The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  “If they harm him, he becomes useless to them.”

  “Sandy, this is Kit we’re talking about. He’s my son, not a pawn in some game.”

  “No, he is Kiiren. Our one true ally in the fight against them.” Sandy got to his feet. “He rescued us from Jathekkil. Or had you forgotten?”

  “He doesn’t even remember who he is; you saw to that. And he’s still a child.”

  “He is tjirzadh, more than a century old. Childhood is but a passing phase for us, sweet but brief.”

  Mal shook his head. He is a child. My child. Not of my flesh, perhaps, but of my heart.

  “We can get him back,” he said. “Take him far away from here, somewhere they’ll leave us alone.”

  “Will they? And in any case, what will you tell Kiiren in ten years’ time, when he is old enough to learn the truth? That we were too craven to fight the guisers, and left England to their mercy? I thought you wanted them gone?”

  “I do. But how do we fight them with Kit as their hostage?”

  Sandy spread his hands. “We don’t.”

  “So you’re just going to let Olivia take him from you? Let them win?”

  “No. We wait, and watch. Kiiren wants the renegades defeated as much as anyone, and as the childhood friend of their leader he will be better placed than anyone to work against them from the inside. Let them think they have won; then, when their guard is down, we will use this over-reaching blow against them.”

  “It could be years–”

  “Yes, yes, it will. But tjirzadheneth plan for the long term, and so must we.”

  “I used to think we were so alike,” Mal said. “But you’re not even human any more. You’ve become as cold and heartless as they are.”

  “I am one of them. And so are you.”

  Don’t remind me. “Well I don’t care what you think. I’m going to get my son back, one way or another.”

  “No.”

  Sandy closed the space between them and took Mal’s head in both hands. Mal swallowed, feeling the pressure of Sandy’s mind against his own. If his brother tried to coerce him using his magic, could he stop him? For long moments they stood there, eye to eye, the roiling storm of his brother’s frustration and… yes, grief beating against his resolve, then with a sudden movement Sandy threw him across the bed. Mal rolled, fighting the instinct to draw his dagger.

  “Stop it, Sandy! You’re playing into their hands, letting them turn us against one another.”

  “I am not Alexander. I am Erishen.” He was weeping now, tears rolling down his cheeks to disappear into his beard.

  “I know. And you love Kiiren and want nothing more than to protect him. All right, I’ll trust you. But if anything happens to him, even a hint of mistreatment, I will fight my way into the prince’s household and take him by force. Do you understand?”

  Sandy nodded. “The guisers cannot keep you from him; it would look too suspicious. And if they harm him, I will know at once.”

  “I will wait,” Mal said, half to himself. “But not forever.”

  PART TWO

  “I can add colours to the chameleon,

  Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,

  And set the murderous Machiavel to school.

  Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?

  Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.”

  William Shakespeare, HENRY VI, PART III

  CHAPTER XX

  Kit stole a glance out of the schoolroom window. Such a beautiful spring morning, with fat clouds scudding across the sky like the white sails of ships. Perhaps they would be allowed a game of cricket before dinner, if it didn’t rain again. Not that he was very good at cricket, but being outdoors was better than history lessons. He could pretend the bat was a belaying pin and the bails his beloved ship Unicorn that he had to protect from enemy fire. It was his duty as captain, after all.

  His daydream was interrupted by the thwack! of Master Weston’s cane on the lectern.

  “Eduarde Princeps.” Weston’s cane pointed at twelve year-old Prince Edward. “Ubi Francogallos vicit Henricus Quintus?”

  The prince stared down at his ink-stained fingers as if the answer was written on them. Weston tapped his cane on his palm. In the distance a bell began to toll, over and over, as if counting out the minutes it would take the prince to answer.

  Edward swallowed. “Anno millesimo… quinqua… um… quadri–”

  Thwack!

  The schoolmaster’s eyes narrowed. “How long have I been teaching you, Your Highness?”

  “F-five years, sir.”

