Life at court did not come to a standstill, however, whilst Mal waited for his friends to return. The Prince of Wales had announced that his younger son would be breeched on his next birthday, and that a tournament would therefore be held in the little prince’s honour, in addition to all the usual court ceremonial. The Princess of Wales had of course come back to London for the occasion, and Mal had at last been able to join his wife and son in their guest apartments at Whitehall Palace.
“What’s beeching, Daddy?” Kit asked as they set off for the tiltyard.
Mal smiled. “Breeching. It’s when a boy is put into grownup clothes.”
Kit nodded. “Will I be beeched, um, breeched?”
“Soon. When you’re old enough.”
“How old?”
“Perhaps when you’re five, like Prince Henry.”
“I’m three an’ a quarter.” Kit looked up at him with wide brown eyes. “I’m a big boy.”
“I know. Now watch where you’re walking. We don’t want you falling down the stairs, do we?”
At the Holbein Gate they had to wait with the other minor courtiers whilst an army of heralds and palace servants guided all the spectators to the correct seats.
“Sir Maliverny Catlyn,” he said to the steward when they reached the gateway. “And family.”
“This way, sir. Gentlemen’s seats on the left.”
They followed the steward’s directions, past a great canopied stand where the Prince and Princess of Wales were enthroned. Prince Arthur sat at his brother’s right hand, along with senior courtiers including the earls of Northumberland and Essex, and in front of them the birthday boy himself, Prince Henry, resplendent in… full armour? Mal stared for a moment, slack-jawed, then remembered himself and looked away.
They found Sandy already seated about halfway up the stand, glaring at anyone who tried to sit too close to him. He broke into a smile at the sight of Kit, but when the boy did not immediately run to him like he used to do, the expression on his face was heartbreaking. We did the right thing, Mal told himself, and forced a smile as he took his own place, next to his wife. She had tactfully placed Kit on the bench between herself and Sandy.
“Prince Arthur’s idea, no doubt,” Mal muttered to her, nodding towards the lists below. “He does like to remind people how much he takes after his grandfather.”
“Did you see Prince Henry all in armour?” Coby whispered. “I thought this was an entertainment for his benefit. He is participating?”
“Looks like it. And his older brother too. See, there’s Edward, by the tents.”
He pointed to the competitors’ pavilion, where eight year-old Prince Edward, likewise clad head to foot in plate armour, was talking animatedly to a man whom Mal did not recognise.
“That sounds somewhat rash,” Coby said, “to risk both the Prince’s heirs like that. What if one or both is hurt?”
What indeed? A simple accident, and Prince Henry would be heir to the throne after his father’s death. Mal’s hand strayed to the hilt of his rapier. He should stop this, before something terrible happened. But who would listen? He could hardly denounce Prince Henry before the crowd, not if he wanted to keep his own head.
Trumpets blared, and Mal’s heart turned over in his chest. He had never cared much for jousting, but too much was at stake today.
“I want to see, I want to see!” Kit bounced up and down ineffectually.
Coby lifted the boy up onto the bench, steadying him with a hand around his waist. “There, see the horses now?”
To Mal’s relief the first jousters were adults: the Earl of Southampton, and… He frowned at the banner. The Earl of Rutland? Were the guisers out in force today, or was Manners simply showing off in front of his betrothed? The two combatants trotted up to the royal stand and saluted the Prince of Wales, their blued-steel armour flashing in the rich autumn sunlight. Hours of painstaking craftsmanship, costing hundreds of pounds, only to dent and scratch it for an afternoon’s entertainment. Mal supposed a lack of concern for such matters was what separated the nobility from a mere gentleman commoner like himself.
The two earls wheeled their mounts and cantered to opposite ends of the list. Trumpets sounded again, the herald lowered his flag and the riders kicked their horses into a gallop, thundering towards one another down the narrow field. The ground trembled under their passing hooves, and the crowd held its collective breath until the moment of impact. The lances clashed and shivered into splinters and the crowd roared.
Mal turned to his son. Kit was staring silently at the Earl of Southampton, who rode past with shattered lance held high.
“Why are the men fighting, Daddy?” he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.
“It’s just a game, pet. They’re showing what good riders they are, to stay on their horses even when they’ve been hit.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, no one will get hurt.” God willing.
