CHAPTER XVIII
The prince did not die, thank the Lord, but his household remained at Whitehall for the rest of the year, as did his mother’s. No news had come from the glass importer about the shipment of alchemical equipment, so Mal was able to spend a few quiet weeks with his family once more. Ned and Gabriel arrived from Sark at last, and the house rang with laughter and the raucous singing of bawdy French ballads, though Mal caught Ned looking grave whenever Parrish left for a rehearsal.
“Don’t fret,” Mal told him, “the guisers have worse things to worry about these days than you and me. Olivia’s arrival has thrown them into complete disarray.”
“And what happens if – when – she brings them all under her thumb?”
“We came close to beating Ilianwe before,” Sandy said, looking up from his book. “With the skraylings’ help, we can defeat her for certain.”
“The skraylings don’t want to help us,” Mal reminded him. “They’d rather sit back and watch us fight it out.”
“Are you boys arguing again?” Coby stood in the kitchen doorway, dressed in her best gown and clutching a ruff in one hand. “Where’s my goffering iron? And why aren’t you all dressed yet? It’s a good half an hour to the palace and the play starts at five.”
Mal scrambled to his feet and headed upstairs, glad to get out of the conversation. The thought of their enemies uniting under Olivia was too horrible to contemplate, and yet he could not see any way to prevent it, short of allying himself with Percy against her. And that cure was even worse than the disease. At least a play would be a distraction for an hour or two.
The great hall had been set up like a theatre, with a stage at one end and rows of benches, crammed with courtiers dressed in Christmas finery, filling the rest. Mal and Coby found places near the back, wedged between an elderly man in a faded black doublet and hose that perhaps had been new when the Queen came to the throne, and a young couple who were far more interested in flirting with one another than in the entertainments.
Sandy had declined attending, saying he took no pleasure in playgoing without Kiiren to share it with, and Mal had left his brother behind with a heavy heart. At first he put on a merry face for his wife's benefit, but the laughter of the audience only seemed to sour his mood further, so he distracted himself by turning his attention to the royal party seated at the front of the hall. Little could be seen of the Queen or her two sons, whose high-backed chairs blocked the view of the unfortunate courtiers behind them, nor could he see her young grandsons over the heads of the crowd. He knew they were there, however, and he was most interested in seeing whose eyes turned that way more often than to the stage. His efforts were thwarted, however, by nine year-old Prince Edward, whose frequent loud observations on the play attracted the looks and amused comments of those about him.
His attention was drawn back to the stage by the entrance of Will Shakespeare, Gabriel Parrish and another actor he did not recognise, speaking of music. A few moments later Olivia stepped out of the wings, accompanied by the strains of music from a hidden lutenist.
“Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again,” said the unknown actor.
“O, good my lord,” Olivia replied, “tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.”
After several more such exchanges, which brought gales of laughter from the audience, the musician Balthasar was prevailed upon by his master to comply.
“A fine jest,” Mal muttered to his wife.
“Or an unkind jibe at Princess Juliana,” Coby whispered back.
“You think so?”
“To have her favourite singer mocked before all the court, even if only in pretence? Yes, I think it a calculated insult.”
“But not of Shakespeare’s doing, surely?”
“You would have to ask Parrish that. He might know.”
The musician struck up again, and Olivia began to sing: “Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever…”
“That is true enough,” Coby muttered, staring straight ahead.
Mal bit his tongue. He was not going to get into a quarrel with his wife here, and attract the ire of Her Majesty.
Thankfully the song was soon over, and Olivia departed. There followed some nonsense involving a plot to bring together a young man and woman who despised both love and one another. A fool’s errand, if you ask me. Trouble enough comes when a man and woman love one another from the outset.
The rest of the play did not improve his mood, and he was relieved when the villain was unmasked, the lovers reconciled and at last all was over. He joined in the applause, however, after his wife glared at him. The actors gave their last bows, then Her Majesty rose and led the way out of the hall to the nearby banqueting chamber. The rest of the court followed in order of precedence, meaning that Mal and Coby had to wait until almost everyone else had left.
“Attend upon Her Highness,” Mal whispered. “I think I shall speak to the actors, as you suggested.”
Before she could protest he turned away and leapt up onto the stage. A few strides took him across the narrow space and through the curtains into the makeshift tiring-house beyond. A few of the actors turned to stare at him.
“I’m looking for Gabriel Parrish,” he said, peering over the heads of the throng. There was no sign of Olivia, but he did not really expect it: Balthasar had appeared in only the one scene.
“Here, Catlyn!” Parrish waved a hand from the other side of the room.
