The Prince of Lies (Night's Masque, #3)(99)

Kit twisted in the man’s arms, determined to get free, but that only earned him a sharp slap around the head. Tears pricked his eyes. If only Henry had not taken his sword from him; he could have kept it by his bed and killed the man the moment he attacked.

A creak and a splashing sound, then Kit was carried rapidly downwards. The world lurched, and Kit cried out as he was thrown through the air, landing with a painful thud in what felt like the arms of another man.

“Just the two of them?” That was the man now holding him.

“For now,” said another man, one Kit had not heard before. “Quick, before anyone sees the water gate is open.”

Kit was lowered onto a hard surface that moved under him. After a moment he realised he was in a boat. Two of them, the man had said. Then at least he was not alone.





CHAPTER XXVI



Coby inched around the roof of the Bloody Tower just inside the battlements, praying she could not be heard in the room below. There must be a way into the tower here somewhere, otherwise why build the walkway across to the inner ward in the first place? At last she reached the far side and the low turret that topped the stairwell. Her hands were shaking so much she could scarcely hold the lock-picks, never mind fit them into the lock. Putting down the tool-roll for a moment she laced her fingers together and knelt in silent prayer. When the pounding of her heart had dimmed a little, she tried the latch, just in case – and the door swung open. Part of her wanted to believe it was Providence, but at the same time she feared there must be something badly wrong if the prince’s lodgings were so ill-defended.

With a sick feeling in her stomach she went down the stair, which was so narrow her shoulders brushed both sides. Where would Kit be sleeping? In the prince’s chamber, or somewhere else? She hoped it was the latter, so she kept going down until she reached the lower floor. A lantern burned down here and she had to shield her night-adjusted eyes against its light. The stink of a garderobe somewhere nearby explained the light’s presence. Coby tiptoed past and found herself standing on a walkway above the tower’s portcullis mechanism. On the other side of the passage, two doorways led into a chamber, and a door at the end was no doubt the one that had been guarded last time she was here. Now it stood open to the night, and Coby’s feeling of dread worsened. She opened the nearest door and went in.

It took no more than a glance to confirm that the bed was empty. A chill crept over her heart. Where could the boys possibly have gone at this time of night?

“Kit?” she whispered, praying this was some prank.

Further examination only increased her anxiety. The bed had been slept in, but the bedding lay in tangled disarray and the hollows where its inhabitants had been lying were still warm.

“I thought you were done here?”

Coby whirled and dropped into a crouch, drawing her dagger. A man in black scholar’s robes stood in the doorway, squinting at her through horn-rimmed spectacles perched on a prominent Roman nose. Steel-grey eyebrows sprouted over the spectacle rims, matching his neat silver beard.

“Where is my son?” she hissed. “What have you done with him?”

“Who are you?” His accent was Italian, and he looked familiar from somewhere.

Coby advanced on him, the dagger a reassuring weight in her hand.

“Tell me where–” she broke off, not wanting to give herself away “–where the Catlyn boy is.”

The Italian shrugged. “I am not privy to His Highness’s business.”

“But you knew someone was coming here tonight. You left the doors unlocked and unbolted.”

“Yes.”

“What else do you know?”

When he did not reply, she backed him towards the portcullis mechanism.

“What else?”

He eyed the blade and licked his lips. “He’ll kill me if I say more.”

“And I’ll kill you if you don’t.” She hoped she sounded more convincing than she felt. Shooting a man was hard enough; she didn’t know if she could stab one.

“Cambridge. They were taking them to Cambridge. That’s all I know, I swear on the Madonna.”

She made a feint towards the Italian and he flinched back, giving her space to turn and run for the outer door. Behind her she could her him raising the alarm, but she ignored it, pounding down the stairs and across the inner ward to the gateway under the Bloody Tower.

She halted, panting. In the faint light of the torches it looked as though Traitor’s Gate was open. So that was how they got out. Cursing under her breath she ran along the outer ward to the rose garden. Mal was still waiting for her, and if she was quick enough they might yet catch the villains who had stolen away her son.



Mal and Ned loitered in an angle of the wall that marked the end of the south moat, just round the corner from the Iron Gate. Midnight had come and gone, and still there was no sign of his wife and son. What if they had been captured? As if in answer, a bell began clanging on the far side of the castle.

“We should get out of here!” Ned hissed.

“No, we wait a while longer,” Mal replied, clutching the curved hand-guard of his rapier so hard he almost expected the metal to bend.

Rapid footsteps echoed from the high walls of the castle. After a while a soft splashing sound came from the moat.

“What was that?”