The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(84)

CHAPTER XXII



Coby stared out of the gatehouse window in horror. Now that the attack was over, the full extent of the damage was all too apparent. Whilst the nobles outside the gate had been intent on protecting the King, the panic on the causeway within had been devastating. Bodies lay strewn where they had fallen in the crush; a few floated face down in the moat, having leapt over the parapet heedless of their heavy robes. Those still standing had either retreated back into the castle or had braved the gate to disperse to their homes.

“We can’t just leave them down there,” she said, turning back to the other ladies. “Some of them may still be alive.”

The ladies-in-waiting stared back at her like sheep confronted by a wolf. Only Lady Frances Grey stirred from where she had been comforting the overwrought queen.

“Lady Catlyn is right,” Lady Frances said. “It is our Christian duty to help those men.”

The duchess chose four of the least frightened-looking ladies-in-waiting, in addition to Coby, and told the rest to take good care of the Queen and the two princesses. Coby crouched by Kit.

“You can help protect the ladies, can’t you?”

Kit nodded and rested his hand on the hilt of the little sword, his brown eyes wide.

“Yes, Mamma.”

“Good lad.” Pray God it does not come to that.

She followed Lady Frances down to the guardroom.

“I shall need any clean linen you may have, and we will have to improvise litters for carrying the dead and wounded away. You–” Lady Frances pointed to one of the guards “–fetch a surgeon; there’s one in Water Lane.”

The men seemed only too glad to have orders to follow, even if they were coming from a woman.

“Now, ladies, this will not be a pleasant task,” the duchess went on. “Find the injured first, and if possible have them moved to the safety of the gatehouse. If you are not certain if a man is alive or dead, leave him for the surgeon to assess. Those that are clearly dead must be taken into the castle for laying out.”

Lady Frances led them out onto the causeway. The devastation looked less severe from down here, perhaps because they could not see all the bodies at once, but the moans of the wounded and the stink of blood and bodily wastes gave the scene a far more hellish aspect. Was this what a battlefield looked like? No wonder Mal never spoke of the years he spent soldiering.

The women picked their way among the fallen. Here nearest the gatehouse the bodies were few in number, dressed in the livery of the Queen’s household guard. Coby left the other ladies to weep and fret over the fallen guardsmen and pressed further on, to where the city guilds’ banners lay abandoned. The men here were no warriors but merchants and craftsmen, ill-prepared for a violent rout. A stout man with an alderman’s gold chain tangled in his white beard lay on his back, staring sightless at the blue sky, apparently uninjured but dead beyond question. Not far away another man lay face down and motionless, his fine robes crumpled and dusty. Coby gently turned him over. Dead also, his nose broken and bloody where he had been trampled to death. A whimper escaped her throat.

“Help me, for pity’s sake!”

She looked up and saw a man stirring, half-hidden by a red and blue banner emblazoned with leaping fish and the crossed keys of Saint Peter worked in gold thread. Coby hurried over and freed the man from the heavy fabric. He was no more than thirty, with receding hair and a face pale as whey above a gingery beard.

“I think my leg is broken,” the fishmonger wheezed, grimacing as he tried to sit up.

“Don’t move.”

Coby lifted the banner and smashed it down on the parapet of the walkway, breaking off a length of about two feet. Perfect. She repeated the process, then took out her knife and began tearing strips from a discarded silk cape. Returning to her patient, she gently bound the lengths of pole either side of his broken leg.

“That should steady it until the surgeon can treat you,” she told him.

She gave the man a final reassuring pat on the shoulder and continued with her search.



At the Tower gatehouse the guards blocked Mal’s way with crossed partizans.

“Sorry, sir, no one is allowed into the Tower without a warrant from the Privy Council. King’s orders.”

“Which king?” Mal asked, dreading the answer.

“King Robert, of course.” The warder squinted at him against the light. “Unless you know different, sir.”

“No. But you know how rumour spreads in times like these. One knows not whom to trust.”

“Quite, sir.”

Mal hesitated. “My wife and son are within–”

“Sorry, sir, no exceptions. If you have a letter for them, I’d be glad to convey it…” The man looked hopeful, no doubt expecting a little silver for his troubles.

“Alas, I have neither pen nor paper.” He looked over his shoulder at the sun, now well past its zenith. Still a good few hours until curfew. “I shall be back in all haste, with letters for both of them. Have you seen a gelding hereabouts? Chestnut, sixteen hands, white stocking on his near hind fetlock? I rode him in the procession, but I was called away on the King’s business.”

“A fair few beasts was rounded up, sir. Can’t remember all of them.”

An idea came to him. “What about the horse the assassin was riding?”