Perfect Shadows

chapter 7

I woke from the day-trance to explosions of pain, just as Southampton pulled Roger away from me. I summarily dealt with the servants, but when I looked around there was only. . . .

“My lord? Hal?” I mumbled through bleeding lips; more than one blow had found my face. Southampton moved swiftly then, though he had seemed frozen with fear. He eased me back onto the bed, then smoothed my hair back from my marred face, and startled. I realized that he was seeing me for the first time without my eye-patch. I resisted the impulse to turn my head away and watched him as he looked at the thick puckered scar that disfigured my eyelid, and the almost invisible stitches of silk, buried in the thick fringe of my lashes, that caught the lids together.

“Kit? Kit!” a voice called from below.” What the devil is going on here?” Southampton sent a questioning look at me. I smiled, or grimaced, it was hard to say.

“It’s a jest of Sir Thomas’s,” I replied to the unspoken question. “He says that I put him in mind of a friend of his that died. I do not mind, and it is also a fond name for Kryštof.” I sat up sharply as a thought struck me. “Jehan and Sylvie—they must be—they couldn’t have gotten to me, otherwise,” I struggled to stand, and Southampton got an arm around me, keeping me from slumping to the floor.

“I’ll see to them and send Sir Thomas up to you—”

“Sir Thomas is already here,” said a cold voice from the door, where Tom stood, arms folded, glowering at the scene before him. Southampton flushed, probably remembering a number of times that Walsingham had been the butt of his rather vicious humor.

“Jehan?” I asked, fear and anger distorting my voice.

“He and Sylvie are injured, but they are being cared for and will be fine in a day or so. You have a good man there,” Tom added to Southampton, somewhat grudgingly, and seemed surprised when he was returned only a subdued acknowledgment, and not some sarcastic retort. “Sylvana was harmed only in her dignity. They shut her in the big cloak-chest,” he said, then whirled to face Roger who moaned and tried to stand. They both saw the bodies on the floor at the same instant. Roger pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and bit down hard as if to keep from screaming. Tom’s eyes narrowed and flicked around the room, coming to rest finally on my bruised and naked body. “Would someone kindly tell me what in the name of Christ has happened here?”

“I fear it is somewhat complicated, Tom,” I said.

Sylvana, an older and somewhat stouter version of her daughter Sylvie, chose that moment to appear in the doorway. She dropped a brief curtsey then homed in on me. “I must speak private with you, my lord,” she said determinedly. I shot a rueful glance at the others.

“If you would take Roger down to the study and keep him there,” I said wearily, “I will join you as soon as I may.” Tom looked as if he were about to protest, then shrugged and hauled Roger to his feet by one arm. Southampton took the other and the two eyed each other warily for a moment before towing their captive from the room. “Now, mistress, what is the matter?”

“Two things, my lord, and the first is this,” she spoke firmly, advancing on me with a bared forearm. “If you intend to make it down that stair without calling on your friends for help, you had best feed.” I nodded, but ignored the proffered arm and pulled her down onto the bed beside me. She kissed me gingerly, avoiding the hurts, and her body arched as my teeth found the vein in her throat. When I pulled back she stared at me for a few seconds through heavy-lidded eyes before shaking herself back to business. “Oh, yes,” she spoke in confusion, “the second thing is . . . well, you had best come and see for yourself. In the kitchen.”

I stood, finding that the pain had subsided a great deal. I was stiff and it felt like a couple of ribs were cracked, but the fresh blood would hasten my healing. Sylvana clucked at me, helping me to dress before leading me into the kitchen at the back of the house. Three people waited there. I recognized the big hostler from the inn where I had taken Roger the night that his collarbone had been broken. With him were a younger man, little more than a boy, really, and a young woman. The stableman cleared his throat awkwardly and began to speak nervously, with a lilting musical accent.

“Name’s Bowen, my lord, Rhys Bowen, and this is my brother Dickon and my sister Eden. You said I was to come, and I have, see.” I looked in confusion at the three for a moment, then turned to Sylvana.

“I think that I had better sit,” I said faintly.

