The Prince of Lies

by Anne Lyle

  “You lads hungry?”

  Kit nodded warily.

  “Tough. Master Waggoner says you’re to have nothing until the morrow, to teach you what happens to lads what disobey.”

  Sidney let out a whimper that turned to a cough.

  “Still, we don’t want you arriving half-dead,” he said, leaning into the wagon, “so you can have this between you.”

  He pushed a tankard towards Kit, who grabbed at it with his tied hands. The man laughed and left them.

  Kit lifted the tankard to his face. It smelt like the small ale they usually had at breakfast. He took a sip, hoping they weren’t drugging him again, then gulped about a third of it back.

  “Here, save some for me!” Sidney launched himself across the wagon.

  “Watch it, you’ll spill it!” Kit clutched the tankard to his chest. The lukewarm liquid splashed against his shirt, filling the air with its heady scent.

  “Give it here, then.”

  Kit passed the tankard to Sidney with shaking hands. Weak as it was, the ale was already going to his head. He lay back against the boards and fell asleep within moments.

  Kit looked round dazedly as the wagon drew to a halt. The workmen hauled them out and untied their bonds, and Kit slumped down onto his hands and knees in the grass, head ringing.

  “Come on, boy,” the well-dressed man said, hauling him to his feet by the back of his shirt. “Don’t you want to see your new home?”

  Kit looked up, and his heart rose. In front of them stood a well-built house of pale grey stone with five gabled windows along the roofline and a tall chimney stack at each end. Diamond-paned glass glinted in the setting sun.

  “Where are we?” Kit rasped. A small part of him still hoped that this had all been a horrible misunderstanding, and that the house before him was the home he had grown up in, rebuilt by his father after the fire.

  “I don’t suppose there’s any harm in you knowing, seeing as you’re not leaving any time soon,” the well-dressed man said. “This is Anglesey Priory, a school for bright boys such as yourself.”

  Kit swallowed past his disappointment. “A school? But what about Master Weston?”

  “I will teach you things that small-minded pedant never dreamed of.”

  Kit whirled to see a black-clad man standing at the lefthand corner of the house, as if he had appeared out of thin air. The man smiled and ran his eyes over the two boys, like a farmer sizing up sheep at the market.

  “Perfect,” he said at last. “Come.”

  He shepherded them towards the door.

  “You’ll want to watch out for that one, sir,” the well-dressed man called out. “He’s tried to run off once already.”

  “Really? We can’t have that, can we?” Cold hard fingers dug into Kit’s shoulder. “We’d better find somewhere safe to put you for the night.”

  He turned aside from the door and took the two boys around the back of the house to an outbuilding. Most of it was overgrown with ivy and looked as ancient as the Bloody Tower, but the stonework around the door had been repaired and the door itself was of new oak studded with gleaming iron nails. Kit opened his mouth to protest that they were hungry, but one look at their new captor’s face told him this would only earn them worse punishment than simply being locked up for the night.

  The schoolmaster unlocked the door with one of the keys from the bunch hanging from his belt, and pushed them inside. Kit glimpsed sacks and barrels stacked around the walls before the door closed, plunging them into darkness.

  “My father will hear of this,” Sidney wailed as the key turned in the lock. “He’s the King’s cousin, you know.”

  “I think he already knows that, clotpole,” Kit muttered.

  He felt his way towards where he had seen some empty sacks. If they couldn’t escape right now, best to get some sleep and hope a better chance came along tomorrow.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  The storehouse door creaked open and Kit blinked against the light.

  “Come out of there, both on yer!”

  Kit clambered to his feet, expecting to see the schoolmaster again, but this was a different man. Clean-shaven like the other but younger, with long mouse-brown hair tied back from his face. He wore a plain brown doublet and hose, very neat and tidy apart from a ragged scarlet cloth tucked into his belt. He regarded the two boys with solemn hazel eyes.

  “I’m Master Fox,” he said, as if guessing Kit’s next question before he had even thought it. His accent reminded Kit of his father and uncle. “Master Shawe sent me to fetch you two to breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” Sidney whimpered, stumbling out behind Kit.

