Perfect Shadows

chapter 8

Northumberland prowled the gallery and fidgeted in the old chapel he had taken as his study at Malvern Hall. The disturbances there had begun quietly enough some two or three weeks after the disastrous attempt to summon the demon Cadavedere, begun with a few rappings and tappings, and had grown in intensity until they could not be ignored. A sudden flung stone had broken a retort, spilling the results of two weeks work across the pages of an irreplaceable grimoire, and Percy had had enough. He briefly considered calling in a priest to try to exorcise the spirit, but had decided against it on the grounds that he probably knew more than his priest did on the subject of exorcism. Instead he had carefully set a mirror and murmured the spells of concentration and calming he had always found so useful preceding attempts to scry. A second stone shattered the costly mirror, and a tattoo of rapping broke out.

The earl, enraged, found himself shouting “Who in the name of hell are you?” then watching in horror as a massive wax candle began to burn down one side, as if it were subject to a heavy draft, although there was no breath of air stirring and the flames of every other candle in the room burned straight and still. The wax streamed from the candlestick, splashing onto the scarred tabletop, but oddly, deliberately. Northumberland leant forward, and gasped as his nearsighted eyes picked out the device that imprinted itself in the hot wax, the sigil of Mars encompassed in a star of thirteen points. He knew of only one man that had used that device: Aestatis Montague. Percy cleared his throat. “D-d-doctor, is that you?”

The upshot was that now, weeks later, the earl paced throughout the early evening, waiting for the time to ripen so that he could begin a rite that, as far as he knew, no one had ever attempted before. He stepped back into the shrouded chamber. It had originally been the Lady Chapel of the old abbey, and the candlelight gleamed on the scrubbed and polished floor, the icy white marks of the chalk patterns, and the sweating, naked body of the gagged man shackled in the center of those markings. He was not a prepossessing man, a beggar in fact, with a twisted clubfoot and a fleering sidelong glance under thatchy eyebrows, red, like his matted hair and scabby beard. It had been an easy matter to lure him to the house under the pretense of charity, and even easier once there to drug him, and keep him drugged until the most propitious time to perform the rite. But he was not drugged now, and he strained against the bonds that held him, twisted and fought for a freedom he would never win in the flesh.

“It is time to begin,” the earl said quietly, though there was none but his victim to hear him. He picked up a sword from the altar behind him, and slowly, expertly, began the chant and the accompanying motions, watching in fascination as he actually seemed to see the man’s soul pull out of his extremities and bunch towards the head. There was a snap that was almost audible, and the soul floated above the fettered body, attached by a thin silvery cord. Percy, still chanting, flicked his blade out and to the left, and the large and ornate sword, the Templar’s sword, severed the filament holding soul to body. With a wail that would trouble the earl’s dreams, the ghostly, amorphous shape shot from sight; immediately Percy dropped the weapon and caught up an aspergillum from a chalice standing by, sprinkling the lifeless body with the contents until it was evenly covered. He tossed the aspergill aside and snatched up the candelabra, holding it over the corpse while the chant reached a crescendo.

“ SURGAT! SURGAT! SURGAT!” he shrieked, and a mist seemed to form over the body, sinking into it like a stone into a weed-choked pond. At the final syllable, the dead man opened his eyes.

An hour or so later the beggar’s body had been loosed from the floor, washed, draped in Percy’s own brocade night-robe, and placed before the fire to sip a cup of mulled wine. He watched the earl, faded blue eyes peering from beneath the heavy brows, but he had not spoken, and when Northumberland tried to speak to him, he’d look away, nodding to the stoup of wine on the hearth. His patience at an end, the earl clouted the man viciously over the ear and strode to the door, intending to call for a groom to take the beggar back to the cellars and dispose of him. What had gone wrong? He’d chosen the time most carefully, had culled the chants from unimpeachable sources, had coated the body in a mixture of Montague’s own blood and sea-water after the rightful owner had been ousted and cut off from returning—what had gone wrong? A small sound came from behind him, stopping him in the act of reaching for the latch. He turned to see the beggar reaching an imploring hand to him, mumbling something he could not hear. Slowly he made his way back to the hearth, and the words became clearer.

“. . . Harry? Why . . . what happened . . .”the nervous gaze fell on the outstretched hand, its calluses and coarse red hairs, and a look of disbelief spread across the heavy features. The frightened man held his hands before his face, and bit off a scream. “Fetch me a mirror, you fool,” he rasped, the words almost lost in his hysterical breathing. Northumberland let the insult pass for the time being, and brought the mirror, holding it up before the beggar’s face. There was a howl from the man, and he batted at the mirror, to strike it to the ground, to shatter the offending image, but Percy was expecting something of the sort and held the glass safely out of reach. “Harry? Why did you do this to me?” came a broken whisper and the body before him was racked by sobs. Percy knelt and filled the cup again, holding it to his colleague’s lips. Montague grasped it clumsily and began to gulp the contents, spilling them liberally down the front of the borrowed robe. Northumberland eyed the ruin of the expensive garment with distaste. Maybe it could be made over for the Doctor? God knew that the man was going to need anew wardrobe and the thought of having to lay out the money for it was a cheerless one; he shoved the thoughts aside to be dealt with at a later time.

