The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  Mal bit back the urge to point out that this too was in his report. “Aye, sir. And Palmer was the last to hire it.”

  “And this is the whole of your evidence against him?”

  Mal hesitated, but he could not say any more without incriminating himself.

  “Well?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Cecil picked up another sheet of paper, folded like a letter and bearing the greasy stain of a wax seal on its upper edge.

  “Would it surprise you to learn that Master Palmer is alive and well?”

  Mal stared at him. “Aye, sir, it would.”

  He took the proffered letter from Cecil and scanned the few short lines. Regret to have inconvenienced your lordships… Called away on urgent business… Horse stolen north of Islington…. It looked credible enough, but Mal would stake his life on it being a forgery. If Palmer were alive, why would they need a letter as evidence?

  “So you see, Master Catlyn, it could not possibly have been Palmer who shot the King, could it?”

  “I suppose not, sir.”

  “Indeed I put it to you that your identification of the body was wholly mistaken and prompted by your well-known partisanship towards the skraylings.”

  “Sir?”

  “The assassin, Master Catlyn, was a skrayling, not a Christian man.”

  “No, my lords, I swear. I examined it myself, and my brother confirmed–”

  “Your brother Alexander.” This from Egerton, a former lawyer elevated to one of the highest posts in the land and the man who had eventually issued Ned and Gabriel’s pardon. Mal breathed a little more easily.

  “Yes.”

  “Who spend many years in Bethlem Hospital, and then sojourned among the skraylings. Who last night went to their guild-house on some secret mission?”

  So, Cecil and his intelligencers had swayed Egerton to their cause.

  “He was making enquiries about Palmer, on my behalf,” Mal said.

  “Was he now?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Egerton snorted and looked at his colleagues. “I do not think a madman can be considered a very credible witness, do you?”

  Mal had no answer. He was not about to agree with the lawyer, but neither was there much point in gainsaying the truth.

  “So,” Cecil said, “we have your word that the assassin was Palmer, and Palmer’s own word – countersigned by credible witnesses – that he was nowhere near London on that day. Whom do you think I’m inclined to believe, Master Catlyn?”

  The guisers who are pulling your strings. Unless you are one of them yourself.

  “What do you intend to do about it?” he asked instead. “Hand the body over to the skraylings for identification?”

  “Really, Catlyn, do you think us so naive? The body has already been quartered and displayed above the gates of the city. Such a pity the head did not survive in any useful condition. No–” Cecil laced his blunt fingers together “–we shall stamp out this rebellion before it spreads.”

  Prince Arthur spoke for the first time.

  “The skraylings will be expelled from the realm,” he said, “and forbidden to return on pain of death.”

  A little late for that, since they are probably leaving the city as we speak. “Does that include Sark, Your Highness?”

  Arthur turned to his left.

  “Eventually,” Egerton conceded. “The island was gifted by Her Majesty the Queen, of blessed memory, and can therefore only be taken away by her heirs. God willing King Robert will recover and enact this reversal; if not, his heirs will surely do so.”

  His heirs. Then they are already planning for Edward’s accession. Is Arthur complicit in all this?

  “I think our business with Master Catlyn is concluded, don’t you, gentlemen?” Cecil said, glancing around the table.

  The other Privy Councillors nodded, and Mal breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You are dismissed. But take care, sir; your bias in this matter has been noted.”

  Mal bowed and backed out of the council chamber. Though he was relieved beyond measure to have escaped arrest, it was now clear that the conspirators behind the assassin had achieved their principal goal: to expel the skraylings from England. From now on, the guisers would be free to exercise their powers in the capital, with no one to gainsay them.

  CHAPTER XXV

  The tolling of the city’s bells could mean only one thing: another royal death. Mal stopped a palace servant in the passageway.

  “What’s happened? Is the King dead?”

  “Prince Edward, God rest his soul,” the man replied, making the sign of the cross.

