Perfect Shadows

by Siobhan Burke

  “I think not,” I answered, smiling. “It is somewhat—diabolic, at the moment.” Hal looked blank for a second, then laughed heartily at my joking reference to Cecil’s ascendancy. Even Libby broke off the pretty air she played, laughing as she stood and laid the lute aside.

  “I must take my leave, your grace,” she curtsied to me, and I stood, catching her hand, pressing a brief kiss into the palm.

  “Then you must send us more candles, for you take the better part of our light away,” I said, smiling wryly at the awkwardness of the compliment; I had never regained my facility with words. She was ravishing, this girl that Hal had embraced prison for, the sort of beauty that would never fade into a plain old age. She smiled again and Hal caught her into a swift embrace before she skipped from the room. “She is beautiful, Hal, and well worth the winning at whatever cost. But tell me now of Essex. What devil possessed him to behave so?” Hal picked at the lace bordering his cuff, and his expression clouded.

  “You heard about his return from Ireland, then?” he said tonelessly, and I nodded. Essex, after disobeying his orders from the council at every turn, became convinced that his character was being undermined in his absence, and had concluded a hasty and illicit truce with Tyrone then returned to England without permission. Worse, he had barged his way into the Queen’s bedchamber while she was undressed. I shuddered, thinking of that confrontation. She was an old woman, but a vain one, who had not seen a mirror for twenty years or more, burying her age under the layers of paint, the wigs, cloth of gold, priceless lace, and jewels enough to furnish a dragon’s hoard. When he beheld what she had been hiding Essex’s expression must have been mirror enough to shatter every illusion that the old woman had so carefully built. She would never forgive him that, I knew, and suspected that the earl did, as well. He had been ill for the better part of the year that had passed since his precipitate return from Ireland, and the return to favor for which he prayed had never come. Essex had remained in exile from the court, if not actually still detained, and it galled him, wearing away what little prudence he may have possessed. He had begun to flaunt his precipitate knowledge of the Queen’s person, to vilify her publicly, joking rudely about her twisted carcass and balding head. He was looking to die, I thought, daring the woman who had doted on him to strike at him now. He was like a sulky child crying “I don’t care!”, and unable to convince anyone, least of all himself, that it was true.

  “He would do well to remember who his mother is,” I muttered, thinking of the beautiful Lettice Knollys, the “she-wolf ” Elizabeth called her, who had enticed her sweet Robin Dudley away. That had effectively ended the countess’s career at court—the Queen possessed the Tudor vindictiveness in full measure. Hal nodded, and leaned towards me, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “You see that it can’t continue, don’t you, Kit? Diabolus rules in England now, and is moving to gather up the reins of the Scottish court as well. He must be stopped, and the Queen must be protected from such usage, and who better than Rob? His blood is as royal as hers, he’s Dudley’s stepson, and brought up to care for her—”

  “Damnation, Hal, listen to yourself!” I snarled, revolted. “Are your wits wandering? Your Robin has been slavering for the crown all his short, fractious life, and everyone knows it. You do not believe this prattle—or do you?” I pulled Hal around to face me, catching his chin and forcing his gaze. “You do, God help you, but you do,” I added flatly. I dropped my hand and stepped away, shaking my head.

  “You’ve been tucked so cozily away in Paris, you do not know what it has been like here, banned from the court, watching Cecil, crook-backed little spider that he is, usurp the power that rightfully belongs to others. Rob’s been wrong more than once, granted, but he’s right in this, Kit, can’t you see? There is no other way.”

  “What I see is your handsome head gracing a pole on London Bridge. Stop it, Hal, before it is too late for all of you. It’s already too late for your Robin, and well he knows it! And he will bring as many down with him as he can,” I said earnestly, reaching a hand to Hal’s cheek, only to have it batted petulantly away.

  “You don’t know Robin,” he said. “He has been betrayed too often in his life to ever betray his friends! I think that he is the only truly noble man left in this weary age. We must support him in this, or go and hang ourselves! There is no longer a middle way, Kit! You’re the fool an you think that Cecil will give you leave to tread one!” I shook my head and bade Hal good night, then left the room.

