Perfect Shadows

by Siobhan Burke

  Hal gazed at me abstractedly for a moment then blurted, “You have been Libby’s lover, too, haven’t you? No, I need to know, for if I am to die, I want you to look after her. God knows that I do not blame either of you, the way that I neglected you both.” He rested his head on my shoulder, waiting for an answer.

  “I have been Libby’s lover,” I answered slowly. “She is like a bright flame, like the sun. I did not mean to hurt you, either of you.”

  “I know,” he said quietly, reaching up to stroke my hair, dark hair so like his own. “I’m not about to run horn-mad, although I suppose that is what Penny, Lady Rich that is, had in mind when she told me, trying to rouse my wrath at you. She and Robin feared that you would persuade me to abandon their cause. Would to God you had! I was only relieved to think that you had reason to care for her if things went awry.” He was silent for a moment, picking at the lint on his draggled finery, before continuing.

  “And so they did, of course, from the start. The lowest prentice could have told Robin that we should ride to Whitehall and seize the person of the Queen. But Robin must needs secure the city and the armory at the Tower first, the fool! Then we sat at meat for almost two hours while Robin fretted and faltered and the Crown rallied its forces. The more fool I for following him! You tried to warn me. Will it be the block? I think I could face a clean death, Kit, but not . . . the other.”

  “I’ve been to see the queen,” I told him gently. “There is a good chance that you will be spared,” I added, and told him the terms. Hal nodded solemnly.

  “Kit, I am afraid to die,” he whispered. I felt a chill at this unconscious echoing of Richard’s words, and silenced Hal with a kiss. My mouth moved to his throat, and the painfully sweet pleasure washed over us both as my teeth sank into the throbbing vein. Hal moaned softly, then dragged my hand to his groin, moaning again at the touch, his release overtaking him even as he slipped his other hand into my clothing. The sound of the bolt jolted us apart and I drew back, licking the blood from my lips as the door opened. Cecil stood there, the light of his candle throwing a large and twisted shadow behind him on the wall.

  “The Earl of Southampton is not permitted visitors, your highness,” he said quietly, and motioned me to follow him from the room as he turned to go.

  “Might I have a bath, my Lord Secretary?” Hal called after us, but in tones of arrogant indifference rather than the entreaty one might expect. Cecil turned back and raised the candle to look at the prisoner, taking in the rumpled clothing and matted hair. He clucked his tongue at the sight and set the candle back on the table.

  “I had left orders that you were to be so accommodated, if you asked, my lord, and had naturally assumed that some sort of false pride or defiant despair was the reason for your squalor. I will look into it, that, and other matters of discipline among the Tower guard,” he added with a hard look at me, then picked up his candle and left the room. I paused to grin at Hal, flying back for a parting kiss, only the merest feather touch on his lips, before leaving him alone again. I had noticed the burnt-out stubs of the tallow candles, and purposely left my candle of good hard wax behind, so that he might at least read for as long as its light lasted.

  Chapter 33

  In a small room near the Royal apartments and furnished as an office Cecil offered the prince the room’s only chair, although he was himself trembling with fatigue, and almost too tired to think. He had had an exhausting interview with Essex that day, as well as overseeing the confessions of several of the other conspirators. A painful meeting with Essex’s mother, the strident and aging Lettice Knollys (now Blount), had followed, and it had taken all his strength to sit through the torrents of mixed invective and supplication she poured over him. He passed a weary handover his eyes, and was startled to feel the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, but was firmly guided to the chair and gently pushed into it. The thought that the man could easily murder him floated idly through his mind for a moment and he found with a sort of distant surprise that he was too tired to care. He sat looking at the prince’s back as words were exchanged with the man-at-arms outside the office, and realized with a start that he had actually nodded off for a time as Prince Kryštof turned back to face him with a small black bottle in his hands, which he set on the desk before turning to search about in the cupboard. Cecil cleared his throat and the prince turned to face him, two small cups in his hands and a smile which, though rendered slightly sinister by the eye patch, seemed genuine enough. He poured them each a dollop of brandy, putting the cup into Cecil’s hand and raising his own to drink first. That I might not think he is trying to poison me, Cecil thought muzzily, and downed his own before the cup had left the prince’s lips. Being an abstemious man by nature, he rarely took brandy, and drank even his wine well watered. The fiery liquor burned into his belly, and he promptly choked. He wiped his streaming eyes and held out his cup to the prince for another dose, answering the sympathetic smile with a wry one of his own. Kryštof ’s teeth flashed in the candlelight as he poured, and then thumped the cork back into the bottle.