  Mal echoed the gesture absentmindedly. Dear God, that meant Henry was now Prince of Wales… He ran out into the courtyard and shouted to a groom to fetch his horse.

  The city streets were crowded with citizens debating the latest news, but the people scattered as Mal spurred his mount onward, through Ludgate and down to London Bridge. One thought blazed in his mind: that he had to get Coby and Kit out of the Tower before another day dawned on this benighted kingdom.

  After a brief stop in Southwark to gather everything he needed, he rode back into the city and along Thames Street to the Tower. Approaching the castle gate he adopted what he hoped was an authoritative air.

  “I wish to speak to my wife, Lady Catlyn,” he told the older of the two guards, a stout fellow of about forty with streaks of grey in his spade-shaped beard. “I’ve brought clean clothes for her and my son.”

  The guard squinted at Mal from the archway and stepped forward into the sunlight.

  “Sorry, sir, no one’s allowed in or out except to collect their dead. Privy Council’s orders.”

  “But you could bring her to the gate, could you not? As long as I do not enter the Tower and she does not leave, there can be no problem.”

  The guard scratched his beard. “I suppose not.”

  “Well, then.” Mal folded his arms and gave the man an expectant look. After a few seconds he took the hint.

  “Right you are, sir.”

  Mal watched him cross the causeway and disappear through the gate of the Byward Tower, then turned his attention back to the gatehouse.

  “This is where the Queen and her ladies were lodged after the attack on the king?” he asked the other guard.

  “How’d you know that?” The younger man’s brow wrinkled in suspicion.

  “Because I was here that day, helping to convey His Majesty to safety.”

  The guard’s eyes widened, and he looked at Mal with more respect.

  “That’s right, sir. The chamber above isn’t used for much in peace time.”

  Mal nodded thoughtfully. It had a good view of the space in front of the gates, and perhaps of the causeway; an ideal place from which to direct operations. He wondered if Olivia had somehow managed to slip ahead of the procession and make her way up there. Afterwards, no one would have questioned her presence in the Queen’s sanctuary. The woman left nothing to chance, that was plain.

  The minutes passed painfully slowly, but at last the first guard returned with Coby. Her expression remained guarded, hands clasped tight at her waist as she crossed the causeway. He couldn’t blame her. He had promised to get Kit out of London, and he had failed. The fact that it was none of his own fault didn’t matter.

  When at last she reached the shadow of the gatehouse, he allowed himself to step forward a pace and hold out his arms in greeting. She hesitated before stepping into his embrace.

  “If you love our son, feign gladness,” he whispered in her ear. “I must speak to you privily.”

  To his relief she slipped her arms around his waist, though she trembled almost as much as she had that very first time he held her, in the shadows of an alley where her male guise would not attract attention. Tentatively, still fearing she might recoil, he kissed her brow, then released her and went over to the first guard.

  “Look here,” he said in a low voice, glancing back towards Coby. “I haven�
��t had the pleasure of my wife’s company in many nights, if you know what I mean.”

  The guard gave him a quizzical look. Mal took a silver crown from his purse and pressed it into the man’s hand.

  “One of these for you and your comrade here, and another for yourself when we’re done. For the hire of the chamber above.”

  “That’s very generous, sir.”

  “Not at all. You men work hard in the defence of the Crown, you deserve a little pleasure of your own.”

  Mal took his wife’s arm and they were shown up to the chamber above the guard-room. A couple of cots stood against the wall, surrounded by empty barrels, bundles of kindling and other detritus of soldiering. Mal thanked the man, then closed the door and waited, listening for his retreating footsteps. When he was certain no one was eavesdropping, he led Coby over to one of the cots.

  “Just for the look of it,” he said, “in case we’re interrupted.”

  For a moment he thought she would refuse. Well, she had every right to doubt him until he had proven himself. He sat down on the cot and gestured for her to sit beside him. “First we need to get you and Kit out of here.”

  She smiled at last, with a shadow of the mischief they used to delight in sharing. “I was already working on a plan, but your advice would be welcome.”

