The Alchemist of Souls (Night's Masque, #1)(146)

Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "I cannot chastise a man for hurts gained in protecting his own father. Even if he was a traitor."

Grey winced and mumbled an apology, then rang a bell by his side. Whilst the servants hurried back and forth with flagons of hot spiced wine and currant cakes, Robert sat down opposite and took a moment to study the man he had diverted his journey to see. Grey's features were gaunt and sickly pale as from long illness, which was no more than Robert had expected, but there was an intensity in his gaze that had not been there before.

"Will you spend Christmas at Richmond, sire?" Grey asked, after the servants had left.

"That is my intent," Robert replied. "Juliana is well enough for merriment, and I am not sorry to leave the city behind for a while. You must join us, at least for the Christmas feast."

"Alas, my prince, I am…" Grey gestured helplessly at his body.

"Nonsense," Robert replied. "I'll have my men carry you across the river and all the way to the great hall if need be."

Grey inclined his head in submission. Robert picked up one of the silver cups and handed it to one of the servants to taste. After a moment's hesitation the man sipped the wine, nodded, and returned it to the prince with a bow.

"Your son is well?" Grey asked, pretending not to notice this breach of etiquette.

"Both of them," Robert replied. "There was some talk of a fever, but I dispatched a skrayling physician forthwith."

"You trust them with your son's life?"

"My second son," Robert pointed out. "Besides, they are so cowed after that business with your father–"

"I had nothing to do with that, sire, I swear!"

Grey began to tremble as if he had taken another fever.

"I believe you," Robert told him. "I loved your father, and I confess his betrayal cut me deeply. But I am willing to let bygones be bygones. If you find me your father's lieutenants amongst the Huntsmen."

"Oh I shall, sire, I promise you."

"Topcliffe is at your disposal, should you need him."

Grey sniffed. "Topcliffe is a butcher. And the leaders of the Huntsmen are too clever to reveal themselves to their foot soldiers. No, more subtle means are needed." He tapped the book on the arm of his chair. "Leave it to me, sire. I will have all the information I need, soon enough."

"Hmm. Well, I must be going. Juliana will fret if I do not arrive before dark. She thinks this country full of brigands and rebels."

Grey smiled fixedly. "I am honoured by your notice, sire." He reached for the bell.

"No matter," Robert said with a wave of his hand. "I know my way out."

He left by the east door and went down the grassy slope to the riverside. The sun was nearly on the horizon, and an iceedged wind cut through his cloak as they crossed in one of the little ferry boats.

Leaving his guards and companions behind entirely, Robert strode through the echoing halls of the palace and made his way up to his wife's private apartments. There was a familiar scent here now, a sourness that he associated with the arrival of a new babe. Though not pleasant in itself, it spoke of life and health, for which the Lord be praised.

Ladies-in-waiting bobbed curtsies as Robert passed, though some glanced up at him with mock coyness. He wondered if any of them had been praying for the princess's death in childbirth. Lady Dorothy, perhaps, hoping to escape marriage to that old goat Northumberland? Or Lady Alice, plump and doe-eyed and ripe for bedding? Perhaps he would send for her later.

"Meu príncipe!" Juliana cried, leaping up from the window seat. "How I have longed to see you again."

He kissed her on the mouth, then looked about the room.

"And where is this fine young princeling you have given me?" he asked.

Juliana beckoned to her serving women, who brought forth a bundle of creamy silks and linens with a red, wrinkled face beneath a lace-trimmed bonnet.

"My dear, this is your son, Prince Henry Vasco Dudley."

Robert reached out a hand to touch the soft pink skin. The babe opened its eyes, blinked, then its tiny fingers closed around one of his own.

"Ah, he knows his papa!" the nurse crooned.

Robert gazed fondly at his son. The smallness of these fragile creatures never ceased to astonish him, each perfectly formed fingernail a miniature counterpart of his own.

"Hail, Prince Henry," he murmured. "Mayhap one day, King Henry the Ninth of England."

The babe looked him straight in the eye. And smiled.

About the Author

Anne Lyle was born in what is known to the tourist industry as "Robin Hood Country", and grew up fascinated by English history, folklore, and swashbuckling heroes. Unfortunately there was little demand in 1970s Nottingham for diminutive female swordswomen, so she studied sensible subjects like science and languages instead.

It appears that although you can take the girl out of Sherwood Forest, you can't take Sherwood Forest out of the girl. She now spends every spare hour writing (or at least planning) fantasy fiction about spies, actors, outlaws and other folk on the fringes of society. Her Night's Masque series is set in an alternate history Elizabethan England, where the Virgin Queen married and had children while fanged and tattooed creatures from the New World walk the streets of London.