The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(71)
“You’re sure?” Mal whispered.
“Yes,” Coby replied. “Whether Arthur did it or not, that’s what Olivia wants everyone to think.”
“But why? Is he another of them, like Percy, that she must overthrow if she is to rule the kingdom?”
“Surely not. If he were, why would Jathekkil have been so desperate to reincarnate as Prince Henry? Better to take another host, any host, so that Arthur could seize the throne and murder his nephews like wicked King Richard.”
“You have a point. Most likely she is simply making mischief to throw her opponents off guard.” He sighed. “Very well, I’ll deal with the prince. You go to bed, and I’ll join you when I can. This may take a while.”
He bent and kissed her, then waited until he had seen her going back into the palace before descending to the courtyard and heading eastwards through the Holbein Gate into the tiltyard. On the south side stood the banqueting house, a massive timber and canvas pavilion that had been built twenty years ago for the wedding of Robert and Juliana. Tonight it was lit by hundreds of blown-glass lanterns, some containing candles but many filled with lightwater. Prince Arthur had spared no expense to ensure that tonight’s entertainments would be remembered long after the last sweetmeats had been eaten.
Lit by the yellow and green skrayling lamps, the pavilion looked more like a sunlit glade than the dank tent it appeared by daylight, and felt deliciously warm compared to the chill night air. Most of the court and their servants were here, milling around tables set out with every delicacy the nearby kitchens could supply: spiced tartlets, roast songbirds, and marchpane painted and gilded and shaped into a hundred fantastical forms. The centrepiece was an enormous red dragon – Arthur’s personal badge – with smoke curling up from its nostrils.
The prince himself was seated to one side of the central area, surrounded by hangers-on, including the senior members of his company of players. Some of the other courtiers were eyeing the actors with disdain, but Arthur seemed unperturbed. He laughed and joked with highborn and lowborn alike, and Mal began to see why he was so popular with the ordinary folk. More popular than his elder brother – but it took more than a dazzling smile and a name out of legend to rule a kingdom.
Mal made his way through the throng towards the prince. Perhaps this was not the best time to broach an awkward subject, but he might not get another chance to get this close to Arthur for a while. Sidestepping a rotund gentleman in scarlet velvet, he tried to slip inconspicuously into the group surrounding the prince. He needn’t have bothered.
“Catlyn!” The prince waved him over and Mal obeyed, cursing his height that made him stand out in any crowd. “For God’s sake smile, man! Anyone would think someone had died.”
“My apologies, Your Highness.”
“And sit down. I cannot talk to you up there.”
Parrish scrambled to his feet and offered Mal his cushion.
“Please excuse me, Your Highness,” the actor said. “I need to pluck a rose.”
Arthur grinned and waved him away.
“Such a polite young man,” he said as Mal sat down. “Now, Catlyn, tell me what makes you so grave. Have you fallen out of love with your wife at last?”
The prince beamed at his hangers-on, who laughed on cue.
“I am merely concerned about Your Highness,” Mal said when the laughter had died down.
“That is very touching, but I would not have you melancholy on my account. Besides, what is there to be concerned about? I am well, and the play was a resounding success!” He reached out and tousled Shakespeare’s thinning curls. “This man–” he leant towards Mal and lowered his voice to a stage whisper “–this man is a genius. Mark my words.”
The prince’s eyelids drooped as he gazed at Mal; he was already halfway to being dead drunk, by the looks of it.
“It was beyond compare,” Mal said, careful not to give his frank opinion, “but it may have earned you a new enemy.”
Arthur frowned at him.
“Signor Bartolomeo,” Mal went on, “who played Balthasar. I cannot think he enjoyed being mocked before all the court.”
“And what care I for the wounded feelings of a… of a foreign eunuch?” Arthur slurred. The hangers-on laughed again. “Really, Catlyn, if that’s all that’s bothering you, I command you to forget it this instant. Have a cup of wine and be merry!”
“Very well, Your Highness. But my heart would rest easier if I knew you had trustworthy men around you.” He doubted the prince was in any immediate danger, but one could never be too sure with Olivia. At the very least she might disturb his sleep with nightmares. Perhaps there was some way to convince Arthur to wear a spirit-guard?
The prince eyed his circle suspiciously.
“You know, you’re right,” he said in a low voice, sounding much more sober than he had a few moments ago. “Perhaps you should be my bodyguard for the night, eh?”
“It would be my honour, Your Highness.”
“Yes, yes it would.” Arthur leant back in his chair and raised his silver cup, the picture of an idle, dissolute prince once more. “Servants, more wine for my companions!”
The rest of the evening passed in a tedious meandering of conversation. Shakespeare was prevailed upon to recite one of his new sonnets, something about a lying mistress, or lying with his mistress: Mal was not clear on the details. By the time midnight rolled around most of them had drunk more than was good for them, and even the prince’s inebriation was no longer much of an act. When he stood to leave, Mal had to leap to his feet to steady him.