The Merchant of Dreams (Night's Masque, #2)(18)

Beyond the service room lay a grand presence chamber, smaller than the great hall, but still resplendent with tapestries. A fire had been lit on the wide hearth, but the room was empty.

"Should we be in here?" Ned whispered.

"No one is stopping us, are they?" Mal said.

Ned paused to warm his arse at the fire, but Mal was intent on exploring further. With a sigh Ned followed him, and found himself in a gallery lined with portraits of the royal family: Queen Elizabeth and her late husband Robert, with the infant Prince of Wales; the prince as a youth in a magnificent suit of engraved and gilded armour; and a more recent portrait of his wife Juliana, surrounded by her four children. The youngest, hardly more than an infant, sat on her lap gazing out intently at the viewer.

"Is that–?"

Ned broke off at the sound of a girl's voice, raised in laughter.

"Back to the hall!" Mal hissed.

Too late. A wooden ball painted with red and blue stripes came bowling round the corner, followed by a child of about eighteen months old in an embroidered linen smock from which trailed leading strings of ivory silk ribbon. The child from the portrait.

"Harry! Come here!"

A dark-haired girl of about ten or eleven skittered along the polished floor, arms outstretched to catch the boy. She skidded to a halt upon seeing Mal and Ned and put a hand to her mouth. The little prince also paused and looked up at them. For a moment Ned thought he saw an expression of loathing cross the boy's chubby features, then Prince Henry burst into tears and buried his face in his sister's skirts.

Mal bowed.

"Forgive us for the intrusion, Your Highness."

Gesturing for Ned to do likewise he backed out of the gallery, head still bowed.

"What was all that about?" Ned asked when they were out of earshot.

"That… child is the creature who pretended to be Suffolk. His plan was to be reborn as Princess Juliana's child, and it appears he succeeded."

"You don't really believe that, do you?"

"I told you as much, after you and Hendricks helped me escape."

"Yes, well, as I recall, in the preceding two days you'd been abducted, tortured, drugged, shot, drugged again – I thought it the ramblings of a tormented mind."

Mal didn't seem to appreciate the jest.

"So…" Ned lowered his voice, "the Prince of Wales' son is a changeling?"

"I suppose you could put it that way," Mal replied.

"Shouldn't we tell someone?"

"Who would believe us? I've seen enough of the inside of the Tower for one lifetime, thank you."

Ned glanced back towards the entrance to the gallery. Either Mal was as insane as his brother, or he had fallen into a web of conspiracy that would put the most intricate Catholic plot to shame. He wasn't sure which alternative was the more terrifying.

After the encounter with Prince Henry Mal felt disinclined to explore further, so after dinner he and Ned lingered in the Great Hall over a flagon of beer and swapped tales of their doings since they had last seen one another. By 3 o'clock Raleigh had still not returned, however, and Mal began to grow restless. Any chance of getting back to London before dark was long gone, and though he had warned Sandy not to expect him until the morrow, it irked him to be idle for so long. He had almost decided to go down and ask the porter again when a page in royal livery approached them.
"M… Maliverny Catlyn?"
"I am he," Mal replied.
"I have been sent to invite you, sir, to take supper with Sir Walter Raleigh."

Mal bowed curtly, and turned to Ned.

"Speak to the steward about lodgings for the night, will you, Faulkner?" He gave his friend a wink which he hoped would be interpreted as "and see if you can get any interesting gossip out of the servants whilst you're at it."

"Aye, sir." Ned ducked his head in obeisance, but not before Mal had caught a glimpse of his sly grin.

He considered telling Ned not to get into trouble, but knew that would only have the opposite effect. Instead he turned away and followed the page through the palace to one of the private apartments off the main courtyard. Not for the first time he wondered what Raleigh was doing here, so far from the court. Was he in league with Jathekkil, perhaps even a guiser like the infant prince?

The page conducted him through an anteroom into a large bedchamber that doubled as a parlour. Firelight gleamed on linenfold panelling and on the rich brocades worn by the men gathered around the hearth, and the air was thick with the scent of tobacco.

"Maliverny Catlyn, sir," the page said with a bow.

Raleigh looked up. Dark eyes met Mal's own, narrowing in appraisal. Raleigh was about a decade older than himself and surprisingly handsome, with a broad brow and dark hair turning grey at the temples. His elegant pointed beard was likewise touched with silver, and he wore a pearl earring the size of a robin's egg. Only his wind-burned cheekbones hinted at a more active life than most courtiers. Mal sketched a bow.

"Sir Walter."

He handed over Walsingham's letter. Raleigh broke the seal and scanned the contents, nodding to himself and frowning slightly in concentration. At last he looked up.

"So you're the hero who toppled the mighty house of Grey," he said in a soft Devonshire accent. He drew on his pipe and after a moment breathed a halo of smoke across the space between them. "I expected at least a Samson, if not a Hercules."