Perfect Shadows

by Siobhan Burke

  “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.”

  Part Two:

  SHADOWS RELICT

  Chapter 1

  I struggled for a time against the bindings that held me fast, then gave up in exhaustion. I was in total darkness, half sitting in what seemed to be a bed. My arms were stretched out to either side and securely tied. A wide band crossed my midsection, and my feet were caught together and knotted firmly to the bed’s foot. Pillows cushioned my contact with the headboard behind me, which also seemed to be swathed in many layers of soft cloth. My bonds, so my questing fingers told me, were wrappings of the finest silk. I tried to remember what may have brought me to my present pass, but other than a few random images, I could remember nothing—nothing at all, not even my name.

  Fear coiled in me, leaving me shaking and sick. I wrenched again at the bonds, frantically, when I heard a door open and saw the glow of a candle. “Where am I?” I whispered, but the serving wench who carried the candle only squeaked at my faint words and ran from the room. I tried to call out after her but again only produced a whisper. The light, however brief, had given me further food for thought: the room looked curiously flat and I seemed to be blind in my right eye.

  The door opened again and a heavyset, jovial man of middle-age bounced through it. He set his candle upon a table and turned to the bed, his broad and placid face beaming.

  “Kit, lad! So happy to see that you are—awake. How are you feeling? Confused, I warrant and rightly so. Hungry too, I doubt not. Anneke!” he bellowed the last, causing me to flinch back into my pillows. The sharp eyes in that round face missed nothing and the shout was not repeated. “I shall just see to it, shall I?” and he whisked from the room with an agility that belied his bulk, to return a few moments later with a bowl and spoon. He sat on the edge of the bed and began to feed me. The bowl held not the broth that I had expected, but something dark and only lukewarm, with an unusual salty-sweet flavor, rich and delicious. I delayed my questions until we had finished, then asked, “Why am I bound?” in a hoarse voice, faint still, but better than a whisper.

  “You’ve been ill, Kit, very ill, for a very long time, and at times quite violent. This is for your own sake. We feared you would do yourself some further injury.”

  “Will you free me now?”

  “No, not yet, but soon Kit, that I promise. Now, do you remember aught of what has happened to you? Aught at all?”

  “Not even being Kit,” I said and found myself grinning weakly, possibly with relief at finding my captor so friendly. “Am I Kit? And who might he be?” My voice was stronger now, a husky, light baritone.

  “It will be better if you can remember on your own. Shall I read to you? No? Well, rest you then and I’ll look in on you anon.”

  “An it please you, leave the candle.” The heavy man nodded and shut the door gently behind him.

  I studied m
y surroundings. The chamber appeared to be windowless, as the fine hangings on the walls did not so much as sway, though I could hear the wind outside whistling around the corners of the house. The candle flame burned steady and tall, and the candle was expensive hard wax, not cheap tallow. The bed where I lay was adorned with the richest of hangings and the floor was covered over in peerless Turkey carpets which at home would be carefully kept on tables and chests, the floors making do with rushes or straw. I drew a sharp breath. Home! The memory was but a glimpse and try though I might, nothing more would come of it, so I returned to my contemplation of my prison. I could hear, faint and far away, voices and music, and beyond that the forlorn howls of wolves. Though I had not meant to sleep, I soon found a dulling lethargy stealing over me, drowning my will.

  When I awoke I was in darkness once more. The candle had guttered out and the smell of the smoking wick brought a burdensome memory: the cavernous great cathedral, the scent of wax candles and incense, a show of outward piety rotted from within by secret vice. I could feel the alderman’s sweaty hands roaming my recoiling body, feel his hot, panting breath as he pawed the child that I had been—I stifled a cry at the memory and the sound of my own voice calmed me. Whatever it was, whenever it may have happened, it was not now. And then the memories were gone, vanished into shadow like the light of a blown-out candle. I knew that I had remembered something, but not what. I threw myself against the restraints as if I could physically grasp the memories, catch them and hold them if only I were free! In a frighteningly short time, I was too exhausted to move, and slumped in my bonds. A sheen of sweat covered me, chilling my flesh, so that my skin glistened in the sudden light of the candle the heavy-set man carried as he entered.

