Perfect Shadows

chapter 38

In the evening of the day that saw Essex to the block, Richard made his first appearance downstairs, supported on Jehan’s arm, for his broken feet had not yet fully healed. I glanced up as the invalid was settled into the chair near the fire, and then looked more closely. He was bound to create no end of disturbance, wherever he went. Even I could feel the pull of his nature: a mortal would have no chance at all. Richard smiled shyly, waiting for me to speak, but no words came. After a few minutes, I shook my head and smiled back.

“Richard, I—” I broke off at the sound of a disturbance in the hall, but before I could do more than stand, Nicolas bounced into the little room, beaming at us and catching me in a rough hug. He stepped back and contemplated Richard, for a moment, then drew the boy to his feet and into a warm and gentle embrace.

“Welcome to our family, Richard,” he said simply, and began hunting around for a seat. I nudged him into my chair, and took a seat upon a stool near the fire, asking him what had brought him to England again.

“Business, my boy, always business. We must see about a settlement for young Dickon, here, and I must see that our interests are not affected by the change of sovereigns.”

“Do you think that it will be soon?” I inquired quietly. I was truly fond of the shrewd and shrewish old woman, and had heard little to the credit of her probable successor, although I was somewhat troubled by a feeling that in my reckless and impetuous previous life I may have thought quite the opposite. Nicolas stirred and answered softly.

“The Earl of Essex died today, and the light has gone from her eyes. She is a tired old woman, and all of the friends of her youth have died away. It can be a terrible thing to live on when there is no one to remember you in your youth.”

“I remember her, riding through Canterbury, more beautiful than any tale, all in gold and glittering with jewels,” I spoke as if to myself.

“Yes, many do, but the ones who knew her familiarly have all gone before. It is a hard thing to see those you love descend into death and decay, Kit, and no less hard for us, though we do not. It may be that we, by accepting the dark gift, deny ourselves any chance at reunion with those we love.” A sudden tear slipped down his plump cheek, and disappeared into the silky beard.

“Nicolas, what has happened? Is Anneke—”

“She died last month, of a fever, and did not rise,” Nicolas said flatly, and buried his head in his hands. Richard rose silently and hobbled from the room, leaning on various pieces of furniture for support.

“I am sorry, Nicolas. I do not know what to say,” I began softly as Sylvana slipped into the room, leaving Richard, who had fetched her, leaning unsteadily on the doorjamb. She knelt beside the weeping man and held him, soothing him as she would a child. When he quieted somewhat she stood and drew him to his feet, leading him from the room. Richard stepped out of the way and tottered for second, but before he could fall I caught him and settled him back into his chair. “Thank you, Richard. That was very well done.”

“Sylvana is a healer,” Richard said simply, then looked sharply to the door. Nashe stood swaying there, a squat black bottle in his hand. He landed himself on the hearth in a series of swoops and staggers, and sat grinning up at me.

“I found a bottle,” he said, flourishing it before indulging in a healthy pull. He offered it to me, but I refused gently. “No drink? But I forgot, you’re dead. I am too, but not nearly so dead as all that!” He turned to Richard and stared a moment, but did not offer the bottle. “My God, Kit, he’s a pretty one! Where did you find him? You always did find the prettiest boys . . . I used to hate you for it, you wouldn’t look at a homely wart like me.”

“You never were one for boys, Tommy, that I ever heard,” I answered gently. Nashe nodded emphatically.

“True! I just wanted you to notice me. I was on the outside, and you were there, with Chapman and the Walsinghams, and Ralegh too, so brilliant it hurt the eyes to look on you. I never attacked you, though. That was just a lie. Harvey, the hangman’s son!” He spat into the fire.

“Rope-maker’s son.” I corrected.

“Halter-maker, hangman, it’s all one. Brays like an ass! Kit, they burnt all my books!” Tears slid down his cheeks, and he looked up through his sandy lashes guiltily. “Kit, I took the Dido and published it with my name beside yours. I needed the money, you see.”

“You did good work on it as well, Tommy. I’m not angry, but glad to see it printed, and do you suppose that I do not know how you fought with those who denigrated me while I lay dead and defenseless?” I said soothingly. Nashe began to laugh then.

“Do you remember that time you bet all your month’s allowance that you could write a better poem than the other students? Fifty-four shillings in the purse, one from each lad in your class, and Roger Boyce, from the lower form, tried to talk you out of it? ‘If you lose, you’ll be without money for a month!’ said he, but you just laughed, and said ‘But I’ll win, and then I’ll have a further fifty-three shillings to keep mine company!’ and ran laughing up the stairs.”

