The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(25)

“God’s teeth, that was close,” Mal said, taking off his helmet and wiping his brow. “Well done, Ned! And thank you too, lads, you did a splendid job.”

He handed out payment to the actors, who bundled up their costumes in a couple of sacks and rolled up their shirt sleeves, instantly transforming themselves into a gang of labourers who could pass unnoticed in any riverside street. When they had gone, Mal unlocked his friends’ shackles. Ned was grinning like an apprentice on holiday but Gabriel’s face was pale in the gloom, his eyes almost expressionless, as if he dared not believe they had escaped. A man after my own heart.

“Well, gentlemen, time to get you out of here.”

He led them back out into the alley and down to the river, where they caught a wherry downstream to the far eastern end of Southwark. Two horses were waiting for them at a livery stable in Bermondsey Street, along with saddlebags full of food and spare clothing. Mal pressed a purse into Ned’s hand.

“That should be enough to see you safely to France,” he said. “Here are your passports; at least the Privy Council never got around to revoking them.”

“Where shall we go?” Ned asked. “Your estate in Provence?”

“No. That’s the first place they’ll look, if they do come for you. Go to Marseille, and pay Youssef to take you on from there.”

“You think they’ll come after us?”

“Probably not, but it’s best not to assume. Get as far from England as you can, and if you write, do not tell me where you are. The less I know, the better.”

“We cannot thank you enough for this,” Ned said, embracing him.

“No thanks are needed; it was my actions that brought this disaster upon you in the first place.”

“What about the print shop?”

“The soldiers took most of your stock, and I dare say the men won’t want to work there after what happened. I’ll sell off the equipment and set the money against that loan.” He smiled at them both encouragingly. “Let the bastards think us defeated, at least for now.”

“And you?” Parrish asked.

“I’m for the north. If the guisers are behind this attack on us, you and Ned might not be their only targets.”





CHAPTER VII



Coby hitched up her skirt and climbed onto the stile, giving her an unparalleled view over Rushdale. The little river from which the valley got its name wound below her, skirting the outcroppings of pale grey limestone and falling in tiny cascades to pool amongst the thorn trees that edged the meadows. Swallows from the hall’s outbuildings skimmed out over the grass, filling their bellies against the cold of winter. Thankfully the people of the estate had been able to do the same this year; though not bountiful, the harvest had not been as poor as they had feared.

“Up! Mamma, up!”

She turned and smiled down at her adopted son. At a little over two, Kit was walking well now and insisted on accompanying her on her daily hike up the hill, and she had shortened his smocks to prevent them getting too muddy. She bent down and picked him up, sitting him on the cross-rail of the stile and holding him tight around the waist. It was a long tumble down the slope on the other side.

“Mamma! Mamma! Baa-lambs!” He pointed at the sheep in the meadow below.

“Yes, my pet, baa-lambs. Though they’re not babies any more. See, they’re nearly as big as their mammas now.”

She leant her cheek against his dark curls and closed her eyes, listening to the shrilling of the swallows and the bleating of the sheep. So quiet here, so unlike the clamour and stink of London. It reminded her of her childhood in the little town of Berchem, near Antwerp, though of course there were no hills there. She wondered if Mal ever came up here with his mother, when he was Kit’s age. Perhaps not; managing twin boys must have been wearisome indeed.

“Daddy!”

Coby’s eyes blinked open, and her heart skipped a beat. But she could see no one on the road.

“Are you sure, lambkin?”

He nodded vigorously, and now she could hear the sound of trotting hooves, faint but clear in the cold autumn air.

“It’s probably just Father Whittam on his mule,” she said, though Kit had grown out of the phase of referring to all men as “Daddy”.

The rider reappeared from behind a row of trees: a tall dark-haired man on a chestnut horse, the plume on his low-crowned hat bobbing in time to the animal’s gait. Coby bit back a squeal of delight.

“It is Daddy!”

Hardly daring to believe it, she scrambled down from the stile and lifted Kit onto her hip, then set off down the hill as fast as her feet would take her.



They reached the front courtyard of the manorhouse just as Mal was coming out of the stable. He broke into a run, and a moment later was hugging and kissing them both, and though he was covered in the dust of the road and stank of sweat and horse she didn’t care.

“Praise God you’re both safe,” he said at last, holding them at arm’s length. “I was so afraid–”

“What for?” She put Kit down. “You don’t think–?”“

He put a finger to his lips. “Let’s not speak of it here. Where’s Sandy?”

“Probably asleep. He spends every night keeping vigil over Kit.”