  “Aye. Now come along.”

  “Are we in Derbyshire, sir?” Kit asked him as they walked back round the house.

  “Nay. You see any hills round here, lad?”

  “We came through some, yesterday.”

  Fox snorted. “Pimples. Nowt like back home.”

  The front door led directly into a large whitewashed chamber that looked like a cross between a classroom and a chapel. Fox showed them through a door on the far side and down half-a-dozen steps into a long gloomy stone hall with a vaulted ceiling like a wine cellar. A table ran the length of the room, and boys of varying ages sat along either side, the oldest at the far end. The scent of food met Kit’s nostrils and he breathed in deeply, feeling a bit faint.

  “Breakfast’s on sideboard,” Fox said. “Help thysens and sit down.”

  The two boys stammered their thanks and raced over to the trestle table, where baskets of bread and a vast tureen of pease porridge were laid out. Kit filled an earthenware bowl and took it to the end of the table nearest the door. Half the end bench was occupied by a couple of boys a bit older than him. Both had cropped hair and were dressed in blue-grey doublet and hose, as were the rest of the boys at the table.

  “Excuse me? May I…” Kit inclined his head towards the seat.

  One of the boys looked up from his breakfast with faraway eyes. Kit noticed he wore an earring in his left earlobe: a hoop of dull grey metal onto which had been threaded a bead of bright blue glass. It looked incongruously dandyish against his plain attire.

  “You’re new,” the boy said slowly.

  “Yes.” Kit put down his bowl and held out his hand. “Kit Catlyn, if it please you.”

  The boy stared at his hand as if it were some exotic creature in a menagerie, then grinned up at Kit.

  “Heron,” he said.

  “I…”

  “This is Shrike,” the boy continued, indicating his companion, who just stared at Kit with an unpleasant glint in his eye. He too wore a blue glass earring; was it some kind of badge of the school?

  “Those are your names?” Kit asked.

  Heron nodded. “We all have our brotherhood names. You’ll get one too, once you’ve been tested.”

  Kit didn’t like the sound of that, but he took the introduction as permission to sit down. For several minutes he ignored his new friends and stuffed his face with bread and porridge as fast as he could without choking. No one commented on his manners or even seemed to notice him. He glanced up at Sidney, who had taken the seat opposite.

  “What is this place?” he whispered across the table.

  Sidney shrugged and popped another chunk of bread in his mouth, chewing it determinedly. Kit scraped the last spoonful of porridge from his bowl. Not a moment too soon; a bell rang and the other boys got up from their places and began filing towards the sideboard with their empty bowls. Kit followed them.

  After they had deposited their bowls in a stack, the boys skirted the far end of the table, making towards a spiral staircase halfway down the room.

  “Not you two,” Master Fox said, barring Kit’s way with a calloused hand. “Sit down.”

  Kit and Sidney did as they were told. Fox went to a chest at the far end of the room and sorted through piles of clothing. At last he returned with two of the blue-grey suits, two pairs of shoes and a couple of chang
es of linen apiece.

  “Well? Get ’em on, quick now.”

  Kit stripped under the cold gaze of the… what was Fox, anyway? He didn’t dress like a schoolmaster but the way he ordered them round, he was no servant either.

  Once they were both changed, Fox led them through a side door and round the back of the rear wing. Crumbling walls projected from the back of the house, as if it had once been part of a much bigger building. Master Shawe had called it a priory, which meant that monks had once lived here, before old King Henry, the prince’s great grandfather, had sent them all away.

  They followed Fox through a kitchen garden, past more ruins to a low outbuilding that looked cobbled together from more of the priory’s old masonry, though its roof was of new red tiles. Its narrow windows were stopped with sheets of horn rather than glass. Smoke drifted up from the chimney, along with a few greenish sparks. Fireworks? Perhaps that was why all the ground around the building had been cleared and covered with a thick layer of crushed stone.

  They crunched across the yard and Fox knocked on the door. Whilst they waited he turned and glared down at the boys.

