The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(12)

Hearing footsteps approach, he stepped back towards the courtyard. The maidservant emerged from the side door, dangling an empty pisspot from one hand and carrying a pewter tankard in the other.

“Most excellent wench!” Mal drawled, blocking her path back inside. He held out his left hand, and she dutifully gave him the tankard. “Perhaps you would come up to my chamber and stow yon crock safely?”

She clutched the pisspot to her chest. “If you insist, my lord.”

“I am no lord, merely a knight of the realm.” He took a swig of the ale. “The Prince of Wales himself dubbed me, you know.”

The girl smiled politely.

“Come, give me the pisspot,” Mal said, “and I’ll retire alone. There’s no pleasure in a reluctant woman.”

She held out the pot, her arm trembling, and Mal took it from her gently.

“Now, get you gone,” he said with a jerk of his head towards the door, “and we’ll tell your master no more of this little adventure, eh?”

“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Mal swept a bow, flourishing the pisspot, and made his way back up to his room. Poor child, he’d given her quite a fright, but at least it had kept her eyes away from the door. Now there was nothing more to do but wait.

He used the pisspot, slid it under his bed and lay down. This next part would be cold and uncomfortable, but they had to make it look convincing, at least until Selby was under control.

He closed his eyes, knowing he could not put this off much longer. Taking a deep breath he put all thoughts of his waiting allies aside and focused on the skraylings. The guisers must have some idea of what was happening in the camp, so it was hardly a betrayal. He recalled his first visit there, with Kiiren – no, he mustn’t think of Kiiren either. Adjaan, that was safer. He conjured up a vision of the female outspeaker, kneeling at her desk.

“This is your plan?” Selby said, materialising silently at his side. “To bring skrayling women to England?”

“We need more recruits, don’t we, if we are to take over? A period of stability will allow that. And once the womenfolk see what humans are really like, surely they will easily be convinced that we are in the right?”

Selby smiled at him. “Your enthusiasm is gratifying, Catlyn, but–”

Mal jerked awake, certain he had heard a shot. The hound in the courtyard yelped, and the gun spoke again. Damn those idiots, they’ll wake half the neighbourhood! He snatched up his dagger and ran across the landing to Selby’s bedchamber, flattening himself against the wall just as the door opened.

Selby poked his head out.

“What’s going on down there?”

Mal put the blade to Selby’s throat, pressing just hard enough to break the skin. There, let him magic his way out with cold steel tainting his blood.

“You duplicitous whoreson,” Selby hissed. “Jathekkil should have ripped your crippled soul from your body when he had the chance.”

Shouting and sounds of fighting came from below. William Frogmore and his Huntsmen, subduing the servants with brutal efficiency. This was the part of his plan he had not told Grey about; the duke would hardly approve of employing the very villains he had promised the Prince of Wales he would hunt down.

Moments later three men in nondescript dark clothing, their lower faces covered by kerchiefs, pounded up the stairs. Mal nodded to their leader, but continued to hold Selby at knifepoint until one of the Huntsmen had him gagged and in iron manacles. Mal stood patiently whilst the “robbers” tied his own hands behind his back and gagged him, then Frogmore led both captives downstairs to the courtyard, where the servants were being held at gunpoint. Selby struggled and jerked his head towards Mal. Frogmore cuffed him hard, making him stumble. Mal feigned concern, but his need for acting was short-lived. Amid the jeering laughter of the Huntsmen, he was seized and thrown over a horse’s back like a sack of meal.

One of the men swung himself into the saddle behind Mal and the raiding party set off into the Kentish countryside. They passed out of sight of the manorhouse and cut across a field of half-rotted wheat stubble. What was Frogmore playing at? Surely this was far enough from the manorhouse that they could dispense with the ruse and let him ride in comfort.

About half an hour later they halted under a twisted oak. The ground before them fell steeply for a dozen feet then levelled out to a broad, grassy riverbank, the waters beyond silver-limned by the rising moon. Mal was hauled off his horse and he sank to his knees, head reeling from hanging upside-down for so long. He watched Selby stumble down the slope towards a waiting boat, flanked by Frogmore’s men. When they were out of earshot, someone untied Mal’s bonds and he pulled the gag down, licking his dry lips.

“Damn it, Frogmore,” he muttered, “you didn’t have to carry me all the way.”

Frogmore held out a hand and hauled him to his feet.

“Had to make it look good. Speaking of which…”

Mal saw the punch coming, too late, and tried to dodge. His foot slipped on a mossy tree root and he couldn’t avoid Frogmore’s fist slamming into his nose. He heard rather than felt the snap of cartilage.

“Christ’s balls!” He dabbed at the blood running down into his moustache. The young cur was enjoying this far too much.

Frogmore shrugged. “You wanted your escape to look convincing. Sir.”