Mal pushed his way through the actors.
“Can we talk?”
“Of course.” Parrish handed him a silk doublet. “Hang that up over there, will you? There’s a love.”
Mal raised an eyebrow but did as he was instructed. Parrish pulled the shirt over his head and threw it onto the nearby bench.
“Well, what did you want to say?”
“In private, if we may…?”
Parrish shrugged. “If you must. Though there’s few secrets that escape this lot for long.”
“Only because you can’t keep your mouth shut, Angel,” one of the other actors shouted.
“Ignore him, he’s only jealous,” Parrish said to Mal in a stage whisper.
Mal lowered his own voice. “This is business, Parrish.”
“Oh.” The actor winked at him, then added more loudly, “Well, if you’d said that in the first place, love… I’m sure I can make an exception for a handsome fellow like you.”
The tiring-house erupted in laughter. Mal stared at the wall, playing the part of the embarrassed admirer. Truth was, once upon a time he would have taken pleasure in the proximity of a half-naked man, especially one as handsome as Gabriel Parrish. Now, though, he was married and content, and Gabriel belonged to Ned, as much as any man could belong to another. Still, he stole a glance or three as Parrish stripped to his drawers and dressed in his own clothes. Just for the look of it, of course.
Parrish brushed the sleeves of his doublet, picked up his hat and took Mal’s arm.
“Come along then, dear. I know just where we can get a bit of peace and quiet.”
He steered Mal out of the tiring-house, through a servants’ area where dishes waited before being taken through into the dining hall, down a flight of stairs, across a passageway and up two more flights of stairs to a low door.
“It’s just an attic room,” Parrish said in far more business-like tones as he showed Mal inside, “but well away from flapping ears. I checked it very thoroughly when I arrived; no one will hear a thing.”
“Afraid someone’s spying on you?”
“That too,” the actor replied with a hint of his earlier insouciance, and threw himself down on the bed. “So, what can I do you for?”
Mal leant against the wall, for want of anywhere else to sit.
“Shakespeare’s new play…”
“‘Much Ado’? It’s good, isn’t it? Of course he has to go and set it in Italy, despite never having been there. I blame myself, of course, I’ve been telling him so much about my time in Venice and Spalato–”
“Parrish, I don’t care if the play is set in Italy, Egypt or the court of the Great Khan himself. When did he write it?”
The actor frowned at him. “Why, is it important?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think it were.”
“Oh. Yes. Well, he started it last year, before Ned and I went away. I’m pretty sure that was when I first heard him mention the idea. But that was just the seeds of it, because he was working on Henry the Fourth as well, and having a beast of a time with Falstaff’s speech, and then Kemp went and left…”
“So he wrote it recently?”
“Not that recently. He’s been saving it for a special occasion. I know he wanted to rewrite a few scenes but he hasn’t had time, what with everything else happening–”
Mal sighed. Parrish was full of information, but getting it out of him could take a while.
“Did anyone else contribute to the play? I know you’ve mentioned collaborations before.”
Parrish shook his head. “Not on this one, not to my knowledge.”
“So no one changed any of it at any point?”
“Well, if you mean did we say every line exactly as written, then no. The clown always has licence to improvise, though Will is less patient than most with other men’s embroiderings. And of course someone always forgets his lines and the rest of us have to make it up until we can get it back on track.”
“But the scene about Balthasar being a poor singer; that was Shakespeare’s work?”
Comprehension dawned on Parrish’s face. “You think someone was taking a swipe at Olivia?”
“Could be.”
“No. I saw the script in its first draft, from before ‘Bartolomeo’ arrived at court, and the part of Balthasar was as you heard it. Shakespeare seldom changes things once written.”
“If it was not the script, perhaps the malice lay with whomever assigned the role.”
“That was not Shakespeare, I can vouch that he was most vexed about it.”
“Then who?”
“Burbage, most likely. He’s our manager, and running a theatre company isn’t cheap, even with the Prince’s patronage. I dare say anyone with the chinks to spare could have persuaded him to do it.”
Even as Coby ascended the stairs to the princess’s apartments, she could hear raised voices. None were shriller than that of “Signor Bartolomeo”, who was cursing and spitting like a kettle come to the boil. The fact that no one else understood the stream of Italian invectives did not lessen its impact. Coby winced as she slipped through the door, unseen behind a wall of brocade skirts and wired gauze headpieces that stood out like butterfly wings.
“I am sure no offence was meant, sir.” Princess Juliana sounded on the verge of tears herself. “Everyone there was enchanted by your singing. The jest was on Don Pedro, for having such a poor ear for music.”