  He listened to her description of the reconnoitre, nodding and prompting for more information at intervals.

  “The eastern exit? That must be the one they call the Iron Gate. You will leave tonight?”

  “The moon is scarce past new,” she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement now. “There can be no better time.”

  He took her hand, and she did not resist. “Then I shall be waiting for you outside the gate, from midnight until an hour before dawn.”

  She leant forward a little, and to his surprise he realised she was inviting a kiss. He obliged, intending it to be only the briefest of caresses, but the touch of her lips on his shook him to the core. Before he knew it he had taken her in his arms and was kissing her jaw, her throat, weeping his regrets into her unbound hair.

  “Ssh, my love,” he heard her murmur, but that only made it worse.

  With an effort he gathered the shreds of his dignity and pulled one hand free to wipe his eyes. When he looked up, her eyes were shining too. He opened his mouth to apologise for his past heartlessness, but she reached up and put a finger to his lips.

  “What need we of words?” she whispered, and kissed him again.

  By the time the guard knocked politely on the door half an hour later their reconciliation was complete, and they went their separate ways with lightened hearts and many a secret smile.

  Kit spent a very dull morning and an even duller afternoon alone in his bedchamber, Doctor Renardi having forbidden him to attend lessons in case he overtaxed his mind too soon after his seizure. At first Kit had been delighted, but then the doctor also forbade reading or physical exertion, so he had nothing to do except stare out of the window. For a while he amused himself by watching the sentries patrolling the battlements and trying to count the ravens that flew around the little towers of the great keep, but even that became boring after a while.

  A search of the room produced a couple of worn pennies with which to play shove-groat on the top of one of the chests, though it wasn’t really smooth enough, and then he lost one of the coins when it skidded off and rolled into a crack in the floorboards, so that was the end of that. After what felt like hours, Master Weston sent Sidney to call him to supper, and Kit was never so glad to see the other boys in his life, even de Vere.

  When supper was over, Doctor Renardi made more of his sleeping draught and sent both the younger boys to bed. To Kit’s surprise the doctor brought two cups to their chamber.

  “You both need your sleep,” he said, “and you, Master Sidney, will disturb Master Catlyn less if you sleep soundly.”

  Sidney folded his arms. “Take it away. You’re trying to poison us, like you did Prince Edward.”

  Kit looked doubtfully at the cups, then at Doctor Renardi. “It was all right last night.”

  “It is not poison, Master Sidney. See?” The doctor took a sip from one of the cups. “Now drink up.”

  “What’s in it?” Sidney wrinkled his nose as he took the one that Renardi had drunk from.

  “Chamomile and a little valerian.”

  “It’s really not horrid.” Kit took a gulp of the warm, sweet liquid. “There’s honey too.”

  The doctor waited until they had both emptied their cups, then left them to undress.

  “I hope I’m allowed to do lessons tomorrow,” Kit said, climbing into bed.

  “I wish I could swap places with you. I hate Latin.”

  “Perodi linguam Latinam,” Kit translated.

  Sidney giggled. “You see? You’re much better at it than me.”

  The bed-ropes creaked as Sidney got in and the two boys lay in silence, their usual squabbles over cold feet and farts forgotten. Kit pulled the covers up to his chin and prayed for the sleeping draught to work quickly. Tomorrow couldn’t be any worse than today.

  “I want to help,” Sandy said, barring Mal’s way out of the kitchen.

  It was a childish gesture, one that took Mal back to old arguments won – and lost. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and looked into his dark eyes, wondering if there was anything really left of Sandy in there, or if Erishen had taken over entirely.

  “And you can. By going to Deptford. If there’s a single skrayling vessel left that can carry us out of England, you are the best person to approach her captain.”

  Sandy nodded slowly, as if digesting this. You made me wait for this, Mal could not help but think. Now it’s your turn.

  “So,” he said aloud, “can I get on with my own business?”

