PART TWO
“I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I’ll pluck it down.”
William Shakespeare, Henry VI, part III
CHAPTER XX
Kit stole a glance out of the schoolroom window. Such a beautiful spring morning, with fat clouds scudding across the sky like the white sails of ships. Perhaps they would be allowed a game of cricket before dinner, if it didn’t rain again. Not that he was very good at cricket, but being outdoors was better than history lessons. He could pretend the bat was a belaying pin and the bails his beloved ship Unicorn that he had to protect from enemy fire. It was his duty as captain, after all.
His daydream was interrupted by the thwack! of Master Weston’s cane on the lectern.
“Eduarde Princeps.” Weston’s cane pointed at twelve year-old Prince Edward. “Ubi Francogallos vicit Henricus Quintus?”
The prince stared down at his ink-stained fingers as if the answer was written on them. Weston tapped his cane on his palm. In the distance a bell began to toll, over and over, as if counting out the minutes it would take the prince to answer.
Edward swallowed. “Anno millesimo… quinqua… um… quadri–”
Thwack!
The schoolmaster’s eyes narrowed. “How long have I been teaching you, Your Highness?”
“F-five years, sir.”
“And yet you still have as poor a grasp of history – and Latin – as young Catlyn there,” Weston pointed his cane at Kit, “who is scarcely more than seven years old.”
“I am sorry, sir.”
Edward really did appear sorry, and his face fell further when Weston beckoned forward William Neville, the prince’s companion and proxy. Kit swallowed against the taste of bile and tried not to wince as the cane whistled down. Neville stuffed his fist in his mouth to muffle a sob; Prince Edward had already made several mistakes this morning. Kit was glad Henry was a lot better at his lessons than his older brother, otherwise it would be him up there with a tender arse.
Something damp hit Kit’s temple and plopped onto the desk in front of him. A tiny paper pellet soaked in ink. He lifted his hand to his brow and his fingers came away stained black. He knew it was de Vere, even without looking, and he knew which one of them would get the blame if they were caught horsing around. Kit slipped his hand into his pocket, drew out his handkerchief and did his best to wipe the ink off whilst pretending to blow his nose.
Master Weston straightened up with a grunt of satisfaction and gestured impatiently at Neville, who got to his feet and limped back to his desk. The schoolmaster cast his eye over his pupils. Kit shrank down on his bench, hoping to be overlooked.
“Henrice Princeps?” Weston gestured to Edward’s young brother and repeated his earlier question.
“Ad proelium Asincurtense, magister.”
“Very good, Your Highness. Though I think it was no challenge for you. Perhaps something more difficult?”
Before the schoolmaster could frame his next question, however, the schoolroom door burst open to reveal a tall man whom Kit did not recognise. From his embroidered and lace-trimmed clothing and rich jewellery, Kit took him to be a courtier. He leant on a stick, though he was not a very old man like Master Weston.
“May I help you, my lord?” the schoolmaster quavered, bowing low as the man limped past him to kneel awkwardly before the princes.
“Your Highnesses, I bring grave news,” the man said. “Your grandmother Queen Elizabeth is dead, and your father is now King.”
Edward turned pale and put a hand to his mouth. “Then…”
“You’re Prince of Wales,” his brother said with a grin. “Like Father was until just now.”
The new heir to the throne got to his feet. “Thank you, Suffolk.”
“His Majesty sent me to bring you to him,” the duke told the princes. “This way, Your Highnesses.”
The moment the door closed, the remaining boys burst into excited chatter.
“Gentlemen, quiet!” Master Weston glared at them. “This is not a fairground. You will continue with your lessons until I receive instructions as to what to do with the rest of you. De Vere, read the next page of the text. Catlyn, Sidney, pay attention. I will be asking questions at the end.”
“Sir?” Kit put up his hand.
“Yes, Catlyn?”
“Will we be allowed to play cricket before dinner, sir?”
“Cricket? Certainly not. No cricket, no bowling, no riding for pleasure. The court will be in mourning until the King’s coronation.”
“And when will that be, sir?” De Vere asked.
“Not for several months, I expect. The Queen’s funeral must come first, then preparations have to be made…”
Kit slumped down on his bench, not listening to the rest. Months and months without riding or games? This was going to be the worst summer ever.
