The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(100)

He leaned over the moat wall and saw a small boat coming towards them.

“Coby?” he whispered under his breath.

It seemed like forever before the little craft bumped against the base of the wall.

“Mal? Is that you?”

“Aye. And Ned. Where’s Kit? Hand him up to me.”

A pause. “He’s gone. Taken.”

Mal swore.

“Ned, hold onto my legs.” He leaned over the wall as far as he could reach without toppling into the moat himself. “Take my hands, my love.”

She leapt and grasped his wrists, and he hauled her up, all the time horribly aware of how conspicuous they must be. Sure enough, a shout went up from a nearby tower, followed closely by the bark of a musket. A nearby capstone exploded, showering Mal with grit. Coby got a foot onto the edge of the wall and scrambled awkwardly over the top. The three of them crouched behind the wall for a moment.

“They took Kit and another boy, I think,” Coby panted. “Through Traitor’s Gate by boat.”

Mal jerked his head towards the river. “Perhaps we can still catch them.”

They broke cover and ran, and were soon hidden from view of the Tower by the houses that clustered around the river stairs. Mal untied the boat and waited for the others to get in.

“Come on!” Ned beckoned with his steel hand. “No time for courtesies. Get rowing!”

“Which way?”

“Downstream. The Italian said they were taking him to Cambridge.”

“Italian?”

“I think he was the same man we saw at Ferrymead House. Suffolk’s physician.”

“Renardi. I might have known he’d be one of Jathekkil’s lackeys.”

Mal bent to the oars, glad that Coby had taken a seat in the stern where he could at least see her outlined against the lights of the Tower, even if her face was in shadow. Only her eyes were visible, glinting in the reflections off the water, cold and hard as obsidian. He didn’t envy the men who had taken Kit, if she ever caught up with them.

Mal rowed for as long as he had strength, but they did not catch up with any boat that looked to contain the two young captives. Coby craned her neck, scanning both banks, though it was still too dark to make out much beyond the rough boundary between land and water.

“Do you think we’re close yet?”

Mal released the oars with a sigh and stretched his back.

“I fear they are well ahead of us by now. It was a faint hope, my love, at best.”

“But we have to find him.” Her voice was overloud in the still pre-dawn air and edged with panic.

“We shall. But not this way.” He turned and nudged Ned, who was dozing in the bow. “Take an oar, will you? Sandy and Gabriel will be wondering where we’ve got to.”



Kit woke with a start, wondering why he felt so cold, and why his nightshirt was damp. Then he remembered wetting himself, and the men with the sacks and ropes, and he panicked, thrashing around and banging his head on something that felt like wooden panelling.

“Calm yourself, boy, or you’ll roll overboard!”

A man’s voice, gruff and unfamiliar. Kit lay still, his mind racing. Last night. Men who stole into his room, tied him up and carried him away. But how had they got into the castle? There were high walls and lots of guards; that was why the assassin had waited until the King came out. No one should be able to get inside unless Prince Henry allowed it.

Another thought came to him. What if they had taken him away thinking he was Henry? They were about the same age, and everyone always said they looked like brothers. When these men found out he wasn’t the heir to the throne, they’d be angry and might throw him overboard to drown. He stifled a sob. Where were Father and Uncle Sandy? They would give these villains the beating they deserved.

The thought cheered him up and he lay there for a while imagining his father leaping into the boat, sword drawn, to dispatch both men, and then Uncle Sandy scooping him up and untying him. The boat rocked, and for a glorious moment Kit thought his imaginings had come true. Then someone pulled the sack off his head and he discovered the bitter truth: the only grownups here were three strangers. One looked like he might be the man who first attacked him, though it was hard to be sure. At any rate they all looked villainous, with their ill-kempt hair and beards and their eyes as hard as stones. Two of them wore stained shirts and baggy canvas breeches, like sailors or workmen; the third was better dressed, in a dark doublet and hose, but not a fine gentleman like his father.

One of the workmen helped Kit into a sitting position, then did the same for another small figure lying in the bottom of the boat. Sidney. Kit knew better than to speak, but he tried to catch his companion’s eye. Sidney didn’t seem to notice; his face was pale and streaked with tears.

The man turned back.

“I’m going to untie your hands now, boy, so you can eat breakfast and relieve yourselves without my help. But no foolishness, do you hear me?”

Kit nodded.

“Good.” The man drew a knife. “Because his lordship only said he wanted you boys in one piece. He didn’t say nothing about not hurting you.”

Kit flinched as the man seized his arm, but it was only to hold him steady whilst he cut his bonds. Kit chafed his sore wrists, then took the hunk of bread the man offered him. It was a couple of days old and turning hard, but at least it wasn’t mouldy. De Vere liked to tell tall tales of the prisoners kept in the Tower, and how they were lucky to get anything to eat that the rats hadn’t pissed on first, but then de Vere talked a lot of pigswill. Just because his father was an earl he fancied himself cleverer than the rest of them. Kit had once heard him say that his family was far older than the Tudors and should be on the throne instead of them. Perhaps that was what this was all about. Treason.