  “And yet you still have as poor a grasp of history – and Latin – as young Catlyn there,” Weston pointed his cane at Kit, “who is scarcely more than seven years old.”

  “I am sorry, sir.”

  Edward really did appear sorry, and his face fell further when Weston beckoned forward William Neville, the prince’s companion and proxy. Kit swallowed against the taste of bile and tried not to wince as the cane whistled down. Neville stuffed his fist in his mouth to muffle a sob; Prince Edward had already made several mistakes this morning. Kit was glad Henry was a lot better at his lessons than his older brother, otherwise it would be him up there with a tender arse.

  Something damp hit Kit’s temple and plopped onto the desk in front of him. A tiny paper pellet soaked in ink. He lifted his hand to his brow and his fingers came away stained black. He knew it was de Vere, even without looking, and he knew which one of them would get the blame if they were caught horsing around. Kit slipped his hand into his pocket, drew out his handkerchief and did his best to wipe the ink off whilst pretending to blow his nose.

  Master Weston straightened up with a grunt of satisfaction and gestured impatiently at Neville, who got to his feet and limped back to his desk. The schoolmaster cast his eye over his pupils. Kit shrank down on his bench, hoping to be overlooked.

  “Henrice Princeps?” Weston gestured to Edward’s young brother and repeated his earlier question.

  “Ad proelium Asincurtense, magister.”

  “Very good, Your Highness. Though I think it was no challenge for you. Perhaps something more difficult?”

  Before the schoolmaster could frame his next question, however, the schoolroom door burst open to reveal a tall man whom Kit did not recognise. From his embroidered and lace-trimmed clothing and rich jewellery, Kit took him to be a courtier. He leant on a stick, though he was not a very old man like Master Weston.

  “May I help you, my lord?” the schoolmaster quavered, bowing low as the man limped past him to kneel awkwardly before the princes.

  “Your Highnesses, I bring grave news,” the man said. “Your grandmother Queen Elizabeth is dead, and your father is now King.”

  Edward turned pale and put a hand to his mouth. “Then…”

  “You’re Prince of Wales,” his brother said with a grin. “Like Father was until just now.”

  The new heir to the throne got to his feet. “Thank you, Suffolk.”

  “His Majesty sent me to bring you to him,” the duke told the princes. “This way, Your Highnesses.”

  The moment the door closed, the remaining boys burst into excited chatter.

  “Gentlemen, quiet!” Master Weston glared at them. “This is not a fairground. You will continue with your lessons until I receive instructions as to what to do with the rest of you. De Vere, read the next page of the text. Catlyn, Sidney, pay attention. I will be asking questions at the end.”

  “Sir?” Kit put up his hand.

  “Yes, Catlyn?”

  “Will we be allowed to play cricket before dinner, sir?”

  “Cricket? Certainly not. No cricket, no bowling, no riding for pleasure. The court will be in mourning until the King’s coronation.”

  “And when will that be, sir?” De Vere asked.

  “Not for several months, I expect. The Queen’s funeral must come first, then preparations have to be made…”

  Kit slumped down on his bench, not
listening to the rest. Months and months without riding or games? This was going to be the worst summer ever.

  Mal stared down at the pile of sketches on the table under the parlour window. Each showed a different design for wooden wall panelling: linenfold, squares enclosing decorative roundels, Roman arches, rectangles with smaller rectangles inside…

  “I care not which, so long as it is not too dear,” he said at last. “Pick out three or four of the most economical and send the sketches to my wife in London.”

  “Of course, sir.” The architect gathered up the drawings into his satchel with a sniff of disappointment at his employer’s indifference. “And the bathing chamber…?”

  “Glazed tiles, I think. I may indulge my brother’s whims so far, but imported marble is an unnecessary expense.”

  “Tiles it is, sir. I shall have some samples–” he glanced at Mal “–sent to your wife along with the sketches.”

  “Good man.”

