The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(13)
“Get to the boat,” Mal told him. “I don’t suppose you could leave me a horse for the journey back to Ightham?”
The servants believed him, of course. They could hardly not, when he turned up rain-soaked and bloody-nosed some hours after the attack. He quickly changed into a borrowed shirt and his own clothes before leading the hue-and-cry back to the river bank. Of course the Huntsmen had long gone by then, but they had left evidence of their work. Mal swore under his breath. Someone had been creative with his instructions. A little too creative.
A little way along the ridge from where he had “escaped”, blackened timbers jutted from the earth: an X-shaped framework to which a man’s body was chained, upside-down. A fire had been set beneath it and the victim’s clothes and hair had already burned away, falling in sooty pieces into the ashes. For a moment Mal wondered if the bastards had done something similar to Erishen’s previous body, after… He pushed the thought aside. This was no innocent victim burned alive, only a hanged corpse of Selby’s height and build, dressed in his clothes to leave evidence: buttons, belt buckles, perhaps even rings. The Huntsmen were thorough, but not totally immune to temptation.
Selby’s steward halted, his expression needing no words. Somewhere behind them, one of the younger men was violently sick.
“Who would do such a thing?” the steward said at last.
“Witchhunters?” This was the last thing Mal wanted, but it seemed the only way to deflect suspicion from his allies. “Perhaps the madness has crossed the Narrow Sea.”
“But why our master?” another man demanded. “Who would think him a witch?”
“How should I know?” Mal took in the assembled servants with a look. “Has he been behaving strangely of late? Any peculiar instructions or absences?”
There were some shaken heads and mumbles of denial, but also one or two shared looks of enlightenment. If Selby had done anything in the least out of the ordinary – and as a guiser plotting to control the kingdom, he was certain to have done something odd at some point – gossip would soon turn it into symptoms of possession or devil-worship. That was how these things worked, after all.
“Put out the fire and retrieve the body,” Mal said. “He should be given a Christian burial, whatever his murderers believed. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to London and inform the Privy Council. If we have lawless bands of witchhunters roaming the country, someone needs to put a stop to it.”
CHAPTER IV
Even with a change of horses it took Mal until well past noon to reach London. He prayed Selby was safely mewed up in the Tower by now, but he could not afford the luxury of a visit just yet. News of Selby’s apparent death would reach the other guisers soon enough, and if Mal’s story was to hold water he needed to act as if it were true. Which meant reporting the incident to the Privy Council in Whitehall Palace. The County Coroner for Kent would deal with the murder itself, but the nature of the attack was a more serious business. Damn the Huntsmen to the innermost circle of Hell! He had been a fool to think he could use them and not pay a heavy price. As soon as he was sure he had the last scrap of useful information out of them, Grey would get his list and could round them up at his leisure.
The city sweltered and stank in the August heat, its open sewers too dry to wash the filth away. Mal pressed a clove-scented handkerchief to his mouth until he reached the cleaner air of Westminster, guiding his mount with his knees and leaving the reins loose so the poor beast could shake away the flies that filled the air like smoke. If plague did not follow on the heels of this latest poor harvest, it would be a miracle. Suddenly he was very glad his family were far from the capital, where they would at least be spared such horrors.
It appeared that Prince Robert felt likewise. The courtyards of the palace of Whitehall lay empty, only a few bored guardsmen at each gate to keep the hungry, frightened populace at bay. Mal gave his name and business, and was told that the Privy Council had dispersed for the summer; only Lord Grey had remained behind to deal with affairs of state. At least that made matters simpler. The formalities could be adhered to without drawing undue attention, and by the time the council reconvened, Selby would have been taken care of. Permanently.
Mal was show into a dining parlour that formed part of the councillors’ suite of chambers in the palace. The same room in which he had been questioned by Walsingham after his escape from Grey’s own father. He wondered if the duke knew that and was using it to throw him off balance, or whether it was mere coincidence. Probably the latter: Grey might have a talent for interrogation, but he lacked his predecessor’s subtlety.
The room was empty, however. No spymaster seated at the long oak dining table, no Baines standing by the door to prevent his departure. Mal made a discreet sweep of the room, looking for places where a hidden observer might lurk. No hollows behind the panels, nor concealed doors. The windows either side of the fireplace looked out onto a narrow courtyard, but the brick wall opposite was blank and the surrounding buildings’ windows too far away for a good view into the dining parlour.
Halting footsteps sounded in the corridor, giving Mal time to turn to face the door.
“Catlyn.” Grey paused in the doorway and looked around the room. “You came alone.”
Since there were no servants about, Mal went to the head of the table and pulled out the chair for the duke. Grey limped over and sat down, slow as an old man. Probably putting half of it on, just to make a point. He left Grey to settle himself and closed the door, resisting the urge to look out into the corridor for spies. If anyone were observing, it would only draw attention, and by the looks of the rest of the palace there was no one around in any case.