The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(21)

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Gabriel murmured. “They’ll come for us eventually, you know.”

“I know. I just hope to God that Mal can get us a pardon before it’s too late.”



Grey was waiting for him in the library, as usual. Mal was sure the duke did it to put him on edge; a none-too-subtle reminder that it was from this place that Sandy had stolen a book of skrayling writings, and only Grey’s restraint in not pressing charges stood between Mal’s brother and the gallows. But then Grey had never been subtle. He might fancy himself the equal of Walsingham in guile, but though he bore a far finer coat of arms he relied too much on his status and influence. He was a siege engine, where he ought to be a dagger in the back. Still, sometimes a siege engine was exactly what you needed.

“I suppose you are here about Faulkner,” Grey drawled, glancing over the papers on his desk.

Unsubtle. Not stupid. Always remember that. “It seems more than a little coincidental, don’t you think, my lord? I make my move against the guisers, and a few days later one of my closest friends is arrested on false charges.”

“False?”

“Of course. You don’t think Ned is stupid enough to dabble in seditious writings, surely?”

Grey raised an eyebrow to indicate his opinion of Ned’s wits. “You must have known the plotters might not be fooled by your felicitous ‘escape’ from the Huntsmen.”

“What else was I to do? Once we suspected Selby of betraying our network, he had to be eliminated.”

“There are other ways–”

“What other ways, my lord? Besides, I seem to recall you were happy to let me deal with it.”

“Set a dog to catch foxes, that’s what my father always said.”

“Well, he should have known. After all, he was one of them.” Mal knew it was the wrong thing to say, the moment the words left his mouth.

“Do you think it pleases me that two of my agents are now in prison under threat of torture?”

“No, my lord.”

“The rack is a very effective device in loosening men’s tongues. A little too effective. And your friends know a great deal that I would rather not have written down and passed on to our enemies. If Selby was a leak in our barrel, the interrogation of Faulkner and Parrish will be an axe to its side.”

“I understand that, my lord.”

“You do? Good. Then you know what must be done.”

“My lord?”

Grey sighed. “Kill them, before they can talk.”

Mal didn’t trust himself to reply. To kill a stranger in cold blood was one thing, but two of his closest friends?

“It will be more difficult than with Marlowe, I appreciate that,” the duke went on. “There are two to dispose of, and you will have to do it alone; the chief warder will be suspicious if you bring men along and ask to be left alone with the prisoners.”

You don’t say.

“And you will have to get out of the Marshalsea afterwards. Perhaps it would be better to let them arrest you on the scene. I can arrange a pardon for murder far more easily than for sedition.”

Mal took a deep breath and forced himself to loosen his grip on the hilt of his rapier. If he tried to get out of this, Grey would just send someone else in his place. Someone like Baines, who would not balk at carrying out his orders to the letter.

“I will deal with it.”

“Good.” The duke stared at Mal for a moment. “You have my permission to leave, Catlyn.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Mal gave him as curt a bow as he dared, turned on his heel and left the library. Servants scurried out of his path as he strode across the courtyard to the stables, and the groom was more than usually prompt in bringing Hector out. Mal paused for a moment, stroking the chestnut gelding’s muzzle to calm himself. Damn Grey to the fiery pits of Hades! There had to be another way.

As he mounted and nudged Hector into a walk, the appalling truth struck him. If he could not find a way out of this, it was his duty to his friends as well as to Grey to give them a swift death. Better that than what awaited them: either a lingering death from the injuries inflicted by their torturer, or an even more hideous execution.





CHAPTER VI



Out in the Strand, Mal reined Hector to a halt for a moment before turning the gelding’s head to the left. Whitehall might be empty, but he had ascertained that most of the court had gone no further than Richmond to escape the threat of plague.

“We’re not beaten yet, lad,” he murmured, patting Hector’s neck.

The gelding jerked his head down as if in agreement, and set off towards Charing Cross.

Mal considered his options as he rode. Grey was not his only connection at court, nor even the most friendly to his cause; surely there was someone else he could prevail upon to secure a swift pardon for Ned and Gabriel? The Privy Council was sadly depleted of late, it was true. His own former patron, Sir Francis Walsingham, had not been replaced when he died, and three other members were so old and infirm they came seldom to court. That only left the current Secretary of State, Robert Cecil, who was an old rival of Sir Francis and thus unlikely to favour Mal’s cause; the Lord High Admiral, whom he knew from his time as Ambassador Kiiren’s bodyguard; the new Lord Chancellor, Sir Thomas Egerton; and the Prince of Wales himself.