The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(97)

A search of the room produced a couple of worn pennies with which to play shove-groat on the top of one of the chests, though it wasn’t really smooth enough, and then he lost one of the coins when it skidded off and rolled into a crack in the floorboards, so that was the end of that. After what felt like hours, Master Weston sent Sidney to call him to supper, and Kit was never so glad to see the other boys in his life, even de Vere.

When supper was over, Doctor Renardi made more of his sleeping draught and sent both the younger boys to bed. To Kit’s surprise the doctor brought two cups to their chamber.

“You both need your sleep,” he said, “and you, Master Sidney, will disturb Master Catlyn less if you sleep soundly.”

Sidney folded his arms. “Take it away. You’re trying to poison us, like you did Prince Edward.”

Kit looked doubtfully at the cups, then at Doctor Renardi. “It was all right last night.”

“It is not poison, Master Sidney. See?” The doctor took a sip from one of the cups. “Now drink up.”

“What’s in it?” Sidney wrinkled his nose as he took the one that Renardi had drunk from.

“Chamomile and a little valerian.”

“It’s really not horrid.” Kit took a gulp of the warm, sweet liquid. “There’s honey too.”

The doctor waited until they had both emptied their cups, then left them to undress.

“I hope I’m allowed to do lessons tomorrow,” Kit said, climbing into bed.

“I wish I could swap places with you. I hate Latin.”

“Perodi linguam Latinam,” Kit translated.

Sidney giggled. “You see? You’re much better at it than me.”

The bed-ropes creaked as Sidney got in and the two boys lay in silence, their usual squabbles over cold feet and farts forgotten. Kit pulled the covers up to his chin and prayed for the sleeping draught to work quickly. Tomorrow couldn’t be any worse than today.



“I want to help,” Sandy said, barring Mal’s way out of the kitchen.

It was a childish gesture, one that took Mal back to old arguments won – and lost. He laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder and looked into his dark eyes, wondering if there was anything really left of Sandy in there, or if Erishen had taken over entirely.

“And you can. By going to Deptford. If there’s a single skrayling vessel left that can carry us out of England, you are the best person to approach her captain.”

Sandy nodded slowly, as if digesting this. You made me wait for this, Mal could not help but think. Now it’s your turn.

“So,” he said aloud, “can I get on with my own business?”

Without waiting for a reply he gently pushed his brother aside and headed up the stairs. A moment later footsteps followed him.

“But I could transport Kit out of the Tower in the blink of an eye,” Sandy said as he caught Mal up in the parlour. “You wouldn’t need to go to all this trouble.”

“Could you? With our enemies right there?”

Sandy opened his mouth to speak, but Mal held up a hand to silence him.

“Don’t be a fool, Sandy. If anything went wrong, I could lose you as well as Coby and Kit.”

His brother sagged, defeated. Mal closed the space between them, embraced him.

“It won’t be long now,” he murmured. “Just a few more hours, and we’ll all be free.”



That night Coby went to bed as usual with the other ladies, but just before midnight she rose and silently dressed in her boy’s attire that Mal had thoughtfully included in the bundle of clothing. Her lock-pick roll went into one pocket, a purse of coins and jewellery in the other, and she tucked a sheathed dagger into the back of her belt, just in case. Last of all she fastened a spirit-guard around her throat, since there was a chance she might have to face Prince Henry or even Olivia tonight.

With her shoes in her left hand she padded down the stairs to the dining room in her stockinged feet. Now came the hardest part. In order to get to the walkway she had seen, she would have to go through the Queen’s bedchamber. She tiptoed through the small parlour and up the steps, and pressed her ear against the door. To her relief she heard snoring. Hardly daring to breathe, she eased the latch down and opened the door just wide enough to slip through.

The Queen’s bedchamber was pitch dark, the air thick with the smell of a used chamberpot. Coby sidled along the wall furthest from the bed, groping for the door that she knew was there. At last her fingers met wood studded with nail heads.

The bed creaked.

“…and don’t do that again…”

Coby froze, heart pounding fit to burst out of her chest.

The voice died away into a mumble. Coby offered up silent thanks; it was only one of the ladies-in-waiting talking in her sleep. She opened the second door as quietly as the first and closed it behind her, then groped her way up the stairwell to the floor above. The scuff of boots on the outer wall-walk betrayed the guards’ patrols, but she had become accustomed to their patterns after more than a week in the Tower. Far fewer guards patrolled the inner ward. After all, no one expected an attack from within.

The door to the walkway leading into the Wakefield Tower was locked but not bolted, for which she was vastly grateful. It suggested that the door at the other end might be similarly secured; if it were bolted from within, she would have to rethink her route. She knelt and unrolled her tools, and soon had the door open.