The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(73)

“If His Highness’s servants and gentlemen of the chamber had not all abandoned him, this might not have happened,” Mal said, look round the assembled courtiers. “Whose turn was it to wait upon the Prince tonight?”

“Well, I…” Rutland looked put out. “I was under the impression that His Highness wished to be alone–”

“As did we all,” another young man put in.

“In any case the servants are always here to attend him,” Rutland said. “It is they who should be called to account.”

“I am sure they shall,” Mal said. “But first someone needs to take care of the Prince. I’m sure there must be other bedchambers where His Highness can be made comfortable for the night.”

“Of course,” replied Rutland. “I would be only too glad to surrender my own bed. Your Highness?”

Arthur looked up at last, his bloodshot eyes livid against his pale skin. “Rutland?”

“Come this way, Your Highness. My own servants will see you to bed.”

He escorted the befuddled prince out through the antechamber, leaving Mal with the younger gentlemen-in-waiting. They stared at him like rabbits confronted by a fox.

“You there,” Mal pointed to one at random. “Find the Earl of Northumberland and tell him the bad news. You, find the steward and ask him to make arrangements for the collection and storage of the body. You, fetch servants to strip this bed. His Highness will not want to lie in the sweat of a dead man.”

The three men scattered, leaving Mal with a boy of about seventeen with red-brown hair fashionably curled about his wide brow and falling to a lovelock over his left shoulder, and the beginnings of a moustache darkening his upper lip. In other circumstances Mal would have judged him handsome; right now he looked as though he was going to be sick, though whether from the sight of the corpse on the bed or merely too much sack on an empty stomach, Mal neither knew nor cared.

“Who are you?”

“D-D-Dudley North, sir. My father is Baron North. I’m down from Cambridge for Christmas.”

“Cambridge man, eh? Which college?”

“Trinity, sir.” The boy looked a little less glassy-eyed. Good. Talk of everyday matters would distract him from unwholesome curiosity about the night’s events.

“I’m a Peterhouse man, myself,” Mal said. He put an arm about North’s shoulders. “Tell me about the other gentlemen in the prince’s circle.”

The boy unfortunately had little knowledge of his companions, but in his youthful enthusiasm he rattled on about the games of cards they had played to while away the cold winter evenings, and the young ladies who had passed among the players, bestowing their favours on the winners.

“Not that I won many games,” he said mournfully, fidgeting with the lovelock.

“And what about male visitors? Did His Highness have many of those?”

“There were a few who came along with the girls, and…” North flushed. “And were used in like fashion.”

“I see. Well, don’t worry, I’m not interested in who favoured which kind of whores. I’m talking about men visiting the prince on more usual business. Or pleasure. Was anyone out of the ordinary admitted to Prince Arthur’s presence since you arrived?”

“There was one,” North said slowly. “A dark-skinned foreign fellow, like to a Moor.”

Mal breathed out. Olivia. “A young man, a eunuch singer from Princess Juliana’s household?”

“I’m not sure.” North bit his lip, staring deep into memory. “I think so.”

“Did he talk to the prince about anything in particular?”

“Poetry, mostly. And plays. I think that was it. A lot of the time they spoke in French and I’m rotten at languages.”

“Good lad, you’ve been very helpful.”

He sent North to wait in the antechamber. The servants and gentlemen-in-waiting would be back any moment, and he had not yet searched the room for other clues. Not that he expected to find anything. Olivia was too clever for that. As for the identity of her latest pawn, plenty of courtiers had visited the princess since Olivia’s arrival. Including Robert and his entire retinue. Mal cursed softly. It could be any one of a dozen men. Not that it really mattered. One did not fight the sword but the man behind it. Or in this case, the woman.



With Percy’s murder, the fragile tranquility of Juliana’s household was shattered once more. Prince Henry, only recently recovered from his fall at the tournament, was inconsolable, demanding his mother’s presence as if he were an infant once more. Kit picked up the other boy’s mood and was uncharacteristically fretful and sleepless, until Coby wondered if she should risk fetching his uncle Sandy to tend him. Perhaps it would be better to take Kit back to Southwark, away from the poisonous atmosphere at court. After all, if guiser assassins could strike even here, she and Kit would be just as safe in their own home, especially with Mal at hand to protect them. That decided it. She resolved to ask permission as soon as she caught the princess in a fair humour.

Not this morning, however. Juliana had returned from her son’s apartments in a grim mood, and had already made one lady-in-waiting burst into tears with her unkind words. Coby kept her head down and concentrated on her embroidery.

When the Earl of Northumberland was announced, Coby knew it could not be good news. A moment later the earl strode into the presence chamber, his visage as dark as his mourning garb. To Coby’s surprise he was accompanied by two guardsmen in royal livery of scarlet and gold.