“Aye, that you better had,” Sylvana replied cryptically, fetching me a stool. I sank onto it gratefully, as she turned back to the others. “You best show him,” she said. The three looked at her dubiously, and exchanged glances. Rhys shrugged, and then two of the three were enveloped in a familiar silvery mist. Within seconds two wolves stood there before the fire, feet tangled in the clothing they had worn, looking about and wagging uncertain tails. The boy, Dickon, had not changed, and stood looking somewhat wistfully at his siblings.” That’ll do,” Sylvana said, and they took their human forms again, and started to dress without a trace of embarrassment or shame.

I passed a shaking hand over my forehead. “I see,” I said.

I left Sylvana to sort things out in the kitchen and made my rather faltering way to the study. Roger sat slumped in a chair by the fire, his face streaked with tears, Tom stood leaning against the wall by the door, and Southampton lounged comfortably on a chest that sat under the only window large enough to provide an exit. As I approached, I schooled my aching body into a firmness I was far from feeling, then strolled over to where Roger sat, and stood over him. Roger shot a sulky glance up at me through his wet lashes, then let his eyes sink back to his hands, writhing on his lap like a nest of adders.

“What do you want,” he mumbled sullenly. I found myself laughing. I drew a chair in close and leaned towards the boy.

“Why, Roger, you do owe me an apology, an explanation at least, do you not?” I asked in a light and pleasant tone that in no way diminished the underlying menace. “Why did you do it?” I added gently.

“You killed him! He—I need him, needed him. You wouldn’t have me and then you killed him!” Almsbury drew a shuddering breath and glared at me. I nodded thoughtfully.

“Go to sleep, Roger. I shall return to you presently. Now, go to sleep.” My voice was quiet, and yet Southampton turned to look at me, as if he heard a note of command there that disturbed him. Roger’s head lolled back and he began a light sniffly snore. I stood and turned to the others. “Gentlemen, I need your advice. Upstairs.”

Rhys awaited us in the bedchamber, where he had laid the corpses out side by side. “My lord, I know these three. They do whatever they be paid for, and the more hurtful the more they enjoys it. London’s a better place without them, see. Best I should put them in the river now.”

Southampton cleared his throat. “Well, your grace, I have no better advice to give. Give them to the river. I shouldn’t think that there’ll be much outcry over the likes of them,” he finished and looked over at Sir Thomas, who nodded mutely.

“I can help,” a low voice growled from the doorway and Jehan stood there, a bandage around his head, eyeing Rhys distrustfully. Rhys returned the stare, then stuck out his hand with a grin. Jehan stepped closer, continuing his scrutiny, then his own face cracked into a smile, and he took the callused hand, giving it a firm shake. “Jehan,” he said.

“Rhys,” the other answered, “You take the little ’un, then, you bein’ hurt. I’ll get t’other, and we’ll come back and do the big ’un between us.” That settled they shouldered their burdens and disappeared down the passage, leaving us gaping behind them.

“God’s Lights, your grace, where do you find your servants?” Southampton drawled in mock awe, and we all broke into laughter.

“Come back to the study,” I said genially. “I think that I can find us something fit to drink.”

“Thank you, Kit, but I’ll just pick up what I came for and be off,” Tom said, adding in a voice pitched for my ears alone. “Take care, Kit. And I’ll stay if you think that I should.” I shook my head. Back in the study I handed Tom a large packet of Rózsa’s manuscripts wrapped in oiled silk, then saw him out to the courtyard.

“I’m going to be away for a time, up in Derbyshire. Rózsa’s going with me, you know, so heed what I said and do not hesitate to send if you need us,” Tom said. I agreed solemnly, and Tom leaned from the saddle to kiss me good-bye, then reined his horse around and vanished into the night. I stood for a few moments looking after him, steeling myself for the unpleasantness ahead, and returned to the house.

Roger still slept in his chair. Southampton had pulled another closer to the fire, and sat plying the poker among the coals. “If you could find that wine, I’ll mull it,” he said without turning around. I came in and stood behind his chair, resting my hands on the back of it. “I’ve bespoke it,” I said and Sylvie, also bandaged, presently came in with a tray.

