The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(70)

“Come along then, dear. I know just where we can get a bit of peace and quiet.”

He steered Mal out of the tiring-house, through a servants’ area where dishes waited before being taken through into the dining hall, down a flight of stairs, across a passageway and up two more flights of stairs to a low door.

“It’s just an attic room,” Parrish said in far more business-like tones as he showed Mal inside, “but well away from flapping ears. I checked it very thoroughly when I arrived; no one will hear a thing.”

“Afraid someone’s spying on you?”

“That too,” the actor replied with a hint of his earlier insouciance, and threw himself down on the bed. “So, what can I do you for?”

Mal leant against the wall, for want of anywhere else to sit.

“Shakespeare’s new play…”

“‘Much Ado’? It’s good, isn’t it? Of course he has to go and set it in Italy, despite never having been there. I blame myself, of course, I’ve been telling him so much about my time in Venice and Spalato–”

“Parrish, I don’t care if the play is set in Italy, Egypt or the court of the Great Khan himself. When did he write it?”

The actor frowned at him. “Why, is it important?”

“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it were.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, he started it last year, before Ned and I went away. I’m pretty sure that was when I first heard him mention the idea. But that was just the seeds of it, because he was working on Henry the Fourth as well, and having a beast of a time with Falstaff’s speech, and then Kemp went and left…”

“So he wrote it recently?”

“Not that recently. He’s been saving it for a special occasion. I know he wanted to rewrite a few scenes but he hasn’t had time, what with everything else happening–”

Mal sighed. Parrish was full of information, but getting it out of him could take a while.

“Did anyone else contribute to the play? I know you’ve mentioned collaborations before.”

Parrish shook his head. “Not on this one, not to my knowledge.”

“So no one changed any of it at any point?”

“Well, if you mean did we say every line exactly as written, then no. The clown always has licence to improvise, though Will is less patient than most with other men’s embroiderings. And of course someone always forgets his lines and the rest of us have to make it up until we can get it back on track.”

“But the scene about Balthasar being a poor singer; that was Shakespeare’s work?”

Comprehension dawned on Parrish’s face. “You think someone was taking a swipe at Olivia?”

“Could be.”

“No. I saw the script in its first draft, from before ‘Bartolomeo’ arrived at court, and the part of Balthasar was as you heard it. Shakespeare seldom changes things once written.”

“If it was not the script, perhaps the malice lay with whomever assigned the role.”

“That was not Shakespeare, I can vouch that he was most vexed about it.”

“Then who?”

“Burbage, most likely. He’s our manager, and running a theatre company isn’t cheap, even with the Prince’s patronage. I dare say anyone with the chinks to spare could have persuaded him to do it.”



Even as Coby ascended the stairs to the princess’s apartments, she could hear raised voices. None were shriller than that of “Signor Bartolomeo”, who was cursing and spitting like a kettle come to the boil. The fact that no one else understood the stream of Italian invectives did not lessen its impact. Coby winced as she slipped through the door, unseen behind a wall of brocade skirts and wired gauze headpieces that stood out like butterfly wings.

“I am sure no offence was meant, sir.” Princess Juliana sounded on the verge of tears herself. “Everyone there was enchanted by your singing. The jest was on Don Pedro, for having such a poor ear for music.”

Coby moved to stand by one of the bedposts, where she could see around the curtains but not easily be seen by the actors in this new drama.

“You truly think so, Your Highness?” Olivia looked decidedly calm, considering her recent outburst.

“I am sure of it,” Juliana replied. “Don’t you agree, ladies?”

The ladies-in-waiting chorused their agreement. They reminded Coby of nothing so much as an aviary of songbirds, pretty but useless.

“Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but I disagree,” said Lady Derby. All heads turned to stare at her.

“Explain.”

“Well…” Lady Derby cast a glance at Olivia. “Surely someone knew it would be taken as an insult. Signor Bartolomeo may not have seen the whole script, but others must have done. The playwright himself, of course, but also the Master of the Revels, and probably the actors’ patron.”

“Do you accuse my brother-in-law of plotting this jest at my expense?”

The ladies fell silent, and most of them suddenly found something more interesting to look at. Like the floor.

“Oh no, Your Highness,” Lady Derby said quickly. “I accuse no one.”

Princess Juliana stared at her former lady-in-waiting for a long moment. Perhaps thinking no one was looking at her, Olivia smiled, her pupils dilated like those of a cat that has spotted a mouse within pouncing distance. Coby shrank behind the bed-hanging, her fingers tightening on the rough woollen fabric. Whether it had been Olivia’s scheme from the beginning or not, this was all going just the way the guiser wanted it. She slipped back out of the presence chamber and went in search of her husband.