The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(34)
At the bottom of her clothes chest she found the old doublet and hose she had worn in her guise as Mal’s valet. She shook them out and hung them up to air, then did the same for the shirt and hose to wear with them. The prospect of a chance to resume her old persona gave her a guilty thrill, and she glanced upwards apologetically. Forgive me, Lord, for my sin of pride. But I was good at what I did.
A trawl of the chests and cupboards produced more treasures: a worn leather belt and a knife in its sheath; leather shoes suitable for a man, also old but well-mended; her roll of skeleton keys; and a cherrywood box containing a pair of pistols that Mal had bought her for her eighteenth birthday. How long ago that seemed now, more like forty years than four. She put everything into an old satchel, ready to take down to the stables. After a moment’s thought she added her jewellery box to the satchel and bundled up the gown made from her New Year’s gift, along with a linen coif and other necessary items of feminine apparel. God willing, she would not need her disguise beyond the journey itself.
The rest of their preparations would have to wait until Frogmore had left; she could not risk him suspecting her purpose. With a last wistful glance at her old clothes, she shut the bedchamber door and locked it, then went back down to see to her guests.
Despite his promise, Erishen did not go down to supper that night. Though the visitors might be too young to have participated in his own murder, he had no doubts they would turn on him and Kiiren the moment they suspected the truth. It had been madness to involve them in the fight against the guisers, but Mal would not be swayed.
“They might have more information about Shawe,” he had said before leaving for London. “How can I let that chance slip through my fingers?”
“It seems to me that you are protecting them.” Erishen replied. “I think they did something to you that night, when they daubed you in Tanijeel’s blood. They made you one of their own.”
“How can you say that? The memory still haunts me–”
“Then why do you not want revenge?”
“Trust me, we will have it. But it will have to be planned carefully. A single coordinated arrest, like the Templars of France long ago.”
Erishen only hoped his brother had put the plan into motion by now. The thought of Frogmore and his friends riding south into a trap made him chuckle aloud, drawing Kiiren’s attention.
“Come on, amayi, time for bed. You can sleep in my room tonight.”
Susanna bade her charge good night and settled down to her mending. Erishen smiled to himself as he went through into the bedchamber. Ever since he had caught the nursemaid enjoying lustful dreams about his brother and diverted them to be about himself instead, she had been decidedly more compliant. The release from guilt had made her happier to serve his sister-in-law as well, so he considered it a job well done.
He shut the door behind him, and went to draw the bed-curtains against the chill evening air. Tomorrow the killers of his people would be gone and he and Kiiren could return to their familiar routine. Perhaps he would even take his amayi to see the young sheep. Childhood innocence was short for their kind, and all the more precious for it.
Coby paced her bedchamber, unable to settle. Even with two locked doors between herself and her guests, the thought of stripping down to her shift made her stomach turn over. And what about Susanna? Had the girl the sense to lock her bedchamber door? She should go and check, but that would mean going through the guest chamber.
The clothes hanging up on the closet door caught her eye. What if she dressed as Jacob? Frogmore and his men might not even recognise her, and they would pay a male servant little attention. With pounding heart she undressed and slipped into the familiar garments. Her hair had grown long in the past couple of years, so she tied it with a ribbon at the nape of her neck and covered her head with a flat woollen cap. Finally she picked up the chamber pot, draped a linen towel over the top and went over to the door.
She pressed her ear to the wood, but could hear nothing. Slowly she turned the key and eased the door ajar. The next chamber was dark, but a light showed beneath the door opposite. Coby crept across the room and listened at the far door. A faint rustling, as of the pages of a book turning. Best to act like someone who had every right to be there. She seized the handle and opened the door.
Erishen woke with a start. He thought he had heard someone cry out, but the house was silent. Reaching out in the darkness he felt Kiiren sleeping at his side, sprawled carelessly on his back. Erishen eased out of bed and fumbled with flint and tinder, cursing the primitive humans for their ignorance of lightwater. A creak of floorboards from the outer room, and a muffled cry. Erishen stood between the door and the bed, unlit candlestick in hand.
The latch clicked up and the door swung open, letting in the warm, diffuse light of a lantern. Erishen could see only a dark shape behind it, but below the lantern a sword blade gleamed like molten gold.
“Nehetsjelen!” he hissed. “Adringsjelen!”
“Hold, demon! Depart that poor wretch’s body or we will burn you from it!”
“I am not one of your demons,” Erishen replied. “Though you may come to wish I were.”
Behind him, Kiiren began to stir. The man with the lantern stepped into the room; as Erishen had suspected, it was Frogmore. One of his confederates filled the doorway behind him, also bearing a sword. Frogmore jerked his head to the side.