It took the rest of that day and most of the one after to go through his papers and make sure that his steward and foreman were well-versed in what needed to be done over the summer, but at last Mal ran out of excuses. He packed his saddlebags the following morning in a haze of dread. What if Coby refused to see him? What if she didn’t? He had no idea what he was going to say to her after all this time. And then there was Kit. Mal had visited him last autumn and found him well but distant. Was Henry winning the boy over at last?
He found Ned waiting in the stable yard, his own horse and Mal’s old gelding Hector already saddled and ready to go. Ned’s expression was guarded, as if he feared Mal would change his mind at the last minute. Mal forced a smile, surprised himself with a genuine feeling of lighthearted anticipation.
“To London!” he cried, springing into the saddle.
Hector tossed his head, glad to stretch his legs after winter idleness. Ned fell in at Mal’s side and they rode down the valley together in companionable silence. Mal recalled with a pang the many times he and Coby had ridden thus on Walsingham’s business in France. They should have stayed there and never come back to England. Then perhaps the two of them and Kit would still be together. He swallowed against the gathering melancholy, lest Ned think he had undergone a change of heart.
The weather turned colder as they went south, as if winter itself had returned to grieve for the Queen. They arrived in London one April morning to find the city quieter than Mal had ever seen it. Windows were shuttered tight against the numbing cold, rags stuffed into the cracks to keep the wind out. Rows of icicles, some more than a foot long, hung from the eaves and dripped onto the travellers beneath. The few Londoners they passed barely looked up as they hurried along on their own business, muffled in hats and hoods and the thickest cloaks they possessed.
Mal and Ned parted ways at Saint Paul’s, Ned going south to get a wherry back to Bankside whilst Mal continued westward through Ludgate and along the Strand to Whitehall. The approach to the palace was only a little more lively than the rest of the city, with a line of black-clad citizens braving the weather to pay their respects to the dead Queen. Under the gateway, torches burned in sconces even at midday and the friendly red-gold glow of braziers spilled out of the guardroom. Mal dismounted and gave his business, and Hector was led away to the stables.
Queen Juliana’s household was lodged in the same rooms as before, on the far side of the formal gardens. Mal was shown up to an antechamber, cold and echoing. He ignored the empty hearth and the benches along the tapestry-covered walls, and instead went to stand at one of the windows looking out over the Thames. Some distance to his right Westminster Stairs jutted out into the river, boats moored to poles set along either side, like the gondolas of Venice. It was there that the ambassador’s barge had been stopped and Mal himself arrested for assaulting Blaise Grey. Had it really been ten years ago? It felt like yesterday and half a lifetime, all at once.
The sound of a door opening came from his left and he turned, expecting to see a visitor leaving the presence chamber, or perhaps a servant coming to invite him in.
“My lord.” His wife curtsied deeply.
Mourning garb suited her ill, with her pale hair caught back too tight under the black lace cap.
He bowed in response. “My lady.”
They stood there for a long moment, each waiting for the other to make the next move. When did our marriage become a duel? When you took your brother’s part instead of hers, a traitorous voice in his head replied.
“I trust your journey was not too tiresome, my lord.”
“I had not expected such a frosty reception from my old home, but I shall weather it.”
More silence.
“Mina–”
She flushed a little at his use of her pet name. “I suppose you have come for a report on your son.”
“Our son.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised it was the wrong thing to say.
“Not mine. As you made very clear. And as for a report, I can tell you little more than he says in his letters. You might do better to visit him yourself.”
“I intend to do that. But…” He looked down at the floor, unable to meet her gaze. “I wanted to see you first.”
When she did not answer, he glanced up – and saw her eyes shining with tears. He crossed the room in swift strides and knelt at her feet.
“Jacomina, please, forgive me. I cannot unmake my choices, so what good does it do to fight over them?”
He felt her hand on his head, then her fingers slid down his cheek and under his chin, pressing gently so that he had to look up.
“If you want to reconcile with me,” she said as their eyes met, “you will free Kit.”
He glanced towards the door and got to his feet. He had been expecting such a condition, and in truth his own heart had been urging him to do the same for a long time. What good would it do to save England or rebuild his home, if he lost everyone he loved?
“It will take careful planning,” he said in a low voice, leading her away from the door and any twitching ears on the other side. “We cannot risk our enemies so much as suspecting what we are up to, or they might threaten him.”
“How long…?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. Not until after the funeral. Perhaps not until after the coronation. If we cause trouble before Robert is crowned, the guisers might use that to their advantage.”
She nodded. “I have waited four years. I can wait four months.”
