The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(36)

The girl stared at her, wide-eyed. “No, I cannot. It is too far.”

“No, it’s not. Here, let me show you. And I will catch you at the bottom.” She took Susanna by the shoulders. “Swear to me that you will follow.”

“On my mother’s soul,” the girl whispered. “Please, mistress, hurry!”

Coby clambered over the narrow sill, thanking God for the protection of her breeches, and lowered herself down on the makeshift rope. The linen sheets scraped against her fingers, but the rough brick wall below the window offered plenty of footholds and she made the next couple of yards without difficulty. Her toes encountered a slight ledge, no more than two fingers’ breadth deep, and she paused for a second. This was the stonework around the window below, which meant glass instead of bricks. No toeholds, and she was nearly out of sheet. With a muttered prayer she dropped down another yard, kicking forwards as she went. Glass cracked and leading buckled under the impact, but the window held, and a moment later she was standing on the sill below, heart pounding and gasping for breath. Letting go of the sheet she turned around and jumped the last couple of feet onto the gravel path, landing a little awkwardly and skinning the heel of one hand. She got to her feet and looked up.

“Susanna! Come down, it’s quite easy!”

The girl’s face appeared at the window, and for one horrible moment Coby thought she would refuse. Susanna began to cough as the fire spread into the bedchamber, and after a desperate glance back over her shoulder she scrambled over the windowsill. Coby stifled a laugh. Like the Venetian whore she had once been, Susanna was wearing knee-length drawers, and had tucked her nightgown into them to keep it out of the way. She clambered down the sheets as far as the ground-floor window, then Coby helped her the last few feet. Susanna crossed herself, muttering a prayer of thanks, and pulled her nightgown free to cover her legs once more.

Coby crouched and rummaged in her satchel for her powder-horn.

“Take Kit and hide in the garden,” she told Sandy. “Susanna, go to the stables and let out the horses.”

“Where are you going, mistress?”

“I’m going to find out if any of those bastards escaped my house.”

“And if they did?” Sandy asked.

Coby looked up from loading her pistol. “Then they’ll wish they hadn’t.”

She ran over to the corner of the house and flattened herself against the wall, clutching her pistol in one trembling hand. Shooting a man – even one threatening her son – had not been as easy as shooting a devourer, and she would rather not have to do it again. She edged closer to the corner and looked round. A low wailing came from the courtyard, and long shadows cast by the flames moved across the ground. Taking a deep breath she stepped out into the open.

The house was ablaze now, black smoke blotting out the sky and flames vying with the rising sun to light the surrounding gardens. Servants in varying states of undress and distress had gathered to watch the conflagration.

“Get away from the house,” Coby shouted at them, weaving her way through the throng. She scanned the smoke-grimed faces. “Lynwood! Where is Lynwood?”

“Here, my lady,” the steward wheezed, stepping forward. His silver-grey hair stuck up in a halo around his bald pate and he wore a long woollen gown dotted with singe-marks. He didn’t seem to have noticed her own unorthodox garb. So much for a disguise. Then she realised that she had lost her cap on the climb down and her hair had come loose. She brushed it back distractedly.

“Have you seen our guests, Lynwood?”

“Three men rode away, my lady, not long ago. The other two I have not seen.”

“One of them is dead, but William Frogmore himself…” She shrugged. “Perhaps he perished in the fire.”

“I am sorry, my lady–”

“Don’t be. He and his men started it.” She looked around at the servants huddled over their scant piles of belongings. “Get everyone down to the lodge. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

At that moment several horses cantered around the side of the house and away down the drive. Susanna appeared close behind, smoke-stained but uninjured. Coby ran up and embraced her.

“The Huntsmen are gone. Come, let’s find Kit.”



Mal woke with a start and swept a hand across the empty side of the bed, wondering where his wife had got to. Probably fussing over Kit, even though that was Susanna’s job. He smiled. She had taken to the boy better even than he’d hoped…

He blinked and looked around again. This was not Rushdale. The bed was too small, the windows and ceiling too low. He was in Southwark, in the house behind the Sign of the Parley.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, the remnants of the dream melting away even as he tried to recall them. A dream? More like a nightmare, a jumble of memories of the theatre fire from which he, Coby and Ambassador Kiiren had barely escaped with their lives. He could almost smell the smoke again, the stink of it on his clothes and in her hair… He shook his head. It was just the morning smell of the suburb, as the fires and furnaces were lit to power the tanneries, forges and other industries deemed too noxious to be allowed within the city itself.

There was nothing for it; he was awake now. With a groan of frustration he climbed out of bed, crossed to the washstand and splashed tepid water on his face. A trip to the barber’s, perhaps, and then to court, to try and glean information about Shawe’s whereabouts without arousing anyone’s suspicions. At least the guisers hadn’t tried to have him arrested yet. Perhaps he should write to Coby and let her know it was safe to come down to London. No, best to wait a little longer. They were safe enough where they were.