Perfect Shadows

chapter 13

Percy smiled to himself, watching Sommers and the groom cross the quad of the old Abbey to the solar, a writhing bundle athwart the groom’s shoulders. He could see Sommer’s grin despite the dismal morning light; it had gone well, then. Essex waited behind him, toasting the chill of the morning ride out of his fingers. He turned to his guest, excusing himself. He would have the wench brought here; it would never do to have his brother-in-law see the interior of his study. “I think that you had better be seated, Robert,” Percy said softly upon his return a few minutes later. Essex looked puzzled, but complied, choosing a settle not far from the meager fire. After one or two false starts Northumberland cleared his throat, saying abruptly “This is not easy for me to say.”

“Obviously,” Essex retorted sourly. He did not much care for his sister Dorothy’s miserly husband, and resented needing his help in the matter of their common enemy, the foreign prince. Before replying Percy narrowed his eyes until they looked like the chewed pits of olives.

“It seems that we have misjudged our foe. He is a greater danger, a greater evil, than we had imagined,” he intoned, never taking those murky eyes from his guest. “Do you remember meeting my little cousin Margaret here last month?” he added in an apparent change of subject. Essex nodded, somewhat confused, and Percy clapped his hands sharply. The door swung open, and a groom deposited a large bundle before the fire, and left the room as Newman Sommers entered. Essex stiffened. He despised the scholar; something about him prickled the hairs on the back of his neck, raising his hackles as if he were a hound. Then the bundle moved, claiming his attention.

It was Margaret, but not the quiet and demure girl that Robin remembered. Her face was streaked with mud, her hair full of twigs and leaves, but her eyes had undergone the greatest change. They were mad and calculating at the same time. As she sat up the cloak fell from her naked shoulders, but instead of being embarrassed, she smiled, leaning towards Robin and licking her lips, raising her hands, her bound hands, he realized with a start, up to caress her nipples.

“God’s Teeth,” he choked out through his rising gorge. “What has happened to her?” Sommers squatted next to her, nearly unbalanced by his crippled foot and leg. Margaret grasped his hand, placing it on her breast and whimpered when he removed it.

“Now, Maudie, you must tell us what has happened to you,” he spoke coaxingly, as to a child. She gazed uncomprehending for a moment, then dropped her eyes to the fire. When she looked up she was smiling.

“I met him,” she whispered. “I met the Black Man in the forest. I signed his book. Oh, he was beautiful, though he had but one eye. Did God put his other eye out when He cast my Lord from heaven?”

“Perhaps. It was the one-eyed lord that tied you up?” Sommers hinted.

“Oh yes. He tied me up, and he . . . we did such things! We did such unspeakable things. I signed his book. I signed it in my blood.” She held up a finger, stained and swollen.

“Did he tie you with these scarves?” the ugly man persisted, loosening the bonds that held the girl’s wrists. She nodded dreamily, and he held the scarf out to Essex. He recognized it: a length of black samite that her majesty had given to the prince at his return to court after his “illness”. Her hands free, Margaret made short work of the scarf binding her feet, and when she was free she threw herself upon Essex, driving her tongue deep into his mouth, and thrusting her small hands into his clothing in search of his manhood. He pushed her away in disgust, back to Sommers, who caught her and held her naked body against his side, letting her kiss and maul him.

“Take her away,” Northumberland snapped, and Sommers led her from the room, his fingers as busy with her as hers were with him. “You see? This Kryštof, if he is a prince, then he is a Prince of Hell, a vile conjurer, using his powers to corrupt the innocent, and enlist them into the legions of Satan. He must be denounced, and destroyed. You do agree?” Essex nodded, feeling numb and sick. Something about the scene niggled at him, something that he could not quite place. Grimly he rose and strode from the room, without a word. He wanted out of that house, away from Percy and especially Sommers, whom he could hear, even through the closed door, grunting out his foul lust on that hapless young woman.



Ralegh sat in the window seat of his study, smoking and watching the blue of the winter sky pale into the silver that presaged snow. There was a disturbance in the courtyard, and Bess was at the chamber door even as he leaned forward to look. “It is my lord Essex,” she breathed, and indeed he could make out Essex dismounting. Sir Walter opened the casement to lean into the biting air. “Come up, my lord!” he bellowed, his words seeming to hang in the still air even as his breath did. Essex looked up and waved, then disappeared under the arch of the door.

Ralegh turned to his wife, bidding her to meet his guest, and to bespeak the servants for hot drink and more fuel for the fire. She smiled uncertainly at him for a moment, then went without a word. She grew more beautiful by the day, he reflected, and every day he loved her the more, never regretting an atom of the trouble their love had brought him at the hands of his jealous queen. He looked up from his thoughts to find Essex standing in the doorway.

