Perfect Shadows

chapter 20

Hal settled into his own bed, in the room where Richard slept on the truckle, sinking at once into a pleasant dream, only to be jerked awake by a heart-wrenching cry.

“No, no! Please, NO—”

It was Richard, he realized, and reached for him. It was not long after dawn, by the look of the pale light through the chinks in the shutters. Hal fell to his knees on the truckle, scooping the boy up, shaking him awake then holding him while he cried. Richard pushed himself violently away from the earl before he had regained his senses enough to realize who held him, then mumbled an apology.

“You were dreaming, Dickon,” Hal said softly, the fond name coming easily to him. “I purposed nothing but comforting your fear. You are a very pretty boy, but I do not seduce children!” He rose from the truckle and crossed shivering to the door, calling for Jehan, who appeared almost at once and began helping the earl into his clothing.

“My lord, I—I am sorry, I was still caught in the dream,” he shuddered, sickened at the memory, but stirred by the earl’s touch. “I am not a child, my lord,” he gulped, but Hal, dressed now, merely nodded and left the room. When Richard came down later he found him folding a note and addressing it.

“You must see that your master gets this when he wakes tonight, Richard,” Hal said coolly, holding it out to him.

“My lord, I shall have to read it to him,” Richard said, dismayed. Could the man know so little about one with whom he was so intimate? Hal stared at him for a second, then crumpled the paper into a hard ball and threw it into the fire.

“I had thought that only another one of Robin’s calumnies,” he muttered, adding aloud “I have seen him at his books.”

“It sorely vexes him, and he must make himself believe that one day he shall read again, and so he tries. He cannot, as yet.”

“Then you must tell him that I returned to London and will join him in Paris as soon as I may. Will you do that for me, Richard?” The boy nodded dumbly, and the earl gathered his riding cloak and strode from the room. Richard, from his position by the window, watched the man mount and ride towards the village, before turning his hand to the tasks he had set himself that day.

Hal paced nervously before Robin’s fire, stopping now and again to fill his cup from the flagon of wine on the hearth. Willoughby had put the story all over court the next day that Southampton had attacked him and been soundly beaten, and that he had pulled out some of the earl’s hair. It was said that her Majesty laughed, and said it was good, as she never liked the pretty earl, and liked even less his influence on Essex. Influence Robin! As well try to influence a wild horse, and she herself called him that. “God’s Light, Hal,” came a chuckle from the doorway. “You look like a felon!” Robin, still laughing, came in and settled himself by the fire, picking up the wine, and setting it down again when he found that only the dregs remained. “Just call for Dido to bring more wine, as you’ve seen fit to swill all this. Now, what did truly happen that night? You were a fool to assault Willoughby in that secret fashion, after publicly insulting him,” Robin said in a voice purring with satisfaction. He had waited for some time to turn this epithet on Hal. “A fool,” he repeated, savoring the word. Hal snorted.

“So I would have been, had I done so. I challenged him fairly, Rob, and he attacked me in the dark. I had but one man with me to his dozen. But I did not come here to cry my tale to you; I am going to Paris for a time, and I wished to say good-bye.”

“Does Diabolus know?”

“I imagine he does: he has asked me to meet with him this afternoon. He would have to know, sooner or later, in any case, if I am to have any sort of position at all, and, of course, I shall need a passport. Goodbye, Robin,” Hal said, and strode to the door. He stopped to glance at Robin for a second over his shoulder, then crossed again to the fire when his friend petulantly called him back.

“You will desert me then. You will be of no use to me in Paris, Hal. I need you here.” His eyes narrowed and his mobile lips curled into a sneer. “Oh, of course, I did hear that your precious black princeling is leaving the country, and I see that he needs must bring his little lap-dog with him,” he spat, and stood, turning his back. Hal caught his shoulder and whirled him around.

“You dare to address me so? I have my spies at court as well, Rob, and I know just what you said, and how you joined in and laughed when Willoughby told his lies, and presented my hair as a trophy to the Queen. Look at me, Rob! Do I look as if he pulled my hair out in a brawl? Does my face look as if we were evenly matched? I grant you that I may be rash upon occasion, but have you ever known me to be that stupid? A laughingstock is of no use to you at court, and that is what I have become,” he snarled, “a butt for all to fire their barbs and jests against, without a single friend there to defend me.” Essex stirred guiltily at that, but Hal raised his hand in a gesture of finality. “I must go, Robin, and I will.”

“Yes, I know you must,” Robin agreed, shamed by his friend’s words. He pulled a folded bit of paper from his sleeve, pushing it into Hal’s hands. “From Libby,” he said, and turned his face away. Hal tucked it into his own sleeve, and stumbled from the house, giddy with the wine. He had all but forgotten Libby. Damn it all! He smoothed the paper against the wall as he waited for the groom to bring his horse. A fine rain was falling, and the letters faded into an inky blur before his eyes, but not before the message was read. She would wait for him in the Privy Gallery every afternoon until he came to her. It was dated five days ago, the day after his misadventure. He crumpled it into a sodden ball, and tossed it onto the midden as he passed.

