“M-m-marlowe? N-n-no! Dead! Dead and buried!”
“So I am often told. I think not. But you will be. You may thank Sir Thomas Walsingham that I do not kill you outright, and if I hear that you have troubled him again in anyway, I shall kill you anyway. Or if I should hear further tales of travelers molested after leaving your inn.
“You see, it was I cut Nick Skeres throat for him, Ingram,” I said, and laughed. “You should have seen his blood spouting through his fumbling, useless hands,” I continued, pausing a moment to lick my lips, and Frizer shuddered. “Do you remember when you so kindly told me what I could expect from a traitor’s death? I shall not be so refined with you, but the results will be the same. You will be begging me to die, before it’s done, scrabbling through your guts with your own two hands. Oh, not tonight, but one day. One night you will see me again, and you will know then that I have come to collect the reckoning.
“You could cheat me, of course. If you bandy the tale of this night about, you will certainly be locked up as a lunatic. I would still kill you, but it would have to be quickly done. Not that you wouldn’t beg for it, after you’d been locked up in Bedlam for a time.” I stepped back, poised in case he should attack, but the man just sat there, rigid, slack-jawed and beginning to drool. A touch at my arm whirled me around, and I almost struck her before I realized it was woman I had seen earlier.
“My lord, you best go out the back. They be waiting for you in the yard,” she said, her voice dull and colorless. She looked down at Frizer with apathetic eyes. “It’s the apoplexy; he’s had small fits before. One day, God willing, he’ll die of it.” I was surprised at the venom in her voice, until I noticed the bruises on her arms. She hastily rolled the sleeves of her shift down to cover them. Shyly, she offered me a half-smile, and I thought that at one time she must have been quite pretty. Almost without volition I drew her to me. She resisted for only a second before sliding into my embrace. I left her, dazed from the pleasure of my feeding, there on the bench beside her husband.
As I stepped from the front door of the inn, I spotted my adversaries hidden around the inn-yard. Five of them, two armed with swords, two with cudgels, and one with what appeared to be a length of stout chain. They couldn’t know that I had seen them, and I strode through the courtyard to the tumble-down shack that served as a stable. They moved then, but not as silently as they believed. Before any of them could reach me, I had drawn my sword, and stood smiling at them over the length of it. Within seconds all were bloodied and the two swordsmen were down, one with a death wound. The others fled. I laughed aloud, retrieved my horse and rode into the night towards Blackavar, well pleased with my night’s work.
I heard there was great wonder the next day in Eltham, when Mistress Frizer told how the two swordsmen had quarreled and fought each other. The survivor agreed with her tale, for to dispute it would be to admit a murderous assault upon the one-eyed stranger.
We had taken a house in Chelsey when the court had moved to Whitehall, and I attended the Queen every night. To forestall further trouble with the court bravos I challenged three of them, one after the other, to an exhibition of swordsmanship, and her majesty bade us perform before the assembled court. The third man was Henry Wriothesley, the young Earl of Southampton, handsome, arrogant and attractive. . . .
Southampton’s dark auburn hair almost brushed the floor as he bent to retrieve his rapier. “This was no fair trial,” he said, with a sulky bad grace. “If you were right-handed—”
“The sinister troubles you, my lord? No matter,” I said, and switched my rapier to my right hand, on my blind side. There was a muttering among the onlookers, and the earl had the grace to look abashed as I saluted him with my blade. The second bout took but little longer than the first. Even as his sword touched the floor, Southampton was already striding away. I bowed to his rigid, retreating back, then turned to accept the applause of the court. I picked up the earl’s fallen blade and gave it to a passing servant, instructing him to give it into the earl’s hand. The hilt had still been warm from his grip—I seemed to feel that warmth on my palm for a longtime after, and mightily regretted offending the elegant, intelligent, and above all, handsome young man.
“My lord, I was told to give you this,” Jehan said one evening not long after, handing me a folded piece of paper.” He said you’d be able to read it,” he added in answer to my quizzical look, and went to shake out the clothing I would wear that night. I raised myself on one elbow and unfolded the letter, smoothing it in the light of the candle that stood on the table near the bed. When I saw the contents I chuckled. I could read this, absolutely—the paper contained a series of drawings. St. Paul’s cathedral was unmistakably rendered, with its blocky tower, its spire lost to a fire some years past. Next was a waxing quarter-moon and abroad-faced clock, its hand pointing to ten. An earring pierced the page where the signature should be, a good-sized orient pearl suspended from a sturdy gold hoop. My stomach lurched as I recognized it: I had worn it the day I died.
