The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(125)
Mal squinted at him, distantly aware that he had bitten through his own lip and blood was running down his chin. "Friends?"
Blaise applied the swab. When Mal's vision cleared, the duke was leaning forward in bed, his eyes fever-bright.
"What did you find out?"
"Nothing," Mal hissed.
After that, time dissolved into a series of fractured moments strung together with a thread of agony. Questions repeated over and over, for which he had no answer nor explanation. Was Suffolk a Huntsman, trying to find out if his comrades' secrets had been breached? Or an agent of the Crown, attempting to ferret out the skraylings' true purpose? It scarcely mattered. He tried to pray, but the words would not come. A lullaby ran round and round in his head and, underneath the alien words, a soft voice calling him amayi. Beloved. He clung to the memory like a drowning man.
His torment was interrupted by a new voice and a stir of motion around him. Lifting his head Mal saw the young retainer Ivett, his face pale and eyes carefully averted from the scene before him.
"Letters for you, Your Grace," Ivett said. "By separate couriers from London."
The duke beckoned the man over and held out his hand, then waved him away absentmindedly as he perused the contents.
"Another pompous missive from Northumberland," he said after a few moments. "He wishes to commiserate with me on the loss of the theatre. Hypocrite. And a note from my wife, enquiring into my health. I am afraid I shall have to disappoint her." He tossed them onto the counterpane. "Now, where were we?"
Mal drew himself up to his full height and spat blood in Suffolk's direction. Blaise leaned in close, his breath hot in Mal's ear.
"You're probably thinking," he murmured, "that sooner or later I'm going to run out of welts. And you're right. Fortunately you have a great deal more skin. And if you think this stings on half-healed wounds, just imagine what it feels like on newly flayed flesh."
"Enough, Blaise," the duke said with a peremptory gesture at his son. "Take Master Catlyn downstairs, and his brother also. I fear that more drastic measures are needed."
By the time they reached the London road, the sun was at its zenith. Ned sighed with relief to be out in the open again, on well-ordered terrain under the dominion of Man.
"I swear you led us thrice in a circle," Hendricks muttered, picking burrs out of his stockings.
"Well we're here now," Ned replied. "Come on."
He took the remains of their breakfast loaf from his satchel and tore it in two, suddenly aware of how hungry he was after his exertions. And how sore. Muscles ached in parts of his body he didn't know had muscles. What he wouldn't give for Gabe's gentle ministrations right now…
They set off westwards down the dusty road. He hoped this turned out to be a wild goose chase, a misunderstanding by a foolish besotted boy. If Hendricks was right and Suffolk had both Mal and Sandy captive as part of some insane conspiracy, things were going to get difficult. What did the boy expect them to do, against the duke and all his wealth and power?
"Do you not think it odd," Hendricks said around a mouthful of bread, "that Northumberland is Suffolk's close neighbour on the Strand, and now he looks set to do the same here?"
Ned shrugged. "Rich men flock around the Prince of Wales, and build their houses close to the royal palaces. Northumberland and Suffolk are two of the richest, so of course you find them together."
The road passed some three-quarters of a mile north of Syon House, running along the edge of its fine parkland. Despite Ned's fears they were not stopped nor even taken much notice of. This close to London there was always plenty of traffic on the roads in fine weather, and two servants going about their masters' business were nothing remarkable.
After about half a mile they came to a crossroads. A newlooking milestone marked 'London xi miles Winchester lviii miles' jutted out of a patch of raw earth. They turned left towards Twickenham, following a farmer's wagon laden with straw. Ned glanced at his companion, who grinned back. Breaking into a run they caught up with the wagon and scrambled aboard.
"How far is it now?" Ned asked, leaning over the side of the wagon and staring southwards.
"Master Dunfell told me it was right across the river from Richmond Palace, so it can't be far." Hendricks pointed southeastwards. "Look, are those not the palace towers?"
The wagon lumbered onwards. At last it drew level with the palace, and the two of them slipped down from their perches and into a dry ditch by the roadside. The traffic here was thinner; less chance of being seen, but more chance of being stopped if they were. A flash of blue and white in the distance alerted Ned in time, and he pulled Hendricks into the hedgerow.
"One of Suffolk's retainers," he hissed.
They crouched in their hiding place, watching the road ahead. A few moments later a mounted courier rode past at a steady trot, a satchel flapping against his hip.
"Suffolk's household must be in uproar," Ned whispered, "wondering why his lordship has come all the way out here with such a great wound."
When the road was clear again, they made their way cautiously southwards. Soon they came to a pair of tall wrought-iron gates surmounted by gilded unicorns. An avenue lined by slender elms curved into the distance, drawing the eye and tempting the feet to follow.