  “Nicolas!” I called out and laughed. “Nicolas.”

  “My dear young friend! You remember me! What—”

  “No. No, I do but remember that that name goes with that face: I know you not.”

  “But it is a beginning. And what have you been doing to so exercise yourself?” he asked, pulling a large handkerchief from the sleeve of his doublet and mopping at my brow.

  “Remembering,” I said, wryly. He smiled at that and turned back to the door. When he returned to the bed he proceeded to feed me as before. As we finished a serving man entered bearing a tray laden with shaving apparatus. The servant shaved me and combed out the dark curls that lay over my shoulders, then retired.

  “I am half blind—why?” I asked softly.

  “You lost the eye when you were injured,” Nicolas said gently and tied a black silk patch to cover the empty socket. He held a mirror that I might study the effect. I looked into the face of a stranger, not unhandsome, and the eye-patch gave my countenance a sinister air of which I thoroughly approved.

  “And now, my friend, do you feel up to meeting our host?” Nicolas beamed at me.

  “Then you are not—yes, I feel quite well. May I not be freed first?”

  He shook his head gravely. “No, that is for him to say. He has much experience with injuries and illnesses such as yours and will know best. Now rest yourself and I shall bring him.” It was only a few minutes later that Nicolas returned with a man of overwhelming presence. He was tall and well built with the lithe grace of a professional duelist, and like a duelist, he radiated a sense of inherent danger. His clothing, somewhat conservative, was of impeccable cut and somber in color. His full-cut trousers met high boots of supple leather; his black satin doublet was richly embroidered with gold thread. His shirt was of black silk, and even his falling band of cobweb-lawn had been dyed sable. It set off perfectly the pallor of his complexion and the tawny gold of his hair, tied into lovelocks with silk ribbons and flowing over his right shoulder in rippling waves to his waist. In his left earlobe he wore a cabochon ruby the color of blood, and a gold ring on the little finger of his right hand.

  His penetrating glance looked out from under finely arched brows, his slate-grey eyes were shadowed by his long lashes and wide-set under a high forehead with a pronounced widow’s peak. When I realized that I was gaping like a bumpkin I flushed and looked away for a second, but my gaze was drawn irresistibly back to this man, my host. Beside him, Nicolas looked like a squat bundle of laundry and I guessed that I myself would appear but a callow stripling. I certainly felt like one.

  The man crossed the room to sit familiarly on the side of my bed and smiled. His mouth sensitive, and his voice, when he spoke, was resonant and deep, his English perfect, though with an odd intonation. “I am Geoffrey of Brittany. Welcome to my house, Christopher Marlowe.”

  Marlowe . . . Marlowe . . . the name echoed in my mind. Yes, I was Marlowe, the darling of the playhouses. Images flashed before me: a playhouse stage before a shouting crowd; a beautiful young man with eyes of harebell-blue reaching up a slender hand to sweep his golden hair from his sulky mouth; an older man’s sullen, envious face; a woman dark as the boy had been fair, radiating a refined sensuality that could rouse a man three days dead; then the memories slipped away again, taunting me. I shook my head to clear it and smiled weakly back at my host. “Might I be loosed now, my lord?”

  “Please, call me Geoffrey. Yes, I think that you may, upon your word not to leave your bed without either Nicolas or myself beside you, until I say you may. Do you so promise?”

  “Yes,” I said, eagerly. Within a few minutes I was free of the restraints that had held me so long; I brought my hands together, rubbing them slowly, although there was little of the numbness I had expected. I puzzled a bit over the ring I found upon my right little finger, an amethyst intaglio, the head of a handsome man in the classical style, set in gold. It was a fellow to the one that Geoffrey, and, as I now noted, Nicolas also wore.

