The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(22)

The admiral he dismissed as too remote a connection and too little interested in the matter. The Prince of Wales might be persuaded to clemency, but it would likely be too slow a process; he was as cautious as his mother, and as proud as his late father. The Lord Chancellor was an unknown quantity; he was a former lawyer and had a reputation as a shrewd legislator, but whose side would he take in this case? There was only one way to find out.

By the time he neared Richmond, the sun was dipping below the palace’s gilt-topped towers and setting the Thames ablaze. Mal followed the road round to the main entrance, where massive octagonal towers of pale stone flanked double doors of solid oak. Above them a gilded and painted bas-relief of the royal arms gleamed in the honey-thick light: golden lions and fleurs-de-lys on a quartered field of red and blue, supported by a larger lion and a unicorn, both with crowns around their necks. On one tower was the royal badge combining a portcullis and a Tudor rose; on the other, a red heart surmounted by a scroll bearing the single word Loyal – the late King Henry’s personal emblem. These days the palace was the favourite residence of the Princess of Wales, but her husband visited often, mostly to avail himself of the hunting in the nearby park.

Leaving Hector with a palace groom, Mal crossed the main courtyard and slipped down a narrow passage between two buildings and through a plain arched door. A long corridor stretched left and right, but he carried straight on, eventually emerging behind the palace on the edge of its formal gardens. As he had hoped. A knot of men stood around the near end of the bowling alley, talking and laughing. All were richly dressed in the height of fashion: close-fitting silk doublets heavy with embroidery, a prince’s ransom in lace at collar and cuffs, and curled hair arranged artfully over one shoulder. Mal assumed a carefree air and strolled over to greet them.

“My lords. Gentlemen.”

The hangers-on parted to reveal Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton and current darling of Robert’s court.

“Catlyn, you old rogue! Where have you been these past few weeks?”

Though only a few years younger than Mal the earl looked scarcely more than a boy, with a thin sandy moustache and sparse beard. No wonder close-trimmed whiskers are all the rage at court, if they seek to flatter this young coxcomb.

“I might ask you the same, my lord. London is a dreary place without you.”

“I don’t know why you remain there. Christ’s blood, if I had a pretty wife and a country estate to go home to, I’d leap at the chance.”

Mal smiled politely. It was common knowledge that Southampton was so far in debt as to have been obliged to sell off some of his lands, as well as postpone his wedding to one of Princess Juliana’s ladies-in-waiting.

“How would you like an estate in Ireland?” Southampton went on. “Essex and I have a mind to show that upstart Tyrone the edge of our blades. What say you join us?”

“I would be honoured, my lord, but alas I have business back in London.”

“What business is more important than Her Majesty’s?”

“You have me there, my lord.” He could hardly tell the earl about his campaign against the guisers. Wriothesley’s name had been on Selby’s list, and though that meant nothing either way, one couldn’t be too careful.

“Splendid! We’ll show Raleigh a thing or two, eh?”

“Aye, my lord.”

Southampton turned away, satisfied now that his will had prevailed. Mal cursed silently. The last thing he needed was to be caught in the middle of Essex and Raleigh’s rivalry. Perhaps he could contrive a way out of it: a sudden illness, or an injury sustained in a duel. On the other hand, the invitation suggested an approach to his own problem.

“My lord, a question, if I may?”

Southampton waved a hand, which Mal took for encouragement, though the earl’s attention remained on the game.

“A man of my station can hardly set out upon such a venture unaccompanied, but I am regrettably deprived of my two stoutest companions by an unfortunate turn of events.”

“Oh?”

“The men who assisted me most ably on my mission to Venice have been arrested on charges of sedition. Wholly false charges, I would stake my reputation on it.”

“I see,” Southampton murmured. He clapped his hands as one of the players landed a ball just touching the jack. “Oh, well played, sir!”

“I understand,” Mal went on, “that my lord Essex is well acquainted with the Lord Chancellor, and I wondered if he might be prevailed upon to intervene.”

Southampton turned, and frowned at him. “Who are these men?”

“Ned Faulkner, a printer, and Gabriel Parrish, an actor and playwright.”

The earl sniffed. “Hardly fit companions for a gentleman, Catlyn. Can you not bring someone else?”

Mal reined in his frustration.

“Assuredly, my lord. However it ill befits a gentleman to abandon those who have served him faithfully.”

“Very well, I shall do what I can.”

“You will? Thank you, my lord. I will be forever in your debt.”

Southampton waved his hand dismissively. “I shall mention it to Essex next time I write to him.”

Mal’s heart sank. “He’s not here?”

“He’s in Southampton, reviewing our prospective fleet. But never fear; he’ll be back before Christmas.”