The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  “Catlyn? May I come in?”

  Mal hesitated. Well, he had wanted to speak to Josceline Percy in private. He just hadn’t expected Percy to come to him.

  “Very well.” He stood back and opened the door to admit his visitor.

  The younger man looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. Stubble darkened his jaw either side of a once-neat beard, and his skin was as grey and clammy as a day-old corpse. Mal closed the door behind him and leant back against it, arms folded.

  “So, what brings you here at this time of night, sir? Is there some bad news about Prince Henry?” Feigning ignorance would not fool Percy for long, but Mal wasn’t about to admit to anything he didn’t have to.

  Percy crossed to the table, poured himself a cup of wine and took several large gulps. A little colour returned to his face.

  “This is all your fault,” he said, glowering at Mal.

  “Mine? Why, what have I done?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me, Catlyn. I know what you are. And I think you know what I am.”

  “You are weary and distraught, sir. And who would not be, after such a day?”

  “Such a day indeed. You brought this upon us–”

  “I? You blame me for today’s accident? It was not I who suggested letting the princes joust.”

  “No. It was that… creature.” Percy took another swig of wine. “The one you unleashed upon us.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh I think you do. I’ve heard all about what happened in Venice. You made a powerful enemy, and now he’s here for revenge.”

  “Ah. You mean Bartolomeo Pellegrino?”

  “Yes, I mean Pellegrino.” Percy approached until he was almost nose-to-nose with Mal, his wine-scented breath puffing up into Mal’s face with every syllable. “It’s your fault he’s here, so what are you going to do about it?”

  “Why should I do anything? It looks to me like he’s doing my job for me.”

  “Your job?”

  “Ridding the kingdom of you usurping villains.”

  Percy’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment his lips drew back in a snarl like a dog’s. Mal held his breath, expecting the guiser to fly at his throat, but at last Percy regained his composure.

  “And what do you think he’ll do when he’s finished with us? Leave you and your brother in peace and go back to his little republic?”

  “I was rather hoping the two sides would wipe one another out, and save me the trouble,” Mal said, feigning more confidence than he felt. The possibility of having to take on the victor of this civil war was not appealing.

  “Pellegrino betrayed us both, you know. You were supposed to die in that alley, and me with you.”

  “Then it’s lucky for you I know how to handle myself in a fight. My lord.”

  They locked eyes, and Mal’s fingers itched to draw his blade, but killing Percy now would only be doing Olivia a favour. After a long moment Percy breathed out heavily and took a step backward.

  “Think about what I have said, Catlyn. I have money, and powerful friends.”

  “Is that a threat, sir?”

  “Or an invitation. Depending on your answer.”

  “Then I will bid you goodnight, sir,” Mal said, moving aside and putting a hand on the latch. “I’m sure your beloved prince will be wondering where you’ve got to.”

  Percy pushed past him.

  “If he dies,” Percy said in a low voice, “I will personally hunt you both down, you and your brother, and tear that abomination Erishen’s soul from your screaming bodies.”

  Mal said nothing, only opened the door and ushered him out with a curt bow. He waited for several moments, listening to Percy’s footfalls fade down the stairwell, then quietly slid the bolts into place and went to refill his own cup. His hands shook just a little as he poured the wine.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The prince did not die, thank the Lord, but his household remained at Whitehall for the rest of the year, as did his mother’s. No news had come from the glass importer about the shipment of alchemical equipment, so Mal was able to spend a few quiet weeks with his family once more. Ned and Gabriel arrived from Sark at last, and the house rang with laughter and the raucous singing of bawdy French ballads, though Mal caught Ned looking grave whenever Parrish left for a rehearsal.

  “Don’t fret,” Mal told him, “the guisers have worse things to worry about these days than you and me. Olivia’s arrival has thrown them into complete disarray.”

  “And what happens if – when – she brings them all under her thumb?”

