EPILOGUE
Prince Robert shaded his eyes against the setting sun as the cavalcade trotted westwards along the London road. Golden onion domes glinted to his left, stirring a hundred memories of homecomings, but first he had a visit to make. A prince who neglected his magnates stored up trouble for the future.
Both riders and horses were bone-weary, though they had gone scarcely a dozen miles today. The sucking clay mud of the Thames valley had frozen overnight into a treacherous surface of ice-slick ruts and hollows that had already claimed one animal's leg and left its rider bruised and winded. Robert pulled his furs around him and flexed his gloved fingers. Having taken over his mother's tradition of the royal summer progress, he was no stranger to hard travel, but in this weather men of good sense stayed at home. If they could.
They passed the ivory grandeur of Syon House and turned south towards Ferrymead. Behind him, Robert could hear William Bourchier, the Earl of Bath, congratulating young Josceline Percy on his eldest brother's great good fortune in acquiring both Syon House and the lovely Lady Dorothy, though the boy seemed little impressed by either. Other lesser courtiers joined in the envious chorus. Robert noted those who sounded most sycophantic; it did not do for a powerful and ancient family like the Percys to become too popular. Especially the Percys. They had not forgotten that Robert's grandfather had been made Duke of Northumberland whilst they were only earls of that county.
Wrapped in these thoughts, he paid little heed to the servants that ran to greet them as they rode into the courtyard at Ferrymead. The master of the house was not, of course, at his door to greet them, so Robert left his escort in the great hall and ascended the stair with only Bourchier and Percy in tow. He found Grey in the ancient solar, seated by the fire. The young duke was wrapped in a crumpled blue velvet robe and clutched a small, fat book as if it held the very secret of life eternal; a psalter or book of devotions, perhaps? It would be understandable, for a man who had come so near death.
"You will forgive me if I do not rise, sire," Grey said, bowing as best he could from his seated position.
Robert clapped him on the shoulder. "I cannot chastise a man for hurts gained in protecting his own father. Even if he was a traitor."
Grey winced and mumbled an apology, then rang a bell by his side. Whilst the servants hurried back and forth with flagons of hot spiced wine and currant cakes, Robert sat down opposite and took a moment to study the man he had diverted his journey to see. Grey's features were gaunt and sickly pale as from long illness, which was no more than Robert had expected, but there was an intensity in his gaze that had not been there before.
"Will you spend Christmas at Richmond, sire?" Grey asked, after the servants had left.
"That is my intent," Robert replied. "Juliana is well enough for merriment, and I am not sorry to leave the city behind for a while. You must join us, at least for the Christmas feast."
"Alas, my prince, I am…" Grey gestured helplessly at his body.
"Nonsense," Robert replied. "I'll have my men carry you across the river and all the way to the great hall if need be."
Grey inclined his head in submission. Robert picked up one of the silver cups and handed it to one of the servants to taste. After a moment's hesitation the man sipped the wine, nodded, and returned it to the prince with a bow.
"Your son is well?" Grey asked, pretending not to notice this breach of etiquette.
"Both of them," Robert replied. "There was some talk of a fever, but I dispatched a skrayling physician forthwith."
"You trust them with your son's life?"
"My second son," Robert pointed out. "Besides, they are so cowed after that business with your father–"
"I had nothing to do with that, sire, I swear!"
Grey began to tremble as if he had taken another fever.
"I believe you," Robert told him. "I loved your father, and I confess his betrayal cut me deeply. But I am willing to let bygones be bygones. If you find me your father's lieutenants amongst the Huntsmen."
"Oh I shall, sire, I promise you."
"Topcliffe is at your disposal, should you need him."
Grey sniffed. "Topcliffe is a butcher. And the leaders of the Huntsmen are too clever to reveal themselves to their foot soldiers. No, more subtle means are needed." He tapped the book on the arm of his chair. "Leave it to me, sire. I will have all the information I need, soon enough."
"Hmm. Well, I must be going. Juliana will fret if I do not arrive before dark. She thinks this country full of brigands and rebels."
Grey smiled fixedly. "I am honoured by your notice, sire." He reached for the bell.
"No matter," Robert said with a wave of his hand. "I know my way out."
He left by the east door and went down the grassy slope to the riverside. The sun was nearly on the horizon, and an iceedged wind cut through his cloak as they crossed in one of the little ferry boats.
