The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(8)
“No matter. If my father’s notebooks cannot avail me, I am certain I will find what I need in Sir Francis’s records. I swore to Prince Robert I would uncover my father’s lieutenants within the Huntsmen, and I shall.”
So that’s what all this is about: a crusade founded on misplaced filial loyalty and desperate self-preservation. Mal feigned an air of sympathy.
“Alas, my lord, if only it were that straightforward. The Huntsmen are troublemakers, to be sure, but they are mere footsoldiers, and their aim is simple: to rid England of the skraylings. The men I seek – that your father sought – have a much greater prize in mind.”
Grey’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Breaking our alliance with the skraylings is only a means to an end. The end of the Tudor line.”
“Most abominable treason! Do you have proof of this?”
“Not yet, my lord. But ever since I returned to England last summer, I have been doing everything in my power to infiltrate their ranks, starting with my late brother Charles’s associates in Derbyshire. It took a great deal of tact and guile, considering I am now famed for helping strengthen England’s alliance with the skraylings, but I have persuaded a few key men that it is all part of a longer term plan to destroy them. I’m afraid they really are very gullible at times.”
“Why have you reported none of this to me?” Lady Frances asked.
“Forgive me, my lady. I was not certain of my success until very recently, nor even of which men were truly traitors and which only idle malcontents. I would not black the reputation of any man without at least some evidence.”
“I want a list,” Grey said. “The names of everyone you have spoken to, with details of any gatherings or other potentially seditious activities they were involved in.”
“Of course, my lord.” An edited list, naturally. He was hardly going to reveal his most useful intelligence, at least not just yet. “Although their activities of late have been limited to boasting about their glorious past and drinking inordinate quantities of bad sack. With the skraylings mewed up in their camp two hundred miles away, they have little else to do nowadays.”
When they had finished supper, Grey suggested they retire to the parlour. Lady Frances excused herself, saying she was expected back at Richmond Palace early the next day, and bade both of them good night. In the entrance hall Mal tried to make his own farewells, but Grey forestalled him and steered him into the parlour, closing the door behind them.
“Let’s not beat about the bush, Catlyn,” the duke said. “I don’t like you, you don’t like me, but we have little choice but to cooperate in this matter.”
“I would be happy to withdraw from your service, my lord, if you would prefer. You can of course count on my complete discretion.”
Grey eased himself into the fireside chair. “Can I indeed? But who says I want to be rid of you?”
“My lord?”
“I need–” Grey made the word sound like it choked him to say it “–a man with your experience of Walsingham’s men. My wife… that is, my wife-to-be, has done a remarkable job of it for a woman, but it is not proper that she continue to consort with such ruffians.”
“That is why she asked me to act as her lieutenant,” Mal said.
“Indeed. And no doubt you know far more about them than she: not just their skills, but their weaknesses that our enemies could use to their advantage. Every man has his price, Catlyn.”
“I will provide you with a full report, my lord. Every particular known to me.”
“Good.” Grey rocked his cane back and forth thoughtfully. “Including your friends?”
“My lord?”
“I am well aware of your… companions. I saw them at my father’s house, and met one of them subsequently. A lad of about sixteen, and two more a little older. I believe one of them is an actor?”
“Aye, my lord. Gabriel Parrish, formerly with your father’s company of players. Though he is as much a playwright as an actor these days.”
“No matter. You will provide full and accurate details of these three, as well as the other men in Lady Frances’s service.” This time it was not a question.
“If it please my lord. Although the youngest one, Jacob Hendricks, has gone back to his family in the Low Countries, I believe. I have not seen him this past year or more.”
Grey leaned forward. “If he knows your business, he is a weak spot in our defences. All the more so since we have no control over him. In fact, I think you should recall him to your service.”
Mal was tempted to say that “Jacob” was dead, but his wife might need the disguise again some day.
“Aye, my lord.”
“You anticipate some difficulty?”
“No, my lord, but it may take some time.”
“Give it your highest priority, after making your reports on the others.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Grey waved a hand irritably in his direction.
“Enough for one night. I have much still to do.”
Mal bowed and withdrew, his thoughts already racing ahead of him to Southwark. Grey was not the only man with much to do tonight.
The Sign of the Parley stood in one of the many new streets that had spread southwards from Bankside as the suburb’s population soared. A timber-framed gatehouse with workshops either side fronted onto the street, with behind it a small courtyard, and the owners’ house beyond that. The sign that gave the establishment its name – a mailed fist clutching a roll of paper – hung over the gateway; a jest of Ned’s, but one that always gave Mal a pang of guilt. If he had not taken him to Venice, Ned would never have lost his right hand to the devourers. The brass-and-steel replacement designed by Coby was poor compensation for a man who had formerly earned his living as a scrivener, hence Mal’s sponsorship of Ned to become a master of the Worshipful Company of Stationers and his purchase of this house-cum-workshop in which his friend could practice his new trade.