The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 (34 page)

“Not my place to decide, madam.”

“No, of course not.” She paused. “But no doubt his uncle has been informed?”

“Couldn’t say, madam.”

Coby gave up. She was getting nowhere with this man, and if no one was allowed in or out, Kit might be safe for a while.

Kit sat in the window seat, pretending to read the opening verses of the
Iliad
but really gazing across the inner ward at the Beauchamp Tower. Prince Henry’s grandfather, Robert Dudley, had been imprisoned there after plotting treason, and died there too.

“What are you staring at?” asked Robin Sidney, who was sitting opposite.

“Nothing,” Kit replied.

He glanced at Prince Henry, who was playing chess with Master Weston. De Vere, who had joined them in the Bloody Tower when Edward first fell sick, put out his tongue. Kit resisted the urge to do the same back, in case Master Weston looked up and saw him.

Sidney leant forward across his book.

“Do you think Edward will haunt his tower when he dies, like the other two princes do here?”

“He’s not dead yet.” Kit whispered back. “Anyway, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“You don’t?” Sidney’s eyes widened.

“Well, not apart from the Holy Ghost, and he’s special because he’s really God in disguise.”

“But… what about all the stories? Luke the guardsman swears he’s seen the princes at the windows, and heard them weeping.”

“Why are you two boys talking?” Master Weston snapped. “I told you to read in silence. Open your mouths again and you’ll feel my cane.”

“
Etiam, magister
,” they chorused.

Sidney shot Kit a sulky look, as if it had been his fault. Kit glowered back. Thankfully Master Weston was distracted from observing them by the arrival of Prince Henry’s physician, Doctor Renardi.

“Come, Your Highness, it is time for your morning treatment.”

“Do I have to?” the prince asked, looking up from the chess board.

“I am afraid so, Your Highness. You do not want to catch the summer fever like your poor brother, do you?”

Henry got up from his seat. “Of course not. Although you would make me better if I did, wouldn’t you, Renardi?”

“I would endeavour to do so, Highness. As I do now for your brother.” He gestured towards the bedchamber. When the door had closed behind them, Master Weston rose from his chair.

“I think I shall take the air for a short while,” he said to no one in particular. He carefully put all the chess pieces back in their starting positions and then left, talking to himself under his breath.

“Gone to help himself to the prince’s wine stores, more like,” de Vere said, heaving himself up from his cushion by the hearth.

“Why don’t we get treatments for the fever?” Sidney asked.

“Because we’re not princes,” de Vere replied. He lowered his voice. “Besides, what if Renardi made Edward sick, and is trying to do the same to Henry with this ‘treatment’?”

“Why would he do that?” Kit asked.

“Because he’s a foreigner. You can’t trust them, you know.”

“Catlyn’s a foreigner,” Sidney said.

“I am not,” Kit replied, though not with any conviction.

“Yes you are, the prince himself told me. Your grandmother was French, your mother is Dutch and you were born in France. That makes you a foreigner.”

“Perhaps you poisoned Edward,” de Vere said, looming over him.

“I did not.” Kit backed away from the older boy.

De Vere’s fist came flying towards him. Kit dodged, and de Vere yelped as his knuckles smashed against the rough wall. Kit raised his own fists, screaming with frustrated rage, but something else welled up inside him, a sadness that sucked the air from his lungs and left him feeling hollow and cold. The last thing he saw were his companions staring at him in wide-eyed horror before he fell into darkness.

If the Queen’s household had been quiet before, it was sepulchral now. Juliana’s ladies were not permitted to speak unless spoken to, though the Queen spent so many hours in the little chapel that she was seldom there to give permission. The summer days seemed far too long, the hours endless. Coby tried to occupy her time with sewing, but that only left her mind free to worry about Kit and Mal. She had seen neither of them since the day of the coronation procession, did not even know if either of them were still alive, although she hoped that someone would have brought word if they were not.

