The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(110)

Inside, the building was dim as a cellar and stank of smoke, metal and something else Kit could not identify, at once acrid and chalky but sweet like stored apples. Some kind of oven or forge stood at the far end, its coals casting a faint red light that reflected back from dozens of bottles and jars on shelves ranged along one side of the workshop. Shawe laid the helm on a trestle table near the fire and opened a small wooden box.

“You.” Master Shawe pointed at Kit. “Come here.”

Kit walked towards the fire, trying not to show how scared he felt. He halted just out of arm’s reach of Master Shawe. The man beckoned impatiently, and Kit shuffled a little closer. Shawe seized Kit’s jaw and tilted his head to the right.

“You should have shorn them first,” he snapped, over Kit’s head. Before Fox could answer, he went on. “Never mind, you can do it later. One disturbance is more than enough for a morning.”

He released Kit and turned away for a moment, uncorking a bottle and upending it against a wad of cloth. Taking Kit’s jaw again in one hand, he swabbed his earlobe and tossed the cloth aside. Kit tried to see what he was up to out of the corner of his eye.

“Do not move, or this will be more painful than necessary.”

A moment later something pinched his earlobe and popped through the skin with a sickening crunch. Kit clenched his teeth, and somewhere over on the other side of the workshop Sidney whimpered. Shawe rummaged in the box, then pinched Kit’s ear again, or at least that’s what it felt like. He pulled Kit nearer to the fire and lifted a tiny pair of red hot pincers out of the coals. Kit tensed, ready to run despite Shawe’s warning, but all that happened was a sudden warmth behind his ear and a stink of hot metal and singed hair. At last Shawe let him go and he stumbled, panting with relief.

“Now the other one.”

Kit weaved down the length of the workshop to where his friend was waiting. Sidney’s breeches were dark where he had wet himself with fear; Kit was rather glad he’d gone first.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “It really doesn’t hurt very much.”

That was true enough, though it was beginning to itch and burn now, like nettle rash. He lifted a hand tentatively to his ear and felt a small weight swinging from his earlobe. He remembered the blue beads worn by the other boys, Heron and Shrike.

“Was that the test?” he asked Master Fox as they waited for Sidney to get his ear pierced. “Do I get a special name now?”

Fox snorted a laugh. “Yer reckon that were a test? Nay, thou’ll have to wait a spell longer for that. What thou’s got there is a finding charm. You try to run away, Master Shawe’ll track thee down and bring thee back here in a trice.”

Kit lifted his hand towards his ear.

“And don’t try and take it out neither,” Fox added. “It’s welded shut, so thou’ll have to cut off thine own ear first.”

Kit swallowed and wiped his bloody fingertips on his doublet. For the first time since that night on the marsh island he felt like crying, but he wasn’t going to give this fellow the pleasure. Instead he crossed his arms and waited. He must have been missed by now, surely? His father and uncle would come and find him, and no amount of charms would stand in their way.



The players’ wagon trundled northwards on the Great Cambridge Road at a leisurely two miles an hour, and Ned trudged along behind it. On the first day he had strolled arm-in-arm with Gabriel, chatting merrily about everything and nothing, but now his feet were sore, his shirt itchy from the sweat trickling down his back and his face gritty with the dust thrown up by the wagon.

“Why so glum?” Gabriel asked, dropping back to walk alongside Ned once more.

“Just reminded of our travels through France,” Ned replied. “Feel like I’m going into exile again.”

Gabriel laughed. “We’re not two days out of London. Anyone would think you’d never left Southwark in your life.”

“It’s all very well for you. You’ve been everywhere with your actor friends. This–” he gestured towards the empty heath on either side of the road “–this might as well be France, for all I know of it. It looks godforsaken enough.”

“Cheer up!” Gabriel poked him in the ribs. “We’ll soon be stopping for the night, and good English beer is the same everywhere. Well, perhaps not quite”…”

Gabriel turned his head, looking back down the road to London. Ned followed his gaze and swore. A knot of seven or eight horsemen were galloping down the shallow slope of the road straight towards them. Sunlight glinted on steel helms and the hilts of swords. Soldiers or bandits? Either way, it looked like trouble. Ned backed towards the wagon, pulling Gabriel with him.

“Watch it, lads!” Burbage called out. “Someone’s in a tearing hurry. Out of their way!”

The horsemen slowed as they approached the wagon, but instead of trotting past in single file they split into two groups, one circling round to block the wagon’s path and the other reining to a halt at the rear. Several of the men drew pistols or short, well-used swords. A heavy-set man in a steel gorget and helm, evidently their leader, jerked his pistol towards Burbage.

“Where are the traitors? Bring them forth.”

“What traitors, sir?” the actor replied. “We are all loyal servants of Prince Arthur.”