  A little time later I watched the men drift in from a shadowed doorway down the passage: Hal’s friends and fellow conspirators, Almsbury, Rutland, Mounteagle, Davers and Robin’s scandalously young stepfather, Blount. He called for wine, and doubtless they set to work refining their enterprise.

  Libby had been waiting for me when I left him, and begged to speak with me privately, leading me to her little parlor. A small fire burned in the hearth, and the windows were shrouded in heavy curtains to keep out the drafts. A half-finished embroidery waited in its frame where she had pushed it against the wall. She closed the door behind me, and leaned against it, eyes closed, and her breath coming fast. “My lady?” My words implied a question as I stepped to her side. She blindly put out a hand, and I took it, then supported her to the settle near the fire, thinking she looked ready to faint. She buried her face in her hands, and began to shake, racked by sobs, then fumbled in the bodice of her gown to pull out a crumpled letter, and push it into my hands.

  “Will you read it to me, my lady,” I asked gently and she snatched the paper back, blushing hotly. To cover her blunder, she began to read in an emotion-choked voice. The letter, from Essex’s protégé Anthony Bacon, was brief, the writing crabbed and shaky, warning Hal that one answering the description of Prince Kryštof had been seen frequenting the lodgings of a well-known spy, one Robin Poley by name, in Paris, and might well be another spy of Cecil’s. Care was urged in all dealings with the man. Hal had crumpled the note and tossed it away. He refused to believe that I was in any way a tool of the hated Cecil, but Libby had retrieved it, resolved to confront the enigma.

  “I am so frightened!” she whispered brokenly. “I love him so, and he—they will kill him for this, and I shall die!” For a stunned moment, I half-thought that she was speaking of Essex, but she continued. “You are trying to discourage him, aren’t you? Will he listen to you?” Tears glistened on the tips of her lashes, trembled and fell, staining the velvet of her gown. Gently I brushed them away, and she caught my hand in both of hers. “Oh, he must listen!”

  “He will not be dissuaded, I fear, but perhaps I can keep him from the ultimate consequence of his folly. I am no spy, and I will do what I may, my brave lady,” I answered quietly, fighting an almost irresistible desire to press my lips, my teeth, against her soft, white throat.

  “You think that I am brave? Why?”

  “If I were in Cecil’s employ, showing me that letter would be either very brave, or very foolish. I prefer to think that you are brave,” I said. She was dazzling, the firelight burnishing her coppery hair, turning the hazel of her eyes into sunlight on forest pools. Sunlight— she seemed drenched in it, golden as honey in harvest time, and I had not even known that I missed it until now. Her next words brought me out of my reverie with a thump.

  “You were his lover, weren’t you? Before you went to France, and when he joined you there? No, he said nothing, but I knew.”

  “You must hate me, then, and how hard it must have been for you to confront me!” I breathed, trying to pull away, but she held me fast.

  “Oh, no! No, my lord, I—I found that I was envious—of you both!” She turned her face away to hide her furious blush. I turned her face to mine, and slowly bent to kiss her, to kiss the sun that I had been so long denied, but ready to pull back if she shied. She returned my caress, first bashfully, then ardently, setting the roots of my canine teeth to aching. My lips drifted to the vein throbbing in her throat, a
nd I felt her shiver against me as my teeth pierced her skin. A scant moment later I raised my head, licking her sweet salt blood from my lips before kissing her mouth again. I rose from the settle, leaving her drowsy and relaxed. I bent to kiss her forehead, whispering “I will save him then, if I can, for both our sakes,” and saw her smile as her sleep deepened. I stepped to the door and opened it a crack, watching the members of this maladroit compact file in. I slipped from the house, melting into the shadows of the dark London streets, the taste of Libby still sweet in my mouth.