Her one small consolation was that Olivia appeared even more frustrated by their confinement and silence than herself. The “castrato” was not permitted to sing, of course, not even a hymn or psalm at their daily worship. Olivia spent most of the day staring out of the window or hunched up on a cushion, eyes closed. Coby wondered if she was wandering the dreamlands or merely feigning sleep to avoid what little conversation the others dared attempt.

One thing Coby knew for sure: since Mal’s plan had failed, she had no choice but to get Kit out of here herself. She considered petitioning the Queen, but if she were refused it would only make life ten times more awkward. It also felt discourteous to ask for herself what the Queen no doubt longed for and was unlikely to get. Reluctantly she put that option aside, to save as a last resort. The best plan was to rely on no one but herself, which meant finding a way out of the castle. And that required a reconnoitre. Getting out of Saint Thomas’s Tower was easy enough; all she had to do was wait until Juliana went to prayer, then take herself off to her bedchamber complaining of womanly pains. If any of the other ladies discovered her absence and betrayed her, she would take the consequences.

She tarried in the outer ward for a while, examining possible exits whilst pretending to be enjoying the rose garden, just in case anyone was observing her from the surrounding towers’ windows. The Cradle Tower’s gate opened directly onto the moat, which was no use at all, but she had discovered there was a landward exit somewhere hereabouts used by the warders to get to Tower Hamlets. It was somewhere beyond the far wall of the rose garden, and with the skeleton keys she had brought hidden in her sewing basket, it would not be too hard to get through the locked gate in the garden wall. No doubt the causeway itself was guarded, but it seemed their best chance of escape.

With the exit from the outer ward accounted for, that just left the issue of getting into the Bloody Tower. In addition to the covered walkway to the Wakefield Tower on the same level as the Queen’s bedchamber, there looked to be an open walkway above. Perhaps it was part of the guards’ nightly round, though. She made her way into the inner ward and rapidly assessed possible entrances from that side; there might also be a way in from the lower level of the round Wakefield Tower, since it closely abutted the rectangular mass of the Bloody Tower. Nor was that entrance guarded, which was promising. Unless it meant there was no route through to the prince’s chambers and hence no need for a guard. If only she could explore properly! With a grimace of frustration she walked up the slope to the coldharbour gate that guarded the small ward between the White Tower and the Great Hall. There might be nothing she could do for the dead who had been taken to the makeshift mortuary in the hall, but at least she could report to the Queen on how many had been claimed by their families.

For a brief moment she entertained the idea of disguising Kit as a dead body and having Ned come and take him away, but that would be far too hard to arrange given the lack of communication so far. No. Simple and fast was the only way that was likely to work, and even the chance of that was not good. But what other choice did she have?

Kit opened his eyes. His head hurt, and his back and legs were as sore as if Master Weston had taken a month’s worth of misdemeanours from his hide. And what was he doing lying on the floor? He groaned and tried to sit up.

“Ah, you are awake, little signore!
Deo gratia!
”

Kit squinted against the sunlight pouring through the window. Doctor Renardi was leaning over him, smiling and nodding his head. Kit shrank back.

“What happened to me? Did… did I…?” He couldn’t remember how he came to be on the floor, only that horrible feeling of sadness, like everyone he knew had died.

“It is the falling sickness, nothing worse, young master.”

“I’m not going to die, am I?”

“No, young master, you will not die, at least not of this thing.”

“But you said I had a sickness.”

“Yes, the falling sickness. Has it happened to you before?”

“No, never.”

The doctor frowned. “I shall ask your mother. Sometimes the patient is not even aware of the seizures, when they are mild.”

“Will it happen again?”

“Perhaps today, perhaps next month, perhaps never. Only God can say.”

He helped Kit to his feet. To Kit’s relief the parlour was empty.

“Where is everyone?”

“Maestro Weston took the prince and the other boys down to the portcullis room for their lesson. Now, sit quietly and take your ease, and I will make up a sleeping draught for you to take tonight.”

The doctor went into the prince’s bedchamber. A few moments later the other door opened, and Sidney poked his head round. He hesitated before slipping through the door, but came no nearer to Kit. Long moments of silence passed, punctuated by the clink of bottles and the sound of muttered Italian from the prince’s bedchamber.

