Perfect Shadows

chapter 35

Sylvana suppressed a cry of outrage as the pile of rags and dirt was dumped onto her scrubbed kitchen floor, with the terse command, “Wash him,” but her heart went out to the thin and battered little man she found when she peeled the rags away. She popped him into a tub of hot water as soon as the kettles boiled, speaking soothingly to quell his protests, and when he understood at last that they weren’t going to kill him, Nashe gave a sigh of great content and let her scrub him clean. She tried to comb his hair, but it was so matted that she ended up cutting it off close to his skull, then lathering it firmly twice before checking the stubble for nits. She dragged a worn shirt belonging to Jehan over his head and bundled him onto a pallet near the fireplace, where he sank into a thankful slumber that lasted until late the next afternoon.



When Nashe woke he was bewildered to find that his pleasant dream was a reality. There was a large kettle of soup bubbling on the hob, and the kitchen, seen through an open door, was filled with the heavenly scent of new bread. He had been moved while he slept to a small room off the kitchen that had a tiny window, and a grate that shared the kitchen flue. A woman entered and bent over him, and he drank in the sight of her like wine. She was no tavern trull or debauched and raddled harlot, but a buxom and beautiful matron, neatly dressed and blessedly clean. She smiled at him, and he returned the grin, his gapped teeth giving him the air of a mischievous boy. He tried to rise from the pallet, but realized that his knees were shaking so that he would not be able to stand.

“No, Master Nashe, you must rest. Abundant wine and scanty food make for but a poor living,” she admonished him, and though as a rule he shared his countrymen’s rabid xenophobia, he found the faint foreign lilt in her speech marvelously attractive.

“Mistress, you know my name, but I do not know yours, nor yet where I am, nor why.” The sound of his own voice shocked him, hoarse as a Tower raven, and a wracking cough shook him. The woman knelt beside him, holding a cloth to his lips until the paroxysm subsided, then quickly tossed it away, but not before he saw the blood staining it. He lay back on the pillows she provided and swallowed the bread sopped in broth that she fed to him while she answered his questions.

“This is the house of the Prince Kryštof of Sybria, who is staying here in England for a time, and I am his housekeeper, Sylvana. He had some business at the Tower last night and recognized you when you asked his aid, and then, taking pity on your plight, he brought you here to his house. He will see you later. Rest now,” and she slipped a mug of mulled wine, well laced with honey and horehound, into his hands and returned to her work.

Nashe snuggled into the clean sheets, sniffing the lavender with great appreciation, and sipped at the soothing cup in his hands. A tall man came in from the stables and settled by the fire to work repairing some bits of harness. There was another man, also big and tawny, and two women, smaller and younger than Sylvana, one of whom seemed to be her daughter. The man from the stable and the woman who was not the daughter were Welsh, and the others were also foreigners. Of course, they would be, he mused, this house belonging to a foreign prince, and realized that his wits were wandering. The honeyed wine had calmed the cough that had racked him these months on the road, and he slid into a dreamless sleep almost as the last of the wine slid into his belly.