  She was waiting breathlessly the following night. The disorder in the room told me how she must have paced her small parlor, catching up her needle then tossing it away, picking up the lute and striking a few chords, and setting it down. As I surveyed the mess she laughed without humor and told me that every time she’d heard a step in the passage she had flown to the door to peek out, only to find that it was always someone to join the gathering about Hal. Then, when I’d opened the door and stepped into the little room, she hadn’t heard me until I softly spoke her name. She’d spun around, dropping the heavy curtain at the window, holding out her hand. I crossed to her, gathering her into my arms and kissing her. She flowed against me, and I could hear the wild beating of her heart, feel the blood pulsing in her veins against the skin of my hands. She pushed herself away, and my dark gaze followed her, puzzled, until she locked the door and turned laughing, unfastening the buttons of her surcoat, letting the rich velvet fall crumpled to the floor as she stood in her shift of sheer lawn, like the sun veiled by the thinnest of summer clouds.

  I saw that she had pulled the cushions from the settle and made a nest before the fire. There was food and wine, and the sweet faintly balsamic scent of the wax candles was like incense. She fumbled at my clothing, her slender hands shaking. I caught them in my own, pressing a kiss to each before dropping them to her lap and slipping off my doublet and shirt. She traced the silvery scars on my chest while I removed the rest of my clothing, then raised her face and kissed me. I took her there before the fire, slaking her lust, and drowning my own appetites in her body and her blood. I left her before the departure of Hal’s guests at midnight, promising to return soon. We continued to meet thus once or twice a week, whenever Hal was preoccupied with his own intrigues.

  Not many weeks passed before Geoffrey felt the need to interfere. He sent for me to attend him at Blackavar, and I rode through the December gloom in a mood as foul as the weather. My cloak crackled with frozen sleet as I dismounted in the icy courtyard and strode into the hall, looking for Geoffrey. He was standing before the fire, and in no better mood than I. Before I could open my mouth, he motioned me into the study.

  “You will cease to involve yourself in the affairs of the earls of Southampton, and of Essex,” he said bluntly.

  “But I—” I began.

  “That is an order, not a request, Christopher.” Stunned, I turned to leave, but he took my shoulder and spun me about, pushing my back against the door. His eyes were like an icy dagger, glittering grey. All the years of frustration at being restricted, regarded as a child, exploded in me then, and I shoved him away, fumbling for the door-latch behind me. His blow came from my blind side, knocking me to the floor. I rolled to my feet, and blocked the next blow, but the strength of it caused me to stumble, and a third slap put me back on the floor. Geoffrey hauled me to my feet and shook me like a terrier with a rat. “You will not flout me, and you will do as I say,” he told me.

  “May I speak?” I asked, choking on my anger and humiliation. He nodded. “I am not involved with Essex at all,” I told him. “My involvement with Hal, and with his wife, is of a personal nature. I do not intend to stop seeing them.”

  “Personal? Then see that it remains so,” he said, coldly. “You must not dispute my custody, Christopher, and you must not contend with me. It is a battle you cannot win. I do not enjoy hurting you, but I will, to keep our family safe. Do you understand me?” I nodded, unable to speak. “Then, to show that all is forgiven between us, will you share my bed?” I nodded again, swallowing my pride, and followed him from the room. I knew it was his way of exerting his dominion over me; though that shamed me, I wanted him as I had wanted no other man, and would take whatever I could get. At least I understood, now, why Tom would so often goad me to violence before we coupled.

  Christmas had come and gone and January was passing. Although Geoffrey and Rózsa were frequently to be found there, I had made only one visit to the court, accompanied by my family, as we presented our gifts to the Sovereign on Twelfth Night. Sylvie had attended Rózsa that night, as Richard attended me, and she had scandalized the court by darting forward with her own gift to the Queen. Elizabeth, who never forgot anything unless it suited her, remembered the vibrant serving-girl from their brief meeting some years before, and signaled that she should be allowed to approach. She accepted Sylvie’s gift, a little pomander filled with rose-petals and sweetbrier, and beautifully worked with a silken Tudor rose. Elizabeth thanked her gravely, and, tucking the sachet into her bodice, said it was the sweetest gift she had that night.

