The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  The prince himself was seated to one side of the central area, surrounded by hangers-on, including the senior members of his company of players. Some of the other courtiers were eyeing the actors with disdain, but Arthur seemed unperturbed. He laughed and joked with highborn and lowborn alike, and Mal began to see why he was so popular with the ordinary folk. More popular than his elder brother – but it took more than a dazzling smile and a name out of legend to rule a kingdom.

  Mal made his way through the throng towards the prince. Perhaps this was not the best time to broach an awkward subject, but he might not get another chance to get this close to Arthur for a while. Sidestepping a rotund gentleman in scarlet velvet, he tried to slip inconspicuously into the group surrounding the prince. He needn’t have bothered.

  “Catlyn!” The prince waved him over and Mal obeyed, cursing his height that made him stand out in any crowd. “For God’s sake smile, man! Anyone would think someone had died.”

  “My apologies, Your Highness.”

  “And sit down. I cannot talk to you up there.”

  Parrish scrambled to his feet and offered Mal his cushion.

  “Please excuse me, Your Highness,” the actor said. “I need to pluck a rose.”

  Arthur grinned and waved him away.

  “Such a polite young man,” he said as Mal sat down. “Now, Catlyn, tell me what makes you so grave. Have you fallen out of love with your wife at last?”

  The prince beamed at his hangers-on, who laughed on cue.

  “I am merely concerned about Your Highness,” Mal said when the laughter had died down.

  “That is very touching, but I would not have you melancholy on my account. Besides, what is there to be concerned about? I am well, and the play was a resounding success!” He reached out and tousled Shakespeare’s thinning curls. “This man–” he leant towards Mal and lowered his voice to a stage whisper “–this man is a genius. Mark my words.”

  The prince’s eyelids drooped as he gazed at Mal; he was already halfway to being dead drunk, by the looks of it.

  “It was beyond compare,” Mal said, careful not to give his frank opinion, “but it may have earned you a new enemy.”

  Arthur frowned at him.

  “Signor Bartolomeo,” Mal went on, “who played Balthasar. I cannot think he enjoyed being mocked before all the court.”

  “And what care I for the wounded feelings of a… of a foreign eunuch?” Arthur slurred. The hangers-on laughed again. “Really, Catlyn, if that’s all that’s bothering you, I command you to forget it this instant. Have a cup of wine and be merry!”

  “Very well, Your Highness. But my heart would rest easier if I knew you had trustworthy men around you.” He doubted the prince was in any immediate danger, but one could never be too sure with Olivia. At the very least she might disturb his sleep with nightmares. Perhaps there was some way to convince Arthur to wear a spirit-guard?

  The prince eyed his circle suspiciously.

  “You know, you’re right,” he said in a low voice, sounding much more sober than he had a few moments ago. “Perhaps you should be my bodyguard for the night, eh?”

  “It would be my honour, Your Highness.”

  “Yes, yes it would.” Arthur leant back in his chair and raised his silver cup, the picture of an idle, dissolute prince once more. “Servants, more wine for my companions!”

  The rest of the evening passed in a tedious meandering of conversation. Shakespeare was prevailed upon to recite one of his new sonnets, something about a lying mistress, or lying with his mistress: Mal was not clear on the details. By the time midnight rolled around most of them had drunk more than was good for them, and even the prince’s inebriation was no longer much of an act. When he stood to leave, Mal had to leap to his feet to steady him.

  “Good man,” Arthur mumbled, patting his hand. “Now, shall we to bed?”

  A few of the courtiers made obscene remarks and gestures at this, which Mal laughed off, though he hoped the prince had not meant it literally. It would not do to offend the brother of the heir to the throne.

  As they weaved their way through the crowd, Mal expected some of the prince’s circle to fall in behind them. Some of them, surely, must be his gentlemen of the chamber? But they emerged into the frosty night air alone. Perhaps they had taken their master’s comment seriously, and were allowing him some privacy? Mal began rehearsing a polite but heartfelt refusal.