  The architect made his obeisance and left, thankfully closing the door behind him. With the carpenters now at work on the main staircase, one could hardly hear oneself think for the racket of hammer and saw all day long. Mal stared through the window at the falling rain. If the weather were fairer he would have gone for a ride around the estate, but after a long, wet spring the hillside paths were little more than torrents of mud and half-rotted leaves.

  Five long years since it had burnt to the ground, and at last Rushdale Hall was almost as good as new. Better, in fact, though he had resisted his architect’s suggestion of extending the foundations and rebuilding in the latest style, all glass and stucco. Honest red bricks had been good enough for his father and grandfather; they would be good enough for his descendants. If, please God, Kit ever came home.

  The grate of hooves on the gravel drive brought him to his feet. Through the rain-blurred glass he made out a cloaked figure dismounting, his right arm held awkwardly out of the way. Mal grinned and headed out into the hall, blinking against the clouds of sawdust filling the air.

  “Ned!”

  His old friend shrugged out of his sodden cloak and stepped into Mal’s welcoming embrace. Mal stifled a sob in his throat, unprepared for the rush of joy that swept through his heart and set it aglow like a cloud lit from behind by the sun. Dear God, he had missed the comfort of a familiar body pressed against his own.

  “You can let me go now.” Ned’s voice came muffled against his shoulder.

  “Right. Sorry.”

  He released Ned and showed him through into the parlour, hiding his discomfiture in pleasantries.

  “Most of the house is still unfurnished,” he said, suddenly aware of how cramped and dark his temporary quarters were. “I had the one surviving bedstead brought in here, since it had the first fireplace to be finished. Come, get out of those wet clothes and warm yourself. I have spare linen enough for the both of us.”

  Whilst Ned stripped by the fire, Mal fetched dry clothing and a blanket from the press and filled a pewter jug with wine to warm over the flames.

  “If you’re here to tell me about the Queen, I already know,” he said at last, pulling up a stool.

  Ned grimaced as he peeled off a soaking wet stocking and added it the pile on the floor. “Bad news travels fast.”

  “Not bad news for Robert. He must have thought he would never get to wear the crown.”

  “True enough.”

  “So why are you here? It…” He swallowed. “It’s not Kit, is it?”

  “No. At least, I’ve not heard anything, from Sandy or your wife.”

  Ned wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and sat down by the fire to warm his naked flesh. Mal noticed he sat hunched over to one side; no doubt his maimed limb was causing him pain in this weather. He poured wine for them both, and passed Ned a cup. The heat seeped through the metal, not quite hot enough to burn his fingers.

  “What, then? It’s a long way to come for a drink and a chat.”

  “I’m to fetch you back to London.”

  “Oh.” Mal rolled the cup between his palms. “And what if I refuse?”

  “You can’t sulk up here forever, you know.”

  “I’m not sulking, I have work to do.”

  “I don’t see you sawing timbers or climbing the scaffolding.” Ned gestured around the room, from the ranks of burnt-down candles on the mantelpiece to the drifts of paper covering the table and sliding down onto the floor. “In fact it looks to me like you’ve hardly stirred from your den all winter.”

  “You wouldn’t know a Derbyshire winter if it bowed and introduced itself. I reckon this is the first time you’ve ever been north of Islington.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Are you coming down to London or not?”

  “I don’t suppose you’ll give me a moment’s peace until I say yes, will you?”

  Ned grinned. “You know me too well.”

  “All right, all right. Give me a day to set my affairs in order, and after that I shall be entirely at your disposal.”

  It took the rest of that day and most of the one after to go through his papers and make sure that his steward and foreman were well-versed in what needed to be done over the summer, but at last Mal ran out of excuses. He packed his saddlebags the following morning in a haze of dread. What if Coby refused to see him? What if she didn’t? He had no idea what he was going to say to her after all this time. And then there was Kit. Mal had visited him last autumn and found him well but distant. Was Henry winning the boy over at last?

