The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  “You one of them actors, then?” He looked her up and down. “I must say, you boys look a lot more convincing as women from a distance.”

  “Yes, I’m sure we do,” Coby replied, not sure whether to be insulted, or grateful that he hadn’t seen through her disguise. “Now, if you please, sir, the beer. We’ve a long way to go and it looks set to get even hotter this afternoon.”

  “You’ll want to stop in Waltham Abbey, then, if you’re heading north. Should get there by sunset, this time of year.”

  She peered past the landlord into the shadows of the storeroom behind him. A row of crates were stacked just inside the door. Could they be for Shawe? “You know, if you have any letters or packages you need delivering to Bedford or Cambridge or… or Lincoln, we’d be glad to take them.”

  The man frowned in thought and stared up at the rafters as if the information were written there in the soot.

  “Can’t say as we do, but I’ll ask around.”

  Coby thanked him again and went to bid farewell to Ned and Gabriel, who promised to be in Cambridge within the week.

  “Won’t Burbage want you to play every tavern between here and Norwich?” she asked.

  “He’s not Naismith,” Gabriel said. “The Prince’s Men don’t play for just any rabble. I’m more worried he’ll want to stop at some country house for the summer.”

  “You mean like Lord Burghley’s new place?” Ned said. “I hear it’s fit for the King himself, God speed him to good health.”

  “Burghley House?” Gabriel looked thoughtful. “Now there’s somewhere to aim for. It’s north of Cambridge, so perhaps we can persuade Burbage to press on to the town itself first.”

  She bade them farewell again and ran out into the yard, just in time to see Mal arriving with the hired horses. Under cover of strapping their belongings behind the saddles, she told him what she had seen.

  “Crates?” he said. “You’re sure?”

  “No, I imagined them. Yes, I’m sure. What do we do?”

  He sighed. “Even if they are for Shawe, I doubt our enemies would conveniently label them with his place of residence. We’ll go to Cambridge, and track him from there. That was the plan.”

  “When have our plans ever gone the way we intended?”

  He squeezed her hand where it rested on the saddle’s cantle.

  “Don’t think like that. We have to get him back.” He patted the horse’s rump. “Wait there. I’ll go and fetch Sandy.”

  Mal cursed under his breath. Sandy was not in the wagon where he was supposed to be. Surely he could not have gone far? He strode down between the stalls, peering into each one. He didn’t really expect to find his brother hiding in one of them, but perhaps the hayloft…

  He was about to look around for a ladder when he heard a soft humming from the far end of the building, where the shadows were thickest. A single narrow beam of sunlight shone on the silken rump of a dapple grey, which was all Mal could see of the stall. Shielding his eyes against the light he moved forward.

  “Sandy?”

  His brother was standing by the horse’s head, fussing with its mane.

  “Sandy. Thank the Lord, I thought you had run off, or done something equally foolish.”

  “You mean like looking for Kit?” He smiled slowly. “Did that already.”

  “You what? Sandy–” Mal looked around to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “You promised you wouldn’t try and dreamwalk until we were well away from London.”

  Sandy ignored him. Mal realised he was braiding the horse’s mane, separating it into neat sections, and humming what sounded like skrayling music.

  “Well?” he said at last. “What did you find?”

  “He’s alive, and Shawe doesn’t have him yet.”

  “Well, that’s good news, at least.”

  “There’s more. Kiiren is beginning to awaken.”

  “That’s not so good.” Mal went to step into the stall, but the grey stamped a back hoof. “Come on, we’d better find him before the guisers work out who and what he is.”

  “I think perhaps they already know, and that’s why they took him.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We get closer, then we use him as an anchor to take us straight to Shawe.”

  “You think we have a chance against the alchemist?”

  “The English guisers are weak compared to Ilianwe. I think we can–” Sandy grinned, his eyes seeming to flash gold in the beam of sunlight “–kick his arse.”

