The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(82)

A shot rang out, echoing around the nearby stone walls. A woman screamed. Mal urged Hector forward, towards Kit.

“The King! The King is down!”

The orderly procession dissolved into a rout, riders scattering into the screaming crowds or turning their horses back against the relentless tide of courtiers still crossing the causeway. Another shot, more muffled this time. Mal scooped a startled Kit off his pony and passed him to Sandy, then turned Hector back towards the gatehouse.

“Stop the procession!” he shouted at them. “Get the Queen and the princesses back into the Tower!”

A familiar slender figure vaulted down from her palfrey and ran to the Queen’s litter, shouting instructions at the bearers. Mal smiled. Trust his wife to take charge in a crisis. He gazed past the Queen’s party, and groaned. The causeway was blocked by dozens of liveried guards bearing partizans. They were trapped here, and who knew how many more assassins lurked in the streets outside the Tower, waiting to pick off any royal target they spotted.

“Stay here,” he told Sandy. “Get Kit into the gatehouse if you can.”

His brother dismounted and led his horse under the gatehouse arch, and Mal steered Hector through the press towards where he had last seen the princes. To his relief Northumberland had mustered a cordon of men around Edward and Henry, backing them against the blank curtain wall in the shadow of the gatehouse. Edward’s mouth was set in a taut line, as if he was readying himself for battle; Henry looked wary but calm. When the younger prince noticed Mal looking his way he smiled slowly, and Mal’s blood ran cold. Dear God, have I misjudged so badly, expecting Jathekkil to wait for his throne?

“Don’t just stand there, Catlyn!” Grey loomed over him, eyes blazing. “Get down to the quayside and commandeer the largest skiff you can find. Quickly, or the King may die.”



Kit watched his father leave, swallowing past the lump in his own throat. What was happening? Had someone shot the King? He couldn’t see much from here, even high up on his uncle’s horse. Lots of splendidly dressed men were riding back and forth, like a tapestry picture of a battle come to life, but in the stories no one ever talked about the screaming. Kit wanted to put his fingers in his ears, but that would mean letting go of the reins. He looked around for Uncle Sandy, but it was dark under the gatehouse and all the women were screaming…

Movement caught his eye, and he turned back to the scene outside the castle gates. It was too bright out there to see properly, but he thought he saw a group of men riding towards him, their faces grim. Kit drew his sword. It was all right to kill people to protect your loved ones. He gripped the hilt tighter.

“Out of the way, you addle-pated knave! Make way for the Prince of Wales!”

Kit tried to steer his horse out of the men’s path, but the gelding whinnied and stamped its feet. Kit grabbed for the mane with both hands, forgetting he was holding the sword. The horse reared as the blade slapped into its neck and Kit slid backwards, screaming – into the arms of his mother.

“There, I’ve got you.” She set Kit down on his feet and slapped Hector’s rump, sending him charging towards the princes’ party.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re doing, woman!”

“Protecting the Queen,” Kit’s mother shouted back. “Come along, Kit.”

She guided him towards a door in the archway. Prince Henry’s big sisters were already there, trying to walk and cling to one another at the same time. Kit heard a laugh behind him.

“Go on, Catlyn, go with the other girls.”

It was de Vere, Kit was sure of it, though he could not see the older boy in the darkness. He looked away, not wanting them to see his flushed cheeks. If only Father hadn’t taken him from his pony, he’d be with the princes now, not shut away with the girls. It wasn’t fair.

“Where’s Uncle Sandy?” Kit asked as his mother hurried him into the gatehouse. “I want to go back to Father.”

“And your father wants you safe in here. Come along.”



Mal jogged back up Tower Hill, pushing his way through the remaining crowds. Some of the citizenry had fled in panic, but most seemed more interested in finding out what would happen next. At last he reached a cordon of Tower guardsmen, holding back the throng with levelled partizans. One of them pointed his weapon at Mal.

“Let me through, you fool. Or would you rather the King died?”

He was saved from further argument by Lord Grey beckoning him over. The guardsman muttered an apology and let him through.

The space inside the cordon was empty but for a knot of men surrounding the King, who had been laid on his crumpled velvet cloak. All his fine armour had been removed apart from the pieces covering his right leg. The padding of deep red quilted silk covering the rest of his body looked unpleasantly like flayed flesh. Mal tore his gaze away and addressed Prince Arthur, who was kneeling by his brother.

“Your Highness?”

Arthur’s head jerked up. His fine-boned visage was pale as paper. “What is it?”

“Your Highness, I have a boat waiting to take the King to the palace.”

When the prince did not immediately respond, Blaise Grey answered for him.

“Thank you, Catlyn. Come, let us clear the way.”

Mal followed him back to the cordon. Grey shouted orders to the guards, who parted in the centre and began pushing the crowd apart, wielding the butts of their partizans against the more reluctant.