  “We came close to beating Ilianwe before,” Sandy said, looking up from his book. “With the skraylings’ help, we can defeat her for certain.”

  “The skraylings don’t want to help us,” Mal reminded him. “They’d rather sit back and watch us fight it out.”

  “Are you boys arguing again?” Coby stood in the kitchen doorway, dressed in her best gown and clutching a ruff in one hand. “Where’s my goffering iron? And why aren’t you all dressed yet? It’s a good half an hour to the palace and the play starts at five.”

  Mal scrambled to his feet and headed upstairs, glad to get out of the conversation. The thought of their enemies uniting under Olivia was too horrible to contemplate, and yet he could not see any way to prevent it, short of allying himself with Percy against her. And that cure was even worse than the disease. At least a play would be a distraction for an hour or two.

  The great hall had been set up like a theatre, with a stage at one end and rows of benches, crammed with courtiers dressed in Christmas finery, filling the rest. Mal and Coby found places near the back, wedged between an elderly man in a faded black doublet and hose that perhaps had been new when the Queen came to the throne, and a young couple who were far more interested in flirting with one another than in the entertainments.

  Sandy had declined attending, saying he took no pleasure in playgoing without Kiiren to share it with, and Mal had left his brother behind with a heavy heart. At first he put on a merry face for his wife's benefit, but the laughter of the audience only seemed to sour his mood further, so he distracted himself by turning his attention to the royal party seated at the front of the hall. Little could be seen of the Queen or her two sons, whose high-backed chairs blocked the view of the unfortunate courtiers behind them, nor could he see her young grandsons over the heads of the crowd. He knew they were there, however, and he was most interested in seeing whose eyes turned that way more often than to the stage. His efforts were thwarted, however, by nine year-old Prince Edward, whose frequent loud observations on the play attracted the looks and amused comments of those about him.

  His attention was drawn back to the stage by the entrance of Will Shakespeare, Gabriel Parrish and another actor he did not recognise, speaking of music. A few moments later Olivia stepped out of the wings, accompanied by the strains of music from a hidden lutenist.

  “Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again,” said the unknown actor.

  “O, good my lord,” Olivia replied, “tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.”

  After several more such exchanges, which brought gales of laughter from the audience, the musician Balthasar was prevailed upon by his master to comply.

  “A fine jest,” Mal muttered to his wife.

  “Or an unkind jibe at Princess Juliana,” Coby whispered back.

  “You think so?”

  “To have her favourite singer mocked before all the court, even if only in pretence? Yes, I think it a calculated insult.”

  “But not of Shakespeare’s doing, surely?”

  “You would have to ask Parrish that. He might know.”

  The musician struck up again, and Olivia began to sing: “Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever…”

  “That is true enough,” Coby muttered, staring straight ahead.

  Mal bit his tongue. He was not going to get into a quarrel with his wife here,
and attract the ire of Her Majesty.

  Thankfully the song was soon over, and Olivia departed. There followed some nonsense involving a plot to bring together a young man and woman who despised both love and one another. A fool’s errand, if you ask me. Trouble enough comes when a man and woman love one another from the outset.

  The rest of the play did not improve his mood, and he was relieved when the villain was unmasked, the lovers reconciled and at last all was over. He joined in the applause, however, after his wife glared at him. The actors gave their last bows, then Her Majesty rose and led the way out of the hall to the nearby banqueting chamber. The rest of the court followed in order of precedence, meaning that Mal and Coby had to wait until almost everyone else had left.

  “Attend upon Her Highness,” Mal whispered. “I think I shall speak to the actors, as you suggested.”

  Before she could protest he turned away and leapt up onto the stage. A few strides took him across the narrow space and through the curtains into the makeshift tiring-house beyond. A few of the actors turned to stare at him.

  “I’m looking for Gabriel Parrish,” he said, peering over the heads of the throng. There was no sign of Olivia, but he did not really expect it: Balthasar had appeared in only the one scene.