Footsteps sounded in the next room, and they stepped apart. Mal snapped a curt bow to his wife and strode to the outer door without a backward glance. Like Orpheus leaving the underworld, except that he would not risk everything for one last sight of his beloved wife’s face. More lives than their own were at stake this time.
Coby made her excuses to the queen, saying she had a headache, and fled to her bedchamber. She had been dreading this meeting ever since she had sent Ned to Derbyshire, and now it was over she was at a loss as to what to do next. She was not about to forgive Mal for what he had done, but touching him, looking into his eyes, she had very nearly weakened and kissed him. Even now she ached to run after him, tell him she still loved him… She brushed away tears with the heel of her hand. Loved him, yes, but could she ever trust him again?
“My lady?” Susanna’s voice came softly from the doorway.
Coby took a deep breath, then another, before she dared speak.
“Bring me some wine. And the tincture of valerian.”
“Yes, my lady.”
By the time the Venetian girl returned, Coby had regained a semblance of calm, but she dripped the medicine into her wine nonetheless. Taking a seat by the window she sipped the tart liquid whilst Susanna bustled about the bedchamber, folding clean linen and putting it away in the press.
Coby sighed. Only three weeks into the period of official mourning and the already tedious court routine had turned into a cage of empty ritual. Even their daily prayers felt more like a burden than a release, which only added to her guilt and frustration.
“I’m not bothering you, am I, my lady?”
“No, not at all.” Coby lowered her wine cup into her lap. “Come and sit down.”
“My lady?”
Coby waved her over, and the girl complied, perching on the edge of the window seat as if ready to flee at a moment’s notice.
“I know I have not been the best of mistresses of late,” she began, staring down into her cup, “and I am sorry for that. But I hope that one day soon all our worries will be over.”
“Master Cristoforo…” Susanna whispered.
“Yes.” She looked up and smiled. “We must be patient, as we have been these past four years, but yes, God willing my son will be returned to us.”
“But how?”
“That I cannot tell you. But I wanted you to know…” Because you are my only true friend in all this, she wanted to add. But a lady did not speak so candidly to servants. “Leave me. I think I shall sleep a while.”
When the girl had gone, Coby drained the cup and set it down on the table. A lady I may be now, but I never wanted to be one, and it has brought me no happiness. If this venture fails and we yet live, perhaps I shall become Jacob again and make my own way in the world once more. A life of poverty and peril is better than another year in this cage.
Mal did not go straight to see Kit after visiting his wife. First he returned to the Sign of the Parley, and a reunion with his brother. He was expecting the haggard appearance of a man who had been spending too much time dreamwalking, but Sandy looked surprisingly well, if a little… unorthodox. He was clean-shaven again and had let his hair grow long, even going as far as to braid a few sections as he had done when living on Sark with Kiiren.
“I take it you’ve been spending time with the skraylings,” Mal said, sitting down at the kitchen table.
“Adjaan has sailed back to Vinland with young Hretjaar,” Sandy replied. “Until her replacement arrives, the skraylings have no outspeaker, so I have been deputised.”
“The elders trust you with such a role? I thought we were abominations in their eyes?”
Sandy shrugged. “Sekharhjarret persuaded the other elders that they needed a liaison with the English more than ever, now that the Queen is dead. And none of them speak enough of your tongue to pass muster at court.”
Mal tried not to boggle at the idea of his unsubtle brother manoeuvring the tricky currents of Prince – now King – Robert’s court.
“Perhaps I can use your new-found diplomatic talents,” he said. “I want to see Kit.”
He had already decided not to bring up his agreement with Coby until after the visit. Sandy was bound to object, and Mal was not willing to wait to see his son, nor to risk arousing the guisers’ suspicions by being openly at odds with his brother.
“Now?”
“No time like the present. But dress like an Englishman, will you? We don’t want to forcibly remind Prince Henry that we’re hand-in-glove with the skraylings.”
He took his saddlebags up to his old room and washed his face, and a few minutes later Sandy appeared at the door. He had combed out his braids and was wearing a wine-red doublet and hose, knee-length riding boots and a black velvet cap.
“Much better,” Mal said, and led the way downstairs.
At Whitehall Palace they were admitted to the princes’ chambers with surprising readiness. Mal couldn’t help wondering if this was some stratagem of Henry’s designed to throw them off-balance, or simply boyish impatience. Either way Mal intended to spend as little time in the princes’ company as possible, lest any suspicion of his intent become apparent. He hoped he might be able to talk privily with Kit, however, and glean as much about his situation as possible before deciding on a plan.