Minutes later they were seated, Essex with his long legs stretched out to thaw his toes comfortably in the borrowed slippers while his damp boots dried. He fingered the pot-bellied pewter cup he held, grateful for the warmth of the mulled cider and mead that it held, but more than a little contemptuous of his host. He would never have served a guest, especially a rival, with such homely fare, he mused. But Ralegh did just as he pleased, and it seemed that what pleased him was a gossip cup and Banbury cake toasted at the fire. Sir Walter watched his guest begin to relax, and when the cake was finished he refilled the cups from the flagon on the hearth and offered a pipe, then settled back to listen, first with polite interest then growing horror as Essex related his tale.

“I realized as I rode from that scene of abomination what had struck me amiss with that account, Sir Walter. The blood was still running from that mangled fingertip, yet Percy spoke as if the lass had been seduced or abducted weeks ago. Hal has been much in the company of the prince, and has not spoken of anything unholy, or even untoward in the man, yet someone corrupted that young woman, and if not he, then who? I would see Kryštof brought low, it is true, but not—not like that. It is monstrous! Monstrous!

“I would have you speak to him, to warn him. You have toiled mightily these months past to bring Cecil and I into accord, and I would not be in your debt. I know that this man is a friend of yours, and I fear that Cecil will not be too particular in the evidence he sifts,” Essex added, rising from his seat. “I will go now to Hal, and warn him. And, Sir Walter, there is something amiss with that companion of Harry’s. He is like some fell, poisonous beast, and I shuddered when he touched that wench, defiled and mad as she was,” he finished, stamping his feet into his boots to emphasize his words. He turned on the threshold, with the charming smile that had won him so much and yet would cost him so dearly. “There was a time, Ralegh, when I thought that we could be friends. I am sometimes sorry that it was not to be.” He was gone before Ralegh, remembering those desperate hours at Cadiz, could reply. Sir Walter looked at the sky, and, judging that the snow would hold off for a few hours, called for his horse to be saddled. He would not ride to Chelsey, but to visit Harry Percy.

Percy received him with outward cordiality, but Sir Walter knew that he seethed inside at this interruption. Of what he might be interrupting, Ralegh did not care to think. Harry had wine brought to the study where he received his guest, but did not inquire whether or not he had yet supped. Ralegh stretched his hands to the mean little fire, ignoring the wine, which he knew from previous experience would be thin and sour. Everything about the man was shabby and mean, Sir Walter snorted to himself. He was one of the richest peers in England, but you would never know it, and yet there was a fine intellect there. He turned his attention to Harry, who asked him directly what had brought him.

Before he could answer the door burst open and a naked wench tumbled into the room, the meager firelight gleaming on her fine skin, marred here and there by bite-marks and bruises. She saw the stranger and rushed to him, wantonly shaking her ripe breasts close to his face, reaching for his crotch with one hand and fingering herself with the other, laughing wildly.

“Jesú!” Ralegh pushed himself away from her, knocking over the stool he had occupied in his haste to distance himself from this shameless succubus, as horrified by the mad light in her eyes as by her actions. Harry was shouting, and two serving-men rushed in, catching the woman and dragging her from the room, one of them pinching her nipple with a free hand, while twisting her arm painfully all the while. Another man pushed past them into the room, an ugly man of medium height who walked with a limp. Northumberland spoke angrily to him in an undertone while Ralegh righted the stool and downed the cup of vinegary wine in a single gulp. He turned as Harry introduced the newcomer, and was instantly repelled by the man, whom he knew must be the companion that Essex had mentioned. The man’s manners were impeccable, but Sir Walter’s skin crawled at the touch of his hand, and he found himself surreptitiously wiping his own against his canions, as if to remove that contaminating touch. The man’s soul seemed to peer out of those pallid eyes like a mad animal peering out of a hole in a bank. Percy was muttering something about owing an explanation. Sir Walter nodded absently. “An you think it possible,” he answered dubiously.

Hal rode through the chill dusk, reaching the house in Chelsey just as the first flakes of snow began to fall. The man, Rhys, took his reins and motioned him towards the house. As Hal stepped into the dim light of the hall he saw Richard leaving the study and called to him, asking after Kryštof. The handsome boy gave a sullen flick of his hand towards the room behind him and turned to go. Hal caught his shoulder, spinning him around and clouting him soundly over the ear. “You will find him in the study, my lord,” he hissed, releasing him with a shove towards the kitchens.

“You will find him in the study, my lord,” Richard parroted tonelessly, and made his escape.

Hal pushed the door ajar to find Kit sitting at the table poring over the large account books, much as a wounded man will pick at scabs. He looked up and smiled.