  As they did each year, Geoffrey and Nicolas had presented, besides their more regular gifts, a sizable coffer of gold coin, with which they bought our freedom from persecution in the matter of our family’s non-attendance at the established church. I had given her a curious ivory and ebony fan from far Cathay that folded into what amounted to a small club, and the Queen made great use of it for the remainder of the night, finding it even more efficient than the flat kind for administering quick corrections.

  Essex was not there, and had sent word that his health did not permit his participation, but rumor had it that it was the lack of an invitation that had caused his illness.

  Chapter 26

  On Twelfth Night, Richard had stayed as close to Kryštof ’s side as his menial position allowed. A heavy-set man, with regular features and light-brown close-cropped hair seemed to be watching his every move. Later, catching Richard’s eye, he nodded and smiled, the sweet and innocent smile of a child, and Richard had shuddered, happy to leave for home shortly thereafter. He started to tell Kit about the occurrence, but when he tried to put the thought into words it sounded silly.

  In mid-January, while walking through the area around St. Paul’s, Richard was arrested without warning and brought before the Secretary Cecil in his austere office. Richard recognized the man waiting there, standing just inside the door when the guards had shoved him into the room, as the observer at the Twelfth Night’s court. Lord Robert, sitting behind his work table and writing, signed the paper before him, sanded it and sealed it before he glanced up at the young man before him.

  “You are Richard Bowen? Yes. And employed as secretary to the man styling himself Prince Kryštof of Sybria? Yes. What is your master’s involvement with the Essex faction?” Richard stared at the small man in amazement but said nothing. Cecil’s glance flicked for a second to the other man, who leapt forward, catching Richard’s arm in his long and beautiful hands, twisting it up until the young man cried out with shock and pain. “I see that you are unwilling to help us,” Cecil said tranquilly, “so we shall have to find means to persuade you.” He motioned the pair from the room with a wave of his hand, and turned back to the papers on his desk.

  Deacon jerked the door open and dragged the resisting prisoner out into the passage, where two men waited to aid in the removal. There were a score of witnesses, petitioners hoping to see Lord Robert, but they appeared blind to the struggle before them, conversing in quiet voices as the young man was dragged away, down into the dark and damp second cellars beneath Cecil’s house, where he was thrust into an airless cell and left. The key turned in the lock with the sound of a falling axe.

  It was nearly a week later that Cecil made his way down to those cellars to review the progress of this recalcitrant prisoner for himself. He had been called out of the city for a few days, and unable to supervise the interrogation. He had read the regular and u
nsatisfactory reports, but they had not prepared him for the sight that met his eyes in the little torture chamber that he preferred to call the questioning room. The young man was tied to the wall, his broken and swollen hands raised above his head, and his back no more than bloody strips of skin, flayed by the whip in Deacon’s hand. The blows still fell with a wet, rhythmic sound. Deacon’s eyes were glazed, and his breeches drooped around his knees. Cecil, his gorge rising, saw that the man was fondling himself with his other hand. As his mouth opened to demand that this iniquity cease, Deacon was suddenly plucked backward as though he were pulled by a rope, and over the startled man’s shoulder Cecil saw the face of the one-eyed Sybrian prince, wild and furious in the flickering light, his lips twisted into an animal snarl. Cecil took an involuntary step back against the wall at the sight, as the prince, with a swift and utterly effortless motion, twisted Deacon’s head around entirely backwards on his thick neck, then let him fall, kicking him out of the way as he went to Richard. He broke the manacles holding the victim as if they were made of piecrust and caught the young man as he fell, mercifully unconscious. The prince turned another inarticulate snarl on Cecil where he cowered against the wall, before taking his burden and vanishing up the stairs like a shadow.

  When his breathing returned to normal, Cecil called for help. The three answering grooms found him stooping over Deacon’s dead body, and he rose at their approach. The corpse’s breeches were still tangled about its knees. The tiny penis, scarcely bigger than a woman’s little finger, jutted obscenely up from his hairless groin.