The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(104)
Her hiding place was lifted into the air and carried some distance before being thrown down onto a hard surface with a jolt. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth to stifle a cry of panic. Someone pushed the chest so that it slid across the wagon bed and bumped up against something, sending her crashing into that same end, shoulder and head knocking painfully against the inside wall. Scarcely had she recovered from the shock when her feet and knees felt the impact of another chest pushed up against hers. Mal, perhaps, or Sandy.
It seemed like an age before the loading was completed and the wagon set off. Bouncing around in the bottom of the crate, Coby wished Gabriel had put the pile of costumes beneath her instead of on top. She would gladly risk discovery in return for fewer bruises.
Some distance further on the wagon turned, then turned again, and slowed to a halt. Was this the Great Stone Gate? She held her breath, hearing voices from the driver’s seat that lay only inches beyond her head. The faint, demanding tones that must be the gate guard, followed by the more mellifluous voice of the actor Richard Burbage. She thought she heard Prince Arthur’s name mentioned, and imagined coins changing hands. At last the wagon lurched into motion once more, juddering over the cobbles of London Bridge and into the city itself.
Mal twisted in his confinement, trying to get comfortable. His legs were too long: even with his feet braced against the far wall of the crate, his knees were practically by his ears and his joints burning with the strain. It brought to mind the scavenger’s daughter, a cruel device used to crush men until their ribs cracked and blood spurted from their nostrils – or so the ballads said. A prayer came unbidden to his lips, from the times long ago when he had woken often from nightmares of blood and death.
“Sancte Michael Archangele, deduc me per tenebras. Ferro tuo viam illumina…”
By the time the wagon finally halted and he heard the scrape of the other crates being unloaded he was ready to weep with relief, but he only kissed the pommel of the dagger he had been clasping between his sweat-grimed hands and offered up a final thank-you to Saint Michael. Even the bone-shaking impact of the chest being dumped on the ground felt sweet as a release, until another prospect occurred to him and his heart lurched in fear. What if this was not the inn outside the city walls, but Aldgate? He braced himself for discovery, prepared to come out fighting.
Scrape and rattle of buckles being undone, then a flood of blinding light as the chest was opened and the concealing costumes pulled aside. Mal looked up but could not make out the figure standing over him, only a glare as of light reflecting off a steel helm. As he prepared to draw the dagger, the blur resolved itself into the shape of a man, bare-headed and haloed in light.
“Here, let me give you a hand,” Gabriel said.
Mal accepted the offer gratefully, levering himself up on his elbow whilst Gabriel hauled on his free arm. Cramped muscles screamed at him and he staggered and nearly fell, but the other man caught and steadied him. Mal took a deep breath and sneezed in the dry dusty air. They were in a barn, bright speckled shafts of sunlight picking out the gilding on the actors’ wagon. Coby ran over and flung her arms around him.
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her cheek with the edge of his thumb.
“I know.” She turned her head and kissed the palm of his hand, sending a delicious shiver all the way down to his balls. He gently pushed her away; now was not the time for distractions.
“Is this the Three Horseshoes?” he asked Gabriel.
“Aye, just as you asked.”
“You’re hoping for news of Shawe?” Coby said.
“It seemed worth a try.” He clapped her on the shoulder. “Speak to the landlord. Find out – discreetly – if he has any deliveries for Shawe. I’d go, but he might recognise me from last time and inform our enemies.” He turned to his brother. “Stay here with the wagon. I don’t want the landlord seeing you either.”
Satisfied that everything was under control, he headed out into the street. There must be a livery stables around here somewhere. Of course Henry or one of his allies might have had the wits to send out warrants to all the stables and inns with descriptions of Mal and his brother, but he had to chance it. They had already lost a morning just getting out of London; God only knew how far ahead of them Kit might be by now.
The actors settled down to a lavish dinner of chops, pies and boiled meats whilst Coby approached the landlord, a balding man with a belly that proclaimed his trade as blatantly as the sign above his door.
“What can I do for you, lad?”
She thought quickly. “Master Burbage would like a jug or two of beer for the road.”
“You one of them actors, then?” He looked her up and down. “I must say, you boys look a lot more convincing as women from a distance.”
“Yes, I’m sure we do,” Coby replied, not sure whether to be insulted, or grateful that he hadn’t seen through her disguise. “Now, if you please, sir, the beer. We’ve a long way to go and it looks set to get even hotter this afternoon.”
“You’ll want to stop in Waltham Abbey, then, if you’re heading north. Should get there by sunset, this time of year.”
She peered past the landlord into the shadows of the storeroom behind him. A row of crates were stacked just inside the door. Could they be for Shawe? “You know, if you have any letters or packages you need delivering to Bedford or Cambridge or… or Lincoln, we’d be glad to take them.”