The princes’ antechamber had been pressed into service as a schoolroom, though it looked more like a battlefield at the moment. A line of chairs had been arranged at one end, and Prince Henry stood on the middle one, waving a wooden sword. A handful of other boys crouched in front of the improvised battlements, arguing among themselves. Mal caught something about “the heads of our enemies” before the princes’ tutor, a thin-faced man with a shock of white hair, clapped his hands and called the boys to attention.
Prince Henry glared at Mal and Sandy. For a moment Mal thought that Jathekkil would get the better of him, but Henry was evidently in more control of himself than he had been as an infant. Instead he merely thrust his wooden sword through his belt and watched them, arms folded.
It was his elder brother, Edward, who addressed them.
“Gentlemen, what brings you here?”
Mal swept a low bow. “With your permission, Your Highness, I would like to speak to my son. In private.”
“Very well.” The prince gestured for Kit to rise.
Kit got to his feet but said nothing, only stared at the floor. Mal’s heart sank. Had Henry broken his spirit after all?
“Catlyn!” The schoolmaster brought his springy cane down on a pile of books with a sharp thwack. Mal had to suppress his own urge to snap to attention. “Bid your father and uncle good day.”
“Yes, Master Weston.”
“In Latin, boy!”
“Etiam, magister.” Kit bowed, though he still did not meet Mal’s eye. “Salvete, pater et… patrue.”
Mal returned the bow. “Salve, mi fili.”
“You are excused from your lessons, Catlyn,” Weston added. “For one half hour.”
The other boys groaned in envy until a snap from Weston’s cane brought them back to order. Sandy made to cross the space to Kit’s side, but Mal shook his head. He held out a hand, and Kit walked slowly towards him.
“It’s been a long time, son,” Mal said, putting an arm around Kit’s shoulder and leading him towards the door.
Sandy closed in on his other side and tentatively ruffled the boy’s hair. Kit looked up sharply, and Sandy withdrew his hand, a hurt expression in his eyes.
“Give him time,” Mal murmured to his brother. He looked down at Kit. “You’ve grown so much I hardly recognised you.”
Kit said nothing.
“Shall we go along to the gallery?” Mal said as the doors closed behind them. “It’s a little cold outside to walk in the park.”
“The girls walk in the gallery.”
“Oh, well, we wouldn’t want to disturb them, would we? How about the library, then? I think I saw a globe in there.”
Kit shrugged, which Mal took for as much agreement as he was likely to get.
They made their way downstairs in silence, through a parlour where a handful of elderly courtiers snored by the fire, to the prince’s library. Mal closed the double doors carefully behind them.
“How are you enjoying your lessons?” he asked.
Kit shrugged again, then glanced shyly up at him. “I like the Odyssey. We’ve just started reading it in Greek.”
“The Odyssey? I always preferred the Iliad.” Mal sat down by the globe. “What about you, Sandy?”
“I liked the plays, especially The Birds, with all the singing and dancing. I think they must have reminded me of home. Of Vinland.”
Mal shot him a glance. Was he planning to awaken Kiiren? That was the last thing he needed.
“And the princes?” Mal quickly changed the subject. “Are they good companions?”
“Edward will be king one day. I will gladly serve him.”
The boy had been well schooled, he had to give them that. “And Henry?”
Kit’s eyes widened and he glanced from his father to his uncle and back again. Mal gave an inward sigh of relief. They did not own him, then.
“I do not ask you to say anything disloyal,” he told Kit. “But you do not like him as well as his brother, is that it?”
Kit nodded, his mouth twisting in misery. Mal leaned over and kissed his brow.
“The boys at school used to tease me a lot too. But we are stronger than that, eh?”
Kit nodded again.
“Well.” Mal clapped his hands together. “Enough of such gloomy thoughts. How about a game of Hoodman Blind? I think Uncle Sandy should go first.”
They improvised a hood by pulling Sandy’s hat down over his eyes, and Kit dodged around him, giggling. Sandy eventually caught him and made a play of not knowing whether it was Mal or Kit, which earned him some scorn from his nephew.
“Well if you’re so clever, you can take a turn,” Sandy said, and plopped the hat onto Kit’s head. It didn’t need much pulling down to obscure his vision.
Kit soon caught Mal and pulled him down onto his knees so that he could touch his face. Now, here was a dilemma: would Kit remember that his uncle was clean-shaven, or should Mal give him a clue? Kit chewed his bottom lip for a moment.
“Father,” he said at last and pulled the hat off, grinning.
“How did you know?”
“I heard your sword scrape on the floor when you knelt down.”
Mal laughed. “You knew all along? So why all the face-patting?”
Kit said nothing, only threw himself into Mal’s arms. Mal hugged him back, tears pricking his eyes.
“I missed you too, son.”