Perfect Shadows

chapter 8

Nicolas sat and stared at the fire, waiting for Rózsa to join him, as they had so often awaited young Marlowe. As he turned at her footstep, she caught sight of his face and crossed the room swift as a shadow. “Nicolas?”

“It has happened—Kit died in Deptford yesterday.”

“How?” Her voice was barely audible, her hands crushing the velvet of the doublet she carried.

“I do not yet know how he died but I do mean to find out. I beg you to wait here, child, while I do.”

“Wait,” Rózsa said. Nicolas had expected her to ask to accompany him, but she did not. She stared at the crimson cloth bulging between her fingers for a moment, then looked up defiantly. “I made the exchange with him,” she said flatly, and Nicolas nodded.

“Yes, I was almost certain you had. Did you tell him of the possible consequences?” She shook her head, and he sighed. “This does complicate things,” he muttered, then kissed her forehead, and gave her a brief hug.” We will save him, child. Never fear,” he said, and went out.



Several hours later he returned and sat staring at the fire without looking at Rózsa, who still awaited him there. Finally she spoke, sharply. “Well?”

“I have learned how he died, from the one that engineered the murder and stood looking on while it was carried out.” Tersely he gave her the dreadful details of her mortal lover’s death.

“I trust you killed that treacherous, scabby little pimp!” she burst out, but he shook his head.

“You know I did not, and you know why—that is not our way, Rózsa. If he rises, the vengeance must be Kit’s to work as he wills. If he is truly dead, then, and only then, will you and I see to it that this traitor’s life, and the lives of all Kit’s murderers are both very painful and very short. But our time runs out—the inquest is tomorrow and if justice runs its usual tardy course, we may have to steal his body away tomorrow night. I have set plans in motion for various contingencies and there is nothing more that we may do. Morning nears—we can but seek our beds and wait.” She nodded and the tears that had filled her eyes overflowed, running down her smooth skin like liquid opals in the firelight.

“Will—will you hold me tonight?” she whispered. He nodded and put his arm around her shoulders to lead her to his bed.

When they woke, Nicolas’ servant Matthieu stood at the foot of the bed, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement.

“I’ve got him, master,” he said, breathlessly. “The inquest ended and the judges decreed that he should be buried at once with no witnesses, and I had bribed the sexton, as you told me. Master Marlowe waits here in the chapel, sir.” He beamed, until he remembered the funereal nature of his news and schooled his expression to match. Nicolas leapt to his feet, thankful that they had rested that day fully clothed. Rózsa scrambled after him, but he stopped her.

“No, my child, he died so violently—let us see to him first.”

“No! I must know, do you not see? I must!” Nicolas gave way and allowed her to follow him to the chapel. The corpse lay on a hastily constructed bier before the altar and Nicolas bent to view the broken body of his friend. His gentle fingers touched the clotted blood that matted the fine hair of the shattered skull. He noted the heavy bruising on the man’s wrists where he had been held immobile against his struggles, and on his chest, where it seemed as if a great weight had been placed.

“What was the verdict?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“Self defense, master,” Matthieu answered. “That man Frizer had two small cuts on his scalp. Had they been on his chin, he might have got them shaving,” he added scornfully, but Nicolas was no longer listening. He turned the dead man’s head and Rózsa cried out when she caught sight of the ravaged face with its ruined right eye.

“I would have spared thee,” Nicolas said softly, but she shook her head, tears falling freely. “You think of George, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” she confessed, “but of poor Kit, too! How could they, how could they do—that—to him!” Nicolas just shook his head. He knew that she, of all people, needed no answer. Soon they had the corpse cleaned and dressed, and Rózsa sat with it while Nicolas returned to the study to write in his journal, as he did every night. He returned just before dawn.

“Has he—” he began, but Rózsa shook her head and Nicolas composed himself to wait. It was not long before the body before them convulsed with a shattering cry. Before either could reach him, he collapsed, lying as limply as if he had but newly died upon the bier. Matthieu pressed the veins of his right wrist to the man’s lips, but to no avail. Rózsa stood with dagger in hand and Matthieu let her open a vein. When he pressed the bleeding wound against the slack lips, they closed upon it and the undead man fed eagerly for a short time, then fell back into his catalepsy. Nicolas cleared his throat.

“I will send word to Geoffrey to expect us in Brittany soon. Matthieu, see to the traveling arrangements. We must get him out of the country as soon as possible.” Marlowe was transferred to the lightless room prepared for him and the others set about their various tasks.

The journey across the channel was not as difficult as it might have been. The winds were fair, but the sailors muttered about the sick man in the hold, telling tales of plague and derelict ships sailing eternally on the chartless seas of hell. They thankfully crossed themselves when the passengers debarked in the gathering dusk and watched with relief as the stricken man was placed in the waiting litter and carried away into the night.

At last the cortège came to an old manor house, tucked away in a hidden valley between two rocky headlands. Geoffrey was not in residence, but the servants said that he was expected back before the end of the summer. Orders were swiftly given and Marlowe was put to bed. At Nicolas’ insistence Rózsa went to stay with friends in Paris, though she protested bitterly. The very extent of the injuries the poet had sustained and survived made Nicolas uneasy and he did not wish Rózsa to be on hand should something go wrong. He prepared himself for what might be a long wait.

Long days and uneventful nights passed, until one night the peace was rent by screams of terror, coming from Marlowe’s chamber. The household converged to find the door bolted from the inside and heard the sounds of struggle weakening within.

“We must break it down,” Nicolas shouted. He lent his strength to the servant’s efforts and within seconds stepped into the chamber. Marlowe was there, crouching over the limp form of one of the serving wenches, Annette, who had come to check on him, as she did every morning and evening. Blood dripped from his lips, drawn back in a feral grin. The torchlight glittered in his remaining eye and there was nothing human in his face.

Nicolas snatched a torch from a servant and used it to drive the snarling beast from his kill. When he was backed into a corner, batting at the torch and howling his pain and rage, Nicolas motioned and two of the grooms leapt in to drag the girl’s body from the room. “She lives,” someone said and Nicolas sighed in relief. With animal cunning, Marlowe was watching, looking for an opening. When one of the grooms returned, he glanced away just long enough for Nicolas to stun him with the butt-end of the torch. They bound the unconscious man securely to his bed-frame, and Nicolas gave orders that the door be repaired and strengthened, and that the bolt be removed from the inside. He turned his attention to the injured wench.

She had been violated, he saw with disgust, brutally, and then almost drained of blood. More than ever he wished for Geoffrey’s advice, his knowledge. Had their brilliant young poet become no more than a monster? Would this be the extent of his new life? If so, it would not be a long one. The servants took the girl away to care for her and he went to calm himself by writing. He had not been at it long when he heard horses; Geoffrey had arrived at last.

“You should have kept him bound—did you not receive my letter?” Geoffrey said, pacing by the fire. Nicolas shook his head. “This is but his animal nature that has awakened, his passions and furies. It often happens so when there are such injuries to the brain as those that took his life; it was also thus with me. But, even so, he may yet heal and so we must watch over him and wait.”

“My poor unfortunate friend! And if he gets no better?”

“Then, my old friend, we shall be forced to destroy him,” Geoffrey answered, gently. “If his wits have gone, it would be no kindness to let his body live on as a ravening beast. Where is Rózsa?”

“In Paris,” Nicolas said thankfully. “I shall send her word not to return yet awhile.”

“I think that would be best.”