The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(129)

Passers-by stopped and stared as they walked along the Strand towards Ludgate. At first the duke’s livery was enough to stop any questions, especially here on the road to Westminster where nearly all the houses belonged to the great lords of the realm. As they passed under the gate, however, the jeers began.

“You’re a pretty pair,” a man called out. “What yer done, eh? Both f*cked the wench, or one another?”

One of Grey’s men lashed out with the butt of his pole-arm and he withdrew, cursing. Mal tried to close his ears to the catcalls and obscenities, wishing his wife could be spared this ordeal. By the time they reached Tower Street they had attracted a following of street urchins armed with mud and worse, and he was almost thankful for the Huntsmen, whose glowering presence kept the wretches from coming too close.

At the end of the street they turned left up the hill and approached the first gatehouse.

“What is this?” The guard’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he took in their little procession.

“A gift for His Majesty from my lord the Duke of Suffolk,” the lead retainer said. “An escaped prisoner, and two of the King’s chief enemies.”

“Here, I know ’im.” The other guard pointed at Mal. “Didn’t I see Captain Monkton flog you, that one time? Years ago, it was…”

“I’m glad to see we’ll be among old friends,” Mal replied.

“Oh, we’ll be friends all right,” the man said with a leer. “Come on, better get them safe inside.”

They followed one of the Tower guards across the causeway into the castle proper. A feeling of unease came over Mal as they passed into the inner ward. How many times had he been here? More often than he cared to recall, but never under such dangerous circumstances. If this did not work… But he could not allow himself to doubt, not now.

To his surprise they were not taken to the Bloody Tower, where Henry’s household had been based earlier, but into the inner ward and through a massive gatehouse to the White Tower itself. Tall double doors opened onto a flight of worn stone steps that led up to the great entrance, and Mal had to be careful where he trod.

At the top the guard directed them through another set of doors into the great hall of the keep. The vast chamber had been swept clean and its walls hung with every faded tapestry the castle could provide. At the far end a canopy had been set up over a wooden dais. A small dark-haired figure perched on the throne beneath, and even in the gloom the light glinted on the golden crown he wore.

The retainers’ pole-arms thudded on the flagstones in time to their booted footsteps as they marched down the hall with their prisoners. As they got closer, Mal spotted a red-faced page kneeling by the dais, and courtiers standing amongst the pillars on either side. King Henry got to his feet.

“Sir Maliverny Catlyn.” He looked the three of them over. “Where is your son?”

“My lord Grey did not think it appropriate to send him, Your Majesty. After all, he’s the innocent party in all this. Besides, it might not be safe–”

“Not safe? Where could be safer than the greatest castle in my kingdom?”

“There was a fever, Your Majesty.”

“No. There was no fever in this castle. No one here has been stricken down, have you?”

The courtiers shook their heads and murmured agreement.

“You see?”

“But your brother–” Coby put in.

“My brother was murdered.” Henry folded his arms, as if daring anyone to disagree. “On my uncle’s orders.”

“Your uncle, sire?”

“Arthur, the would-be usurper. Why do you think he fled to his castle in Warwickshire? To avoid arrest, and to rally his own troops. Even now he plots to raise an army and seize the throne. My throne.”

Mal kept his features carefully blank. Had Olivia’s machinations come to fruition already, or did the boy-king believe the rumours about his uncle? Just how much in control of events was he, when it came down to it?

Henry seemed to remember his other visitors at last.

“Who are they?” he said, pointing at the Huntsmen.

One of the men bowed, not ungracefully. “Just loyal citizens, sire, what captured these traitors.”

“You two captured them? Not the duke?”

The Huntsman shrugged. “We knew his father of old, if you get my drift, sire.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed like a cat spotting a mouse. “Really? Well, gentlemen, it seems we have much to talk about.” He flicked a hand towards the prisoners. “Take them away and put them somewhere safe. I’ll deal with them later.”



A yeoman warder directed them to an all-too-familiar tower at the far end of the outer curtain wall.

“Is this Monkton’s idea of a jest?” Mal asked the warder.

“Who?”

“Captain Monkton, of the Tower militia?”

“Oh, that Monkton. No, he ain’t here.”

So, Monkton was still rotting in prison in Cambridge. The thought brought a smile to Mal’s lips.

“Oi, what are you looking so cheerful about, traitor?” The warder struck Mal in the back of the knees and he stumbled and fell, twisting sideways as he did so to avoid cracking his skull on the cobbles. Coby hurried to his side and helped him up.

“Is the woman a prisoner as well?” the warder asked Grey’s men, unlocking the door at the base of the tower.