Coby moved to stand by one of the bedposts, where she could see around the curtains but not easily be seen by the actors in this new drama.
“You truly think so, Your Highness?” Olivia looked decidedly calm, considering her recent outburst.
“I am sure of it,” Juliana replied. “Don’t you agree, ladies?”
The ladies-in-waiting chorused their agreement. They reminded Coby of nothing so much as an aviary of songbirds, pretty but useless.
“Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but I disagree,” said Lady Derby. All heads turned to stare at her.
“Explain.”
“Well…” Lady Derby cast a glance at Olivia. “Surely someone knew it would be taken as an insult. Signor Bartolomeo may not have seen the whole script, but others must have done. The playwright himself, of course, but also the Master of the Revels, and probably the actors’ patron.”
“Do you accuse my brother-in-law of plotting this jest at my expense?”
The ladies fell silent, and most of them suddenly found something more interesting to look at. Like the floor.
“Oh no, Your Highness,” Lady Derby said quickly. “I accuse no one.”
Princess Juliana stared at her former lady-in-waiting for a long moment. Perhaps thinking no one was looking at her, Olivia smiled, her pupils dilated like those of a cat that has spotted a mouse within pouncing distance. Coby shrank behind the bed-hanging, her fingers tightening on the rough woollen fabric. Whether it had been Olivia’s scheme from the beginning or not, this was all going just the way the guiser wanted it. She slipped back out of the presence chamber and went in search of her husband.
“You’re sure?” Mal whispered.
“Yes,” Coby replied. “Whether Arthur did it or not, that’s what Olivia wants everyone to think.”
“But why? Is he another of them, like Percy, that she must overthrow if she is to rule the kingdom?”
“Surely not. If he were, why would Jathekkil have been so desperate to reincarnate as Prince Henry? Better to take another host, any host, so that Arthur could seize the throne and murder his nephews like wicked King Richard.”
“You have a point. Most likely she is simply making mischief to throw her opponents off guard.” He sighed. “Very well, I’ll deal with the prince. You go to bed, and I’ll join you when I can. This may take a while.”
He bent and kissed her, then waited until he had seen her going back into the palace before descending to the courtyard and heading eastwards through the Holbein Gate into the tiltyard. On the south side stood the banqueting house, a massive timber and canvas pavilion that had been built twenty years ago for the wedding of Robert and Juliana. Tonight it was lit by hundreds of blown-glass lanterns, some containing candles but many filled with lightwater. Prince Arthur had spared no expense to ensure that tonight’s entertainments would be remembered long after the last sweetmeats had been eaten.
Lit by the yellow and green skrayling lamps, the pavilion looked more like a sunlit glade than the dank tent it appeared by daylight, and felt deliciously warm compared to the chill night air. Most of the court and their servants were here, milling around tables set out with every delicacy the nearby kitchens could supply: spiced tartlets, roast songbirds, and marchpane painted and gilded and shaped into a hundred fantastical forms. The centrepiece was an enormous red dragon – Arthur’s personal badge – with smoke curling up from its nostrils.
The prince himself was seated to one side of the central area, surrounded by hangers-on, including the senior members of his company of players. Some of the other courtiers were eyeing the actors with disdain, but Arthur seemed unperturbed. He laughed and joked with highborn and lowborn alike, and Mal began to see why he was so popular with the ordinary folk. More popular than his elder brother – but it took more than a dazzling smile and a name out of legend to rule a kingdom.
Mal made his way through the throng towards the prince. Perhaps this was not the best time to broach an awkward subject, but he might not get another chance to get this close to Arthur for a while. Sidestepping a rotund gentleman in scarlet velvet, he tried to slip inconspicuously into the group surrounding the prince. He needn’t have bothered.
“Catlyn!” The prince waved him over and Mal obeyed, cursing his height that made him stand out in any crowd. “For God’s sake smile, man! Anyone would think someone had died.”
“My apologies, Your Highness.”
“And sit down. I cannot talk to you up there.”
Parrish scrambled to his feet and offered Mal his cushion.
“Please excuse me, Your Highness,” the actor said. “I need to pluck a rose.”
Arthur grinned and waved him away.
“Such a polite young man,” he said as Mal sat down. “Now, Catlyn, tell me what makes you so grave. Have you fallen out of love with your wife at last?”
The prince beamed at his hangers-on, who laughed on cue.
“I am merely concerned about Your Highness,” Mal said when the laughter had died down.
“That is very touching, but I would not have you melancholy on my account. Besides, what is there to be concerned about? I am well, and the play was a resounding success!” He reached out and tousled Shakespeare’s thinning curls. “This man–” he leant towards Mal and lowered his voice to a stage whisper “–this man is a genius. Mark my words.”
