Perfect Shadows

chapter 2

When I woke, still in darkness, the novelty of freedom overtook me. Almost without volition I sat up on the edge of the bed, my feet a few inches from the floor. My promise to Geoffrey slipped through my mind, but I felt so much stronger, and he would never know . . . abruptly I threw myself back onto the pillows, resigned to wait.

“Very good, you do well to remember and obey,” Geoffrey said softly in the darkness. I started, and was so overwhelmed by relief that I had not pressed my folly that I could think of nothing to reply. Geoffrey silently left the room, returning minutes later with a candle and a cup on a tray. I took the cup, peered at it doubtfully and sipped. It was the same substance as before, rich and flavorful, though only lukewarm. I cleared my throat and Geoffrey, who had busied himself lighting the room’s many candles turned to look at me quizzically.

“I think I may be ready for more solid food?” I said and flushed to hear what I had meant to be a statement twist itself into a question. Geoffrey shook his head kindly but said nothing.” What is this potion, if I may ask?”

“Oh, you may ask what you will, but I only answer what I choose,” Geoffrey said curtly. He stepped to the door and handed me a bundle that had been laying there. I drained the cup and opened the parcel, which contained princely clothing that had most probably once belonged to him. I became suddenly conscious of my nakedness before him, and swiftly shook out and donned the shirt. It was cream-colored silk and finer than anything I had ever worn, of that much I was certain. There were full-cut trousers, rather than the trunk-hose I’d unconsciously expected, to tuck into leather boots lined with fleece, but no hose or stockings. The doublet, like the trousers, was a deep garnet-red velvet, embroidered with gold and pearls. When I was dressed, Geoffrey offered his hand and helped me rise. I felt considerably stronger and steadier than I had the previous day and eagerly agreed when Geoffrey suggested that I seemed well enough to walk downstairs. We stopped on the landing of the wide staircase to allow me to rest, as I found navigating the stairs difficult, having no depth perception. I saw through the oriel windows that it was night. There was snow on the ground, but the sky was clear and dominated by the full moon, which bathed the scene in unearthly light. I stared, entranced, until Geoffrey coughed softly behind me.

“Your pardon,” I smiled, “but it is beautiful.”

“And you are a poet,” he nodded. A poet, was I? Oh, yes, Marlowe, so they told me, however unlikely it seemed. We continued down the stairs, through the hall and into a small nearby room. A fire was burning brightly, and before it my friend Nicolas was sitting with a woman. Nicolas bounced to his feet when he spied us and offered his chair. I took it, but kept my gaze upon the woman. She was beautiful, but not the dark woman of my fleeting vision. Her hair was white-blonde, framing the face of a Flemish Madonna and falling unbound over a body that would be the envy of a Venetian courtesan. Her clothing was well cut, less revealing than court costume, but revealing enough. Nicolas went to stand behind her chair, leaning over to rest his hands on her shoulders. “This is Anneke, my wife,” he said proudly. “Anneke, this is my English friend, Christopher Marlowe.” We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, but I was distracted by an odd phenomenon: Anneke seemed almost to glow with a visible light. I found myself leaning towards her, and the sudden desire to touch her, to bring her pulsing wrist to my lips, almost overpowered me.

“Christopher!” Geoffrey’s voice was sharp, slinging me back in my chair. I looked up in confusion as Nicolas helped Anneke to her feet. I started to mutter an apology, but he waved it aside.

“I understand, Kit, as does Anneke, better than you do yourself just now. Geoffrey, I agree: it is time. I will return soon.” The prince nodded, crossing the room to sit in the chair next to mine, and eyed me thoughtfully.

The fire in the hearth whispered. Outside, beyond the shrouded window, the only sound was the occasional snap and fall of a branch overburdened with ice.

“I do not like it, Christopher,” he said, “But I must force your memory. Were we at my home in Sybria I could spare you the time, but Brittany is no longer safe.”

“There is danger?”

“There is always some danger, but now doubled,” he said impatiently. I realized that when such a mood was upon him, one did not safely question Geoffrey. After a moment he continued. “You must be made to remember. If you can. I must learn your limits and your abilities, and determine if you are a peril to us.” I did not need to be told my fate should Geoffrey perceive my existence as a threat. “You have always been a passionate, impetuous man, volatile, reckless, and self-destructive. If that part of your nature has survived and increased without tempering, you will be a continuing danger to us.” Geoffrey stood and began to pace again.

Within minutes Nicolas returned and drew another chair up to the fire on my other side, as Geoffrey took his former place. We were silent for a time, until I could bear it no longer.

“What has happened to me? I do not—” Geoffrey cut me off with an abrupt gesture.

“It would be better, perhaps, to let you remember at your own pace, but that I cannot do—” he broke off and it took every ounce of control I could muster not to reveal my impatience. He shrugged slightly and continued. “I must tell you that forcing your memory may drive you into madness, and such a madness as would compel me to destroy you to protect others; doubt not that I would do so,” he reiterated. Somehow I did not doubt it in the least. “Look at the portrait,” Geoffrey stood and lit the candles on the mantel, throwing a golden light onto the painting over it. I stood to view it and gasped.

That was the woman from my memory; the wide-set smoky dark eyes, the finely modeled face with its dark sweeping brows, long straight nose, and slightly disdainful mouth over a chin a bit too prominent for classical beauty, all setoff by the abundant glossy waves of russet-black hair. But the painting couldn’t capture the sophisticated carnality, the passion that had permeated my vision.

“We were staying at the Mayor’s house in London; there you saw her first,” Nicolas spoke softly.

I realized that I was sitting again—my knees had given out. I took up the narrative in a voice suddenly hoarse and toneless. “The night before the Lord Mayor’s Twelfth Night Masque.” The surging memories of my final months of life almost overwhelmed me in their sudden clarity, faster and faster, flooding my mind, drowning my will, until Frizer’s dagger plunged at my face and a scream tore at my throat, though no sound came forth. I felt myself falling, but couldn’t raise a hand, crippled with shock and terror. I welcomed the darkness that rose up to swallow me.