CHAPTER XXII
Coby stared out of the gatehouse window in horror. Now that the attack was over, the full extent of the damage was all too apparent. Whilst the nobles outside the gate had been intent on protecting the King, the panic on the causeway within had been devastating. Bodies lay strewn where they had fallen in the crush; a few floated face down in the moat, having leapt over the parapet heedless of their heavy robes. Those still standing had either retreated back into the castle or had braved the gate to disperse to their homes.
“We can’t just leave them down there,” she said, turning back to the other ladies. “Some of them may still be alive.”
The ladies-in-waiting stared back at her like sheep confronted by a wolf. Only Lady Frances Grey stirred from where she had been comforting the overwrought queen.
“Lady Catlyn is right,” Lady Frances said. “It is our Christian duty to help those men.”
The duchess chose four of the least frightened-looking ladies-in-waiting, in addition to Coby, and told the rest to take good care of the Queen and the two princesses. Coby crouched by Kit.
“You can help protect the ladies, can’t you?”
Kit nodded and rested his hand on the hilt of the little sword, his brown eyes wide.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“Good lad.” Pray God it does not come to that.
She followed Lady Frances down to the guardroom.
“I shall need any clean linen you may have, and we will have to improvise litters for carrying the dead and wounded away. You–” Lady Frances pointed to one of the guards “–fetch a surgeon; there’s one in Water Lane.”
The men seemed only too glad to have orders to follow, even if they were coming from a woman.
“Now, ladies, this will not be a pleasant task,” the duchess went on. “Find the injured first, and if possible have them moved to the safety of the gatehouse. If you are not certain if a man is alive or dead, leave him for the surgeon to assess. Those that are clearly dead must be taken into the castle for laying out.”
Lady Frances led them out onto the causeway. The devastation looked less severe from down here, perhaps because they could not see all the bodies at once, but the moans of the wounded and the stink of blood and bodily wastes gave the scene a far more hellish aspect. Was this what a battlefield looked like? No wonder Mal never spoke of the years he spent soldiering.
The women picked their way among the fallen. Here nearest the gatehouse the bodies were few in number, dressed in the livery of the Queen’s household guard. Coby left the other ladies to weep and fret over the fallen guardsmen and pressed further on, to where the city guilds’ banners lay abandoned. The men here were no warriors but merchants and craftsmen, ill-prepared for a violent rout. A stout man with an alderman’s gold chain tangled in his white beard lay on his back, staring sightless at the blue sky, apparently uninjured but dead beyond question. Not far away another man lay face down and motionless, his fine robes crumpled and dusty. Coby gently turned him over. Dead also, his nose broken and bloody where he had been trampled to death. A whimper escaped her throat.
“Help me, for pity’s sake!”
She looked up and saw a man stirring, half-hidden by a red and blue banner emblazoned with leaping fish and the crossed keys of Saint Peter worked in gold thread. Coby hurried over and freed the man from the heavy fabric. He was no more than thirty, with receding hair and a face pale as whey above a gingery beard.
“I think my leg is broken,” the fishmonger wheezed, grimacing as he tried to sit up.
“Don’t move.”
Coby lifted the banner and smashed it down on the parapet of the walkway, breaking off a length of about two feet. Perfect. She repeated the process, then took out her knife and began tearing strips from a discarded silk cape. Returning to her patient, she gently bound the lengths of pole either side of his broken leg.
“That should steady it until the surgeon can treat you,” she told him.
She gave the man a final reassuring pat on the shoulder and continued with her search.
At the Tower gatehouse the guards blocked Mal’s way with crossed partizans.
“Sorry, sir, no one is allowed into the Tower without a warrant from the Privy Council. King’s orders.”
“Which king?” Mal asked, dreading the answer.
“King Robert, of course.” The warder squinted at him against the light. “Unless you know different, sir.”
“No. But you know how rumour spreads in times like these. One knows not whom to trust.”
“Quite, sir.”
Mal hesitated. “My wife and son are within–”
“Sorry, sir, no exceptions. If you have a letter for them, I’d be glad to convey it…” The man looked hopeful, no doubt expecting a little silver for his troubles.
“Alas, I have neither pen nor paper.” He looked over his shoulder at the sun, now well past its zenith. Still a good few hours until curfew. “I shall be back in all haste, with letters for both of them. Have you seen a gelding hereabouts? Chestnut, sixteen hands, white stocking on his near hind fetlock? I rode him in the procession, but I was called away on the King’s business.”
“A fair few beasts was rounded up, sir. Can’t remember all of them.”
An idea came to him. “What about the horse the assassin was riding?”
The guard shrugged.
“Send a message to the stables. I want that horse found and brought to me, immediately.”
“The chestnut, or the other one?”
“Both.” When the guard did not make a move to obey, he added, “Now. Or must I report your negligence to my lord the Duke of Suffolk?”
“No, sir. Right away, sir.” He ducked into the gatehouse for a moment before setting off down the causeway.