  “How did you get in to see Southampton, your grace?” Cecil asked carefully, sipping at the second cup. He would regret the liquor soon, he knew, but just now it was enabling him to get through one more bit of work, and he was grateful to the foreigner for thinking of it. Kryštof, half sitting on the table, considered for a time before he spoke.

  “Bribery, my lord,” he answered levelly, and Cecil nodded.

  “I do not suppose you would be able to point out to me the men who accepted your bribes?”

  “I fear that one Englishman in livery is very like another,” Kryštof replied with a shrug.

  “Just so. And I would suppose that the earl said nothing about the rebellion?”

  “Only that he would I had persuaded him to stay by me instead of jaunting about London that day,” Kryštof answered carefully, framing his words so as not to be of use to Cecil in his prosecution. The Secretary felt his head sinking to rest on his arms and was distantly aware that his breathing had become faint snores. When he woke some time later he found that the prince had taken up a cloak from the chest near the door and covered him as he slept, before taking leave.

  Chapter 34

  A hand shot from the shadows pooling the narrow street, grasping my ankle and nearly tripping me. I jerked away, kicking once at the prostrate form before I realized that the man was begging. I reached into the shadow and hauled the beggar into the moonlight to have a look at him. The man was small and ragged, and from the smell of him, drunk as well as dirty. The head tilted back as he raised his uncaring eyes, and I gasped as I recognized him: Thomas Nashe. I dragged him, half-conscious, to the inn where I had left my horse, and rode on to Chelsey with my unfortunate former colleague slung over and tied like a meal-sack to the saddle of a hired packhorse.

  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.

  Chapter 36

  Nashe woke to find me kneeling beside his pallet, fixing him with my one-eyed stare. He seemed to find the uneven gaze unsettling and struggled to sit up, but I pushed him back down onto the pallet with a touch.

  “Sylvana tells me that you should rest for a time, to repair some of hardship’s inroads upon your body. Do you wish for anything?”

  “You don’t sound the same as them,” he muttered, motioning to the outer kitchen. “But there’s something familiar in your speech— Kent!” Nashe added, surprised, “You sound like a Kentishman.”

  “Do you wish for anything?” I repeated, ignoring his last remark.

  “If I might have some more wine, my lord,” he asked shyly, and I glanced to Sylvana, and back to him. She stepped forward with a flagon and filled his cup. We left the little man enjoying his drink and made our way to the study. I crossed to the fire, then turned to face my housekeeper.

  “He’s dying, is he not?” My tone was flat and remote.

  “He is, my lord. He may have a few weeks, even as much as a few months, but I do not think so. He has the consumption; that is why I moved him into the closet, away from the kitchen, but still close enough that I may see to him. I think that he has given up, my lord. Something has killed his spirit.”

  “He was a good friend, rash and hot-headed sometimes, and with malice and spite enough to furnish any three normal men, but merry and loyal withal, where he had given his friendship. Poor Tommy! I do hate to see him used so!”

  Two nights later, on the eve of Hal’s trial, Nashe blundered into my study wearing nothing but one of Jehan’s shirts, the sleeves rolled thickly around his thin wrists to reveal his hands, and the tail reaching his knees. He tacked off the table and ended at the hearth where I, dressed to prowl the streets, sat contemplating the fire.

  “Never spilled a drop,” Nashe grunted with satisfaction as he settled the heavy flagon he carried near to the fire.

  “Cupshotten again, Tommy?” I asked with wry amusement. Nashe was one of the lucky few that became more coordinated with drink, at least up to a point. He might be somewhat unsteady on his feet, but he could juggle knives or firebrands with never a hurt, and had won no few tavern wagers with demonstrations of that skill.

  “Oh, hullo Kit. I thought you were dead,” Nashe beamed at me with his gap-toothed little-boy smile. “Have a drink? No? Are you a ghost then? I had heard that dying people see ghosts. I died myself last year—or was it longer? When they burnt all my books, Kit, every one! All my books,” he repeated mournfully, then looked up with another quick grin. “I saved yours though! Silly cook wanted to use them for fire-starter. I took ’em to your Tommy then and he, he gave me some money—my pocket’s gone Kit. Have you seen it? No matter, it was empty anyway. Kit, was it awful, dying? Is it awful, being dead?” his words trailed off and he slid from the chair onto the hearth. I caught him and kept him out of the fireplace, then carried him back to his bed. Sylvana stirred from her pallet near the kitchen fire, and seeing my burden rose swiftly to her feet.