  Arthur sobered up somewhat in the cold and walked steadily through the gatehouse, turning left into the gardens that fronted the Prince’s lodgings. Mal followed him down the gravel path, one hand on his rapier hilt, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, but they reached the entrance to the royal apartments unchallenged.

  Mal had to help Arthur up the narrow winding stair and open the door one-handed whilst keeping his other hand under the prince’s elbow. The last thing he needed was for his charge to take a tumble and break his head. That would play far too nicely into his enemies’ hands.

  The antechamber beyond was dark and empty. He paused, suspicious.

  “Should there not be attendants, Your Highness? At least a page waiting, to summon them at your need?”

  “Is no one here?” Arthur peered around the room. “Haslingfield? De la Pole?”

  There was no reply, nor even a footfall or sleep-fuddled groan. Mal retrieved a candle from a niche by the door and found flint and tinder to light it. The small glow did little to light the room.

  “Stay behind me, Your Highness.” He drew his rapier, holding up the candlestick in his left hand out of his line of sight.

  The door of the prince’s bedchamber stood ajar, but no light showed. Mal nudged the door wide open with his foot. This room was as empty as the last, the scarlet-curtained bed a massive presence against the far wall.

  “It seems your servants are a-merrymaking, Your Highness,” Mal said loudly. He guided Arthur to a chair. “Sit down, if you will, my prince. I shall call for a page.”

  He did no such thing, but padded across the rugs to the bed, slid the point of his rapier between the curtains and eased the heavy fabric aside. In the dim light of the candle he could just make out a pale shape lying on the coverlet. A mistress, fallen asleep waiting for her lover to return? He drew back the curtain – and froze. It was no woman lying there, but a man, naked as a newborn babe, his head thrown back so that his face could not clearly be seen. Perhaps the courtiers’ jibes were not so far off the mark.

  Mal was about to call the prince over when he realised the man was not moving. Not even breathing. He pulled the curtains aside to get a better view. Sweet Jesu! It was Josceline Percy; and judging by the line of bruises around his throat, he had been strangled.

  “What is it, Catlyn?” Arthur called out. “Where is that young scoundrel of a page?”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness, it seems that someone has decided to play a foul jest at your expense.” Yours. Or mine. “Stay there, I will go and find a servant.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Having found a sleepy page and put the fear of God into him, Mal swiftly examined the body before anyone could come and disturb the evidence. The bruises round Percy’s neck formed a series of small circular indentations, suggesting he had been strangled with a string of beads. A rosary perhaps, but if Mal’s suspicions were correct, more likely a spirit-guard. In which case, Josceline Percy was unlikely to be reborn to trouble them in future.

  The question was, who had committed the murder, and how had they persuaded Percy to come here? Carrying a body through the palace would have been far too conspicuous. No, he must have come here on his own two feet, probably willingly, and been killed right here. Afterwards the murderer had stripped the corpse and carried away the clothing. That suggested he – and it seemed most likely to have been a man, since Percy was neither old nor feeble – had been disguised as a servant. Another of Olivia’s assassins? Or one of the English guisers, perhaps someone fearing that Percy had gone too far at the tournament a
nd exposed them all. But then why leave it so long, and why leave his corpse in Prince Arthur’s bed? No, Olivia was the most likely culprit. Not that he could prove anything. Though he had no idea where the former courtesan had been all evening, he did not doubt she had been careful. She had survived too many intrigues in Venice to make a foolish mistake now.

  His deliberations were interrupted by the arrival of several young courtiers, the same men who had hung back earlier and allowed Mal to escort the prince alone. Had they been bribed or coerced into doing so? It seemed too much of a coincidence otherwise – and he had walked right into the trap. Or perhaps he had just been a convenient scapegoat, and one of them would have had to draw the short straw if he had not turned up.

  “What’s going on here? Your Highness?” The Earl of Rutland strode across the chamber and halted with a curse, his yellow mustachios bristling. “What is this wickedness?”