Cecil’s rooms were austerely furnished, holding only his great worktable, one chair, two bookcases overflowing with books and bundled letters, a locking cabinet, and two stools, upon one of which Hal sat, although his rank should entitle him to the chair. Robert Cecil, Diabolus, as he was scornfully called behind his hunched back, sat and gazed at him across the table, his dark eyes as inexpressive as the wet paving stones outside the window. The door opened quietly behind him, and Hal fought the impulse to look and see who had entered. One of the aides came in and whispered to his master, waiting while Cecil considered the message. A smile flitted across that stern face, causing Hal, unexplainably, to shudder. “Have him join us,” Cecil instructed the aide, who slipped from the room like a shadow.

“My lord, I understand your reasons for wishing to leave England for a time, indeed I am most anxious to accommodate you. But then you must, in return, accommodate me. I will expect reports from you upon the movements of the princes Geofri and Kryštof, among other things.” He glanced up as the door creaked open again, motioning the arrival to take the other stool. “My lord, this is my servant, Thomas Deacon; Thomas, my lord the Earl of Southampton.” Deacon was in his late twenties, a few years older than the Earl, heavyset, but with long and beautiful hands. His face was unlined, showing a singular sweetness of expression in the regular features that made him seem far better looking than he was in fact. His light-brown hair was cropped shorter than Hal’s own, and his clothing, though of fine cloth, was most sober and severe. He looked at Hal, at the ravaged hair, and his fingers twitched, as though he wished to stroke it. Hal shifted uncomfortably away from the newcomer. “Thomas does courier service between London and Paris for me, albeit he is currently serving me by serving as an assistant, an apprentice if you will, of Master Topcliffe, though perhaps, given his progress, journeyman would be amore fitting term.” Deacon smiled innocently as Hal paled at the mention of the torturer. “Now my lord, back to our business. I think we understand each other. I shall look forward to your correspondence, which you may entrust to Deacon when you see him in Paris. That is all.”

Hal rose numbly from the stool, his face flushed by the outrage boiling in him. He was an earl, not some common lout to be made a spy and a minion of! Damn Cecil’s twisted soul, and damn Robin too! There was an overt threat in Cecil’s insistence on Deacon’s presence, and the knowledge that he was employing his own torturer, but whether it was aimed at Prince Kryštof, or at himself, or both, Hal was not certain. It was intolerable! The sooner he left the pesthole of court, the better off he would be, and bedamned to them.

He settled the hood of the cloak closer about his face, making his way through the dusk to the gallery where Libby had said she would await him. His attendants left him at the gallery doors, and he slipped in, almost blind in the dimness. The curtains had been drawn, and the candles not yet lit. A lighter blob of shadow detached itself from the wall and hurled itself at him. He caught her in his arms, crushing her against him.

“Oh, Hal, I thought that you had done with me! And I love you so! I wanted to die,” Libby sobbed into his chest. Her searching fingers found his rough cropped hair, and she pulled him to the window, thrusting the heavy curtain aside, to view him in the fading daylight. “Oh, Hal!” He turned his head, to hide the worst places from her, then kissed her, fiercely, urgently. His lust, quiescent with her for weeks now, flooded him, and he shoved her to the floor, tearing at her skirts and at his own clothing, stifling her protests with his lips, plunging his tongue into her mouth as he plunged his body into hers, grimly, again and again, without respite, until he finally collapsed on top of her, pinning her to the floor beneath him. He could feel her shivering under him, taste the tears on her lips. He started to pull away from her, wondering what had possessed him, how he could explain to her what he could not explain to himself, but she caught him, pulling him close again. “No, Hal, no.” He tried to find the words, and she hushed him, laying her slender fingers across his lips. “I know, my love. I know.”

“I love you, Libby,” he said. “Whatever I say or do, I do love you, and someday, God willing, I shall prove it.”

Jehan and Rhys appeared at the quay promptly at dawn, supporting Kryštof ’s slumping body between them. He reeked of brandy and of wine, and Richard looked on in disgust. The seamen nudged each other and smirked as they made their way on board. The first mate stepped forward with a grin.

“Well, where d’you want him?” Jehan growled. He found this pretense distasteful, an affront to the dignity of his master, and thus to his own, but the ruse was tried and true, giving the vampire a perfect excuse for staying below decks. No one expected a man in a drunken stupor to be up and roaming about. “Gentry! Drinkin’ and whorin’ all night, and most likely puking all day,” he grumbled, as the first mate showed them to the tiny cabin they would occupy on the crossing.

“Aye, drunk as a lord! Well, and wouldn’t we all be if we had the chinks,” the mate laughed, and left them.

“It’s not you who’ll be cleanin’ up after him!” Jehan snapped, and watched the retreating man’s back shake with laughter. They cast off not long after. Jehan, denied his wolf ’s shape for the voyage, and no kind of a sailor in either form, gritted his teeth and settled in to wait out the journey.