  Without waiting for a reply he gently pushed his brother aside and headed up the stairs. A moment later footsteps followed him.

  “But I could transport Kit out of the Tower in the blink of an eye,” Sandy said as he caught Mal up in the parlour. “You wouldn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

  “Could you? With our enemies right there?”

  Sandy opened his mouth to speak, but Mal held up a hand to silence him.

  “Don’t be a fool, Sandy. If anything went wrong, I could lose you as well as Coby and Kit.”

  His brother sagged, defeated. Mal closed the space between them, embraced him.

  “It won’t be long now,” he murmured. “Just a few more hours, and we’ll all be free.”

  That night Coby went to bed as usual with the other ladies, but just before midnight she rose and silently dressed in her boy’s attire that Mal had thoughtfully included in the bundle of clothing. Her lock-pick roll went into one pocket, a purse of coins and jewellery in the other, and she tucked a sheathed dagger into the back of her belt, just in case. Last of all she fastened a spirit-guard around her throat, since there was a chance she might have to face Prince Henry or even Olivia tonight.

  With her shoes in her left hand she padded down the stairs to the dining room in her stockinged feet. Now came the hardest part. In order to get to the walkway she had seen, she would have to go through the Queen’s bedchamber. She tiptoed through the small parlour and up the steps, and pressed her ear against the door. To her relief she heard snoring. Hardly daring to breathe, she eased the latch down and opened the door just wide enough to slip through.

  The Queen’s bedchamber was pitch dark, the air thick with the smell of a used chamberpot. Coby sidled along the wall furthest from the bed, groping for the door that she knew was there. At last her fingers met wood studded with nail heads.

  The bed creaked.

  “…and don’t do that again…”

  Coby froze, heart pounding fit to burst out of her chest.

  The voice died away into a mumble. Coby offered up silent thanks; it was only one of the ladies-in-waiting talking in her sleep. She opened the second door as quietly as the first and clos
ed it behind her, then groped her way up the stairwell to the floor above. The scuff of boots on the outer wall-walk betrayed the guards’ patrols, but she had become accustomed to their patterns after more than a week in the Tower. Far fewer guards patrolled the inner ward. After all, no one expected an attack from within.

  The door to the walkway leading into the Wakefield Tower was locked but not bolted, for which she was vastly grateful. It suggested that the door at the other end might be similarly secured; if it were bolted from within, she would have to rethink her route. She knelt and unrolled her tools, and soon had the door open.

  Out in the cool night air, her courage almost failed her. There was so far to go yet, and she still did not know if she could even get them out of the fortress. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, then scuttled across the short walkway, hunched down low enough not to be easily spotted by a sentry.

  Mal looked around the room, checking he hadn’t forgotten something. He wore his blades and carried a modest sum of money in his purse, but that was all; he did not want to be laden down for this venture. All his spare clothes and other belongings had been packed and sent to Deptford with Sandy and Gabriel.

  “Are you sure you won’t come with us?” he said to Ned.

  His friend shook his head. “We belong in London, Gabe and me. Anyway, with you lot gone for good, I doubt the guisers will care about us.”

  “You know I’d stay, if it weren’t for Kit and Coby. ’Tis not cowardice that drives me away.”

  “I know.” Ned clapped him on the shoulder, and gave him a sympathetic look. “I’d do the same for Gabe, if it came to it.”

  They made their way down to the courtyard, and Mal cautiously opened the wicket gate. The curfew bell had long since rung and the night was as black as he could wish, not even a glimmer of moonlight visible in the narrow streets. Here and there a lantern burned outside a house, enough to light their way but casting plenty of shadows too.

  Mal stepped out into the street, ears alert for any sound of a watchman or a lurking footpad. This side of midnight there were still a few late revellers about, too emboldened by drink to care about the watch and too blinded by it to notice a predator in an alley-mouth until it was too late. Armed and sober men made an unattractive target in comparison, but Mal wanted no trouble tonight.