Free The Prince of Lies: Night's Masque - Book 3 by Anne Lyle

isn’t here. He didn’t turn up for work this morning.”
    The gaoler raised a bushy eyebrow. “Five, then. Perhaps six. Let’s call it ten shillings a week for the lot, since the boy won’t take up much room.”
    “Ten shillings for what?”
    “A room in the Master’s Side. Food will be extra, of course.”
    “Ten shillings? That’s more than I pay this lot a month.”
    “Ten now, or twelve in arrears.”
    Ned sighed and took out his purse. “Ten it is, then.”
    The gaoler pocketed the coins and they were led out of the Pound and across a narrow gloomy yard, cut in two by a high wall that almost reached the top of the upper storey.
    “What’s on the other side?” Ned couldn’t resist asking.
    “The Commons.”
    “And why’s the wall so high? To stop them getting out?”
    “Oh God bless you, no, sir. That’s so the folks on the Master’s Side don’t have to see ’em. Not a pretty sight, believe you me. But you keep paying, sir, and you won’t have to find out, will you?”
    The room was on the upper floor, just off a dark stairwell. No more than a dozen feet across in either direction, it held two beds and a battered worm-eaten chest with rusty hinges. There was no fireplace, and its single unglazed window looked out over the courtyard. Not much chance of escape, then. Once upon a time he might have chanced a climb up to the roof, but the loss of his hand had put paid to such adventures.
    “Could be worse,” Peter said, throwing himself down on one of the beds. “Could be six of us in here, not five.”
    “I don’t know why you sound so cheerful,” Nicholas replied. “If you hadn’t noticed, we’re in prison. Suspected of sedition. You know what that means.”
    He looked around the company, but no one answered.
    “We’ll all be questioned,” he went on. “Probably tortured.”
    Jack turned pale.
    “They can’t do that,” Peter said. “It’s contrary to the statutes of the realm.”
    “Hark at the good doctor of law, there.” Nicholas pulled a face. “What do you know, clotpole?”
    “I may not be quick-tongued like some fellows,” Peter replied, “but I can read as well as any of you. And I was a copyist at Lincoln’s Inn Fields before I got apprenticed to Master Faulkner.”
    “Aye, we know, you were all set for a fine career before–”
    “Enough.” Ned glared at both apprentices. “Go on, Peter.”
    “Well,” he said, “according to the law, they’ll need written approval from the Privy Council, and that’s only done in cases of suspected treason.”
    “That’s all right, then,” said Jack. “We haven’t done nothing wrong, have we?”
    Ned turned away and looked out of the window. Let them hold on to hope as long as they could. Sedition was close enough to treason to make no odds, and the permission of the council could easily be sought after the fact. He clenched his good hand around his metal fist. Sweet Jesu, let it not come to that.
    “Where is Harris, anyway?” Nicholas said to no one in particular. “Strange he didn’t come into work today. Suspicious, even.”
    “You think he betrayed us?” Ben asked.
    “He’d never do a thing like that,” said Jack. “He’s my best friend.”
    They fell silent for a moment, and Ned imagined Peter looking crestfallen.
    “I think,” Nicholas said, “that he’s a craven turncoat who cares more for his own good name than the wellbeing of his friends. He always thought he was better than us.”
    “That’s not true,” Ben said. “He’s a good, conscientious worker, that’s all. Master Faulkner was lucky to get him.”
    Ned smiled bitterly to himself. Anyone would think I wasn’t here. God knows I wish it were so.
    A stir of movement by the gatehouse caught his eye, and his heart leapt as a slight, fair-haired figure emerged into the yard, accompanying the fat gaoler. Gabriel. But was he a visitor, or had he been dragged into this mess? Ned watched the two men cross the yard, his stomach churning with