  “He’s drunk, Sylvana.” I dropped the wasted body into the bed and pulled the covers up, then stood for a few moments staring at my snoring friend. “He recognized me, or seemed to. I will see him tomorrow night, and try to keep him sober until I do.” Sylvana made a wordless sound of assent, and I turned to look at her. She hadn’t caught up a blanket or robe, and the dim firelight from the next room played up and down her body as she walked back to her pallet, sinking gracefully into the warm hollows in the blankets. In the stronger light I could see the bruising on her throat, made by Richard’s clumsy feeding. I followed and knelt to touch her throat lightly, and she shivered. I pulled her coverlet up around her then settled cross-legged to speak with her.

  “The boy hurts you,” I said softly, and she shook her head. “He is awkward, my lord, as any young thing might be, but not cruel. He will learn his skills, and that swiftly, I think. Sylvie is much taken with him, and Eden is jealous.” Sylvana yawned and stretched, snuggling down into her bed, and I dropped a quick kiss onto her forehead before rising to my feet. I went up to Richard’s room, to check on him before I left, and found him quiet, his hair across the pillow like a raven’s wing on snow. His change was minimal physically. He appeared no more than sixteen, and his features had refined to a shattering beauty, regaining some of the androgyny he had lost in his adolescence. I involuntarily stroked my jaw, reflecting on the changes wrought in my own appearance. I had not minded gaining the two or three inches in height, but the face was still somewhat of a shock in the mirror, like and yet so unlike my own, at least as I remembered it. Richard stirred a little in his sleep, turning onto his side, his face away from me, and muttered a little before sinking back into his dream. I went then, to roam the London streets until the dawn forced me home.

  The next evening a message awaited me, asking me to meet with Geoffrey at Rózsa’s lodging in the city. I stepped into Nashe’s little room before I left, and the man turned his wandering gaze towards me, but did not seem to remember his speech of the night before.

  “My lord?” he whispered, trying to rise. I stopped him with a wave, leaning over the narrow cot. “No, rest easy, Master Nashe. I must go out, but before I left I wanted you to know that all your books were not burned. Many were hidden away in libraries both here and abroad. You will not be forgotten, or remembered only as a passing reference to works unknown. Rest now, and get well.” I passed my hand over the high forehead, rumpling the stubbly hair. He smiled and sank into an easy sleep, as I slipped from the closet, shaking my head. Nashe, it seemed, recognized me as his old friend only while in his cups. I left to keep my appointment, and when I arrived Geoffrey was waiting for me with news of Hal’s trial. With his four hundred years, Geoffrey was old enough that the soft winter sunlight did not troub
le him unduly, and had attended the trial to report the proceedings first hand. It had not gone well. As Rózsa’s handsome serving-man, Emile, served the wine, Geoffrey told the ugly story.

  Francis Bacon, a long-time friend of the Earl of Essex, as well as a long-time beneficiary of the earl’s patronage, ruthlessly led the prosecution, to distance himself from the taint, no doubt. Essex was shaken and furious at Bacon’s defection, and the arguments and obfuscation he clumsily presented in his defense were brutally knocked down. When the two earls had returned to the court to hear the results of the jury’s deliberation, the peers had stood, one by one, and pronounced Essex a foul traitor, then had repeated the entire procedure with Southampton. The death sentence had been read out in ruthless detail, and Hal had blanched and placed himself under Her Majesty’s mercy, confessing his fault and entreating her leniency with simple dignity. Robin had merely asked that his favored divine be allowed to attend upon him in the Tower. They were marched back to prison, with the blade of the axe turned towards them. “Tell me, Kit, when did you make the exchange with the earl?” he added at the end of his tale, his voice suddenly stern.

  “Essex? But I’ve never even—” I began, but Geoffrey interrupted impatiently.

  “A fine waste of time that would be! No, I meant my Lord Southampton. He’s tasted of the blood somewhere, and that more than once. You can see it working in him, and I wondered, for you knew that I had advised against it,” he said.

  I raised a hand to my lower lip, and nodded thoughtfully. “He seems to have a taste for it,” I said, and told him how Hal had licked the blood from my wounds more than once, but only a few drops at a time.