The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(77)

“You wouldn’t know a Derbyshire winter if it bowed and introduced itself. I reckon this is the first time you’ve ever been north of Islington.”

“Don’t change the subject. Are you coming down to London or not?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll give me a moment’s peace until I say yes, will you?”

Ned grinned. “You know me too well.”

“All right, all right. Give me a day to set my affairs in order, and after that I shall be entirely at your disposal.”



It took the rest of that day and most of the one after to go through his papers and make sure that his steward and foreman were well-versed in what needed to be done over the summer, but at last Mal ran out of excuses. He packed his saddlebags the following morning in a haze of dread. What if Coby refused to see him? What if she didn’t? He had no idea what he was going to say to her after all this time. And then there was Kit. Mal had visited him last autumn and found him well but distant. Was Henry winning the boy over at last?

He found Ned waiting in the stable yard, his own horse and Mal’s old gelding Hector already saddled and ready to go. Ned’s expression was guarded, as if he feared Mal would change his mind at the last minute. Mal forced a smile, surprised himself with a genuine feeling of lighthearted anticipation.

“To London!” he cried, springing into the saddle.

Hector tossed his head, glad to stretch his legs after winter idleness. Ned fell in at Mal’s side and they rode down the valley together in companionable silence. Mal recalled with a pang the many times he and Coby had ridden thus on Walsingham’s business in France. They should have stayed there and never come back to England. Then perhaps the two of them and Kit would still be together. He swallowed against the gathering melancholy, lest Ned think he had undergone a change of heart.

The weather turned colder as they went south, as if winter itself had returned to grieve for the Queen. They arrived in London one April morning to find the city quieter than Mal had ever seen it. Windows were shuttered tight against the numbing cold, rags stuffed into the cracks to keep the wind out. Rows of icicles, some more than a foot long, hung from the eaves and dripped onto the travellers beneath. The few Londoners they passed barely looked up as they hurried along on their own business, muffled in hats and hoods and the thickest cloaks they possessed.

Mal and Ned parted ways at Saint Paul’s, Ned going south to get a wherry back to Bankside whilst Mal continued westward through Ludgate and along the Strand to Whitehall. The approach to the palace was only a little more lively than the rest of the city, with a line of black-clad citizens braving the weather to pay their respects to the dead Queen. Under the gateway, torches burned in sconces even at midday and the friendly red-gold glow of braziers spilled out of the guardroom. Mal dismounted and gave his business, and Hector was led away to the stables.

Queen Juliana’s household was lodged in the same rooms as before, on the far side of the formal gardens. Mal was shown up to an antechamber, cold and echoing. He ignored the empty hearth and the benches along the tapestry-covered walls, and instead went to stand at one of the windows looking out over the Thames. Some distance to his right Westminster Stairs jutted out into the river, boats moored to poles set along either side, like the gondolas of Venice. It was there that the ambassador’s barge had been stopped and Mal himself arrested for assaulting Blaise Grey. Had it really been ten years ago? It felt like yesterday and half a lifetime, all at once.

The sound of a door opening came from his left and he turned, expecting to see a visitor leaving the presence chamber, or perhaps a servant coming to invite him in.

“My lord.” His wife curtsied deeply.

Mourning garb suited her ill, with her pale hair caught back too tight under the black lace cap.

He bowed in response. “My lady.”

They stood there for a long moment, each waiting for the other to make the next move. When did our marriage become a duel? When you took your brother’s part instead of hers, a traitorous voice in his head replied.

“I trust your journey was not too tiresome, my lord.”

“I had not expected such a frosty reception from my old home, but I shall weather it.”

More silence.

“Mina–”

She flushed a little at his use of her pet name. “I suppose you have come for a report on your son.”

“Our son.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised it was the wrong thing to say.

“Not mine. As you made very clear. And as for a report, I can tell you little more than he says in his letters. You might do better to visit him yourself.”

“I intend to do that. But…” He looked down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. “I wanted to see you first.”

When she did not answer, he glanced up – and saw her eyes shining with tears. He crossed the room in swift strides and knelt at her feet.

“Jacomina, please, forgive me. I cannot unmake my choices, so what good does it do to fight over them?”

He felt her hand on his head, then her fingers slid down his cheek and under his chin, pressing gently so that he had to look up.

“If you want to reconcile with me,” she said as their eyes met, “you will free Kit.”

He glanced towards the door and got to his feet. He had been expecting such a condition, and in truth his own heart had been urging him to do the same for a long time. What good would it do to save England or rebuild his home, if he lost everyone he loved?