  “Now, we shall see if you are up to taking a few steps, yes? Good.” I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stood in one motion. A wave of dizziness swept over me. I swayed and might have crashed to the floor if Geoffrey had not caught me and set me gently back upon the bed.

  “Not so fast, my young friend! You have been long abed, and must expect to take some time to find your feet again,” Nicolas exclaimed. I nodded, laughing ruefully, and took the proffered arm, managing only a few wobbly steps before Geoffrey peremptorily ordered me back to bed. Again I felt the lethargy stealing over me, and as I drifted into a heavy sleep I heard him murmur to Nicolas “He does well. Another day of rest and he will be strong enough to. .. .” and then sleep claimed me.

  Chapter 2

  When I woke, still in darkness, the novelty of freedom overtook me. Almost without volition I sat up on the edge of the bed, my feet a few inches from the floor. My promise to Geoffrey slipped through my mind, but I felt so much stronger, and he would never know . . . abruptly I threw myself back onto the pillows, resigned to wait.

  “Very good, you do well to remember and obey,” Geoffrey said softly in the darkness. I started, and was so overwhelmed by relief that I had not pressed my folly that I could think of nothing to reply. Geoffrey silently left the room, returning minutes later with a candle and a cup on a tray. I took the cup, peered at it doubtfully and sipped. It was the same substance as before, rich and flavorful, though only lukewarm. I cleared my throat and Geoffrey, who had busied himself lighting the room’s many candles turned to look at me quizzically.

  “I think I may be ready for more solid food?” I said and flushed to hear what I had meant to be a statement twist itself into a question. Geoffrey shook his head kindly but said nothing.” What is this potion, if I may ask?”

  “Oh, you may ask what you will, but I only answer what I choose,” Geoffrey said curtly. He stepped to the door and handed me a bundle that had been laying there. I drained the cup and opened the parcel, which contained princely clothing that had most probably once belonged to him. I became suddenly conscious of my nakedness before him, and swiftly shook out and donned the shirt. It was cream-colored silk and finer than anything I had ever worn, of that much I was certain. There were full-cut trousers, rather than t
he trunk-hose I’d unconsciously expected, to tuck into leather boots lined with fleece, but no hose or stockings. The doublet, like the trousers, was a deep garnet-red velvet, embroidered with gold and pearls. When I was dressed, Geoffrey offered his hand and helped me rise. I felt considerably stronger and steadier than I had the previous day and eagerly agreed when Geoffrey suggested that I seemed well enough to walk downstairs. We stopped on the landing of the wide staircase to allow me to rest, as I found navigating the stairs difficult, having no depth perception. I saw through the oriel windows that it was night. There was snow on the ground, but the sky was clear and dominated by the full moon, which bathed the scene in unearthly light. I stared, entranced, until Geoffrey coughed softly behind me.

  “Your pardon,” I smiled, “but it is beautiful.”

  “And you are a poet,” he nodded. A poet, was I? Oh, yes, Marlowe, so they told me, however unlikely it seemed. We continued down the stairs, through the hall and into a small nearby room. A fire was burning brightly, and before it my friend Nicolas was sitting with a woman. Nicolas bounced to his feet when he spied us and offered his chair. I took it, but kept my gaze upon the woman. She was beautiful, but not the dark woman of my fleeting vision. Her hair was white-blonde, framing the face of a Flemish Madonna and falling unbound over a body that would be the envy of a Venetian courtesan. Her clothing was well cut, less revealing than court costume, but revealing enough. Nicolas went to stand behind her chair, leaning over to rest his hands on her shoulders. “This is Anneke, my wife,” he said proudly. “Anneke, this is my English friend, Christopher Marlowe.” We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, but I was distracted by an odd phenomenon: Anneke seemed almost to glow with a visible light. I found myself leaning towards her, and the sudden desire to touch her, to bring her pulsing wrist to my lips, almost overpowered me.

  “Christopher!” Geoffrey’s voice was sharp, slinging me back in my chair. I looked up in confusion as Nicolas helped Anneke to her feet. I started to mutter an apology, but he waved it aside.