Southampton and Rutland made two more passes, equally without mishap, though Rutland won the bout for breaking all three of his lances to only two of Southampton’s. They trotted back to the royal stand and saluted the princes again. Prince Henry sounded happy as he congratulated Rutland in his piping child’s voice, but the formal words robbed the exchange of any personal meaning. Damn it, there had to be a better way to identify their enemies! If only they bore a mark, like witches were said to do, or had some vulnerability that was simple to test. As it was, a guiser bound in iron was indistinguishable from any other human. Bound in iron. Or steel. Such as armour…
A shiver of horror and hope ran over Mal’s skin. If Prince Henry died jousting, Jathekkil might be destroyed. He looked across at Sandy, who frowned slightly. Mal leaned around behind Coby to whisper in his brother’s ear, but his words were drowned out by another fanfare. A squire dressed in royal livery brought a pony up to the stand, and Prince Henry was escorted down to it by his uncle. Prince Arthur hoisted the boy into the saddle from the offside, being careful to avoid the large shield that had been affixed to the saddlebow. So, they were taking no chances after all.
Prince Henry shook the reins and kicked his armoured heels, and the pony trotted to the far end of the lists. At the other end his brother already waited, his face serene. Had he been bewitched, to ensure his youthful enthusiasm did not get the better of him – or to ensure that it would? The two boys’ ponies broke into a canter. Ten yards… five… and they were past one another, without a point having been scored. Just a warm-up pass, then. He breathed out unsteadily.
The princes turned in unison and couched their lances for a second pass. With their visors down, neither boy’s mood could be judged. Mal motioned wordlessly to Coby. Taking the hint she pulled Kit closer, ready to hide his face if things went amiss.
Again the ponies cantered down the long narrow space, their riders barely able to see over the barrier between them. This time as they clashed, their lances struck home, impacting their shields. Prince Edward gave a muffled whoop as he rode past, but the buffet had been too much for Prince Henry and he slid from the saddle. The crowd’s roar of approval turned to cries of anguish, but one voice rose above them all.
“Amayiiii!”
A slight figure vaulted down from the royal stand and ran to the prince, skidding to a kneeling halt over him. Stewards and squires ran up, surrounding them, but for a few brief moments Mal’s view was clear, and he locked gazes with the young man who had cried out. It was Josceline Percy.
Mal exchanged glances with his brother. Kit was watching the scene wide-eyed and silent.
“We could hardly have planned it better ourselves,” he whispered. “Now we know another of them.”
“You think this was our enemies’ doing?”
Mal shrugged. “I cannot see the purpose in it, but who else would be able to convince Prince Robert to put his sons’ life in danger?”
The news was soon announced: Prince Henry had suffered a broken collarbone. This was not immediately life-threatening, but in Mal’s experience a severe fracture could lead to infection and even death. On the other hand the royal physicians often had some training in skrayling medicine, so the likelihood of the prince recovering was good.
Nevertheless the rest of the tournament was cancelled, and the crowd slowly dispersed amid a rumble of gossip. All attention seemed to be on the two young princes, of course; no skraylings had been invited to the event, not even Outspeaker Adjaan, so no one outside Mal, Sandy, Coby and the guisers themselves was likely to have any idea of the significance of Josceline Percy’s outburst.
“Take Kit to bed, but come and find me later when he’s asleep,” Mal told Coby. He turned to his brother, “Perhaps you’d better go with them, in case this accident sets off a fit.”
Sandy nodded and lifted Kit onto his shoulders, the better to avoid being trampled by the throng.
Mal bade his son good night and watched until the three of them had disappeared through the gatehouse, Kit swaying on his uncle’s shoulders as he pretended to aim a lance at the guards’ partisans. Mal smiled ruefully. Children forgot so quickly; they did not brood over upsets like their elders were prone to do. He turned on his heel and headed for the Prince’s lodgings. Little Henry had no doubt been conveyed to his apartments there, as soon as the court physician had ascertained he was in no immediate danger.
Most of Prince Robert’s household were gathered in the great hall, standing around in knots with grave expressions on their faces. Mal passed through the crowd, but the one face he was seeking was absent. Most likely Percy was with his amayi, ready to see him through another rebirth should things go badly. Mal didn’t envy him; no doubt the little prince was surrounded by his mother and her women, fussing and weeping and getting in everyone’s way. He just hoped Coby could get away from her duties soon. He needed someone to talk this over with, someone clearer-headed than his brother.
