had it underway by the time the servant appeared with bread, a wedge of veal pie, and a half-burnt apple and cinnamon tart.

  “Sorry, sir,” the man said, setting them down on the table. “We had everything going for His Highness’s birthday supper, and then this…”

  “No matter.” Mal gave him a penny and sent him on his way.

  Rain had set in, rattling against the windowpanes and creeping through the gaps to pool on the stone sill. The fire crackled to itself in the silence of a palace holding its breath for fear of bad news on the heels of the good. Mal finished off the tart – gratifyingly tasty despite the burnt bits – and licked the crumbs from his fingers, leaning back in his chair by the fireplace. Better to rest now; unless the prince died, it would be some hours before he was needed again.

  It seemed only moments later that he jerked awake. Someone was knocking softly at the door. He leapt to his feet, crossed the room in a few swift strides and opened the door, expecting to see his wife.