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Kit stumbled along the dusty road, wincing every time a sharp-edged pebble bit into the sole of his foot. They had reached the edge of the marsh after another day’s travel and followed a little river northwestwards until it was crossed by a stone bridge. There they disembarked and took the road, which wound through low rolling hills. The boys’ legs were left unbound so that they could walk, but their captors hemmed them in on all sides, and one of the workmen threw his knife into a gatepost as demonstration of what would happen if they tried to run for it.

  Kit’s feet were soon blistered and aching from walking barefoot, and he had to knuckle away the tears before Sidney or one of the men saw him. As the sun began to sink, however, they came to a lane that led off through a wood. Long cool grass grew on the raised strip between the wheel ruts, and Kit was able to ease his sore feet for a while.

  At the end of the lane stood a ramshackle farmhouse, its windows no more than dark holes staring blindly across a weed-grown clearing. An equally shabby barn stood to one side, but to Kit’s delight the sound of a horse stamping its hooves came from within. Sidney had been right. But what if they escaped and Uncle Sandy missed them? No, his uncle would find him wherever he was, he was certain of that. And he would rather ride away from here than spend another day walking.

  The well-dressed man paused on the edge of the clearing and whistled like a song thrush, two short notes repeated twice, followed by a long trill. After a few moments a figure appeared in the doorway.

  “About time,” the stranger shouted. “I was beginning to think you’d been caught and strung up.”

  The well-dressed man laughed. “The way was cleared for us. Our masters have all under their command.”

  The two boys were hustled into the farmhouse and taken down some rickety stairs, where they were locked in a cellar without so much as a stick of furniture to make it comfortable. A few thin bars of moonlight crept in through the shuttered windows, which were too high up to reach.

  “I wish I had my sword,” Kit muttered, jumping ineffectually to try and reach the wooden slats. “We could hack this open, wriggle out and steal a horse.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Sidney said with a sniff. He sat down on the floor and tried to examine his feet in the faint light of the waxing moon.

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  “I’m not a baby.” He glared up at Kit. “I’m seven years old, older than–”

  “Ssh!” Kit went to the other end of the cellar, ignoring his own stinging feet. The floorboards overhead were warped and uneven, with gaps between some of them big enough to stick his finger through. He craned his neck and listened.

  “…still, it’s a lot of trouble to go to for a pair of skinny wretches–”

  “Our orders were very specific. The King’s godson and the hedge-knight’s brat, alive and whole.”

  Kit’s mouth tightened. His father was no hedge-knight! He had lands and a patron at court and everything.

  “Well I don’t like it. Stealing kids ain’t my idea of a good day’s work.”

  “No one’s asking you to like it. And it’s a little late to complain now, don’t you think?”

  The first speaker – one of the workmen – grumbled something that Kit couldn’t make out.

  “Good, then. Now, gentlemen, get some sleep. One more day and we’ll be done, then you can collect your pay and depart if you wish.”

  Kit sank back down to the ground, trembling with a m
ixture of panic and delight. Only one day left, which meant they had to escape tonight, but on the other hand their captors were going to sleep. He waited as long as he dared, fearing he might fall asleep himself, before padding across to the door. The lock was old and rusty, and anyway he had no idea how one was supposed to pick them; it was always made to sound so easy in stories. It would have to be the window, then.

  “Here, Sidney, wake up!”

  His companion woke with a cry. “Yes, Your Highness, I’m coming!”

  “Ssh! It’s me, Catlyn. We’ve been taken prisoner, remember?”

  Sidney gave a sniff and a gulp. “What…?”

  “Come on, we’re going to escape.”

  “How?”

  “You’re going to climb onto my shoulders and pull the slats off one of the windows.”

  “I can’t. My feet hurt too much.”

  “Yes, you can. Or do you want to be sold into slavery?”

  Sidney squeaked. “Slaves? They can’t do that, I’m–”

  “The prince’s cousin, yes, I know. So act like one.” Kit sighed, and went over to the wall below the shutter with the widest gaps in it. “Come on.”

