The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(87)

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Good, I think you’ll make a fine companion. Kneel and swear your loyalty to me, and I’ll forgive you.”

Kit knelt and placed his hands palm together, like he had seen knights do before their liege lords in tapestries and paintings. Please, Father, forgive me. He’s the prince, I cannot refuse.

Henry clasped Kit’s hands in his own. His palms were warm against Kit’s knuckles, and yet the touch made him shiver. Kit longed to tear his hands away and run, regardless of what Henry did to him for it, but the prince had him trapped against the door.

“Do you, Christopher Catlyn, swear allegiance to me, Henry Tudor, your lord and prince, for all your days?”

“I so swear.” His voice came out barely above a whisper.

“Louder, if you will.”

“I so swear.”

“Good. You may rise.”

Kit got to his feet. He felt sure there ought to have been more words than that, something about God and a lord’s duty to protect his vassals, but Henry had always been impatient.

“Now, give me your sword.”

Kit hesitated. “It was a gift from my father–”

“And I am your liege lord now. Give it to me.”

Kit swallowed past the lump in his throat and unbuckled the belt. It almost slipped from his fingers, and he could not look up at the prince as he handed it over. Henry turned away and stared out of the window at the White Tower. Kit supposed he was dismissed, and backed towards the door.

“One more thing,” Henry said over his shoulder. “Don’t think to betray me. I can read your thoughts as you sleep, and learn your innermost secrets.”

“That’s witchcraft,” Kit said, before he could stop himself.

Henry turned, his face like thunder. “It is the divine power of princes. Or do you doubt me already?”

“N-n-no, Your Highness.”

“No, of course not.” He smiled. “You may leave us.”

Henry turned away again, and Kit scrabbled for the door latch behind him. He had never been more grateful to have lessons to go to in his life.



Palmer’s lodgings were in a courtyard off Cornhill Street, a short walk from the Royal Exchange. A sour-faced woman of middling years answered the door, looking him up and down before offering a begrudging curtsey.

“I’m looking for Nathaniel Palmer,” Mal said. He watched the woman’s reaction, but she betrayed no sign that she thought him dead.

“He ain’t here. Gone to visit one of his merchant friends, I’ll warrant.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

She shrugged. “He left the house this morning, like he often does. I said to him, aren’t you staying for the coronation, but he said he had pressing business.”

“Did he say where?”

“No.” The woman frowned. “That was the odd thing. Usually he told me where he was going and how long he would be, but this time he just said not to expect him for a while.”

“Perhaps I had better come in. This is not a matter to discuss in the street.”

“Who are you? And why should I let you into my house?”

“Sir Maliverny Catlyn, on the King’s business. And you are…?”

“Mistress Bell. His landlady.” Her eyes went wide. “This ain’t nothing to do with the shooting, is it?”

Mal nodded curtly. Mistress Bell glanced up and down the street, then opened the door wider. Her dark eyes glinted in the shadows of the passage, eager for gossip.

“So what’s Palmer done, then?” she asked as she showed Mal up a flight of stairs. “I heard it was a foreigner what shot the King, not an Englishman.”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” Mal replied. “He may not be involved at all, but it was his horse the killer was riding.”

“You think this villain knocked him on the head and made off with the beast?” She took a key from her pocket and unlocked one of the doors. “This is his room. I sweep it out once a week and collect his laundry. He’s very little trouble.”

The room was plainly furnished in sombre dark woods and woollen drapery, and as neat as one might expect of a tenant with legal training. A desk stood near the window, flanked by shelves and pigeonholes for storing great quantities of documents, all bound up with string and sealing wax. If Palmer were the assassin and had allies in this conspiracy, they had not yet thought to destroy all possible evidence. Mal smiled. This lot would keep Ned occupied for quite a while.

“What did… does Master Palmer look like?”

Mistress Bell gave a description that matched the body on Grey’s table well enough. It was not proof in itself, but better than finding out that the horse had indisputably been stolen. Mal lit a candle, took a scrap of paper from the desk and wrote a note to Grey, sealing it with a plain blob of wax. They would have to confiscate all of Palmer’s papers, and hope they contained clues to the man’s associates.

“Send this to Suffolk House, as fast as you may.” He pulled a handful of coins out of his pocket. “For your trouble.”

“That’s a lot of trouble, sir,” Mistress Bell said, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“I’m afraid Master Palmer is in a great deal of trouble. One way or another, I doubt you will be seeing him again.”