Perfect Shadows

chapter 3

Basking in the importance of his visitor, and wanting to impress me, Roger couldn’t wait to give news of the upcoming hunt. I had heard the allusions to Elizabeth’s abilities as a horsewoman, and the scorn underlying the words. I plied Roger with wine to relax him, and before morning had learned enough of the plot to be worried. I was happy to find that Roger was still susceptible to my suggestion, as I found that I had no desire at all for the pretty, petty boy. The seductiveness natural to the vampire roused his ardor to the point of foolhardiness, past even my powers of suggestion to gainsay it, adding to my distaste.

My first impulse was to discuss it all with Rózsa or Nicolas, but no, this was my problem, my country and Queen. I would see to it myself. I had to reclaim my life and independence, and the sooner I could prove to Geoffrey’s satisfaction that I no longer needed a keeper, the happier I should be.

The full moon silvered the frost that veiled the meadows and woods, deepening the shadows where I waited, watching the progress of the hunt. It was a perfect night; the cold was exhilarating rather than bitter. I watched the puffing breath of nobles and horses—my own left no trace upon the chilly air. There was a sudden clamor as a black horse broke away from the main hunt, leaving the fields for the woods, bent, it seemed, on scraping the tiny ermine-muffled figure off its back. Shadowy shapes materialized from the concealing woods, darting and nipping at the beast’s foam flecked nose, keeping him to the meadow and out of the wood. I spurred my horse into a gallop at the first outcry, easily matching my stallion’s pace to that of the runaway, and reached for the Queen, to drag her to safety. She looked furiously at me, starting to motion me away, when something seemed to catch her eye. She kicked free of the pommel, stood balanced on the planchette, then slung herself towards me just as the flash and blast of a pistol discharging rent the night, echoed by shouts and screams from the court.

I jerked and nearly dropped my precious burden with the shock of the pain that lanced through my upper arm, but I recovered and settled Elizabeth’s child-like body firmly on the horse before me. The wolves had already betaken themselves to the woods, and were probably well on their way back to Chelsey, their part in the night’s adventure accomplished. A second shot rang out and the Queen’s horse, some ten yards ahead of us by now, screamed and dropped, only his head thrashing about for a few seconds before he was still. Elizabeth was cursing as only a Tudor could when the laggard court caught up to us. Someone had called for torches, and in the flickering light my enhanced sight confirmed my suspicions. The horse had been shot through the neck just above the withers, the warm blood from the wound steaming upon the snow. The Queen gave orders that all were to return to Oatlands, rebuffing Essex’s offer to take her upon his own horse, and the court, buzzing like a wasp’s nest, straggled along after us. I saw Ralegh examining the body of the slaughtered horse and noted the uneasy looks sent his way by Essex and his followers.

We passed through the arches into the courtyard, ablaze with torches and cressets, the court spilling in behind us, milling about and getting in the servants’ way. Elizabeth slid from the saddlebow to the ground, and several of her ladies cried out at the sight of the dark blood soaking and staining her cloak and the front of her gown. She ignored them, catching at my rein, her hooded almond-shaped eyes boring into me. “My lord prince, dismount at once,” she commanded, and her voice brooked no opposition. I swung out of the saddle, protesting that it was nothing, but allowing myself to be led indoors. Ralegh flanked me, taking me by my unhurt right arm, but speaking softly first, as he approached from my blind side. I was taken to a small parlor where the wound, which proved indeed superficial though quite bloody, was already beginning to close as it was dressed by Ralegh. He dismissed the idea of calling in a surgeon with a disdainful wave of his hand, and murmured to me that we would speak later.

If the Queen seemed disinclined to question the presence of a banished man at the hunt, not so Robert Cecil. His twisted form slid in the door like some goblin’s shadow before it had quite closed after Sir Walter.

“Your grace, I must have speech with you touching this attempt upon her Majesty’s life,” he said softly, pulling a stool close to the bench where I slumped against the wall. He ignored my weary nod, and proceeded to question me closely about the Fantasticals, and my association with Almsbury and Essex. I answered noncommittally.