  “Touch nowt, understand?”

  Kit nodded.

  They were kept waiting for ages, but eventually the door opened to reveal Master Shawe. The headmaster was dressed in a long leather apron and tucked under his arm was a strange sort of helm with a visor made of glass. Kit took a step backwards, but Fox caught him by the scruff of the neck and shoved him over the threshold.

  Inside, the building was dim as a cellar and stank of smoke, metal and something else Kit could not identify, at once acrid and chalky but sweet like stored apples. Some kind of oven or forge stood at the far end, its coals casting a faint red light that reflected back from dozens of bottles and jars on shelves ranged along one side of the workshop. Shawe laid the helm on a trestle table near the fire and opened a small wooden box.

  “You.” Master Shawe pointed at Kit. “Come here.”

  Kit walked towards the fire, trying not to show how scared he felt. He halted just out of arm’s reach of Master Shawe. The man beckoned impatiently, and Kit shuffled a little closer. Shawe seized Kit’s jaw and tilted his head to the right.

  “You should have shorn them first,” he snapped, over Kit’s head. Before Fox could answer, he went on. “Never mind, you can do it later. One disturbance is more than enough for a morning.”

  He released Kit and turned away for a moment, uncorking a bottle and upending it against a wad of cloth. Taking Kit’s jaw again in one hand, he swabbed his earlobe and tossed the cloth aside. Kit tried to see what he was up to out of the corner of his eye.

  “Do not move, or this will be more painful than necessary.”

  A moment later something pinched his earlobe and popped through the skin with a sickening crunch. Kit clenched his teeth, and somewhere over on the other side of the workshop Sidney whimpered. Shawe rummaged in the box, then pinched Kit’s ear again, or at least that’s what it felt like. He pulled Kit nearer to the fire and lifted a tiny pair of red hot pincers out of the coals. Kit tensed, ready to run despite Shawe’s warning, but all that happened was a sudden warmth behind his ear and a stink of hot metal and singed hair. At last Shawe let him go and he stumbled, panting with relief.

  “Now the other one.”

  Kit weaved down the length of the workshop to where his friend was waiting. Sidney’s breeches were dark where he had wet himself with fear; Kit was rather glad he’d gone first.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered. “It really doesn’t hurt very much.”

  That was true enough, though it was beginning to itch and burn now, like nettle rash. He lifted a hand tentatively to his ear and felt a small weight swinging from his earlobe. He remembered the blue beads worn by the other boys, Heron and Shrike.

  “Was that the test?” he asked Master Fox as they waited for Sidney to get his ear pierced. “Do I get a special name now?”

  Fox snorted a laugh. “Yer reckon that were a test? Nay, thou’ll have to wait a spell longer for that. What thou’s got there is a finding charm. You try to run away, Master Shawe’ll track thee down and bring thee back here in a trice.”

  Kit lifted his hand towards his ear.

  “And don’t try and take it out neither,” Fox added. “It’s welded shut, so thou’ll have to cut off thine own ear first.”

  Kit swallowed and wiped his bloody fingertips on his doublet. For the first time since that night on the marsh island he felt like crying, but he wasn’t going to give this fellow the pleasure. Instead he crossed his arms and waited. He must have been missed by now, surely? His father and uncle would come and find him, and no amount of charms would stand in their way.

  The players’ wagon trundled northwards on the Great Cambridge Road at a leisurely two miles an hour, and Ned trudged along behind it. On the first day he had strolled arm-in-arm with Gabriel, chatting merrily about everything and nothing, but now his feet were sore, his shirt itchy from the sweat trickling down his back and his face gritty with the dust thrown up by the wagon.

  “Why so glum?” Gabriel asked, dropping back to walk alongside Ned once more.

  “Just reminded of our travels through France,” Ned replied. “Feel like I’m going into exile again.”

  Gabriel laughed. “We’re not two days out of London. Anyone would think you’d never left Southwark in your life.”

  “It’s all very well for you. You’ve been everywhere with your actor friends. This–” he gestured towards the empty heath on either side of the road “–this might as well be France, for all I know of it. It looks godforsaken enough.”

