CHAPTER XIX
Having found a sleepy page and put the fear of God into him, Mal swiftly examined the body before anyone could come and disturb the evidence. The bruises round Percy’s neck formed a series of small circular indentations, suggesting he had been strangled with a string of beads. A rosary perhaps, but if Mal’s suspicions were correct, more likely a spirit-guard. In which case, Josceline Percy was unlikely to be reborn to trouble them in future.
The question was, who had committed the murder, and how had they persuaded Percy to come here? Carrying a body through the palace would have been far too conspicuous. No, he must have come here on his own two feet, probably willingly, and been killed right here. Afterwards the murderer had stripped the corpse and carried away the clothing. That suggested he – and it seemed most likely to have been a man, since Percy was neither old nor feeble – had been disguised as a servant. Another of Olivia’s assassins? Or one of the English guisers, perhaps someone fearing that Percy had gone too far at the tournament and exposed them all. But then why leave it so long, and why leave his corpse in Prince Arthur’s bed? No, Olivia was the most likely culprit. Not that he could prove anything. Though he had no idea where the former courtesan had been all evening, he did not doubt she had been careful. She had survived too many intrigues in Venice to make a foolish mistake now.
His deliberations were interrupted by the arrival of several young courtiers, the same men who had hung back earlier and allowed Mal to escort the prince alone. Had they been bribed or coerced into doing so? It seemed too much of a coincidence otherwise – and he had walked right into the trap. Or perhaps he had just been a convenient scapegoat, and one of them would have had to draw the short straw if he had not turned up.
“What’s going on here? Your Highness?” The Earl of Rutland strode across the chamber and halted with a curse, his yellow mustachios bristling. “What is this wickedness?”
“We found him like this,” Mal said. “I found him–”
Rutland’s eyebrows twitched. “Catlyn again. Well, well.”
Time to take charge of the situation, before Rutland ordered his arrest.
“If His Highness’s servants and gentlemen of the chamber had not all abandoned him, this might not have happened,” Mal said, look round the assembled courtiers. “Whose turn was it to wait upon the Prince tonight?”
“Well, I…” Rutland looked put out. “I was under the impression that His Highness wished to be alone–”
“As did we all,” another young man put in.
“In any case the servants are always here to attend him,” Rutland said. “It is they who should be called to account.”
“I am sure they shall,” Mal said. “But first someone needs to take care of the Prince. I’m sure there must be other bedchambers where His Highness can be made comfortable for the night.”
“Of course,” replied Rutland. “I would be only too glad to surrender my own bed. Your Highness?”
Arthur looked up at last, his bloodshot eyes livid against his pale skin. “Rutland?”
“Come this way, Your Highness. My own servants will see you to bed.”
He escorted the befuddled prince out through the antechamber, leaving Mal with the younger gentlemen-in-waiting. They stared at him like rabbits confronted by a fox.
“You there,” Mal pointed to one at random. “Find the Earl of Northumberland and tell him the bad news. You, find the steward and ask him to make arrangements for the collection and storage of the body. You, fetch servants to strip this bed. His Highness will not want to lie in the sweat of a dead man.”
The three men scattered, leaving Mal with a boy of about seventeen with red-brown hair fashionably curled about his wide brow and falling to a lovelock over his left shoulder, and the beginnings of a moustache darkening his upper lip. In other circumstances Mal would have judged him handsome; right now he looked as though he was going to be sick, though whether from the sight of the corpse on the bed or merely too much sack on an empty stomach, Mal neither knew nor cared.
“Who are you?”
“D-D-Dudley North, sir. My father is Baron North. I’m down from Cambridge for Christmas.”
“Cambridge man, eh? Which college?”
“Trinity, sir.” The boy looked a little less glassy-eyed. Good. Talk of everyday matters would distract him from unwholesome curiosity about the night’s events.
“I’m a Peterhouse man, myself,” Mal said. He put an arm about North’s shoulders. “Tell me about the other gentlemen in the prince’s circle.”