  “We found him like this,” Mal said. “I found him–”

  Rutland’s eyebrows twitched. “Catlyn again. Well, well.”

  Time to take charge of the situation, before Rutland ordered his arrest.

  “If His Highness’s servants and gentlemen of the chamber had not all abandoned him, this might not have happened,” Mal said, look round the assembled courtiers. “Whose turn was it to wait upon the Prince tonight?”

  “Well, I…” Rutland looked put out. “I was under the impression that His Highness wished to be alone–”

  “As did we all,” another young man put in.

  “In any case the servants are always here to attend him,” Rutland said. “It is they who should be called to account.”

  “I am sure they shall,” Mal said. “But first someone needs to take care of the Prince. I’m sure there must be other bedchambers where His Highness can be made comfortable for the night.”

  “Of course,” replied Rutland. “I would be only too glad to surrender my own bed. Your Highness?”

  Arthur looked up at last, his bloodshot eyes livid against his pale skin. “Rutland?”

  “Come this way, Your Highness. My own servants will see you to bed.”

  He escorted the befuddled prince out through the antechamber, leaving Mal with the younger gentlemen-in-waiting. They stared at him like rabbits confronted by a fox.

  “You there,” Mal pointed to one at random. “Find the Earl of Northumberland and tell him the bad news. You, find the steward and ask him to make arrangements for the collection and storage of the body. You, fetch servants to strip this bed. His Highness will not want to lie in the sweat of a dead man.”

  The three men scattered, leaving Mal with a boy of about seventeen with red-brown hair fashionably curled about his wide brow and falling to a lovelock over his left shoulder, and the beginnings of a moustache darkening his upper lip. In other circumstances Mal would have judged him handsome; right now he looked as though he was going to be sick, though whether from the sight of the corpse on the bed or merely too much sack on an empty stomach, Mal neither knew nor cared.

  “Who are you?”

  “D-D-Dudley North, sir. My father is Baron North. I’m down from Cambridge for Christmas.”

  “Cambridge man, eh? Which college?”

  “Trinity, sir.” The boy looked a little less glassy-eyed. Good. Talk of everyday matters would distract him from unwholesome curiosity about the night’s events.

  “I’m a Peterhouse man, myself,” Mal said. He put an arm about North’s shoulders. “Tell me about the other gentlemen in the prince’s circle.”

  The boy unfortunately had little knowledge of his companions, but in his youthful enthusiasm he rattled on about the games of cards they had played to while away the cold winter evenings, and the young ladies who had passed among the players, bestowing their favours on the winners.

  “Not that I won many games,” he said mournfully, fidgeting with the lovelock.

  “And what about male visitors? Did His Highness have many of those?”

  “There were a few who came along with the girls, and…” North flushed. “And were used in like fashion.”

  “I see. Well, don’t worry, I’m not interested in who favoured which kind of whores. I’m talking about men visiting the prince on more usual business. Or pleasure. Was anyone out of the ordinary admitted to Prince Arthur’s presence since you arrived?”

  “There was one,” North said slowly. “A dark-skinned foreign fellow, like to a Moor.”

  Mal breathed out. Olivia. “A young man, a eunuch singer from Princess Juliana’s household?”

  “I’m not sure.” North bit his lip, staring deep into memory. “I think so.”

  “Did he talk to the prince about anything in particular?”

  “Poetry, mostly. And plays. I think that was it. A lot of the time they spoke in French and I’m rotten at languages.”

  “Good lad, you’ve been very helpful.”

  He sent North to wait in the antechamber. The servants and gentlemen-in-waiting would be back any moment, and he had not yet searched the room for other clues. Not that he expected to find anything. Olivia was too clever for that. As for the identity of her latest pawn, plenty of courtiers had visited the princess since Olivia’s arrival. Including Robert and his entire retinue. Mal cursed softly. It could be any one of a dozen men. Not that it really mattered. One did not fight the sword but the man behind it. Or in this case, the woman.