“Your men are in the kitchen, my lord,” she said, curtseying shyly to Southampton. “We can put them up if you’ll be staying.”

“You are welcome to stay, my lord,” I added, and Southampton twisted around in the chair to stare at me for a moment before replying.

“No, I think not, not tonight,” he said reluctantly. “If someone could hail a boat, I think that we’ll go home by river, though, and leave the horses until tomorrow.” Sylvie nodded and slipped from the room. “Your grace, what I had come to tell you is that, as you may have gathered, Lord Selby died last night after throwing himself into the river. The man’s last words were evidently ‘Lovell’ and ‘Chelsey’, and your servant was seen taking him to the inn. Robin— Essex—thinks to use this to discredit you at court, or at least keep you away for an extended time and involved in scandal. Oh, he’ll not say aught that you could challenge, or even trace back to him. But it could—will—get ugly.”

“I had intended to withdraw myself from court again. Indeed, I had not returned at all but that I got wind of your Robin’s plot to endanger the Queen and advance his position by rescuing her. Or by not rescuing her. I’m not sure if he knows himself which he intended,” I said. “You look shocked. Did he not tell you?” Southampton shook his head, his handsome face pale.” Well, perhaps then he tenders a better care of your honor than of his own. I learned of the plot from Roger,” I added, answering the unspoken question, and Southampton nodded.

“Roger,” he said flatly. “What do you intend to do with Roger?”

“Well, I do not intend to harm him, if that is your concern. You are welcome to stay and watch, if it will set your mind at ease. Although,” I continued,” it may not be pretty. I intend to find out his connection with Selby, and I expect it to be a twisted one. If you do not care to stay, you may come and collect him tomorrow.”

“I shall, or send someone. And you have my word of honor, your grace, that nothing I have seen or heard here tonight will be passed on.” I gazed at him, covertly noting the growing bulge at his groin. I knew that he desired me, then, as he knew I desired him, and that the knowledge left him flushed and shaking.

“I had not thought otherwise,” I smiled. “And it would please me much if you, too, would call me Kit.”

It was close to the laggard December dawn before I sought my bed, weary beyond belief. The story I had wrenched from the young man had sickened me. Roger had been lured into going to Selby for a loan by the man’s nephew Edward, at Selby’s instigation. It was not simple lust that drove the older man, but the corruption or perversion of innocence that gave him his greatest gratification, though in Roger’s case the intended victim had become the willing pupil. Selby had watched me at court, and the combination of my high position and the relentless sensuality of the vampire had aroused the aging lecher until the desire to dominate and degrade me had become an obsession.

My ultimate rejection of Roger without ever bedding him had enraged and humiliated the boy, turning him into a willing accomplice, fed on the promises of having me given over to his forcible attentions when Selby had finished with me. He had correctly concluded from the man’s last words that the plan had been put into motion that night, but had gone fatally awry, and he blamed me for the man’s death, thinking me no better than a murderer. He had not thought nor planned, had just found himself in the company of the three ruffians, and had hired them to “do a job of work” for him. He hadn’t paid them to kill, but wouldn’t have cried if they had. I took the memories from him, suggesting, and doubly reinforcing the suggestion, that Roger had come to Chelsey that night and drank himself into a stupor mourning his friend. He did not, and would not, believe that I had had anything to do with Selby’s death. He was given a large jug of sugared sack mixed with brandywine and allowed to drink himself into oblivion.

Before I could seek my rest, there was still the matter of the new servants to sort out, and I made my way into the large kitchen, where a husky-sweet baritone voice was singing:

‘To be a Scot’s whore and you’re fifteen years old,

And you were the fair flower of Northumberland.’

The last word startled me so that I swung the door open with far more force than I intended. I apologized and was given a seat by the fire and a cup of wine.