  “Here, Catlyn!” Parrish waved a hand from the other side of the room.

  Mal pushed his way through the actors.

  “Can we talk?”

  “Of course.” Parrish handed him a silk doublet. “Hang that up over there, will you? There’s a love.”

  Mal raised an eyebrow but did as he was instructed. Parrish pulled the shirt over his head and threw it onto the nearby bench.

  “Well, what did you want to say?”

  “In private, if we may…?”

  Parrish shrugged. “If you must. Though there’s few secrets that escape this lot for long.”

  “Only because you can’t keep your mouth shut, Angel,” one of the other actors shouted.

  “Ignore him, he’s only jealous,” Parrish said to Mal in a stage whisper.

  Mal lowered his own voice. “This is business, Parrish.”

  “Oh.” The actor winked at him, then added more loudly, “Well, if you’d said that in the first place, love… I’m sure I can make an exception for a handsome fellow like you.”

  The tiring-house erupted in laughter. Mal stared at the wall, playing the part of the embarrassed admirer. Truth was, once upon a time he would have taken pleasure in the proximity of a half-naked man, especially one as handsome as Gabriel Parrish. Now, though, he was married and content, and Gabriel belonged to Ned, as much as any man could belong to another. Still, he stole a glance or three as Parrish stripped to his drawers and dressed in his own clothes. Just for the look of it, of course.

  Parrish brushed the sleeves of his doublet, picked up his hat and took Mal’s arm.

  “Come along then, dear. I know just where we can get a bit of peace and quiet.”

  He steered Mal out of the tiring-house, through a servants’ area where dishes waited before being taken through into the dining hall, down a flight of stairs, across a passageway and up two more flights of stairs to a low door.

  “It’s just an attic room,” Parrish said in far more business-like tones as he showed Mal inside, “but well away from flapping ears. I checked it very thoroughly when I arrived; no one will hear a thing.”

  “Afraid someone’s spying on you?”

  “That too,” the actor replied with a hint of his earlier insouciance, and threw himself down on the bed. “So, what can I do you for?”

  Mal leant against the wall, for want of anywhere else to sit.

  “Shakespeare’s new play…”

  “‘Much Ado’? It’s good, isn’t it? Of course he has to go and set it in Italy, despite never having been there. I blame myself, of course, I’ve been telling him so much about my time in Venice and Spalato–”

  “Parrish, I don’t care if the play is set in Italy, Egypt or the court of the Great Khan himself. When did he write it?”

  The actor frowned at him. “Why, is it important?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it were.”

  “Oh. Yes. Well, he started it last year, before Ned and I went away. I’m pretty sure that was when I first heard him mention the idea. But that was just the seeds of it, because he was working on Henry the Fourth as well, and having a beast of a time with Falstaff’s speech, and then Kemp went and left…”

  “So he wrote it recently?”

  “Not that recently. He’s been saving it for a special occasion. I know he wanted to rewrite a few scenes but he hasn’t had time, what with everything else happening–”

  Mal sighed. Parrish was full of information, but getting it out of him could take a while.

  “Did anyone else contribute to the play? I know you’ve mentioned collaborations before.”

  Parrish shook his head. “Not on this one, not to my knowledge.”

  “So no one changed any of it at any point?”

  “Well, if you mean did we say every line exactly as written, then no. The clown always has licence to improvise, though Will is less patient than most with other men’s embroiderings. And of course someone always forgets his lines and the rest of us have to make it up until we can get it back on track.”

  “But the scene about Balthasar being a poor singer; that was Shakespeare’s work?”

  Comprehension dawned on Parrish’s face. “You think someone was taking a swipe at Olivia?”

  “Could be.”

  “No. I saw the script in its first draft, from before ‘Bartolomeo’ arrived at court, and the part of Balthasar was as you heard it. Shakespeare seldom changes things once written.”

  “If it was not the script, perhaps the malice lay with whomever assigned the role.”