“Why, Hal, what brings you to Chelsey in such weather? Sit and warm yourself,” he added, stepping to the door, where Sylvie met him with a tray of mulled wine and the little comfit cakes that Hal loved. She was smitten with Hal, and he was not unaware of the fact. She moved a small table closer to the fire and set the tray upon it, her movements deft and graceful. Then she knelt and began to tug at his damp, cold boots. Hal resisted a moment, then relaxed.

“I shall not return to London tonight after all,” he said decidedly. “The snow gives a perfect excuse.” When Sylvie finished and left the room he turned to Kit, telling the tale that Robin had told to him. Before he had done, Sylvie had returned in distress, saying that Richard had gone, and had taken the earl’s horse.



Richard had no clear plan, no idea where to go or even why he had taken the horse and ridden furiously from that house. The blow that he had received from the contemptuous earl had knocked all reason from his head. He allowed the horse to slow to a walk and turned his head to peer behind him, but he saw no signs of pursuit. Stopping, he listened intently, but he heard only the faint clicking sounds from the frozen branches overhead. The boy shivered suddenly, wishing that he had thought to snatch up a cloak on his way out. The horse sidled under him, and he nudged it into a walk, giving it its head.

His thoughts turned to the house that he had left, and to the master of that house. He had felt the seductive lure of the man, if you could call him a man any longer, and had been torn between jealousy and disgust at the liaison between the vampire and the foolish earl, who had not the sense to know that he was being fed upon. Or maybe he did, and it was worth it to him? Richard recalled the angered vampire’s words to him — “I could show you what I am, Richard, and make you like it, make you crave it above all else, if I so chose,” — and the young man shivered again, but not with the cold.

It was nearing the late winter dawn when Richard woke from a stupor engendered by the cold to find that he was in the courtyard of a fine house, a house near the river. He realized with a start that the horse had brought him into the outskirts of London, to its own stable. He slid from the saddle, and tottered for a moment, his legs unsteady from the cold and the long ride. A torch flared in his face and he jerked back as a rough voice sounded loudly in his ear.

“Here now, you young villain, what be you doin’ with my lord’s horse? Here, not so fast, th’ earl’ll want a word with you.” Hard hands grasped his shoulders and spun him about, shoving him at two other men who were coming across the courtyard towards him. He struggled, but they held him fast, twisting his arms behind him until he cried out. He had fleeting glimpses of kitchens and passages, then steep stairs down into the darkness, and a small cellar room where he was flung into the gloom, hitting the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The door was firmly shut and locked upon him, and the flicker of the torchlight faded from under the door as the footmen retreated back up the stairs.

It was hours later that he was hauled up to stand before the Earl of Essex, held tightly between the two men that had tossed him into the cellar. Essex viewed him with distaste, then looked beyond to someone who had entered the room behind him. Richard craned his neck to see who was standing there, and almost fainted at the sight of the stooping sandy-haired man who smiled back at him, followed closely by a red headed man with powerful shoulders and a pronounced limp.

“Well, Dickon, my lad, I see you have not forgotten your old benefactor. It is lucky that one of my grooms spotted you and told me that you were here, is it not? Else I might never have known,” he laid a menacing hand on the quailing boy’s shoulder, and turned to Essex. “Yes, Robin, as I thought, it is my runaway servant, and glad I am to get him back. I think it would be best if we say that the horse returned of itself, which is no more than the truth, after all. We need not mention that the lad was upon it at the time. I would prefer his whereabouts remain a mystery for the time being. I suppose that your men can hold their tongues?” he added, eyeing the grooms who exchanged swift glances, then looked impassively straight ahead.

“Of course, Harry. You think to use—”Robin broke off with a knowing smile at a nod from his brother-in-law. “I see. Well, take him with you, if you will. Do you wish him bound?”

“I think it best,” Northumberland answered, snapping his fingers at the limping man who had remained by the door. He crossed the room with a feral grin, and pulled a handful of braided cords from a fold of his cloak. The cords were tied cruelly tight, cutting into the boy’s wrists, causing him to bite his lip in an effort not to cry out.

Northumberland waited a moment then checked the bonds, and clucked reprovingly at Sommers. “Now, Doctor, we do not wish to cripple the boy, at least not yet. Loosen these a bit for now. Of course if he refuses to cooperate, you may then have a free rein to practice upon him. But I expect you will cooperate, won’t you, Dickon? Yes, I think that you will.” Sommers loosened the cords a fraction, then knelt to tie the boy’s ankles, adding another set of cords above the knee, and reaching a surreptitious hand to caress a buttock. Richard cried out, flinching away from his tormentor, and earning a casual backhanded blow from Northumberland that sent the tears streaming from his eyes. Sommers laughed softly, and rising to his feet, pulled a kerchief from his sleeve and stuffed the captive’s mouth with it, binding it in place with a second one offered by the earl. He then muffled the boy in the cloak brought for the purpose and chopped him expertly behind the ear. The footmen caught him as he fell and carried him to the cart that waited below.