Rhys told their complex story simply, that they had been driven from the mountains of Wales and took refuge in the service of the Percy family. They had been four, originally. Another sister, Eve, had disappeared shortly after they had come south with the earl. He had told them that she had desired to return to the north, and that he had sent her, but he hadn’t known that Dickon could read and write. A letter sent to the priest at Alnwick had been answered in the negative, and they feared their sister was dead. Thinking of that room with the circle scribed into the floor and the bolts used to fasten shackles, I thought I knew the fate that had overtaken the girl, and shivered. Perhaps she had been too drugged to change her shape, for I couldn’t imagine Percy letting any of them go if ever he discovered their nature. So they had fled Percy’s service, Dickon working as a scrivener, Rhys as an hostler, and Eden at sewing and lace making, but Percy had begun to seek after them. Hearing tavern gossip of the rift between Northumberland and the foreign prince, Rhys had decided to take my offer of employment, hoping that the protection such a position offered could be extended to his family as well.

He had gotten the shock of his life when Sylvana had opened the back door, recognizing instantly what she was, as she did him. They soon decided that they must be kin, however distantly. Rhys and his siblings were pre-Celtic, descended from folk that had been pushed back into the Welsh hills before the Celts themselves had been driven to those same hills first by the Romans and later by the Saxons. Rhys was big, though not quite so big as Jehan, and Eden and Sylvie were almost of a size. They all had dark chestnut hair, and the same tilted tawny eyes as Jehan and Sylvie.

Dickon, who had been singing, was different, shorter than his brother and slender, with hair so black that it shone with purple highlights in the candlelight, his dark eyes the violet-grey of storm clouds, each iris ringed in jet black. The fine bones of his face and hands suggested aristocratic blood, and he hadn’t changed when the others did. The boy caught the speculative look I swept over him and his face reddened. “I’m a bastard, a half-brother,” he snarled and strode from the room. I rose to follow him, glancing at Rhys, who nodded me on.

“Dickon, wait,” I called softly into the darkness of the great hall. My vampire’s sight easily picked the lad out of the shadows and I crossed to him. “I am sorry, I meant no insult or injury to you. Will you forgive me?” He gave me a quick glance then turned his face away.

“Dickon’s a family name, my lord,” he muttered.

“I see. Your name is Richard, then? Good, I shall call you that. But you haven’t answered my question, Richard. Will you forgive me?” I saw the sullen nod. “Good, again. Rhys said that you read and write. Would you care to act as my secretary? I need someone to read and write for me, as I can do neither.” I could see that I had surprised the boy out of his sulks at any rate.

“Why not, my lord?” he asked simply, neither snarling nor muttering. I smiled.

“The assault that took my right eye took that as well. I enjoyed reading, and writing too, and I would appreciate it a great deal if you would help me.”

“Of course, my lord,” Richard answered somewhat coolly.

“You have a beautiful voice, Richard.” I saw the quick flash of the boy’s grin.

“You wouldn’t have thought so, last year! I used to sing trebles in the choir, till it broke. It’s only a few months that it’s settled. I—I’m happy that it pleases you,” his voice took on the hint of a snarl. Neither accustomed nor reconciled to being used as a servant, I thought.

“It does please me, and it would also please me if you would sing some more, tonight, if you are not too tired,” I said gently. Richard paused a moment, then nodded and allowed himself to be led back into the kitchen.

The next evening I sat bolt upright as the day-trance released me. The comfortable sound of my bath being filled would tell me that I was not alone even if the presence of living blood had not alerted me by senses less conventional. I drew the curtain aside, and was surprised to see Rhys, not Jehan as I had expected. Rhys smiled uneasily and crossed the room to the bed.

“Jehan and Sylvie are resting, but Sylvana says they’ll be well tomorrow, the way we heal. They should’ve gone straight to their beds last night, but they were that worried about you, my lord, that you’d have no one to care for you, see.” He went on to say that Almsbury had gone with Southampton’s men when they came for the horses that afternoon. “Tomorrow Jehan’ll be back caring for you and I’ll look after the stables. But now,” his voice took on a low, wary tone. “Sylvana told me about you, my lord, and we have tales that tell of your kind among our folk. They say that we are never so well off as when we serve you, and she told me what you—what you need, see. I can’t say that I’m not fretted, my lord, but I need your help more than you need mine, so I am willin’.” He sat down on the bed, cautiously as if it were a nest of snakes, or as if he expected me to lunge at him and drain him on the spot. I shook my head.

