Perfect Shadows

chapter 6

Sir Harry Warren and Sir Edward Selby watched with some interest as the big serving-man led Ned’s unresisting uncle through the crowded common room, deposited him in a private parlor, paid the landlord with gold and then vanished from the smoke filled room. Each had sold himself to the depraved old man more than once, when the alternative had been a prison stay for debt, and Ned still bore the scars. Harry was the more fortunate in that respect: the aging lecher could not use his kinship and the threat of disinheritance to take his resentment of his victim’s youth out on him. He reached a steadying hand out to his friend. He had never found out what had been done to Ned the last time he had sought his uncle’s help, and from the look on his friend’s face, he didn’t want to.

“I’ll go, Ned, if you like,” he said softly, but Ned shook his head. “Then I’ll come along.” Ned shrugged as they found their feet and threaded their way to the little parlor. Lord Thomas was sitting against the wall; bolt upright and staring at nothing. Ned spoke softly, then, and upon getting no response, more loudly, then shook his uncle by the shoulder. For a moment nothing happened, then the man swung around to face the two, his mouth opened wide, showing the broken and blackened teeth, and a scream poured from him, high pitched and metallic, going on and on. Harry had heard the like only once before, when a dog at the bearpit had gotten in a lucky slash. The bear had screamed like that, trampling its own guts into the earth trying to get to the dogs who were literally devouring it alive. He slapped the man across the cheek and the sound cut off, like snuffing a candle, only to be replaced by a worse one: Selby giggled. He looked from one to the other, and giggled again, shoving a finger into his mouth and biting down hard. Blood sprayed from his lips as he leapt to his feet, jerked the outside door open and ran out into the night.

Harry and Ned stood stunned for a moment, then ran after him. They followed him by the shouts of the bystanders, and arrived at the river’s side in time to hear the splash as he threw himself into the water.

What seemed like hours later, Sir Thomas was lying in the frozen mud of the riverside, the burly water-man who had rescued the old man standing over him, awaiting his reward. Ned pushed his way through the gathering crowd to kneel at his uncle’s side. He noted, with a curious detachment, that the water streaming from the old man’s nose and mouth was freezing as soon as it touched the ground, then realized with a start that his uncle yet lived and was trying to speak. He leant down, placing his ear to the bloodless lips. “Lovell,” the dying man whispered. “Lovell. Ch-chel—”and the rest was lost in a frothing sigh as the life slipped from him.

Harry paced the solar, while Ned sat slumped in front of the cheerful fire, numb and unseeing. Presently Harry sniffed the air and leaped to pull his friend away from the fire; his boot-soles were beginning to smoke. “Ned, are you mad? Those are your only unpatched boots, and you’re ruining them!” Ned looked up at him without comprehension.

“He’s dead, Harry,” he said, for the fiftieth time, in a monotone that made Harry grit his teeth with the effort it took to keep from slapping him. “He’s dead,” he repeated, and Harry closed his eyes in exasperation, snapping them open a moment later as he realized that they were no longer alone.

“Who is dead?” a pleasant voice softly asked and Harry turned to face the Earl of Southampton, still in his night-robe and cap. He sauntered over to the fire. “Gentlemen, you wished to see me?” Ned nodded dumbly and Harry gave an exasperated snort. He was going to have to do the talking, and he hated it—the man was no kin of his, thank God. He took a breath and began, ignoring the other two men who silently entered.

“Lord Thomas Selby is dead, my lord. He met with an accident last night.” Slowly and with much hesitation, ignoring the outcry from Almsbury near the door, he told what the two had seen the night before, describing the serving-man in some detail at Southampton’s prompting. When asked about the man’s dying words, he could only shake his head and motion to his friend.

“L-lovell, in Chelsey. He said L-lovell, in Chelsey,” Ned whispered, after much coaxing.

“You are quite certain that he said Chelsey,” Southampton asked sharply, and Ned nodded. Hal turned to ask Almsbury to care for his friends, but changed his mind. Roger had gone ashy pale, and looked likely to faint. What had come over the fool?

It was barely dusk as Southampton slung himself from his horse with a snarl and bolted for the manor house door. He had come to warn the Prince Kryštof of Selby’s death and the use to which Essex had meant to put it, a return for the warning he had been given about Cecil. He had lost time extracting a promise from Robin to do nothing until his return, and he put but little faith in it, in any case; Robin’s sense of honor was often a shifty thing, focused entirely on what was best for Robin. He had not counted on Almsbury getting here first, though if the spavined hired hacks standing and shivering in the courtyard were any indication, he certainly had.

Southampton motioned to one of his retainers to see to the horses, all of the horses, as none of the household servants were about, and the other two to follow him. He shoved the door open, and his gut twisted at the sight that greeted him. A big man, the servant who had taken Selby to the inn by the description, lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, bleeding profusely from a head wound. A little dark-haired beauty was crumpled at the foot of the far wall, a bloodstain marking her point of impact and her progress to the floor. There were muffled sounds issuing from a nearby chest, which one of his men went to investigate, and more alarming sounds from the second floor. He took the stairs two at a time, and followed the noises to a room at the far end of the floor.

The prince had been hauled naked from his bed by two of Roger’s men, and held upright with his arms twisted behind him, his head lolling as if he still slept, or had passed out from the punishment inflicted on him by Almsbury’s third man. He evidently had become bored with using his fists, and had snatched up a small log from the store by the fireplace, using it to systematically club the unconscious man, covering that milky skin with livid bruises. Roger watched, giggling hysterically, so close that drops of the tortured man’s blood sprayed him with every blow. He turned his vacant gaze to the door as Southampton threw himself into the room.

At that moment the prince raised his head as if awaking, and then, so swiftly that Southampton could not see how it happened, brought the two that had held him around before him. Somehow, he was holding them now, and in a dreamlike, fluid motion he smashed their skulls together. There was a dull, wet, popping sound, and he let them fall. Southampton pulled Roger to one side as the erstwhile victim reached for his third attacker, who stood staring stupidly at the limp forms of his companions. Without seeming to be aware of what he was doing, the prince snapped the man’s neck in a single effortless movement, dropping him to the floor with the others. The sudden weight in his hands told Southampton that Roger had fainted, and he set him carefully against the wall before turning to the dazed man before him. He was sweating with the fear that he would be killed with that same nightmarish ease, before he could make it understood that he was not part of the assault.