Leaving his guards and companions behind entirely, Robert strode through the echoing halls of the palace and made his way up to his wife's private apartments. There was a familiar scent here now, a sourness that he associated with the arrival of a new babe. Though not pleasant in itself, it spoke of life and health, for which the Lord be praised.
Ladies-in-waiting bobbed curtsies as Robert passed, though some glanced up at him with mock coyness. He wondered if any of them had been praying for the princess's death in childbirth. Lady Dorothy, perhaps, hoping to escape marriage to that old goat Northumberland? Or Lady Alice, plump and doe-eyed and ripe for bedding? Perhaps he would send for her later.
"Meu príncipe!" Juliana cried, leaping up from the window seat. "How I have longed to see you again."
He kissed her on the mouth, then looked about the room.
"And where is this fine young princeling you have given me?" he asked.
Juliana beckoned to her serving women, who brought forth a bundle of creamy silks and linens with a red, wrinkled face beneath a lace-trimmed bonnet.
"My dear, this is your son, Prince Henry Vasco Dudley."
Robert reached out a hand to touch the soft pink skin. The babe opened its eyes, blinked, then its tiny fingers closed around one of his own.
"Ah, he knows his papa!" the nurse crooned.
Robert gazed fondly at his son. The smallness of these fragile creatures never ceased to astonish him, each perfectly formed fingernail a miniature counterpart of his own.
"Hail, Prince Henry," he murmured. "Mayhap one day, King Henry the Ninth of England."
The babe looked him straight in the eye. And smiled.
About the Author
Anne Lyle was born in what is known to the tourist industry as "Robin Hood Country", and grew up fascinated by English history, folklore, and swashbuckling heroes. Unfortunately there was little demand in 1970s Nottingham for diminutive female swordswomen, so she studied sensible subjects like science and languages instead.
It appears that although you can take the girl out of Sherwood Forest, you can't take Sherwood Forest out of the girl. She now spends every spare hour writing (or at least planning) fantasy fiction about spies, actors, outlaws and other folk on the fringes of society. Her Night's Masque series is set in an alternate history Elizabethan England, where the Virgin Queen married and had children while fanged and tattooed creatures from the New World walk the streets of London.
Anne lives in Cambridge, a city full of medieval and Tudor buildings where cattle graze on the common land much as they did in Shakespeare's London. She prides herself on being able to ride a horse (badly), sew a sampler and cut a quill pen but hasn't the least idea how to drive one of those new-fangled automobile thingies.
annelyle.com
Author's Note
I first came across the name Maliverny Catlyn whilst researching Sir Francis Walsingham for an early draft of this book, and knew I had to use it. The historical Catlyn was an ex-soldier in Walsingham's employ, a man who "possessed the manners and bearing… to be able to circulate freely within the higher echelons of society"*; unfortunately he was also a little old to be my swashbuckling hero, and a theatre-hating Puritan to boot! However he is a very obscure historical figure, about whom little else is known beyond what is stated above, and I was writing an alternate history after all, so I decided to make a few changes.
I divided the historical Catlyn into two characters: a forty-ish Puritan forced to work with a theatre company against his personal wishes (John Dunfell, the Duke of Suffolk's secretary), and a twenty-five year-old ex-soldier recruited by Walsingham. For the rest of Mal's background, I started with his name.
Maliverny is a name from Provence in France, and from what little I could discover through Google, belonged to a minor family of aristocracy. In Elizabethan England, it was not unknown for the upper classes to name younger sons after their mother's family: the most famous example is probably Guilford Dudley, husband of Lady Jane Grey and brother of Robert Dudley, named after his mother Jane Guilford. Hence I made Mal half-French, the son of a French heiress and an English diplomatic aide at the French Court.
From there, everything fell into place. Provence was predominantly Catholic during this period, so it seemed obvious to me that Mal would have Catholic sympathies, although I wanted him to be pragmatic enough not to be a zealot, so I decided that firsthand experience of war on the Continent had made him cynical and wary of any cause. Also, the atmosphere of paranoid xenophobia in late 16th century England means that anyone of non-English birth and/or appearance is suspect, regardless of their religion, which would help to explain why Mal's career has been patchy, and provides another source of conflict.
My Maliverny Catlyn may not be true to the historical facts, but I aim to make all my characters as true to the period as I can. It's part of the pleasure of writing the genre – and reading it.
* Hutchinson, Robert. Elizabeth's Spy Master. Phoenix, 2007.