“De Vere says you’re possessed,” Sidney said at last.

“Am not.” Kit pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. “He affrighted me, that’s all.”

The other boy sidled closer.

“But you were foaming at the mouth and shaking and everything.” Sidney pulled a face. “De Vere is demanding to be allowed to go home, and if he does, I shall tell them to let me go as well.”

“Don’t leave me alone with the prince. Please, Robin.”

He’d never called Sidney by his first name before. Sidney’s face crumpled.

“I’m sorry, Catlyn. If they say I can go, I’ll go.”

Kit turned away so that Sidney couldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes. They were all leaving him. That’s why he had been so sad. It was a vision of the future. Saints had visions during their seizures, didn’t they? He hoped God hadn’t chosen him to be a saint. Most of them seemed to die horribly.

The Bull’s Head was busier than Mal had ever seen it, men crowded around every table or just standing against the walls in grave-faced knots. In part that could be blamed on the closure of the theatres lest such mass gatherings foster further sedition, which left Southwark’s actors with naught to do but drink and gossip in their favourite watering-hole. Mostly it was the natural desire of Londoners to congregate and chew over the unprecedented events of the past few days, and speculate on the likelihood of their new king living to see Christmas.

“The King’s health!” someone shouted, and raised his tankard.

Everyone within earshot followed suit; you never knew when you were being observed by one of the many informants and spies who worked for various nobles and court officials. Such as Mal and his two companions. They mingled with the crowd, stopping to talk to old friends and making new acquaintances.

“Eaton?” Mal stopped and stared at a half-familiar grizzled figure with a patch over one eye.

“The very same,” the former actor replied. “Catlyn, isn’t it? You’re quite the gentleman now, I hear.”

Mal laughed. “Who’d have thought it, eh? And you?”

“I get by,” Eaton replied. “Been working the box office for Henslowe. The missing eye fools folk into thinking I don’t see ’em trying to sneak in without paying. They’re wrong, of course.”

“And what has your good eye noticed of late?” Mal said, slipping a shilling from his pocket and rubbing it idly between finger and thumb.

“You asking me to betray my employer’s trust?”

“Not at all. I care naught for the affairs of the theatre. But you must hear things, standing at the gate every afternoon.”

Eaton grinned. “Folk do seem to think a missing eye makes a man deaf as well.”

“So…?”

“My news is stale, I fear. What with the theatres being closed and that.”

“Still, there must have been murmurs, even before last week’s tragedy.”

“Just the usual. Bread and beer prices going up, worries that they’ll go up again if we have another bad harvest…”

“Anything about the skraylings?”

Eaton shook his head. “They keep to themselves, and that’s the way most folks like it.”

“But you don’t.”

A pause. “I’m no traitor, Catlyn. One of them tried to kill the King.”

“Of course. But before that…”

Eaton leaned in, as if fearing to be overheard.

“The skraylings like the theatre. When they stay at home, we all earn less.”

Mal slipped him the coin. “Buy yourself a beer or three, and drink to Naismith’s memory for me.”

Eaton nodded in appreciation and pocketed the silver.

Mal made his way back through the crowd and eventually found Ned and Gabriel talking to Will Shakespeare. He made a discreet signal and they excused themselves.

“So, gentlemen, have you heard enough yet?”

The two men murmured their affirmations, and Mal led the way back to the Sign of the Parley in silence. When they were safe behind closed doors he poured them all another beer from his own supplies and they gathered around the kitchen table.

“Well,” he said at last. “Olivia and her allies seem to have achieved their aim. Everyone believes it was the skraylings who plotted against the King and sent an assassin to kill him.”

“That’s not the half of it,” Gabriel said. “At least two men stopped me and asked when Burbage was changing the company’s name to ‘The King’s Men’.”

Ned grimaced. “And one of my old journeymen told me they’ve had so many customers this week asking for histories of Richard the Third, it’s beyond a jest. There’s even new ballads about him.”

They exchanged worried glances. With his nephews locked up in the Tower and his brother the King on his deathbed, the parallels between Prince Arthur and the hated King Richard were too close for comfort.