He circulated among the courtiers for a little longer, but learned nothing new. No one dared blame Prince Robert for letting his sons indulge in such a dangerous activity, so everyone else connected with the tournament came under scrutiny: the armourers for failing to make the shields large enough, the master of arms for not training Prince Edward properly, even Prince Henry’s pony for not bearing him safely. Mal soon left them to their pointless arguments and went up to his own room to await Coby’s return.
The household being in chaos, he hailed the first servant he saw and ordered the man to bring up some supper and a flagon of wine. The hearth in his room was cold, so he laid a new fire himself and had it underway by the time the servant appeared with bread, a wedge of veal pie, and a half-burnt apple and cinnamon tart.
“Sorry, sir,” the man said, setting them down on the table. “We had everything going for His Highness’s birthday supper, and then this…”
“No matter.” Mal gave him a penny and sent him on his way.
Rain had set in, rattling against the windowpanes and creeping through the gaps to pool on the stone sill. The fire crackled to itself in the silence of a palace holding its breath for fear of bad news on the heels of the good. Mal finished off the tart – gratifyingly tasty despite the burnt bits – and licked the crumbs from his fingers, leaning back in his chair by the fireplace. Better to rest now; unless the prince died, it would be some hours before he was needed again.
It seemed only moments later that he jerked awake. Someone was knocking softly at the door. He leapt to his feet, crossed the room in a few swift strides and opened the door, expecting to see his wife.
“Catlyn? May I come in?”
Mal hesitated. Well, he had wanted to speak to Josceline Percy in private. He just hadn’t expected Percy to come to him.
“Very well.” He stood back and opened the door to admit his visitor.
The younger man looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week. Stubble darkened his jaw either side of a once-neat beard, and his skin was as grey and clammy as a day-old corpse. Mal closed the door behind him and leant back against it, arms folded.
“So, what brings you here at this time of night, sir? Is there some bad news about Prince Henry?” Feigning ignorance would not fool Percy for long, but Mal wasn’t about to admit to anything he didn’t have to.
Percy crossed to the table, poured himself a cup of wine and took several large gulps. A little colour returned to his face.
“This is all your fault,” he said, glowering at Mal.
“Mine? Why, what have I done?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Catlyn. I know what you are. And I think you know what I am.”
“You are weary and distraught, sir. And who would not be, after such a day?”
“Such a day indeed. You brought this upon us–”
“I? You blame me for today’s accident? It was not I who suggested letting the princes joust.”
“No. It was that… creature.” Percy took another swig of wine. “The one you unleashed upon us.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh I think you do. I’ve heard all about what happened in Venice. You made a powerful enemy, and now he’s here for revenge.”
“Ah. You mean Bartolomeo Pellegrino?”
“Yes, I mean Pellegrino.” Percy approached until he was almost nose-to-nose with Mal, his wine-scented breath puffing up into Mal’s face with every syllable. “It’s your fault he’s here, so what are you going to do about it?”
“Why should I do anything? It looks to me like he’s doing my job for me.”
“Your job?”
“Ridding the kingdom of you usurping villains.”
Percy’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment his lips drew back in a snarl like a dog’s. Mal held his breath, expecting the guiser to fly at his throat, but at last Percy regained his composure.
“And what do you think he’ll do when he’s finished with us? Leave you and your brother in peace and go back to his little republic?”
“I was rather hoping the two sides would wipe one another out, and save me the trouble,” Mal said, feigning more confidence than he felt. The possibility of having to take on the victor of this civil war was not appealing.
“Pellegrino betrayed us both, you know. You were supposed to die in that alley, and me with you.”
“Then it’s lucky for you I know how to handle myself in a fight. My lord.”
They locked eyes, and Mal’s fingers itched to draw his blade, but killing Percy now would only be doing Olivia a favour. After a long moment Percy breathed out heavily and took a step backward.
“Think about what I have said, Catlyn. I have money, and powerful friends.”
“Is that a threat, sir?”
“Or an invitation. Depending on your answer.”
“Then I will bid you goodnight, sir,” Mal said, moving aside and putting a hand on the latch. “I’m sure your beloved prince will be wondering where you’ve got to.”
Percy pushed past him.
“If he dies,” Percy said in a low voice, “I will personally hunt you both down, you and your brother, and tear that abomination Erishen’s soul from your screaming bodies.”
Mal said nothing, only opened the door and ushered him out with a curt bow. He waited for several moments, listening to Percy’s footfalls fade down the stairwell, then quietly slid the bolts into place and went to refill his own cup. His hands shook just a little as he poured the wine.