  Sidney got to his feet and limped over. Kit laced his hands together and gave the boy a boost up. Sidney scrambled wildly for purchase, slipped, and they fell in a painful heap on the floor.

  “Ow! Clumsy ox! What did you do that for?”

  “It wasn’t me, you didn’t stand still–”

  “You were sticking your foot in my ear–”

  “I had to put it somewhere–”

  “Ssshh!”

  Kit clamped his hand over Sidney’s mouth. They lay there, locked together, for long minutes, waiting for the well-dressed man to come and tell them off.

  “I don’t think they heard us,” Kit said at last, letting his breath out in a great sigh.

  “It was your fault–”

  “Hush! Or do you want to get us both killed?”

  Sidney didn’t answer.

  “Come on, then, let’s try again.”

  This time Sidney managed to climb onto his shoulders without mishap. He pulled at one of the slats.

  “They’re not coming away, Catlyn.”

  “Pull harder.” Kit braced himself against the wall.

  A moment later there was a creaking, tearing sound, followed by a dull clatter as the first slat fell to the cellar floor.

  “I did it!”

  Another slat fell, and another. Then nothing.

  “What are you doing up there?” Kit whispered.

  “I don’t think I can pull any more loose. They’re all too strong.”

  “Can you get through the hole?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Get down, let me have a go.”

  Sidney half-climbed, half-fell to the floor.

  “I don’t know if I can hold you,” he said, his face paper-white in the moonlight.

  “You have to try. Come on, I’m taller and skinnier than you. Just get down on all fours and I’ll stand on your back.”

  Sidney did as he was told, and Kit placed a foot on the boy’s trembling back. Holding himself steady against the wall he pushed upwards until he was standing with his eyes just below the level of the window. It wouldn’t be easy, but there were a few slats he could reach. He took hold of one and carefully worked it loose.

  “Yes!” he whispered in triumph as it came free.

  He tossed it to the floor and set to work on the next one. That would do. He could probably get through a gap that big. He jumped down to the floor.

  “Right, this is it,” he said. “Come on, Sidney, give me a proper boost this time. I’m going to climb through.”

  Sidney pouted. “Why do you have to go first? I’m oldest.”

  “I’m the tallest, and it’s my plan.”

  “Very well.” Sidney crouched and laced his hands together. “Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  Kit placed his left foot in Sidney’s hands and pushed up with his right, leaping for the window frame and catching hold of it with both hands. A splinter dug into his palm and he nearly let go, but desperation drove him on. He pulled himself up until his head and shoulders were through the gap and wriggled for all he was worth, ignoring the scraping of the broken slats on his back and legs. A few moments later he rolled free of the window and lay on his back in the grass, panting.

  A dark shape loomed over him.

  “Going somewhere, gentlemen?”

  Mal urged his mount on to as swift a pace as his companions could manage, and by nightfall they had reached the village of Hoddesdon on the Great Cambridge Road. Being a comfortable day’s travel north of London the village was well supplied with inns, though most of them were full at this time of year with farmers going to and from the various summer fairs. Mal ended up paying over the odds for three spaces in the common room of the Swan, a large timbered building on the high street.

  “No dreamwalking tonight,” he warned his brother over supper. “The last thing we need is you shining out like a beacon to our enemies.”

  Sandy merely nodded, but his eyes spoke eloquently of his frustration.

  Mal’s own frustrations were of a less noble sort. He longed to curl up with his wife and forget his troubles for a while in the pleasure of her kisses, but would be impossible here. The best he could manage was to slip an arm around her waist under the thin blankets, and then only because the inn was so full that everyone was crammed cheek by jowl anyway.

  “We’ll get proper accommodation in Cambridge,” he told both of them, as they set off next morning on fresh horses. “The town should be quiet, since most of the students will have gone home for the summer.”

  “Do you know anyone there?” Coby asked, guiding her nag alongside his.