The prince’s eyelids drooped as he gazed at Mal; he was already halfway to being dead drunk, by the looks of it.
“It was beyond compare,” Mal said, careful not to give his frank opinion, “but it may have earned you a new enemy.”
Arthur frowned at him.
“Signor Bartolomeo,” Mal went on, “who played Balthasar. I cannot think he enjoyed being mocked before all the court.”
“And what care I for the wounded feelings of a… of a foreign eunuch?” Arthur slurred. The hangers-on laughed again. “Really, Catlyn, if that’s all that’s bothering you, I command you to forget it this instant. Have a cup of wine and be merry!”
“Very well, Your Highness. But my heart would rest easier if I knew you had trustworthy men around you.” He doubted the prince was in any immediate danger, but one could never be too sure with Olivia. At the very least she might disturb his sleep with nightmares. Perhaps there was some way to convince Arthur to wear a spirit-guard?
The prince eyed his circle suspiciously.
“You know, you’re right,” he said in a low voice, sounding much more sober than he had a few moments ago. “Perhaps you should be my bodyguard for the night, eh?”
“It would be my honour, Your Highness.”
“Yes, yes it would.” Arthur leant back in his chair and raised his silver cup, the picture of an idle, dissolute prince once more. “Servants, more wine for my companions!”
The rest of the evening passed in a tedious meandering of conversation. Shakespeare was prevailed upon to recite one of his new sonnets, something about a lying mistress, or lying with his mistress: Mal was not clear on the details. By the time midnight rolled around most of them had drunk more than was good for them, and even the prince’s inebriation was no longer much of an act. When he stood to leave, Mal had to leap to his feet to steady him.
“Good man,” Arthur mumbled, patting his hand. “Now, shall we to bed?”
A few of the courtiers made obscene remarks and gestures at this, which Mal laughed off, though he hoped the prince had not meant it literally. It would not do to offend the brother of the heir to the throne.
As they weaved their way through the crowd, Mal expected some of the prince’s circle to fall in behind them. Some of them, surely, must be his gentlemen of the chamber? But they emerged into the frosty night air alone. Perhaps they had taken their master’s comment seriously, and were allowing him some privacy? Mal began rehearsing a polite but heartfelt refusal.
Arthur sobered up somewhat in the cold and walked steadily through the gatehouse, turning left into the gardens that fronted the Prince’s lodgings. Mal followed him down the gravel path, one hand on his rapier hilt, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement, but they reached the entrance to the royal apartments unchallenged.
Mal had to help Arthur up the narrow winding stair and open the door one-handed whilst keeping his other hand under the prince’s elbow. The last thing he needed was for his charge to take a tumble and break his head. That would play far too nicely into his enemies’ hands.
The antechamber beyond was dark and empty. He paused, suspicious.
“Should there not be attendants, Your Highness? At least a page waiting, to summon them at your need?”
“Is no one here?” Arthur peered around the room. “Haslingfield? De la Pole?”
There was no reply, nor even a footfall or sleep-fuddled groan. Mal retrieved a candle from a niche by the door and found flint and tinder to light it. The small glow did little to light the room.
“Stay behind me, Your Highness.” He drew his rapier, holding up the candlestick in his left hand out of his line of sight.
The door of the prince’s bedchamber stood ajar, but no light showed. Mal nudged the door wide open with his foot. This room was as empty as the last, the scarlet-curtained bed a massive presence against the far wall.
“It seems your servants are a-merrymaking, Your Highness,” Mal said loudly. He guided Arthur to a chair. “Sit down, if you will, my prince. I shall call for a page.”
He did no such thing, but padded across the rugs to the bed, slid the point of his rapier between the curtains and eased the heavy fabric aside. In the dim light of the candle he could just make out a pale shape lying on the coverlet. A mistress, fallen asleep waiting for her lover to return? He drew back the curtain – and froze. It was no woman lying there, but a man, naked as a newborn babe, his head thrown back so that his face could not clearly be seen. Perhaps the courtiers’ jibes were not so far off the mark.
Mal was about to call the prince over when he realised the man was not moving. Not even breathing. He pulled the curtains aside to get a better view. Sweet Jesu! It was Josceline Percy; and judging by the line of bruises around his throat, he had been strangled.
“What is it, Catlyn?” Arthur called out. “Where is that young scoundrel of a page?”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness, it seems that someone has decided to play a foul jest at your expense.” Yours. Or mine. “Stay there, I will go and find a servant.”