The boy unfortunately had little knowledge of his companions, but in his youthful enthusiasm he rattled on about the games of cards they had played to while away the cold winter evenings, and the young ladies who had passed among the players, bestowing their favours on the winners.
“Not that I won many games,” he said mournfully, fidgeting with the lovelock.
“And what about male visitors? Did His Highness have many of those?”
“There were a few who came along with the girls, and…” North flushed. “And were used in like fashion.”
“I see. Well, don’t worry, I’m not interested in who favoured which kind of whores. I’m talking about men visiting the prince on more usual business. Or pleasure. Was anyone out of the ordinary admitted to Prince Arthur’s presence since you arrived?”
“There was one,” North said slowly. “A dark-skinned foreign fellow, like to a Moor.”
Mal breathed out. Olivia. “A young man, a eunuch singer from Princess Juliana’s household?”
“I’m not sure.” North bit his lip, staring deep into memory. “I think so.”
“Did he talk to the prince about anything in particular?”
“Poetry, mostly. And plays. I think that was it. A lot of the time they spoke in French and I’m rotten at languages.”
“Good lad, you’ve been very helpful.”
He sent North to wait in the antechamber. The servants and gentlemen-in-waiting would be back any moment, and he had not yet searched the room for other clues. Not that he expected to find anything. Olivia was too clever for that. As for the identity of her latest pawn, plenty of courtiers had visited the princess since Olivia’s arrival. Including Robert and his entire retinue. Mal cursed softly. It could be any one of a dozen men. Not that it really mattered. One did not fight the sword but the man behind it. Or in this case, the woman.
With Percy’s murder, the fragile tranquility of Juliana’s household was shattered once more. Prince Henry, only recently recovered from his fall at the tournament, was inconsolable, demanding his mother’s presence as if he were an infant once more. Kit picked up the other boy’s mood and was uncharacteristically fretful and sleepless, until Coby wondered if she should risk fetching his uncle Sandy to tend him. Perhaps it would be better to take Kit back to Southwark, away from the poisonous atmosphere at court. After all, if guiser assassins could strike even here, she and Kit would be just as safe in their own home, especially with Mal at hand to protect them. That decided it. She resolved to ask permission as soon as she caught the princess in a fair humour.
Not this morning, however. Juliana had returned from her son’s apartments in a grim mood, and had already made one lady-in-waiting burst into tears with her unkind words. Coby kept her head down and concentrated on her embroidery.
When the Earl of Northumberland was announced, Coby knew it could not be good news. A moment later the earl strode into the presence chamber, his visage as dark as his mourning garb. To Coby’s surprise he was accompanied by two guardsmen in royal livery of scarlet and gold.
“Percy, such a pleasure to see you,” Princess Juliana cried, holding out a hand in welcome. “Please accept my condolences.”
Northumberland bowed. “Alas I am not here on pleasure, Your Highness, but on my godson’s business. Your son’s business.”
“Henry?” She got to her feet. “What? Is he unwell?”
“Nay, madam, calm yourself. Your son is as well as ever and quite recovered from his fall.”
Juliana sat back down with a sigh. “What other business can he have with his mother?”
“It is not with you, Your Highness, but with Mistress Catlyn. And her son.”
Coby’s stomach clenched in fear. “My lord?”
“Mistress Catlyn, I must ask you to surrender your son into my custody.”
“May I ask why, my lord?” It was as much as she could do to keep her voice from breaking.
“My godson requests his presence as a companion.” The ladies-in-waiting gasped, and the earl smiled thinly. “I need hardly add that this is an unprecedented honour.”
Coby stared at him for a long moment. “Of course, my lord. When…?”
“His Highness is impatient to meet his new playmate. I am instructed to collect him this afternoon, immediately after dinner.”
“So soon…?” That would give hardly any time to alert Mal, which was undoubtedly their intention.
“Would you keep His Highness waiting?”
“N-no, of course not, my lord.”
“Good.” He looked her up and down. “You may accompany him to Hampton Court, to see him settled in his new lodgings. Good day, Lady Catlyn.”