“No, Rhys. Sylvana spoke out of turn. You need not—feed me, to ask for and be granted such protection as I can afford you. I can manage without your sacrifice. I take it that you have spoken of my nature to your family? Good, but do not trouble yourself. Jehan, Sylvie and Sylvana have all sustained me, and shall again, by their own choice, but I do not ask that of you or yours. But, Bowen, we do not know how things may fall out, and neither would I turn you or Eden away. Richard is still a child, and whatever else you may think of me, know that I do not take children. Do you understand?” Rhys nodded, his face a careful blank, as he got up and left the room.

I rose and crossed to the bath. I would heal without heavier feeding, though not as swiftly, I reflected as I sank into the hot water, letting it soak the soreness and stiffness from me. Yet I wanted more, and I suddenly recognized the feeling. I wanted a lover. Tom was comfortable, an old friend, and a good one, but even he had felt the need for the new, and had found Rózsa. I wanted the excitement, the—I realized that I was not alone.

Southampton stood in the doorway, and, seeing my eye upon him, slouched into the room. He had dressed with great care, at the summit of style. His fitted slashed doublet and trunk-hose were all of satin, most appropriately of the rich crimson-blood color called Mortal Sin, crusted with gold thread and winking with jewels. The finest white knitted-silk hose clung to the muscles of his thighs and calves; his shoes of red and gilt Moroccan leather were graced with knots of gold ribbon. The falling band that he wore instead of the old-fashioned starched ruff was made entirely of lace as delicate as frost on a windowpane, perfectly accenting the dark auburn curls tumbling over it. Oh, yes, I thought, smiling to myself, that is what I want.

“Why hello, Hal,” I said softly. “What brings you back so soon?”

“I could not stay away,” he snarled, his voice ragged. “I do not understand why, how, you affect me so. Whenever I think of you I’m filled with lust, and an urge to fling discretion to the four winds and myself at your feet. . . .” He trailed off, looking down at his clenched fists, while the color drained from his face. I rose from the tub and reached for the towel, ignoring the tearing sound of his breath.

“Go on down to the study, Hal, and I will join you there when I have dressed. It would appear that we have much to discuss,” I said gently, and he turned on his heel and left the room without a backward glance.

A half-hour or so later I entered the study, wearing a black shirt of cobweb-lawn open to the waist and smoothly flowing black velvet trousers, tucked into soft-soled boots. Hal stood tapping nervous fingers on the skull-shaped reliquary that rested in its niche in the mantelpiece. He spun with a gasp as the door opened, looking for all the world like a stag brought to bay. I ignored his near panic and set the tray I carried on the table, pushing the litter of books and papers to one side with the back of my hand and sliding the tray into place; I was closely followed by Rhys, who set a covered basin and ewer on the chest beneath the window and withdrew silently. I poured a cup, turned and offered it to my guest, who took it with shaking hands.” Sip it, Hal,” I warned, “it’s brandywine. That’s a pretty toy, is it not?” I continued, nodding at the jeweled skull. “I picked it up in Rome, but I forget which saint’s skull it was supposed to hold. I use it for quite a different purpose.” I crossed to the fire and took down the box, flipping back the top to reveal a small pipe and a greeny-brown cake. “It’s hashish, from Turkey. Would you like to try it?” Hal nodded and watched with interest as I prepared the pipe.

“What did you do with the skull?” he asked suddenly.

“We buried it,” I smiled. “It was a woman’s, Geofri said, or a child’s. There are ossuaries there, as you know, and an endless supply of ‘martyr’s bones’, but somehow we thought returning the pitiful object to the earth was best, to keep her from being taken away and sold again, as was likely if we had returned her to the catacomb. Geofri has rather strict views on the respect due to the dead.” I lit the pipe and drew the smoke before handing it to Hal, who took it gingerly and imitated me, but choked on the unfamiliar taste. He soon became accustomed to the flavor, and began to relax.

I pushed the chairs back, pulling the cushions from them and arranging them on the floor before the fire. I stretched out my legs, using one of the heavy chairs as a backrest. Hal gazed at me for a moment, then did the same, settling between me and the fire. “Now Hal, do you wish to tell me why you could not stay away?” He hesitated, unsure. “Well, I think that I know,” I said carefully. “But this choice must be yours, and I will not try to force you to my will, or even influence your decision. Have you loved with a man before?” He nodded slowly, his eyes smoky with memory.