  “Cheer up!” Gabriel poked him in the ribs. “We’ll soon be stopping for the night, and good English beer is the same everywhere. Well, perhaps not quite”…”

  Gabriel turned his head, looking back down the road to London. Ned followed his gaze and swore. A knot of seven or eight horsemen were galloping down the shallow slope of the road straight towards them. Sunlight glinted on steel helms and the hilts of swords. Soldiers or bandits? Either way, it looked like trouble. Ned backed towards the wagon, pulling Gabriel with him.

  “Watch it, lads!” Burbage called out. “Someone’s in a tearing hurry. Out of their way!”

  The horsemen slowed as they approached the wagon, but instead of trotting past in single file they split into two groups, one circling round to block the wagon’s path and the other reining to a halt at the rear. Several of the men drew pistols or short, well-used swords. A heavy-set man in a steel gorget and helm, evidently their leader, jerked his pistol towards Burbage.

  “Where are the traitors? Bring them forth.”

  “What traitors, sir?” the actor replied. “We are all loyal servants of Prince Arthur.”

  The man sneered. “Loyal, eh? Well, that’s no business of mine. I’m looking for Catlyn and his brother.”

  “Why? What have they done?”

  “Only broke into the Tower and kidnapped the King’s godson. Now hand ’em over.”

  “They’re not here.”

  “They were seen near the Globe Theatre in Bankside. Your theatre. Where are they?”

  “They parted from us on the road,” Burbage said. “We kept company for a while, that is all.”

  “Where are they going?”

  “How should I know? They are acquaintances of ours, nothing more.”

  “Acquaintances, eh? I hear Catlyn and his brood have been lodging with a one-armed printer and one of your actors, a fellow named Parrish. Which is he?”

  Gabriel stepped forward before Ned could stop him.

  “I am.”

  The man pointed his pistol at Gabriel. “Where are the Catlyns going?”

  “I don’t know,” Gabriel said softly. “And I wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  The leader narrowed his eyes at them, then turned to the man at his right hand and jerked his head towards the actors. The riders dismounted, all except their leader, and closed in on the wagon. Ne
d stepped in front of Gabriel, staring the nearest man in the eye.

  “Suits me,” the ruffian growled. “I’ll just spit you both together.”

  “Search the wagon,” the leader shouted. “Rip up the floorboards if you have to, but find those two traitors.”

  Burbage made a strangled noise of protest as the men began throwing costumes onto the dusty ground, followed by the emptied chests and crates.

  “They’re not here, captain,” one of them reported at last.

  “Prince Arthur will hear of this.” Burbage shook off the man holding him and approached the captain. “By whose authority do you harass me and my men?”

  “Who do you think sent us, you fat oaf? Prince Arthur heads the Privy Council now.”

  Ned swore under his breath. Olivia had them all by the balls.

  “And the King?” Gabriel asked.

  The captain leant over his saddlebow and scratched his chin. “What’s the fancy lawyers’ phrase? ‘No longer in command of his faculties.’ Arthur is regent, until such time as the King recovers. Or dies.”

  “Orders, sir?” one of the riders called out.

  “Arrest these two–” he pointed to Ned and Gabriel “–and send the rest of ’em on their way. We’ve wasted enough time here already.”

  Ned’s arms were tied behind his back and he was lifted onto a horse in front of one of the soldiers.

  “Don’t wriggle, you little whoreson,” the man growled in his ear. “And watch what you’re doing with that hand, or I’ll cut it off to match the other one. Or perhaps me and the lads’ll just make merry with your pretty friend, whilst you watch. Bet that’ll get you talking, eh?”

  Ned swallowed the urge to turn and butt the man senseless. Two against ten was poor enough odds to begin with, even if he wasn’t tied up.

  “Good. Behave yourself and answer the captain’s questions, and we might even let you go.”

  The man laughed and kicked his horse into a canter. Ned clung on with his knees, trying to work out a plan of escape. Let us go, my arse. We’ll be lucky to get out of this in one piece.