Perfect Shadows

chapter 2

Roger stretched slowly, his foggy mind dealing reluctantly with returning reality. There was a feather bed beneath him, so he concluded he was not at home as he’d had to pawn his featherbed several months ago. The bed-curtains reduced the glare in the room to a level that merely poached his eyeballs, instead of the searing that opening his eyes in his own sunlit chambers would have produced, his bed-curtains having gone the way of the featherbed. So, he was not at home, and this was not any brothel he’d ever frequented before. Where in hell was he, then? At least he was alone. He hated waking up in the morning, or more likely late afternoon, with someone he didn’t remember bedding, and when sober, wouldn’t have looked at twice. He sat up to find that his left arm was bound tightly to his chest and his whole left side ached, the throbbing pain matching exactly the one behind his eyes. And he needed to find the necessary; well, he could always piss in the fireplace. If there was a fireplace. He cautiously drew the bed-curtains aside the merest inch and peered out into the surrounding room. His eyes met those of a large wolfish dog stretched out by the fire. The animal gazed at him for a few seconds then pushed itself to its feet and padded from the room, its claws soundless on the thick carpet that covered the floor.

A few minutes later a tall serving-man came in bearing a tray which he set on a nearby chest. He smiled at the blinking young man, pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed, and left the room without saying a word. When he returned with hot water and shaving gear the earl felt much better, although the food that had been left on the tray, bread and soft cheese accompanied by a tankard of ale, came close to making him retch. His clothing had been sponged and brushed and he was wearing a clean white linen shirt that was too large for him. His own shirt and collar were nowhere to be seen. The large man introduced himself as Jehan and offered to shave the earl if he desired it. Roger glanced at his own trembling hands and nodded ruefully.

He wished that he could grow a beard, a dashing pointed one like Ralegh’s, but whenever he tried it came in patchy and red, looking as if mice and moths had pillaged it. As his head was tilted back and the razor laid to his throat, it suddenly occurred to him just how vulnerable his position was. He started at the touch of the cold steel and might have caused himself serious injury if not for the lightning reflexes of the servant, who snatched the blade away almost before there was need. “I will not harm you, my lord,” he said quietly, seeming a little hurt. Roger blushed and nodded, submitting with what grace he could muster. Afterward he was helped to dress and taken downstairs.

The house was old and filled with a sense of brooding peace and a timelessness that Roger found somewhat oppressive. He was very much of the progressive party and “antique” was a term of utter condemnation. The uncarved golden oak paneling and plain whitewashed plaster without a trace of strap-work struck him as more impoverished than elegant, though the plenitude of wax candles and the richness of the subdued carpets and hangings gave that the lie. He shrugged and settled into a comfortably padded chair to await the arrival of his host. He must have dozed off again, for it was early evening when he woke with a slight start to find the opposite chair occupied.

He started again as he recognized the person sitting there eyeing him and smiling. “Your g-g-grace,” he stuttered, then found himself at a loss. He had often watched the elegant prince at court, planning the clever things he would say to impress him should they ever meet privately, and now, when his chance had come, he found himself as tongue-tied as any peasant lout. The man smiled at him and Roger melted. Oh please, he thought to himself, please let him . . . let me . . . he realized that the man had spoken to him and was obviously awaiting a reply. “I uh . . . oh, hell. I—” he broke off, blushing in confusion as he realized that his companion was laughing at him, then laughed himself as the ridiculousness of the situation overtook him.

“I asked how you were feeling, my lord,” the prince repeated, with amusement. Roger shrugged, then winced at the pain that shot through his left side.

“What happened?” he asked, and then winced again, mentally, at the banality of the question. He found himself blushing anew as the tale of last night’s adventure was relayed to him. He couldn’t have made a more perfect ass of himself if he’d set out to do so on a wager. Falling down drunk and waving his sword about was bad enough, but to be kicked to the ground by a disdainful horse! It didn’t bear thinking about.

“You are young yet, Roger, if I may call you that,” the prince spoke without a trace of condescension, as if, Roger noted with surprise, peering at him through his eyelashes, as if he were speaking to an equal. He nodded belatedly and the man continued. “And you are of the proper age to make a fool of yourself. But do try not to get yourself killed.”

“Why? Would you care if I did?” Roger heard the words fall from his lips with horror. How could he be so unguarded? His preferences could bring him to the stake, and however careless he was about the rest of his life he considered himself most circumspect in that regard. Usually. He doubted Essex even suspected, or Southampton, though he, Roger, suspected Hal of leaning more than a little in that direction himself . . . oh, no. He’d lost the thread of the conversation again. The prince was watching him with a quizzical smile quirking the corner of his mouth. Abruptly the man stood.