  “That was not Shakespeare, I can vouch that he was most vexed about it.”

  “Then who?”

  “Burbage, most likely. He’s our manager, and running a theatre company isn’t cheap, even with the Prince’s patronage. I dare say anyone with the chinks to spare could have persuaded him to do it.”

  Even as Coby ascended the stairs to the princess’s apartments, she could hear raised voices. None were shriller than that of “Signor Bartolomeo”, who was cursing and spitting like a kettle come to the boil. The fact that no one else understood the stream of Italian invectives did not lessen its impact. Coby winced as she slipped through the door, unseen behind a wall of brocade skirts and wired gauze headpieces that stood out like butterfly wings.

  “I am sure no offence was meant, sir.” Princess Juliana sounded on the verge of tears herself. “Everyone there was enchanted by your singing. The jest was on Don Pedro, for having such a poor ear for music.”

  Coby moved to stand by one of the bedposts, where she could see around the curtains but not easily be seen by the actors in this new drama.

  “You truly think so, Your Highness?” Olivia looked decidedly calm, considering her recent outburst.

  “I am sure of it,” Juliana replied. “Don’t you agree, ladies?”

  The ladies-in-waiting chorused their agreement. They reminded Coby of nothing so much as an aviary of songbirds, pretty but useless.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but I disagree,” said Lady Derby. All heads turned to stare at her.

  “Explain.”

  “Well…” Lady Derby cast a glance at Olivia. “Surely someone knew it would be taken as an insult. Signor Bartolomeo may not have seen the whole script, but others must have done. The playwright himself, of course, but also the Master of the Revels, and probably the actors’ patron.”

  “Do you accuse my brother-in-law of plotting this jest at my expense?”

  The ladies fell silent, and most of them suddenly found something more interesting to look at. Like the floor.

  “Oh no, Your Highness,” Lady Derby said quickly. “I accuse no one.”

  Princess Juliana stared at her forme
r lady-in-waiting for a long moment. Perhaps thinking no one was looking at her, Olivia smiled, her pupils dilated like those of a cat that has spotted a mouse within pouncing distance. Coby shrank behind the bed-hanging, her fingers tightening on the rough woollen fabric. Whether it had been Olivia’s scheme from the beginning or not, this was all going just the way the guiser wanted it. She slipped back out of the presence chamber and went in search of her husband.

  “You’re sure?” Mal whispered.

  “Yes,” Coby replied. “Whether Arthur did it or not, that’s what Olivia wants everyone to think.”

  “But why? Is he another of them, like Percy, that she must overthrow if she is to rule the kingdom?”

  “Surely not. If he were, why would Jathekkil have been so desperate to reincarnate as Prince Henry? Better to take another host, any host, so that Arthur could seize the throne and murder his nephews like wicked King Richard.”

  “You have a point. Most likely she is simply making mischief to throw her opponents off guard.” He sighed. “Very well, I’ll deal with the prince. You go to bed, and I’ll join you when I can. This may take a while.”

  He bent and kissed her, then waited until he had seen her going back into the palace before descending to the courtyard and heading eastwards through the Holbein Gate into the tiltyard. On the south side stood the banqueting house, a massive timber and canvas pavilion that had been built twenty years ago for the wedding of Robert and Juliana. Tonight it was lit by hundreds of blown-glass lanterns, some containing candles but many filled with lightwater. Prince Arthur had spared no expense to ensure that tonight’s entertainments would be remembered long after the last sweetmeats had been eaten.

  Lit by the yellow and green skrayling lamps, the pavilion looked more like a sunlit glade than the dank tent it appeared by daylight, and felt deliciously warm compared to the chill night air. Most of the court and their servants were here, milling around tables set out with every delicacy the nearby kitchens could supply: spiced tartlets, roast songbirds, and marchpane painted and gilded and shaped into a hundred fantastical forms. The centrepiece was an enormous red dragon – Arthur’s personal badge – with smoke curling up from its nostrils.