Northumberland bowed again, turned on his heel and left. All was silent for a moment, but as soon as the door closed behind him, the presence chamber erupted into chatter. Coby ignored the questions and congratulations as she got to her feet.
“If you will excuse me, Your Highness, I have much to do.”
She barely waited for the princess’s acknowledgement before fleeing the room half-blinded by tears.
Mal stared at the brief note from his wife. His son, taken into the guardianship of his worst enemy? It was not to be borne, and yet he could see no way around it. Henry might only be five years old, but he was a prince of the realm, third in line to the throne. It could not be the boy’s idea, though, surely? Guiser children were precocious, but not by so much that they could make strategies like an adult. This was more of Olivia’s scheming, he was certain of it. With Percy out of the way she was free to take control of the young prince and bring the entire country under her thumb. Mal shivered. He had taken Venice from her, and now she had taken his son in return.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. Sandy. Mal’s heart sank. How was he going to explain to his brother? He got to his feet, shoving the note into his pocket.
“Sandy–”
“I heard,” his brother said. “I spoke to Susanna as she left.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped.
“I will go to court.” Mal picked up his rapier and began fastening the hanger about his hips. “If I petition Robert–”
“No.”
“No?” He stared at Sandy. “They’ve taken my son. Your amayi.”
“As a hostage against our good behaviour. As long as we make no further move against them, they will not harm him.”
“And we can be certain of that, can we?”
“If they harm him, he becomes useless to them.”
“Sandy, this is Kit we’re talking about. He’s my son, not a pawn in some game.”
“No, he is Kiiren. Our one true ally in the fight against them.” Sandy got to his feet. “He rescued us from Jathekkil. Or had you forgotten?”
“He doesn’t even remember who he is; you saw to that. And he’s still a child.”
“He is tjirzadh, more than a century old. Childhood is but a passing phase for us, sweet but brief.”
Mal shook his head. He is a child. My child. Not of my flesh, perhaps, but of my heart.
“We can get him back,” he said. “Take him far away from here, somewhere they’ll leave us alone.”
“Will they? And in any case, what will you tell Kiiren in ten years’ time, when he is old enough to learn the truth? That we were too craven to fight the guisers, and left England to their mercy? I thought you wanted them gone?”
“I do. But how do we fight them with Kit as their hostage?”
Sandy spread his hands. “We don’t.”
“So you’re just going to let Olivia take him from you? Let them win?”
“No. We wait, and watch. Kiiren wants the renegades defeated as much as anyone, and as the childhood friend of their leader he will be better placed than anyone to work against them from the inside. Let them think they have won; then, when their guard is down, we will use this over-reaching blow against them.”
“It could be years–”
“Yes, yes, it will. But tjirzadheneth plan for the long term, and so must we.”
“I used to think we were so alike,” Mal said. “But you’re not even human any more. You’ve become as cold and heartless as they are.”
“I am one of them. And so are you.”
Don’t remind me. “Well I don’t care what you think. I’m going to get my son back, one way or another.”
“No.”
Sandy closed the space between them and took Mal’s head in both hands. Mal swallowed, feeling the pressure of Sandy’s mind against his own. If his brother tried to coerce him using his magic, could he stop him? For long moments they stood there, eye to eye, the roiling storm of his brother’s frustration and… yes, grief beating against his resolve, then with a sudden movement Sandy threw him across the bed. Mal rolled, fighting the instinct to draw his dagger.
“Stop it, Sandy! You’re playing into their hands, letting them turn us against one another.”
“I am not Alexander. I am Erishen.” He was weeping now, tears rolling down his cheeks to disappear into his beard.
“I know. And you love Kiiren and want nothing more than to protect him. All right, I’ll trust you. But if anything happens to him, even a hint of mistreatment, I will fight my way into the prince’s household and take him by force. Do you understand?”
Sandy nodded. “The guisers cannot keep you from him; it would look too suspicious. And if they harm him, I will know at once.”
“I will wait,” Mal said, half to himself. “But not forever.”