“Why were you at the hunt, my lord, after being banished from the court in disgrace?” Cecil barked abruptly. My head snapped up at that, and I regarded the minister much as I would something unpleasant adhering to the sole of my boot. “It seems most likely that you contrived this dangerous scheme as a device to return yourself to her Majesty’s favor. You will return to Chelsey and consider yourself under house-arrest there until the matter may be taken up by the council.” Cecil rose and strode from the room, lingering neither for assent nor protest. Council trouble again—it was passing strange, the coils I could fall into. At any rate I had at least packed Roger off to complete his convalescence in his own lodgings the week before. The possessive jealousy that the puppy had shown upon Rózsa’s return from abroad was intolerable, and exacerbated by her prolonged stay at Chelsey. As I sat lost in these thoughts, the door opened once more to admit Elizabeth, with thunder on her face. I struggled to stand, but sank back onto the bench at her furious gesture.

“Cecil told me that he had placed you under arrest,” she said, coming straight to the point. “He knows not that your banishment was at your own request, and so needed no such histrionics to conclude it; only you and I know that, my lord. So I ask you, whose plot did you foil?” I knew that without proof she would neither welcome nor believe that it was her darling Essex, and proof I had none, only the drunken ramblings of a dissolute and rakehelly boy. I shrugged slightly.

“It was only luck, your Majesty, luck and curiosity, having never before seen a moonlight hunt,” I countered.

“I saw the moonlight on a raised pistol, cousin,” she said. “Someone shot at me.”

“Or at me,” I countered, and refused to add or admit anything further. Elizabeth’s painted brows drew together in a scowl, and she motioned me to leave her.

The next evening I awakened to the news that I had been summoned to council that morning. Sylvana had sent the messenger off with a flea in his ear, saying that the master was wounded, and she was not about to wake him from a healing sleep to go riding off in the sleet and bitter weather for a matter that could just as well be handled by letter. She had stood there then, arms folded, not budging until they had left. I shook my head ruefully, but with no little admiration for the woman. Sylvie came in as Jehan was dressing me, to say that another visitor had arrived, a little humpbacked man who had identified himself only as Cecil. I resigned myself to an unpleasant evening, and went to greet my guest.

The little man was standing near the fire, staring into the flames as though reading an oracle. He spoke without turning as soon as I entered the room.

“I have spoken with her Majesty, and she assures me that this—accident—was no plan or plot of yours, though how she reached this credulous conclusion she would not say. I do not agree that your part in this is entirely innocent,” he paused, turning a piercing glance on me. “Until I am so assured, I would like you to do a bit of work for me, to prove your good intent towards her Majesty.” I made no sign, but stood still in the shadows by the door. After a time Cecil continued. “The Earl of Essex and his friends are .. . less than trustworthy, being to a man ambitious, harebrained, and up to the eyebrows in debt. Essex, in particular, overrates his abilities; it will be only a matter of time before his hubris leads him to disaster. I would contain that disaster as much as possible, therefore—”

“You wish me to spy upon him and his friends, and report to you,” I interrupted, my voice thick with disgust. Half-remembered days with the Walsingham ring, and the Babington plot paraded hazy images through my brain, and my gorge rose at the suddenly clear memory of Babington’s protracted execution, at the thought that however remotely, I had helped to bring it about. There was a knock at the door, which opened at once to admit Ralegh. His bright blue gaze swept the room, assessing the situation immediately and accurately. He sketched a bow to Cecil, a sardonic smile curling his lips.

“Lord Robert,” he said, enjoying the discomfited expression seen so seldom on Cecil’s face.

“Sir Walter,” he answered, then turned again to me. “Consider well the matter of which we spoke, your grace, and we will conclude it at another time.” He stalked from the room.

“Well-a-day, Kit! So that crooked little man takes a dislike to you yet again, does he? My guess would be that he wants you to spy for him. The Fantasticals, presumably? He’d do better to lure one of them into spying on the others for the payment of his debts. My kinsman Gorges does leap to mind, or that that jackanapes Mericke. However I am not come to teach Cecil his business, but to tell you what I found upon my examination of the slain horse.”

He took a seat by the fire, and waited patiently while food and wine were brought in. When we were again alone he continued, handing me a small black bundle. “I found this tied into Black Auster’s mane, and some scraps of his fodder left in the manger had been admixed with several dubious herbs. There is no doubt that the horse was provoked, but was the intent to kill the Queen, or was another gallant rescuer meant to foil a supposed plot?” He sat back in his chair, sipping the wine and letting the warmth creep back into his toes. I was silent for a time, turning the little bundle over in my hands. It was no more than folded silk, and all burned out on one side, where presumably the contents had consumed themselves, erupting into some sort of flame, and causing the horse to bolt. It reeked of Northumberland. I tossed the foul thing back to Ralegh then stood with a curse and started to pace, almost colliding with Rózsa, who glided soundlessly into the room, followed closely by Tom.