  “It’s been a long time, but I dare say a few of the masters who taught me are still alive. One of them must surely be able to introduce me to someone who has met Shawe.”

  “We should have spoken to that friend of his before we left London. Harry someone-or-other?”

  “Thomas Harriot?” Mal shook his head. “He’s Northumberland’s pet. If he knows where Shawe is, I doubt he’d tell us, and he’d certainly tell Northumberland we’d been asking after him. And Northumberland will tell Prince Henry, you can be sure of that.”

  Sandy spoke for the first time. “Jathekkil already knows where we are going. You left Renardi alive.”

  “I could hardly murder him in cold blood,” Coby replied. “Anyway, even if I killed the doctor, Prince Henry would have guessed I spoke to him.”

  “Henry may have warned Shawe, but we can’t let that stop us,” Mal said. “Cambridge itself should be safe at any rate. Shawe prefers remote manorhouses, the better to conceal his alchemical experiments.”

  “So where is he?”

  “Somewhere far enough outside the town for secrecy, but most likely not so far that he is cut off from his allies. The Fens are a lonely place; we should not have too much trouble finding him.”

  “Like looking for a needle on a bare floor instead of among the rushes.”

  “Exactly.”

  They rode on for a while in silence, past newly harvested cornfields and orchards heavy with blushing apples. Despite the cold spring the year had been a good one, an unexpected blessing to counteract the horror of events in London.

  “You and Sandy should put on your disguises now, before we arrive,” Coby said. “Best you get used to them.”

  They drew aside into a copse of ash and maple, and Coby handed out the clothes. For Sandy, a serving woman’s gown with a linen coif to cover his hair and a broad-brimmed hat to hide his face; for Mal, a scholar’s black robe and cap. Sandy shaved his chin smooth with his obsidian razor, and Coby applied a little powder to cover the remaining dark stubble.

  “Don’t you have a disguise?” Mal asked her.

  She shook her head. “They’re looking for Lady Catlyn. I’m better off like this.”

  �
��Renardi could have described you to our enemies.”

  “We’ll have to take that chance. I will be of no use in a fight encumbered by skirts, and I have not the time nor skill to change my face.”

  After Mal had drawn the robe on over his other clothes, Coby carefully painted extra white hairs into his beard and hair, to make him seem older.

  “You look half a skrayling now,” Sandy jested. “Perhaps I should braid beads into your hair.”

  Mal pulled a face. “Perhaps I should cut off your hair, make you look more like a skrayling woman.”

  “Enough!” Coby stepped between them, her eyes bright with tears. “Kit lies captive, and all you can do is make merry?”

  “I am sorry, my love.” Mal drew her aside. “We only lighten our hearts to stop us from weeping.”

  She nodded as if in understanding, and Mal bent to kiss her brow.

  “Mount up,” he said. “We have delayed long enough.”

  “This is all your fault,” Sidney muttered as they bounced around in the back of the covered wagon.

  The well-dressed man had tied them up after the failed escape attempt, and next morning there had been no breakfast. Now it was well past noon and still they had not stopped for a rest nor been given dinner. Kit’s stomach gnawed at his ribs, and his arms and legs hurt all over from being battered against the wooden floor and side of the wagon.

  “We had to try and get away, didn’t we?”

  Sidney gave him a sullen look and turned his back. Kit sighed. He was too exhausted to argue with Sidney anyway. He lifted his bound hands to his mouth and tried to chew at the rope some more, but the fibres poking out of it were like needles in his chapped lips and he soon gave up. Licking the metal-tasting blood from his lips he wedged himself into a corner of the wagon. If he sat bolt upright, his head rested against the canvas covering instead of wood and it was almost comfortable.

  He drifted off into something that was not quite sleep but not quite wakefulness either, and the next thing he knew it was getting dark. The cart had drawn off the side of the road into a field and their captors were making a fire. The smell of food made Kit’s mouth water.

  A canvas flap lifted, and one of the workmen peered inside.