  He found Ned waiting in the stable yard, his own horse and Mal’s old gelding Hector already saddled and ready to go. Ned’s expression was guarded, as if he feared Mal would change his mind at the last minute. Mal forced a smile, surprised himself with a genuine feeling of lighthearted anticipation.

  “To London!” he cried, springing into the saddle.

  Hector tossed his head, glad to stretch his legs after winter idleness. Ned fell in at Mal’s side and they rode down the valley together in companionable silence. Mal recalled with a pang the many times he and Coby had ridden thus on Walsingham’s business in France. They should have stayed there and never come back to England. Then perhaps the two of them and Kit would still be together. He swallowed against the gathering melancholy, lest Ned think he had undergone a change of heart.

  The weather turned colder as they went south, as if winter itself had returned to grieve for the Queen. They arrived in London one April morning to find the city quieter than Mal had ever seen it. Windows were shuttered tight against the numbing cold, rags stuffed into the cracks to keep the wind out. Rows of icicles, some more than a foot long, hung from the eaves and dripped onto the travellers beneath. The few Londoners they passed barely looked up as they hurried along on their own business, muffled in hats and hoods and the thickest cloaks they possessed.

  Mal and Ned parted ways at Saint Paul’s, Ned going south to get a wherry back to Bankside whilst Mal continued westward through Ludgate and along the Strand to Whitehall. The approach to the palace was only a little more lively than the rest of the city, with a line of black-clad citizens braving the weather to pay their respects to the dead Queen. Under the gateway, torches burned in sconces even at midday and the friendly red-gold glow of braziers spilled out of the guardroom. Mal dismounted and gave his business, and Hector was led away to the stables.

  Queen Juliana’s household was lodged in the same rooms as before, on the far side of the formal gardens. Mal was shown up to an antechamber, cold and echoing. He ignored the empty hearth and the benches along the tapestry-covered walls, and instead went to stand at one of the windows looking out over the Thames. Some distance to his right Westminster Stairs jutted out into the river, boats moored to poles set along either side, like the gondolas of Venice. It was there that the ambassador’s barge had been stopped and Mal himself arrested for assaulting Blaise Grey. Had it really been ten years ago? It felt like yesterday and half a lifetime, all at once.

  The sound of a door op
ening came from his left and he turned, expecting to see a visitor leaving the presence chamber, or perhaps a servant coming to invite him in.

  “My lord.” His wife curtsied deeply.

  Mourning garb suited her ill, with her pale hair caught back too tight under the black lace cap.

  He bowed in response. “My lady.”

  They stood there for a long moment, each waiting for the other to make the next move. When did our marriage become a duel? When you took your brother’s part instead of hers, a traitorous voice in his head replied.

  “I trust your journey was not too tiresome, my lord.”

  “I had not expected such a frosty reception from my old home, but I shall weather it.”

  More silence.

  “Mina–”

  She flushed a little at his use of her pet name. “I suppose you have come for a report on your son.”

  “Our son.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised it was the wrong thing to say.

  “Not mine. As you made very clear. And as for a report, I can tell you little more than he says in his letters. You might do better to visit him yourself.”

  “I intend to do that. But…” He looked down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. “I wanted to see you first.”

  When she did not answer, he glanced up – and saw her eyes shining with tears. He crossed the room in swift strides and knelt at her feet.

  “Jacomina, please, forgive me. I cannot unmake my choices, so what good does it do to fight over them?”

  He felt her hand on his head, then her fingers slid down his cheek and under his chin, pressing gently so that he had to look up.

  “If you want to reconcile with me,” she said as their eyes met, “you will free Kit.”

  He glanced towards the door and got to his feet. He had been expecting such a condition, and in truth his own heart had been urging him to do the same for a long time. What good would it do to save England or rebuild his home, if he lost everyone he loved?

  “It will take careful planning,” he said in a low voice, leading her away from the door and any twitching ears on the other side. “We cannot risk our enemies so much as suspecting what we are up to, or they might threaten him.”