Ralegh leapt to his feet and performed a faultless courtesy, evoking her delighted laugh. She accepted his hand and allowed herself to be seated in the chair that he had occupied a minute earlier. She was dressed in doublet, open down the front, and trousers, and but for her small breasts, pressed into relief against the silk of her shirt, might have been taken for a pretty, beardless boy. Tom, too secure now to let jealousy poison him, had taken to Rózsa, and I knew that they, too, were occasional lovers. They had been to see a play at Blackfriars, and their lively description of the work served as an excellent diversion.

The next night I rode to Roger’s lodgings, where, upon my paying his arrears of rent, the landlady had allowed me to go up. The rooms were not small, but were ill-kept and dirty, assaulting my sensitive nostrils with the odors of moldering food and the dregs of sour wine. Other noisome smells issued from the fireplace which, although obviously most well used, had not seen a fire in sometime. I threw open the casement windows, letting the freezing air scour some of the stench from the chambers. Shouting down the stairs, I arranged for the scullion to come and clear the worst of the mess from the room, for a further handful of small coin. Roger and an older man, both drunk, arrived in the midst of the operation. I listened with contempt as Roger’s bellicose voice floated up the stairs.

“Well, I’m not paying you! Or were you trying to rob me, you knave?” There was the sound of a brisk slap and the clatter of a dropped bucket, then Roger’s weaving form appeared in the doorway. “Oh, ’s’you, is it? Milord Selby, ’low me t’present his disgrace Prince Kryštof of Syllabub, Sib-simple-somewhere,” said Roger, giggling helplessly at his attempted humor. He sketched a flamboyant courtesy and fell on his face. Selby, perhaps through long practice, handled his own sodden condition somewhat better.

“Please forgive him, your grace, he’s . . . we are both somewhat the worse for wine, this evening . . . though I am most pleased, most pleased to make your acquaintance,” he took my hand in his, holding it just a few seconds too long and with an eloquent intensity. His eyes were bloodshot, and the skin of his face, once fair and smooth, had begun to sag and display tiny purple lines, which he had tried to cover with a plastering of cosmetic. I brushed the apology aside with a wave, and stepped to the door, pausing on the threshold.

“Please tell Roger, when he is sober, that I shall await him tomorrow evening at my house in Chelsey. Good night, my lord.” I turned on my heel and left.



When I reached Chelsey, Ralegh was waiting for me, his cynical smile firmly in place. Once I was seated before the study fire, Sir Walter showed me the results of his day’s researches. He had made up a pouch similar to the one that had been fixed in the horse’s mane, which he had affixed to a rod about a yard long. Throwing a piece of horsehide down on the hearth he proceeded to rub the bag briskly against it. I watched in amazement as a blue spark crackled, followed immediately by a spurt of flame.

“Are you thinking of trading adventuring for a conjurer’s robes, Sir Walter?” I asked bemusedly.

“Not at all, Kit. It’s a simple sort of trickery, after all, not magic, as we had feared. You, of all people, should recognize stage fire!”

“But what set it off, and how did they time it?” Ralegh silenced me with a wink, then set about filling his pipe as he continued.

“The paper was held in folds of silk, which, when chafed against animal hair, makes this spark. Cat fur works even better, but horsehair is well enough, and the spark ignited the paper, causing the horse to bolt. They shot the poor beast to conceal that his fodder had been poisoned, the poison acting to make him touchy and hard to control. He would have been dead by morning most likely, and that would have pointed directly at Sir Christopher Blount, Essex’s young stepfather and the old Earl of Leicester’s Master of Horse.” Ralegh leaned forward, deftly removing a coal from the fire with the small tongs provided for the purpose and studiously lighting his pipe. As the smoke began to wreath his features he settled back and grinned at me. I found myself smiling back for an instant before standing to pace the room once more.