“You should rest now, Doctor,” was all he said before summoning a groom to see the weeping man to the chamber that had been prepared for him. They would talk in the morning.



Southampton smoothed the oyster-white satin of his doublet, glowing with that special pride produced by overshadowing someone else, in this case Lord Mounteagle, who had made the monumental mistake of bragging on the outfit he had commissioned for the Christmas court. He had been preening himself on the satin, taffeta silk that shimmered with the shifting colors of pearls, and so dear that enough to make a pair of sleeves and trim the rose velvet doublet had cost an entire year’s rents from one of his few remaining manors. Nothing else would do but that Hal should have an entire suit of the satin, trimmed in silver lace and black pearls. He had waited patiently, timing his entrance to the hall so that Mounteagle would have plenty of time to let everyone know the price he paid for the cloth before settling into some pastime. Hal then sauntered up behind his quarry, leaning nonchalantly on the back of his chair, so that everyone at the table, save Mounteagle himself, had a good view of the costume. “God you good den, my lords,” he said quietly. “And you especially, Will,” he added to Mounteagle, who did not bother to look around. Lord Sandys glanced up indifferently, then looked again sharply, a vicious grin splitting his weary face; Sir Henry Warren laughed aloud; Sir Edward, now Lord Selby, choked violently and sprayed a mouthful of wine across the table.

Mounteagle cursed, brushing at the flecks of wine and spittle dotting his oyster-white sleeve, then muttered a greeting to Southampton, still without turning. Hal grinned back at the others, raising an eyebrow before drifting away from the table to show himself off to the rest of the court, eddies of stifled laughter swirling in his wake.

“God’s teeth, my lord!” Elizabeth bellowed. How that tiny, wizened woman could produce such volume was a mystery. Every head in the large room swiveled towards them, and Hal swept into an elegant bow, so low that his dark auburn curls came close to brushing the floor. There was a further sound of choking from the corner where the gamblers laired, drowned by the tide of helpless laughter that flooded the room. Mounteagle indeed must have made doubly sure that every last person in the hall knew the cost of that oyster satin to every last farthing.

“Your Majesty,” Hal offered his hand to the Monarch, but she brushed him aside, a wink of her eye and the quirking of her lips forestalling insult, as she beckoned Ralegh to her side.

“I thank you, but no, my lord,” she answered in a voice gurgling with repressed mirth, and he understood. She might enjoy the prank, but that was not enough to overcome the antipathy she felt for him. Ralegh himself smiled with the purest appreciation as he bowed his courtesy to the earl before sweeping the Queen off into the dance, a stately pavane. Hal wandered back to the table, where Mounteagle was now conspicuous by his absence. He settled into the vacant chair and reached for the wine jug. Ned pushed it towards him, giggling helplessly.

“By Christ, Hal, you’ve made a friend into an enemy with this night’s work,” Sandys said sententiously.

“A poor sort of friend,” Hal shrugged, and sipped at the wine, a sorry sour excuse for a beverage, he found himself thinking, remembering his entertainment of the night before.

“A poor friend might still make a deadly enemy,” Sandys continued, seeming ready to extend the lecture indefinitely. A flash of color caught at the corner of Hal’s eye and he shoved the cup away, excusing himself to follow, as Libby had known he would.

Out of the hall, and down a corridor he went, the sweep of skirts always vanishing before him, but always lingering long enough that he would be able to follow. He caught up with her in the Queen’s private chamber, catching her wrist as she tried to twist past him, laughing delightedly deep in her throat.

“Hal! Not here! Are you mad? Come, we shall use the old place: I’ve gleaned us candles and wine, even a little food,” she laughed again as he pressed her body hard against the wall with his, his lips hot on her throat, then let her slide away from him, following her up the narrow stairs to the garret they had fitted out to meet in. She was wearing velvet of the rich grassy green indelicately known as goose-turd, which set off her red-gold hair and creamy skin to perfection, the whole trimmed in gold bone lace, and the bodice cut so low as to be indecent. He slipped a feverish hand into the bodice, cupping her breast, feeling the nipple harden against his fingers as her breath grew ragged. He had taken her here for the first time weeks ago, her maiden’s blood staining the short cloak he had placed beneath them, ruining it. He had given it to the players under his patronage, the Lord Chamberlain’s Company, and it amused him to see it on stage, draped over a player’s shoulder, parading her loss of virtue before the whole of London, if they had but known it. They had met as often as they could manage, sometimes leisurely, stripping to the skin and enjoying the sensations of flesh against flesh, sometimes, like tonight, hurriedly, disarranging the heavy and elaborate clothing they wore as little as possible and still manage to achieve their purpose. He fumbled at his canions with one hand, pushing up her skirts with the other as she lay on the smuggled featherbeds, dropping to his knees beside her.

“It happens, my dearest,” she told him, stroking the damp hair back from his heated face. “It happens to every man sometimes, Penny told me, and that it means nothing—” she broke off at the angry motion of his hand. He gulped at the wine she had poured for him. It had never happened to him before, that he was unable to accomplish his desire. He fastened up his clothing, hauled Libby to her feet and propelled her out of the door before him. He had to see Kryštof, but it was too late tonight. Tomorrow then. He would see him tomorrow, and he felt his belly clench with desire, his lust, so stubbornly flaccid minutes before, rising traitorously at the thought of the man.