The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(72)

“Good man,” Arthur mumbled, patting his hand. “Now, shall we to bed?”

A few of the courtiers made obscene remarks and gestures at this, which Mal laughed off, though he hoped the prince had not meant it literally. It would not do to offend the brother of the heir to the throne.

As they weaved their way through the crowd, Mal expected some of the prince’s circle to fall in behind them. Some of them, surely, must be his gentlemen of the chamber? But they emerged into the frosty night air alone. Perhaps they had taken their master’s comment seriously, and were allowing him some privacy? Mal began rehearsing a polite but heartfelt refusal.

Arthur sobered up somewhat in the cold and walked steadily through the gatehouse, turning left into the gardens that fronted the Prince’s lodgings. Mal followed him down the gravel path, one hand on his rapier hilt, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, but they reached the entrance to the royal apartments unchallenged.

Mal had to help Arthur up the narrow winding stair and open the door one-handed whilst keeping his other hand under the prince’s elbow. The last thing he needed was for his charge to take a tumble and break his head. That would play far too nicely into his enemies’ hands.

The antechamber beyond was dark and empty. He paused, suspicious.

“Should there not be attendants, Your Highness? At least a page waiting, to summon them at your need?”

“Is no one here?” Arthur peered around the room. “Haslingfield? De la Pole?”

There was no reply, nor even a footfall or sleep-fuddled groan. Mal retrieved a candle from a niche by the door and found flint and tinder to light it. The small glow did little to light the room.

“Stay behind me, Your Highness.” He drew his rapier, holding up the candlestick in his left hand out of his line of sight.

The door of the prince’s bedchamber stood ajar, but no light showed. Mal nudged the door wide open with his foot. This room was as empty as the last, the scarlet-curtained bed a massive presence against the far wall.

“It seems your servants are a-merrymaking, Your Highness,” Mal said loudly. He guided Arthur to a chair. “Sit down, if you will, my prince. I shall call for a page.”

He did no such thing, but padded across the rugs to the bed, slid the point of his rapier between the curtains and eased the heavy fabric aside. In the dim light of the candle he could just make out a pale shape lying on the coverlet. A mistress, fallen asleep waiting for her lover to return? He drew back the curtain – and froze. It was no woman lying there, but a man, naked as a newborn babe, his head thrown back so that his face could not clearly be seen. Perhaps the courtiers’ jibes were not so far off the mark.

Mal was about to call the prince over when he realised the man was not moving. Not even breathing. He pulled the curtains aside to get a better view. Sweet Jesu! It was Josceline Percy; and judging by the line of bruises around his throat, he had been strangled.

“What is it, Catlyn?” Arthur called out. “Where is that young scoundrel of a page?”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, it seems that someone has decided to play a foul jest at your expense.” Yours. Or mine. “Stay there, I will go and find a servant.”





CHAPTER XIX



Having found a sleepy page and put the fear of God into him, Mal swiftly examined the body before anyone could come and disturb the evidence. The bruises round Percy’s neck formed a series of small circular indentations, suggesting he had been strangled with a string of beads. A rosary perhaps, but if Mal’s suspicions were correct, more likely a spirit-guard. In which case, Josceline Percy was unlikely to be reborn to trouble them in future.

The question was, who had committed the murder, and how had they persuaded Percy to come here? Carrying a body through the palace would have been far too conspicuous. No, he must have come here on his own two feet, probably willingly, and been killed right here. Afterwards the murderer had stripped the corpse and carried away the clothing. That suggested he – and it seemed most likely to have been a man, since Percy was neither old nor feeble – had been disguised as a servant. Another of Olivia’s assassins? Or one of the English guisers, perhaps someone fearing that Percy had gone too far at the tournament and exposed them all. But then why leave it so long, and why leave his corpse in Prince Arthur’s bed? No, Olivia was the most likely culprit. Not that he could prove anything. Though he had no idea where the former courtesan had been all evening, he did not doubt she had been careful. She had survived too many intrigues in Venice to make a foolish mistake now.

His deliberations were interrupted by the arrival of several young courtiers, the same men who had hung back earlier and allowed Mal to escort the prince alone. Had they been bribed or coerced into doing so? It seemed too much of a coincidence otherwise – and he had walked right into the trap. Or perhaps he had just been a convenient scapegoat, and one of them would have had to draw the short straw if he had not turned up.

“What’s going on here? Your Highness?” The Earl of Rutland strode across the chamber and halted with a curse, his yellow mustachios bristling. “What is this wickedness?”

“We found him like this,” Mal said. “I found him–”

Rutland’s eyebrows twitched. “Catlyn again. Well, well.”

Time to take charge of the situation, before Rutland ordered his arrest.