The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(63)

With naught else to do until that ship came in, he made his way to court. There was still the issue of Jathekkil’s amayi to deal with: Lady Derby might have been eliminated from the running, and young Howard’s continuing absence told against him, but that still left Rutland and Percy. He could not afford to seek them out too directly, however, in case they became suspicious. He therefore resigned himself to a tedious afternoon of drifting around Whitehall Palace, from bowling green to tennis court to hall and back, until he fell into suitable company.

As the day wore on, the skies darkened and Mal’s humour with them. So far there had been no sign of either Rutland or Percy, and all he had to show for his afternoon’s labour was a full bladder and a light head from too much drinking. Only the thought of the coldness of his empty bed kept him from going straight home to Southwark and leaving his quest until the morrow. He paused in the shadow of a doorway to take a piss and tried to decide where to go next. He could visit Prince Arthur’s lodgings, but if he got sucked into another game of cards with Southampton he’d be lucky to still have an estate in the morning.

“And that was when I realised she was his sister!”

Raucous laughter echoed down a nearby passageway. Mal halted mid-stream, hardly able to believe his luck. Judging by the accents, the men heading this way were none other than Josceline Percy and his northern cronies. He began fastening up his breeches.

“Not putting you off your stroke, are we?” one of them shouted at Mal as they drew nearer.

Mal turned and made a clumsy bow, as if rather drunker than he felt. In truth it made his head spin a little, so that his queasy grin was not entirely feigned.

“No, sirs, I was quite done.”

The men stepped out of the passage entrance into the light of a lantern. Their leader was indeed Jos Percy, little changed from the pale-faced youth Mal remembered, apart from a creditable attempt at a beard. His companions were other younger sons of noblemen, by the look of them poorer even than Mal but no doubt boasting an ancient lineage he could never match.

“Why, if it isn’t Sir Maliverny Catlyn, toast of the court.” The way Percy emphasised the word “toast”, it was all Mal could do not to challenge him to a duel on the spot. The burning of Rushdale Hall had no doubt given Mal’s enemies a good deal of amusing gossip behind his back.

“You are too kind, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. Unable to resist, he added, “I see you have a new pomander.”

Percy frowned down at the silver bauble pinned to his doublet. Mal had thrown its predecessor into the muck of a London gutter during their last encounter.

“Do you know, I’d forgotten all about that…”

For a moment Mal feared Percy would order his companions to take the price of the old one out of his hide, then the earl’s brother laughed, a girlish giggle that grated on Mal’s already jittery nerves.

“But that was long ago, when we were both young and foolish, eh, Catlyn?”

“You were young, sir,” Mal slurred, “and mayhap I was foolish.”

“There you go!” Percy slapped him on the arm. “Come, we’re off to Bankside. What say you join us? It’s on your way home, is it not?”

“Aye, it is.”

“Where is it you’re lodging these days, Catlyn?” one of Percy’s companions asked. “In the George?”

“Not far away. Off Long Southwark, behind a printer’s shop. The Sign of the Parley.”

Was that a flicker of guilt in Percy’s eyes? Hard to tell in this light.

“Splendid!” Percy said, throwing his arms around two of his companions’ shoulders. “To Bankside!”

Mal followed in the younger men’s wake with only half an ear to their chatter. If this lot were heading for Bankside at this time of night, it meant only one thing: he was faced with a choice between abandoning a perfect opportunity to get close to Jos Percy, or spending the evening at a brothel. Even if he somehow managed to avoid sampling the services on offer, his wife would never forgive him. He cursed Percy silently and hurried after the Northumbrians towards Westminster Pier.



“Where are we going?” Mal said as they disembarked at Falcon Stairs. “The Rose?”

“Somewhere far more select,” Percy told him, taking Mal’s arm in his.

They strolled along Bankside as far as the bull-baiting ring, then turned down a narrow side street. Where gardens and fishponds had once stood, new houses had sprung up, crowding out the diamond-studded sky. Every other building appeared to be a tavern or a brothel – or both. After a while Mal realised they were alone.

“Where are the others?” he asked, letting his free hand drift towards the hilt of his rapier.

Percy looked around. “What? Oh, you know Scrope; can’t pass a pretty girl in the street but he has to stop and talk to her. And then Ewer has to outdo him in boasting…” He sighed theatrically. “They’ll catch us up. Come, it’s just down here.”

He led Mal down a short alley towards the light of a lantern, and a moment later they emerged into an empty courtyard surrounded by closed doors and shuttered windows.

“Well, this can’t be it,” Percy said. “Perhaps it was left, not right…?”

He turned to leave, and yelped as four hooded men stepped out of the shadows around them.