The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(81)

At last the Queen was ready and there was nothing left but to wait until they were summoned down to the outer ward to mount their palfreys. Some of the ladies offered to play cards with the Queen in the dining chamber, a suggestion Juliana gladly agreed to. Coby was debating whether or not to join them when a knock came at the door leading to the Wakefield Tower, on the other side of the ward. She crossed the room and opened the door a crack.

“Kit, what are you doing here?”

“Mother, can I come in?”

Coby looked around, but the bedchamber was now empty.

“Of course, sweetheart. What is it?” As Kit came through into the light, she took in his flushed features and over-bright eyes. “Have you been fighting with the other boys again?”

“No, Mother. But look what Father gave me for my saint’s day!”

He turned his slender body to display a swept-hilt sword, the very image of his father’s rapier in miniature, hanging from his left hip. Coby forced a smile. Dear Lord, how quickly they grow up!

“I hope it’s not sharp,” she said.

Kit pulled a face. “Father said it had to be blunted in case I hurt one of the princes and got sent to the Tower for good.”

“Well, he’s right. It’s not a toy. And you know your Ten Commandments.”

“I know. ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But Father has killed men, hasn’t he?”

“Only to protect the people he loves.”

“Then it’s all right for me to kill people too. If someone was hurting you, or Father, or Uncle Sandy.”

“No!”

“Then why did Father give me a sword?”

“Because it’s the mark of a gentleman to wear one.”

“Why?”

“Because lesser men are not permitted to.”

“Why?”

Coby sighed in exasperation. “Because then they would always be killing one another in the streets and God would be angry. Now run along before you’re missed.”

“Yes, Mother.” He flashed a grin at her and disappeared through the door.

So like his father. She smiled to herself, and went to sit with the other ladies. Tonight could not come soon enough.



The inner ward looked like a cross between an army muster and a fairground, hundreds of people and horses milling around in a chaotic swirl of colour and noise. Mal guided Hector into line at the top of the slope leading down to the outer ward, in the second rank of courtiers behind the King’s party. Sandy took his place at Mal’s left hand, looking less assured on his mount. They were dressed identically in dark red damask, with only Sandy’s clean-shaven chin and longer hair to tell them apart. Mal would rather have worn black, all the better to pass unnoticed on their escape from the palace, but black was the one colour that had been banned from this joyous occasion.

Below him the highest peers of the realm escorted their monarch to his coronation: the tall figure of Blaise Grey stood out at the head of the file on the King’s left, and the King’s younger brother, Prince Arthur, on the right, his copper-coloured hair bright in the morning sunlight. Robert himself looked every inch the king, draped in an ermine-trimmed red velvet cloak that fell over the haunches of his mount almost to the ground. Mal wondered idly what they would do if and when the horse relieved itself during the procession. The King could hardly walk into the abbey stinking of horse shit.

As Mal watched, the King turned to share a jest with the Earl of Northumberland and a fold of his cloak fell back. Sunlight flashed on gold-chased armour for a moment, and Mal had to blink away the spots dancing before his eyes. Armour, for a coronation? Robert seemed determined to hammer home to his subjects that they were ruled by a man once more, not a cautious old woman. He certainly sounded pleased with himself, as well he might, having gained by birth what his father and grandfather had both attempted by force and failed: the throne of England.

Behind the King, other senior courtiers rode either side of the two young princes, who were followed by their own escort of companions, including Kit. Mal smiled fondly at the sight of his son sitting so straight and proud on his little grey pony, the new sword on his hip. He noticed however that the other boys scarcely spoke to him. Had they noticed anything strange about him, or were they merely contemptuous of the son of a mere gentleman riding amongst them? Royal favour could be a two-edged sword.

At last trumpets sounded and the procession began to move out through the gate under the Bloody Tower, the horses’ hooves rattling and slipping on the ancient cobbles. Hector tossed his head, unhappy with the combination of crowds and treacherous footing, and Mal patted him reassuringly on the neck. The cavalcade turned right at the bottom of the slope, where the Queen’s party was waiting to follow behind them. Mal glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Coby, but she was probably somewhere at the back behind the Queen’s litter. Still, he was glad to know she was not far away. Perhaps after the coronation ceremony she would be able to sit with him and Sandy and Kit at the feast. It had been far too long since they ate together as a family. Too long since they had been together at all.

The procession moved slowly through the outer ward, out of the main gates and up the long causeway to the gatehouse. The lions in the menagerie watched them pass with languid amber eyes, the huge male flicking his tail idly at the flies buzzing around the bloody remains of his breakfast. From beyond the outer curtain wall of the castle came the muted rumble of voices, rising to a crescendo of cheers as the first mounted figures emerged from the shadows of the gatehouse. A few moments later Mal and Sandy rode into that same echoing darkness, and out again into the blinding light of a July morning. Mal blinked and shaded his eyes–