Mal stared down at the pile of sketches on the table under the parlour window. Each showed a different design for wooden wall panelling: linenfold, squares enclosing decorative roundels, Roman arches, rectangles with smaller rectangles inside…
“I care not which, so long as it is not too dear,” he said at last. “Pick out three or four of the most economical and send the sketches to my wife in London.”
“Of course, sir.” The architect gathered up the drawings into his satchel with a sniff of disappointment at his employer’s indifference. “And the bathing chamber…?”
“Glazed tiles, I think. I may indulge my brother’s whims so far, but imported marble is an unnecessary expense.”
“Tiles it is, sir. I shall have some samples–” he glanced at Mal “–sent to your wife along with the sketches.”
“Good man.”
The architect made his obeisance and left, thankfully closing the door behind him. With the carpenters now at work on the main staircase, one could hardly hear oneself think for the racket of hammer and saw all day long. Mal stared through the window at the falling rain. If the weather were fairer he would have gone for a ride around the estate, but after a long, wet spring the hillside paths were little more than torrents of mud and half-rotted leaves.
Five long years since it had burnt to the ground, and at last Rushdale Hall was almost as good as new. Better, in fact, though he had resisted his architect’s suggestion of extending the foundations and rebuilding in the latest style, all glass and stucco. Honest red bricks had been good enough for his father and grandfather; they would be good enough for his descendants. If, please God, Kit ever came home.
The grate of hooves on the gravel drive brought him to his feet. Through the rain-blurred glass he made out a cloaked figure dismounting, his right arm held awkwardly out of the way. Mal grinned and headed out into the hall, blinking against the clouds of sawdust filling the air.
“Ned!”
His old friend shrugged out of his sodden cloak and stepped into Mal’s welcoming embrace. Mal stifled a sob in his throat, unprepared for the rush of joy that swept through his heart and set it aglow like a cloud lit from behind by the sun. Dear God, he had missed the comfort of a familiar body pressed against his own.
“You can let me go now.” Ned’s voice came muffled against his shoulder.
“Right. Sorry.”
He released Ned and showed him through into the parlour, hiding his discomfiture in pleasantries.
“Most of the house is still unfurnished,” he said, suddenly aware of how cramped and dark his temporary quarters were. “I had the one surviving bedstead brought in here, since it had the first fireplace to be finished. Come, get out of those wet clothes and warm yourself. I have spare linen enough for the both of us.”
Whilst Ned stripped by the fire, Mal fetched dry clothing and a blanket from the press and filled a pewter jug with wine to warm over the flames.
“If you’re here to tell me about the Queen, I already know,” he said at last, pulling up a stool.
Ned grimaced as he peeled off a soaking wet stocking and added it the pile on the floor. “Bad news travels fast.”
“Not bad news for Robert. He must have thought he would never get to wear the crown.”
“True enough.”
“So why are you here? It…” He swallowed. “It’s not Kit, is it?”
“No. At least, I’ve not heard anything, from Sandy or your wife.”
Ned wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and sat down by the fire to warm his naked flesh. Mal noticed he sat hunched over to one side; no doubt his maimed limb was causing him pain in this weather. He poured wine for them both, and passed Ned a cup. The heat seeped through the metal, not quite hot enough to burn his fingers.
“What, then? It’s a long way to come for a drink and a chat.”
“I’m to fetch you back to London.”
“Oh.” Mal rolled the cup between his palms. “And what if I refuse?”
“You can’t sulk up here forever, you know.”
“I’m not sulking, I have work to do.”
“I don’t see you sawing timbers or climbing the scaffolding.” Ned gestured around the room, from the ranks of burnt-down candles on the mantelpiece to the drifts of paper covering the table and sliding down onto the floor. “In fact it looks to me like you’ve hardly stirred from your den all winter.”
“You wouldn’t know a Derbyshire winter if it bowed and introduced itself. I reckon this is the first time you’ve ever been north of Islington.”
“Don’t change the subject. Are you coming down to London or not?”
“I don’t suppose you’ll give me a moment’s peace until I say yes, will you?”
Ned grinned. “You know me too well.”
“All right, all right. Give me a day to set my affairs in order, and after that I shall be entirely at your disposal.”