The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(67)
Prince Henry shook the reins and kicked his armoured heels, and the pony trotted to the far end of the lists. At the other end his brother already waited, his face serene. Had he been bewitched, to ensure his youthful enthusiasm did not get the better of him – or to ensure that it would? The two boys’ ponies broke into a canter. Ten yards… five… and they were past one another, without a point having been scored. Just a warm-up pass, then. He breathed out unsteadily.
The princes turned in unison and couched their lances for a second pass. With their visors down, neither boy’s mood could be judged. Mal motioned wordlessly to Coby. Taking the hint she pulled Kit closer, ready to hide his face if things went amiss.
Again the ponies cantered down the long narrow space, their riders barely able to see over the barrier between them. This time as they clashed, their lances struck home, impacting their shields. Prince Edward gave a muffled whoop as he rode past, but the buffet had been too much for Prince Henry and he slid from the saddle. The crowd’s roar of approval turned to cries of anguish, but one voice rose above them all.
“Amayiiii!”
A slight figure vaulted down from the royal stand and ran to the prince, skidding to a kneeling halt over him. Stewards and squires ran up, surrounding them, but for a few brief moments Mal’s view was clear, and he locked gazes with the young man who had cried out. It was Josceline Percy.
Mal exchanged glances with his brother. Kit was watching the scene wide-eyed and silent.
“We could hardly have planned it better ourselves,” he whispered. “Now we know another of them.”
“You think this was our enemies’ doing?”
Mal shrugged. “I cannot see the purpose in it, but who else would be able to convince Prince Robert to put his sons’ life in danger?”
The news was soon announced: Prince Henry had suffered a broken collarbone. This was not immediately life-threatening, but in Mal’s experience a severe fracture could lead to infection and even death. On the other hand the royal physicians often had some training in skrayling medicine, so the likelihood of the prince recovering was good.
Nevertheless the rest of the tournament was cancelled, and the crowd slowly dispersed amid a rumble of gossip. All attention seemed to be on the two young princes, of course; no skraylings had been invited to the event, not even Outspeaker Adjaan, so no one outside Mal, Sandy, Coby and the guisers themselves was likely to have any idea of the significance of Josceline Percy’s outburst.
“Take Kit to bed, but come and find me later when he’s asleep,” Mal told Coby. He turned to his brother, “Perhaps you’d better go with them, in case this accident sets off a fit.”
Sandy nodded and lifted Kit onto his shoulders, the better to avoid being trampled by the throng.
Mal bade his son good night and watched until the three of them had disappeared through the gatehouse, Kit swaying on his uncle’s shoulders as he pretended to aim a lance at the guards’ partisans. Mal smiled ruefully. Children forgot so quickly; they did not brood over upsets like their elders were prone to do. He turned on his heel and headed for the Prince’s lodgings. Little Henry had no doubt been conveyed to his apartments there, as soon as the court physician had ascertained he was in no immediate danger.
Most of Prince Robert’s household were gathered in the great hall, standing around in knots with grave expressions on their faces. Mal passed through the crowd, but the one face he was seeking was absent. Most likely Percy was with his amayi, ready to see him through another rebirth should things go badly. Mal didn’t envy him; no doubt the little prince was surrounded by his mother and her women, fussing and weeping and getting in everyone’s way. He just hoped Coby could get away from her duties soon. He needed someone to talk this over with, someone clearer-headed than his brother.
He circulated among the courtiers for a little longer, but learned nothing new. No one dared blame Prince Robert for letting his sons indulge in such a dangerous activity, so everyone else connected with the tournament came under scrutiny: the armourers for failing to make the shields large enough, the master of arms for not training Prince Edward properly, even Prince Henry’s pony for not bearing him safely. Mal soon left them to their pointless arguments and went up to his own room to await Coby’s return.
The household being in chaos, he hailed the first servant he saw and ordered the man to bring up some supper and a flagon of wine. The hearth in his room was cold, so he laid a new fire himself and had it underway by the time the servant appeared with bread, a wedge of veal pie, and a half-burnt apple and cinnamon tart.
“Sorry, sir,” the man said, setting them down on the table. “We had everything going for His Highness’s birthday supper, and then this…”
“No matter.” Mal gave him a penny and sent him on his way.
Rain had set in, rattling against the windowpanes and creeping through the gaps to pool on the stone sill. The fire crackled to itself in the silence of a palace holding its breath for fear of bad news on the heels of the good. Mal finished off the tart – gratifyingly tasty despite the burnt bits – and licked the crumbs from his fingers, leaning back in his chair by the fireplace. Better to rest now; unless the prince died, it would be some hours before he was needed again.
It seemed only moments later that he jerked awake. Someone was knocking softly at the door. He leapt to his feet, crossed the room in a few swift strides and opened the door, expecting to see his wife.