“I understand you have not eaten yet today, Roger. I will see what may be done to remedy that,” and he slid from the room like a shadow, returning minutes later with a large tray. He filled a plate with sliced beef and Cheshire cheese, added a serving of warm white manchet bread and set the plate on Roger’s knees, then he poured a rich dark wine into a pair of Venetian glass goblets.

“You do not sup, my lord?” Roger asked softly and Kryštof shook his head, holding out one of the glasses, which Roger gratefully accepted.

“I make it a habit never to take solid food after dark,” Kryštof told him. He watched as Roger finished his meal, awkwardly using his one free hand, then took the plate from him. “Tell me about yourself, Roger.” And Roger did, with an openness that surprised himself. Soon the prince knew all about the indebtedness that plagued the ‘Fantasticals’, as he and his friends were called by the more staid members of the Court, and had even garnered a few veiled hints on how they meant to remedy the situation. Roger, sunk sleepily down into his chair, sat suddenly bolt upright, turning an incredulous gaze on Kryštof.

“I dreamt of you, once. I fell asleep in a churchyard, and I dreamt that you were there, wounded and weakened, and that I helped you. I hadn’t even seen you then, but I dreamt of you. Then I saw you at Court, and I wanted it to have been real,” he left off, looking at the prince from under his lashes again. The man didn’t look disturbed, but rather amused.

“What is it you are trying to say, Roger?”

“I want to share your bed,” Roger answered baldly, then blushed redder than his wine, sneaking another look to see what effect his rash words had had upon the prince, who looked, not disgusted or horrified as Roger had feared, but rather calculating, as if he were weighing actions and consequences, a practice with which Roger and his circle were almost wholly unfamiliar. Several minutes passed, while Roger tried to think of any way to take back his words that wouldn’t only worsen the situation. What was it about the man that affected him so? Finally the prince smiled at him.

“Ask me again when your collarbone has healed,” he said. “You are welcome to stay here, or if you would prefer, I will take you back to your lodgings.”

“I would like to stay, thank you, your grace. My lodgings are a bit Spartan, just at present,” Roger answered hastily. The prince smiled again and left his guest to apply himself rather diligently to the wine.

The next few days, or rather evenings, followed the pattern of the first, much to Roger’s delight, for he hated mornings and found that the prince’s largely nocturnal habits suited him. He was restless, however, and pleasantly surprised late one afternoon to learn that he had a visitor. Robin had ferreted him out. He had been shown into the small parlor, and stood toying with a jeweled reliquary from a niche in the mantelpiece. He turned and smiled at Roger, dazzling in his white silk and tawny velvet. Roger, clad at the prince’s expense in silk brocade of cornflower blue, smiled back and indicated the chairs that waited by the fire.

“Well, Roger, you do seem to have landed on your feet for once,” Essex drawled and Roger laughed. “Have you sounded your host upon our enterprise, then? No? Well, perhaps that is just as well. There is a chance, a strong chance that all might be resolved sooner. My stepfather, Blount, is arranging a moonlight hunt at Oatlands in a week’s time, weather permitting. The Queen will ride Black Auster,” his voice sunk to a whisper, as he outlined his daring plan, to Roger’s growing dismay.

“But Robin,” he fairly squeaked, “there’s too much that can go wrong! She’s an old woman! The shock might well kill her, even if she kept her seat. And if she fell. . . . ” his voice trailed off at the amused expression on his companion’s face.

“You worry too much, Roger. It would take more than that to shock old Bess, and the horse has never been foaled that could throw that harpy, once she hasher talons set,” Essex retorted then rose from his chair to greet the man stepping through the door.

“You honor my poor house, my lord,” his host said smoothly, with the slightest inclination of his head. Essex answered with a bow of supercilious courtesy.

Damn the man, Roger thought to himself. No matter how good Robin’s intentions might be, Kryštof brought out all the earl’s pride and insolence. Robin could barely manage to be civil even though they could use Kryštof and his considerable resources in their enterprise, and his recent disgrace should have served to play him into their hands. The prince was just standing there, viewing them with a look of dry amusement that could not have incensed Essex more if it had been by intent. Robin muttered his excuses and fled, and the expression that crossed his face upon noting the companionable hand the prince had dropped on Roger’s shoulder boded ill. Roger grimaced, as once outside, Robin soothed his feelings by speaking sharply to the stableman, and spurring his horse into a canter from a standing start. Imagining Robin out of sorts for the rest of the evening, losing at cards and snapping at the Queen, he smiled.