The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(90)

Kit opened his eyes. His head hurt, and his back and legs were as sore as if Master Weston had taken a month’s worth of misdemeanours from his hide. And what was he doing lying on the floor? He groaned and tried to sit up.

“Ah, you are awake, little signore! Deo gratia!”

Kit squinted against the sunlight pouring through the window. Doctor Renardi was leaning over him, smiling and nodding his head. Kit shrank back.

“What happened to me? Did… did I…?” He couldn’t remember how he came to be on the floor, only that horrible feeling of sadness, like everyone he knew had died.

“It is the falling sickness, nothing worse, young master.”

“I’m not going to die, am I?”

“No, young master, you will not die, at least not of this thing.”

“But you said I had a sickness.”

“Yes, the falling sickness. Has it happened to you before?”

“No, never.”

The doctor frowned. “I shall ask your mother. Sometimes the patient is not even aware of the seizures, when they are mild.”

“Will it happen again?”

“Perhaps today, perhaps next month, perhaps never. Only God can say.”

He helped Kit to his feet. To Kit’s relief the parlour was empty.

“Where is everyone?”

“Maestro Weston took the prince and the other boys down to the portcullis room for their lesson. Now, sit quietly and take your ease, and I will make up a sleeping draught for you to take tonight.”

The doctor went into the prince’s bedchamber. A few moments later the other door opened, and Sidney poked his head round. He hesitated before slipping through the door, but came no nearer to Kit. Long moments of silence passed, punctuated by the clink of bottles and the sound of muttered Italian from the prince’s bedchamber.

“De Vere says you’re possessed,” Sidney said at last.

“Am not.” Kit pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them. “He affrighted me, that’s all.”

The other boy sidled closer.

“But you were foaming at the mouth and shaking and everything.” Sidney pulled a face. “De Vere is demanding to be allowed to go home, and if he does, I shall tell them to let me go as well.”

“Don’t leave me alone with the prince. Please, Robin.”

He’d never called Sidney by his first name before. Sidney’s face crumpled.

“I’m sorry, Catlyn. If they say I can go, I’ll go.”

Kit turned away so that Sidney couldn’t see the tears welling in his eyes. They were all leaving him. That’s why he had been so sad. It was a vision of the future. Saints had visions during their seizures, didn’t they? He hoped God hadn’t chosen him to be a saint. Most of them seemed to die horribly.



The Bull’s Head was busier than Mal had ever seen it, men crowded around every table or just standing against the walls in grave-faced knots. In part that could be blamed on the closure of the theatres lest such mass gatherings foster further sedition, which left Southwark’s actors with naught to do but drink and gossip in their favourite watering-hole. Mostly it was the natural desire of Londoners to congregate and chew over the unprecedented events of the past few days, and speculate on the likelihood of their new king living to see Christmas.

“The King’s health!” someone shouted, and raised his tankard.

Everyone within earshot followed suit; you never knew when you were being observed by one of the many informants and spies who worked for various nobles and court officials. Such as Mal and his two companions. They mingled with the crowd, stopping to talk to old friends and making new acquaintances.

“Eaton?” Mal stopped and stared at a half-familiar grizzled figure with a patch over one eye.

“The very same,” the former actor replied. “Catlyn, isn’t it? You’re quite the gentleman now, I hear.”

Mal laughed. “Who’d have thought it, eh? And you?”

“I get by,” Eaton replied. “Been working the box office for Henslowe. The missing eye fools folk into thinking I don’t see ’em trying to sneak in without paying. They’re wrong, of course.”

“And what has your good eye noticed of late?” Mal said, slipping a shilling from his pocket and rubbing it idly between finger and thumb.

“You asking me to betray my employer’s trust?”

“Not at all. I care naught for the affairs of the theatre. But you must hear things, standing at the gate every afternoon.”

Eaton grinned. “Folk do seem to think a missing eye makes a man deaf as well.”

“So…?”

“My news is stale, I fear. What with the theatres being closed and that.”

“Still, there must have been murmurs, even before last week’s tragedy.”

“Just the usual. Bread and beer prices going up, worries that they’ll go up again if we have another bad harvest…”

“Anything about the skraylings?”

Eaton shook his head. “They keep to themselves, and that’s the way most folks like it.”

“But you don’t.”

A pause. “I’m no traitor, Catlyn. One of them tried to kill the King.”

“Of course. But before that…”