The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(78)

“It will take careful planning,” he said in a low voice, leading her away from the door and any twitching ears on the other side. “We cannot risk our enemies so much as suspecting what we are up to, or they might threaten him.”

“How long…?” she whispered.

“I don’t know. Not until after the funeral. Perhaps not until after the coronation. If we cause trouble before Robert is crowned, the guisers might use that to their advantage.”

She nodded. “I have waited four years. I can wait four months.”

Footsteps sounded in the next room, and they stepped apart. Mal snapped a curt bow to his wife and strode to the outer door without a backward glance. Like Orpheus leaving the underworld, except that he would not risk everything for one last sight of his beloved wife’s face. More lives than their own were at stake this time.



Coby made her excuses to the queen, saying she had a headache, and fled to her bedchamber. She had been dreading this meeting ever since she had sent Ned to Derbyshire, and now it was over she was at a loss as to what to do next. She was not about to forgive Mal for what he had done, but touching him, looking into his eyes, she had very nearly weakened and kissed him. Even now she ached to run after him, tell him she still loved him… She brushed away tears with the heel of her hand. Loved him, yes, but could she ever trust him again?

“My lady?” Susanna’s voice came softly from the doorway.

Coby took a deep breath, then another, before she dared speak.

“Bring me some wine. And the tincture of valerian.”

“Yes, my lady.”

By the time the Venetian girl returned, Coby had regained a semblance of calm, but she dripped the medicine into her wine nonetheless. Taking a seat by the window she sipped the tart liquid whilst Susanna bustled about the bedchamber, folding clean linen and putting it away in the press.

Coby sighed. Only three weeks into the period of official mourning and the already tedious court routine had turned into a cage of empty ritual. Even their daily prayers felt more like a burden than a release, which only added to her guilt and frustration.

“I’m not bothering you, am I, my lady?”

“No, not at all.” Coby lowered her wine cup into her lap. “Come and sit down.”

“My lady?”

Coby waved her over, and the girl complied, perching on the edge of the window seat as if ready to flee at a moment’s notice.

“I know I have not been the best of mistresses of late,” she began, staring down into her cup, “and I am sorry for that. But I hope that one day soon all our worries will be over.”

“Master Cristoforo…” Susanna whispered.

“Yes.” She looked up and smiled. “We must be patient, as we have been these past four years, but yes, God willing my son will be returned to us.”

“But how?”

“That I cannot tell you. But I wanted you to know…” Because you are my only true friend in all this, she wanted to add. But a lady did not speak so candidly to servants. “Leave me. I think I shall sleep a while.”

When the girl had gone, Coby drained the cup and set it down on the table. A lady I may be now, but I never wanted to be one, and it has brought me no happiness. If this venture fails and we yet live, perhaps I shall become Jacob again and make my own way in the world once more. A life of poverty and peril is better than another year in this cage.



Mal did not go straight to see Kit after visiting his wife. First he returned to the Sign of the Parley, and a reunion with his brother. He was expecting the haggard appearance of a man who had been spending too much time dreamwalking, but Sandy looked surprisingly well, if a little… unorthodox. He was clean-shaven again and had let his hair grow long, even going as far as to braid a few sections as he had done when living on Sark with Kiiren.

“I take it you’ve been spending time with the skraylings,” Mal said, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“Adjaan has sailed back to Vinland with young Hretjaar,” Sandy replied. “Until her replacement arrives, the skraylings have no outspeaker, so I have been deputised.”

“The elders trust you with such a role? I thought we were abominations in their eyes?”

Sandy shrugged. “Sekharhjarret persuaded the other elders that they needed a liaison with the English more than ever, now that the Queen is dead. And none of them speak enough of your tongue to pass muster at court.”

Mal tried not to boggle at the idea of his unsubtle brother manoeuvring the tricky currents of Prince – now King – Robert’s court.

“Perhaps I can use your new-found diplomatic talents,” he said. “I want to see Kit.”

He had already decided not to bring up his agreement with Coby until after the visit. Sandy was bound to object, and Mal was not willing to wait to see his son, nor to risk arousing the guisers’ suspicions by being openly at odds with his brother.

“Now?”

“No time like the present. But dress like an Englishman, will you? We don’t want to forcibly remind Prince Henry that we’re hand-in-glove with the skraylings.”

He took his saddlebags up to his old room and washed his face, and a few minutes later Sandy appeared at the door. He had combed out his braids and was wearing a wine-red doublet and hose, knee-length riding boots and a black velvet cap.