Mal turned back to Sandy. “Go home, and let Ned know what’s happened. I’ll be back before curfew, God willing.”
“I should–”
“There’s nothing you can do. Kit will be as safe in there as anywhere. Please, Sandy.”
His brother said nothing; the taut line of his mouth and the distrustful look he gave Mal made words unnecessary. After a moment he turned and walked away. Mal let out a long breath. He had more important things to deal with than Sandy’s sulks.
In the time it took for the guard to return with the horses, Mal had managed to persuade his fellows to provide paper and ink to write a letter to Coby. There was nothing to seal it with, of course, and he dared not send anything too obviously ciphered, so he wrote a simple but heartfelt message wishing her well and praying that he would see both her and Kit soon. He handed it over, along with a few coins to speed it on its way.
“There you go, sir,” the first guard said, passing him Hector’s reins. “And here’s the other one you was asking about.”
“This is it? You’re certain?”
The second horse was a sturdy grey nag, dwarfed by Hector. Mal looked it over, noting its well-worn shoes and the sores in the corners of its mouth where the bit had rubbed.
“A hard-worked beast.”
“Aye, sir. The stablemaster says he would never have let a mangy beast like that go out in the King’s coronation procession.”
“Good. Now we shall find our man,” Mal said with a smile. “He may have killed himself, but he forgot one rather large witness.”
“Oh?”
“Every horse knows its way home. I intend to let this one loose, and follow it.”
He mounted Hector, leaned over the pommel of his saddle and gave the nag a slap on its rump. It made no move. He slapped it again. The horse turned and looked at Hector. Mal sighed. Of course. It would not want to take the lead with a larger, more dominant animal around. He dismounted and handed Hector’s reins to the guard.
“Keep him here, will you? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
With a prayer to Saint Michael that the creature wouldn’t outrun him in the crowded streets, he led the nag a little way down the street and gave it another slap on the rump. It whinnied and broke into a trot. Mal jogged along behind it, ignoring the strange looks he got from passers-by.
“You’re going to have to run faster than that, my lord!” a man shouted, to uproarious laughter from his companions.
The nag led Mal about half a mile westwards then turned right, heading up Gracechurch Street towards Bishopsgate. Mal laboured after it, breath grating his throat, cursing his idleness these past few years. Time was he would have thought nothing of such a chase; now he was sweating and panting like an old man.
Thankfully his tormentor slowed as it approached the gate, finding its way blocked by the guards.
“Let it through,” Mal wheezed as he jogged up. “We’re on the King’s business.”
The gate guards stepped aside, and the chase began again. The street beyond was near empty, and the nag’s steady trot increased in pace. At least the road was flatter here. Mal broke into a run, hoping that this burst of speed meant the beast was nearing home.
Sure enough it slowed after another quarter of a mile and trotted up to the gates of a livery stable. Mal stumbled to a halt, his heart sinking. It was as he feared. This was a hired horse. Most likely the assassin had given a false name and the trail would go cold. Still, he had to try.
By the time he reached the stable, a groom had taken hold of the grey nag’s bridle and was leading it into a stall.
“You looking for a mount, sir?”
Mal turned to look at the man who had addressed him: a short, red-faced ostler in a greasy jerkin, stinking of his trade.
“That one,” he wheezed, pointing a shaking hand at the nag.
The ostler looked Mal up and down. “I think you’ll need a bigger beast than our Rosie, sir, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Rosie? Is that the creature’s name?”
“Aye, sir. Good little thing, steady pace, tireless. Why, what are you wanting a horse for? Would have thought a gentleman like you would keep his own, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“It’s not for me. I’m Sir Maliverny Catlyn, here on the King’s business. That horse was used in an attack on the King this morning.”
The ostler turned pale. “I heard the news. Anything I can do to help the King’s justice, my lord, anything.”
“I need to know who hired that horse last.”
“I heard it was a skrayling what shot His Majesty,” the ostler said. “Haven’t had any of those coming here in years.”
“The assassin may have stolen the horse, but we need to know from whom.” Much as he wanted to set the story straight and exonerate the skraylings, now was not the time.
The ostler cupped a hand to his mouth. “Davy! Who had the hire of Rosie last?”
A groom poked his head round the stall. “Master Nathaniel, same as always.”
“Nathaniel?”
“A notary, Nathaniel Palmer. He has an account with us, seeing as he travels a lot with his work.”
“And where can I find this Nathaniel Palmer?”
The ostler gave him directions to a house just off Bishopsgate Within. Mal thanked the man, and gave him a half-crown for his trouble.
“Feed the mare well, and let her rest,” he told them. “She has been cruelly used, and is in no way to blame for the ill she has helped cause.”
“Of course, sir. God save the King!”
“I hope he does,” Mal replied softly as he left. Otherwise we will have a child on the throne; a child with a monstrous brother who is bent on taking it – and the kingdom – for himself.