“How did you know about that, Tommy? It was at Canterbury, at the King’s School, not at Cambridge.”

“Boyce told me about it. He never forgot it, he said, your hair flying and your eyes flashing as you ran up those twisted stairs, and of course you did win. Did you come to London like that, ready to win the world like so many shillings?”

“I do not remember, Tommy,” I said helplessly.

“Ah,” Nashe replied, nodding sagely, “that comes of being a ghost, you see. Ghosts are like that.”

I smiled. “I think you have had enough drink for one night, let’s get you to your bed,” I said and lifted the little man to his feet. When I returned a few minutes later Richard looked at me thoughtfully.

“It is hard to think of you as Marlowe the poet and playwright.”

“So I should imagine. That Marlowe is dead, Richard, as dead as Richard Bowen. Or deader, as I have very few memories of my former life. I cannot even read the works I wrote before and may never be able to do so. Are you sorry that you asked my gift of me?” I asked abruptly, my voice harsh in my own ears.

“No. I am only sorry that I wasted so much that I might otherwise have had by pushing you away for so long. Oh, and sorry for judging you when I knew nothing about you, as well,” Richard added, looking at the fire.

“I remember dying,” he went on. “I felt the life slip out with my breath, and I seemed to be watching you and Eden from above. I saw a light, and moved towards it, drawn by its beauty, but it receded from me, and the more I longed for it the farther away it was, until I was left drifting in the fog. I could make out nothing and I cannot tell you how long that lasted. After a time I became aware of my body again, that it was somewhere that I was not, and a need to find it possessed me. I was frightened that I wouldn’t be able to return, but when I calmed myself, I felt a tug, and followed it. I moved faster and faster, until it seemed that I was falling, and I started, as one does from a dream, before I hit the bottom. When I opened my eyes you were there, and I knew that I was safe. Was it—I mean, did you—”

“No. I did not remember anything for a long time. Then, what I did remember was close to intolerable.” I realized that my hands were shaking, and clenched them together. Richard stirred uncomfortably and looked immensely relieved when Nicolas returned.

He motioned us to keep our chairs and took the stool. As we sat in companionable silence we heard a horse cross the cobbled court, and I recognized Ralegh’s voice as he hailed Rhys to come and care for his beast. I left Nicolas and Richard and went to greet my friend. I asked Sylvana to bring mulled cider and took Ralegh into the study. He and Nicolas were old friends and occasional business partners, but he gave Richard a keen glance as I introduced the young man as my cousin. Sylvana brought in the cider and Ralegh gratefully wrapped his chilled fingers around the pot-bellied silver cup, gazing at the fire. Richard, who seemed revolted by the smell of the drink, excused himself, and Nicolas helped him from the room. I took Richard’s chair and settled back, sipping my cider and waiting for my friend to unburden himself. Presently Sir Walter stirred, and turned troubled eyes on me.

“I saw Essex executed this day,” he said abruptly, and set his cup on the hearth. “I watched from indoors, as my presence seemed to trouble him; I learned later that he had asked to be reconciled at the end, and I wasn’t there. The story is going about that I refused him. I would have gladly reconciled with him, Kit, at anytime.”

“Yes, I know that, Wat, though, I do doubt that he would have had such consideration for you, if the positions had been reversed,” I commented sourly.

“No, I suppose that the urge to gloat would have overpowering. He made a good end, after all, Kit, and recanted the craven statement he made after the trial. But while I watched, as the axe was raised above his kneeling form, something happened, and it seemed for a few seconds that I was out there, climbing the scaffold to meet a traitor’s death. It was so vivid, I could smell the straw they had placed to catch the blood, and see my breath on the air. The ravens were racketing, and then, as I reached the top step, I was back behind the glass, and Essex’s head fell into the straw. It took three blows to sever his head, and the tavern-birds are even now making jokes about his stiff neck,” he said, with a mirthless smile, and then shivered. “I think that I saw my own death, Kit. Well, all must die sometime. Or most must,” he added with a sidelong look at me.

“All must, Wat, even me. Someday.”

“You called that young man your cousin, but I recognized him as your former servant, Bowen, though he seems much changed. He has become like you, then?”

“He has. You are not frightened of us?”

“I am not frightened of you, Kit, and I do not see that you do anyone harm. On the contrary, you seem to accomplish much that is good.”