“It always comes back to Essex, doesn’t it. I vow, the man’s as vain and empty-headed as a peacock, swaggering and boasting about. He’ll be having his portrait painted with the rest of his band for posterity next,” I added sourly, referring to the fatuous Babington, who had done just that. “Almsbury’s coming here tomorrow night, and I will try to talk some sense into him, though I doubt any likelihood of success in that venture! They seem most eager to seduce me into their ranks; perhaps I should let them, for a time.”

Ralegh shook his head and leaned over to knock his pipe against the hearth. “Take care, Kit. They, and you, do play a most dangerous game,” he said.

Roger arrived promptly at dusk, sober and in no good humor, his sky-blue doublet showing the ravages of last night’s debauch. His mood, sour enough to begin with, worsened perceptibly upon my arrival, and was only slightly assuaged by the feast set before him. He was surly and taciturn, falling to his food and ignoring me. I had let my guest finish his repast before approaching the matter at hand, but had allowed him only three small cups before having the wine removed with the remains of the meal. I smiled indulgently at Roger’s glare.

“You shall have more another time, Roger, I do promise, but I need to speak with you, and that I cannot do if you are passed out drunk.”

“Do not patronize me!”

“Oh, but Roger, what are you all angling for, if not patronage? That was why Essex set you on me as soon as he had occasion, was it not? Do not trouble yourself to lie, Roger, you haven’t the knack.” Roger’s jaw gaped open and he propped it shut by resting his chin on his hand.

“Please ask my lords Southampton and Essex to be so kind as to attend me here tomorrow night and we will discuss it. Or if that is not convenient, we shall make other arrangements; you will see to it, and leave word tomorrow. At any rate now, I’m sure that you have more important matters to see to than waiting on me.” Roger recognized a dismissal when he heard one and stumbled to his feet. He headed for the door, pausing for a moment to mutter his resentful thanks in the matter of his rent. I motioned him out without looking up from the fire. He had barely left before Walsingham was shown in.

Soon Tom was lolled in his chair, thawing his feet at the fire and his fingers around the cup of mulled wine, discussing the past summer’s offerings at the playhouses. “Shakespeare has a patron in the Earl of Southampton, but I doubt not that there are others in need,” Tom said, gazing sleepily at the fire. “I wonder at your taking an interest, after that clumsy stab at Ralegh. And the history plays, as well.”

“Well, one writes what one is paid to write, and the histories were more or less common ground, several of us having worked on them, so Will may have felt free to rework them himself.” I fell silent, thinking of Nicolas’ reaction to the history plays, the ones dealing with Richard III. Nicolas, in his youth, had been presented at Richard’s court, had honored the man, and was incensed that one who was so fair and upright in all his dealings, as well as a just and able ruler, should be so portrayed as a monster of depravity and evil. It had in fact been Richard’s own Queen Anne that had died of the same consumptive illness Rózsa contracted, and Nicolas, loving the gentle little Queen, had never gotten over her loss. It had taken some time to convince him that the play, written on commission, had been aimed at the twisted body of Robert Cecil, who was being groomed for high office, and who could not take the merited offense at the play without seeming to defend Richard and the Plantagenets, a most perilous posture in a Tudor court. Now, if one could set the scene... With a start I realized that Tom had been speaking to me, and held up my hands with a grin. Tom laughed aloud at the familiar situation.

“It’s good to see you working again, Kit,” he said simply.

I rode through the light snowfall that had started with the dusk, obeying the summons from the Queen to attend her at Whitehall that evening. I had had no word from Roger, whom I had commissioned to bring the Earls of Essex and Southampton to Chelsey that night, but then the lad hadn’t seemed to be listening. When the message came I shrugged and ordered my horse saddled, leaving instructions where I could be found, and orders to care for the earls if they arrived after all. I needn’t have worried. The first thing I saw in the brilliantly lit room was the long and elegant form of the Earl of Southampton lounging against a wall drawling advice at the players engaged in a game of primero, to their great annoyance and his own apparent amusement. From the way that his eyes narrowed I guessed that Roger had extended my invitation in some rude or unflattering terms. I acknowledged Southampton’s glare with an absent nod and proceeded to the Queen, standing at her right hand, and bending to hear her words over the music.

“Well, cousin, what was that bit of by-play in aid of?”

I shrugged. “I do not think that the earl cares overmuch for me,” I said, and the Queen’s pursed lips stretched into a reluctant smile.