The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(24)

At the thought he paused, hands clenching on the rough sacking. If this were retaliation for the attack on Selby, Ned and Gabriel might not be the only targets. He fought the urge to throw the costumes in the gutter, leap onto Hector’s back and ride for Derbyshire that very hour. No. He had entrusted his dear ones to Sandy all this time, and if anyone could deal with the guisers, it was his brother. Tomorrow would be soon enough to ride north, once his task here was done.



The following morning Mal met his accomplices in an alley behind a baker’s and they all changed into their costumes. In scarlet jackets and steel breastplates, the four actors made as impressive a crew of Tower guardsmen as Mal could wish for. The halberds, on the other hand, would never pass muster. What had looked good enough by candlelight wouldn’t fool a child in the unforgiving light of day.

“Leave them here,” Mal said at last. “Better for the gaolers to wonder why we go unarmed, than to notice that we’re carrying painted wood instead of real weapons.”

He himself was not unarmed, though he had dulled his rapier hilt to make it less conspicuous. The last thing he wanted was for this to turn into a fight, but he felt naked without the weight of a sword at his side.

“Remember,” he added, as the actors formed up in pairs. “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. I don’t expect them to be suspicious of strange faces – the Tower militia is large enough that the gaolers are unlikely to see the same men every time – but I don’t want them hearing anything out of place. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

One of them put his hand up. “What if the gaolers do ask questions?”

Mal sighed. “You answer them as best you can, and as briefly. You’re actors, aren’t you? Surely you improvise your lines from time to time?”

The man nodded, and Mal turned smartly on his heel and marched out of the alley. With a scuffle of uneven footsteps and not a few muttered curses, the actors followed.

The porter seemed a little surprised by their arrival, but after a glance at Mal’s forged papers he waved them through into the courtyard. The same procedure induced the duty gaoler on the Masters’ Side to conduct them up to the room where Ned and his men were lodged.

As Mal stepped into the room, he caught Ned’s eye and gave a quick shake of the head.

“Which of you men is Edmund Faulkner?”

The printers looked at him oddly, but the false guardsmen had crowded into the room behind Mal, blocking the gaoler’s view.

“I am,” Ned said.

“And Gabriel Parrish?”

“Here.”

Mal gestured to his companions, who produced leg-irons and manacles and closed in on the two men.

“Where are you taking them?” one of the apprentices asked as the fettered prisoners were ushered out of the door.

“That’s no concern of yours, cur.” Mal aimed a backhanded blow at the youth’s head, slowly enough to give him a chance to dodge. “Get out of here, the lot of you. The Privy Council has no use for you small fry.”

The printers stared at him for a moment, then two of the apprentices helped the older journeyman to his feet. Mal took care to keep his expression blank, though his heart went out to the man. He remembered all too well the pain such torments inflicted.

When the cell was empty Mal followed them down to the courtyard.

“Here, where are you taking those men?” One of the chief warders waddled across the yard towards them, beard bristling.

“Transfer to the Tower. Sir Richard Berkeley’s orders.”

“And you are…?”

“Captain John White.” Mal puffed out his chest. “First week on the job, and I already drew the plum assignment.”

“Have you a letter from Sir Richard, authorising the transfer?”

“Right here.” Mal handed over the document. Thank the saints he had kept hold of Selby’s confession with the lieutenant’s counter-signature on the bottom; it had given the forger something to work from.

The gaoler squinted at the writing. “This isn’t the usual clerk’s hand.”

Mal shrugged. “What’s that to me?”

Over the gaoler’s shoulder, he flashed a warning glance at Ned, who nodded back.

“In fact,” the gaoler went on, “this doesn’t look anything like–”

“Let me go, you bastards!” Ned yelled, pulling free of the actor-guards.

He flailed his manacled arms around, hitting the fat gaoler around the head with his metal hand. The man staggered a little.

“You men, get that prisoner under control!”

Mal put a hand under the gaoler’s elbow, but withdrew it just as the man tried to put his weight on it. The gaoler fell to the cobbles with a strangled cry, the piece of paper crumpling in his fist, and Ned kicked him in the head with a yell of triumph.

“That’s for Ben, you slack-gutted toad!”

“Enough! Seize him!” Mal snatched the forged warrant from the gaoler’s hand and turned to the other warders. “See to your master, quick!”

Even as the prison warders began to move, Mal ushered his companions through the gates.

“Quick march! I want these villains in the Tower before they cause any more trouble.”

They set off down St Olave’s Street, taking care to avoid the riverbank just downstream of London Bridge where the real Tower guards moored their boats. A couple of hundred yards further on, Mal led them into a riverside alley as if heading for St Olave’s Stairs, but turned aside at the last minute into a tiny courtyard, barely more than a space between three adjacent buildings whose overhanging upper stories blocked out the grimy sunlight.