“Twice,” he answered huskily. “One older and one younger. I was fifteen, and he was twenty, a groom in Lord Burghley’s household, assigned to look after me, though not, I fear, in the fashion he did,” Hal chuckled, then saddened.” He died about a year later, of the plague. I took a younger boy, a page, as a lover, to try to forget him, but . . . it was a mistake,” his voice hardened.

“The boy threatened to go to Burghley if you didn’t pay dearly for his silence, I suppose. What did you do?”

“Planted a ring of mine among his things and went to Burghley myself, and had him turned out for stealing. He tried to tell Burghley anyway, to defend himself, but as I had been rather spectacularly discovered that morning with two of the serving-wenches in my bed, no credence was paid him.” Hal smiled as I laughed out loud.

“Masterful! I must be wary, I see.” I reached out and tentatively touched his hand, running my fingertips across the back and around the thumb into the palm, lightly holding it, and raising it to my lips to press a kiss there. Hal shivered, then sat up and began deliberately undoing his doublet, one jeweled button at a time, his gaze never straying from my face. He untied his points and slid out of doublet, trunk-hose and hose in one graceful movement, with practiced ease. Clad only in his shirt he leaned over me, first easing my filmy shirt over my shoulders, then his eager hands searching for the fastening of the outlandish trousers. I could see his eyes catch on the scars upon my shoulder and chest, arrow wound and brands. He tenderly bent his head and kissed them, causing me to shudder with the intensity of my desire.

“Do you know what you are doing, Hal? Is this truly what you want?” I asked hoarsely. “You still have a choice.”

Hal shook his head sadly, raising on one elbow to turn a bittersweet look on me. “I have no choices at all,” he breathed, then smiled tightly as I leaned forward to kiss him, gently at first, then more ardently as the depth of his reaction drove me. I found myself aching to learn the limits of the man, all the nuances and subtleties of his responses. I had meant to hold back, to build gradually, but fell helplessly into the desire to push and master him, reading without conscious thought his unuttered needs. When I came at last to press my teeth to the vein in his throat, tangling my hand in that burnished hair and drawing his head back almost to the point of pain, my own release was shattering. The rich sweetness of his blood filled my mouth, and his body shuddered as wave after wave of pleasure engulfed us both.

I withdrew from the spent and sobbing man beneath me, turning him and drawing him up until the tear-soaked face rested on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hal,” I murmured, kissing the sweat-dampened curls. “I hadn’t meant for it to belike that.” Hal pressed his fingers to my lips, to hush me.

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispered, then raised his face to mine.

“Lo, I confess I am thy captive, I,

and hold my conquered hands for thee to tie,”

he quoted, smiling, and I stared at him in surprise. “It’s from Marlowe’s Ovid,” he explained quietly. “Kit Marlowe was the dead friend that Walsingham has named you for.”

“Yes, I know,” I said, disentangling myself to fetch the basin, which held heated towels, and the ewer full of water that was still pleasantly warm. I began to wash, first myself, then him. Hal shivered at the attention, his eyes growing heavy with content. He reached a hand and caught my wrist, kissing the fading scars still visible there.

“If that was not how you meant it to be, you might still show me how you did intend it . . . ” his voice trailed off as I leaned over him, a shadow between him and the fire, then a fire between his teeth when our lips met. I was gentle this time, using every ounce of my skill to bring his release, and every ounce of my will not to feed from the man again. All too soon, it seemed, we broke apart. Hal laid back and when I asked him what he was doing replied: “Drinking the sight of you like wine, some heavy and heady rich wine, red as blood, rarer and more precious than rubies,” and laughed at the giddy simile. I brought the tray, uncovering the dishes to reveal the rare beef and sallet of sorrel and rose petals, and poured him a wine redder than blood from a second flagon. He leaned against me, letting himself be fed and basking in my attentions.

“I am more content this night,” he told me, “than I have been since ever I came to court.”