  With Percy’s murder, the fragile tranquility of Juliana’s household was shattered once more. Prince Henry, only recently recovered from his fall at the tournament, was inconsolable, demanding his mother’s presence as if he were an infant once more. Kit picked up the other boy’s mood and was uncharacteristically fretful and sleepless, until Coby wondered if she should risk fetching his uncle Sandy to tend him. Perhaps it would be better to take Kit back to Southwark, away from the poisonous atmosphere at court. After all, if guiser assassins could strike even here, she and Kit would be just as safe in their own home, especially with Mal at hand to protect them. That decided it. She resolved to ask permission as soon as she caught the princess in a fair humour.

  Not this morning, however. Juliana had returned from her son’s apartments in a grim mood, and had already made one lady-in-waiting burst into tears with her unkind words. Coby kept her head down and concentrated on her embroidery.

  When the Earl of Northumberland was announced, Coby knew it could not be good news. A moment later the earl strode into the presence chamber, his visage as dark as his mourning garb. To Coby’s surprise he was accompanied by two guardsmen in royal livery of scarlet and gold.

  “Percy, such a pleasure to see you,” Princess Juliana cried, holding out a hand in welcome. “Please accept my condolences.”

  Northumberland bowed. “Alas I am not here on pleasure, Your Highness, but on my godson’s business. Your son’s business.”

  “Henry?” She got to her feet. “What? Is he unwell?”

  “Nay, madam, calm yourself. Your son is as well as ever and quite recovered from his fall.”

  Juliana sat back down with a sigh. “What other business can he have with his mother?”

  “It is not with you, Your Highness, but with Mistress Catlyn. And her son.”

  Coby’s stomach clenched in fear. “My lord?”

  “Mistress Catlyn, I must ask you to surrender your son into my custody.”

  “May I ask why, my lord?” It was as much as she could do to keep her voice from breaking.

  “My godson requests his presence as a companion.” The ladies-in-waiting gasped, and the earl smiled thinly. “I need hardly add that this is an unprecedented honour.”

  Coby stared at him for a long moment. “Of course, my lord. When…?”

  “His Highness is impatient to meet his new playmate. I am instructed to collect him this afternoon, immediately after dinner.”

  “So soon…?” That would give hardly any time to alert Mal, which was undoubtedly their intention.

  “Would you keep His Highness
waiting?”

  “N-no, of course not, my lord.”

  “Good.” He looked her up and down. “You may accompany him to Hampton Court, to see him settled in his new lodgings. Good day, Lady Catlyn.”

  Northumberland bowed again, turned on his heel and left. All was silent for a moment, but as soon as the door closed behind him, the presence chamber erupted into chatter. Coby ignored the questions and congratulations as she got to her feet.

  “If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I have much to do.”

  She barely waited for the princess’s acknowledgement before fleeing the room half-blinded by tears.

  Mal stared at the brief note from his wife. His son, taken into the guardianship of his worst enemy? It was not to be borne, and yet he could see no way around it. Henry might only be five years old, but he was a prince of the realm, third in line to the throne. It could not be the boy’s idea, though, surely? Guiser children were precocious, but not by so much that they could make strategies like an adult. This was more of Olivia’s scheming, he was certain of it. With Percy out of the way she was free to take control of the young prince and bring the entire country under her thumb. Mal shivered. He had taken Venice from her, and now she had taken his son in return.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. Sandy. Mal’s heart sank. How was he going to explain to his brother? He got to his feet, shoving the note into his pocket.

  “Sandy–”

  “I heard,” his brother said. “I spoke to Susanna as she left.”

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped.

  “I will go to court.” Mal picked up his rapier and began fastening the hanger about his hips. “If I petition Robert–”

  “No.”

  “No?” He stared at Sandy. “They’ve taken my son. Your amayi.”

  “As a hostage against our good behaviour. As long as we make no further move against them, they will not harm him.”

  “And we can be certain of that, can we?”