I rose from the bed and let Jehan dress me. Nicolas had said that Poley had been given the earring as his pay for watching the door as I was murdered. Though I had been unable to discover his whereabouts, it looked as though Poley had found me out. I frowned; little Robin was soon going to be one very dead spy. The moon was waxing now, and the quarter would be in four nights time. I idly wondered if the clock face meant ten in the morning? If so, Poley would have a long wait. I slipped the thin silver hoop from my earlobe and set the pearl in its place.
The night of the quarter-moon I dressed plainly in wool and linen, armed myself with pistols as well as rapier and dagger, and set off for St. Paul’s. I was glad of my vampire’s sight as I threaded my way in darkness from the dock to the cathedral. It was just before ten when I took up a position a little way away, among the shuttered stalls of the stationers, to watch for Poley. I had not long to wait before a man with Poley’s furtive gait passed me, the light of the link carried before him showing off his tarnished finery. I stepped from the shadows and laid a hand upon his arm. He twitched away, and I saw a stranger’s face grinning up at me. I became aware of someone behind me at the same instant that something smashed into the back of my head. There was a flash of light inside my skull, then only darkness.
Chapter 14
I awoke lying on my back on a bare wooden bench or cot in the center of a small room, and when I tried to sit up I realized that I was fettered in such a way that movement was almost impossible. My arms were stretched at right angles to my body and chained securely to either wall, my feet caught at the foot of the cot, and a collar kept me from raising my head, which throbbed painfully. I turned my head to look at the shackles, and my stomach twisted. They were made of wood, reinforced with steel; someone knew entirely too much about me.
The room was bare except for the narrow cot on which I lay, and the pile in the corner that I recognized as my clothing and my weapons. I was left in my shirt, breeches, and stockings. A pad had been thoughtfully placed between my head and the bench beneath me, keeping contact with the wood from exacerbating the wound. The wall at my feet was almost entirely made of glass, and I supposed that the door was behind me. It was not long after I woke that I heard a key turn in a heavy lock and someone entered. I struggled to see who was behind me, but it was useless. The wood of my fetters galled me, blistering my undead flesh when I pulled against it, and preventing me from exercising my full strength. I stopped moving and waited. The man walked slowly around the bed, stepping carefully over the taut chain, and held the candle up that I might see him. My stomach knotted inside me as I recognized him: Northumberland, the so-called Wizard Earl. His clothing stank of smoke.
“I trust you are comfortable, Master Marlowe?” he asked tauntingly.
“Tolerably, given the situation, and my name is Kryštof. You may call me ‘your highness’, or ‘your grace’. If ransom is your purpose, I’m afraid you’ve chosen poorly. My brother is not very likely to spare mu
ch coin for me,” I told him, assuming a composure that I was far from feeling.
“You must be wondering why you have been brought here,” the earl continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “I have had some very interesting conversations with an old friend and patron of yours, that served to spur my own research,” he fell silent, but his cold eyes, the greasy grey-green of pond ice, continued to roam my captive body. It seemed hours, but can really only have been a few minutes before he recalled himself and turned to me. As he moved I smelled the smoke again, and it recalled memories of nights at Ralegh’s manor, Durham House, memories of the several futile attempts made to conjure demons. There had been only one success claimed, though I had not seen it myself, and that had been Northumberland’s endeavor. The earl moved to my side, and I, looking at the window, shuddered. When the morning came . . . I tried to jerk my head away as the earl leaned over me, but the collar bit into my throat, choking me.” If you were not who I believe you to be, the jewel would not have fetched you, and you would not have mistaken my groom for the one who sold it to me. But who you are is of no consequence; it is what you are that interests me, and that I know very well.” He stood smiling, gazing at the windows.
“Do you remember how you would mock me, kind Kit? I do,” he said softly, and turned his smile on me. My gut knotted at that smile, and I knew that he meant to kill me. After a time he continued. “I have spent weary years searching in vain for the philosopher’s stone, not for vain gold, but for immortality, and now you, a baseborn little cobbler’s son, you have the immortality I’ve squandered my life to gain. I mean to have it and you will give it to me.” I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. “No matter,” the earl laughed without humor. “I have the knowledge and the wherewithal to take it, Marlowe, Marley, Merlin.” He was prodding me as he ever had, upon my commoner’s name, and that I had, for time in the pride-filled way of youth, assumed the name of the great wizard. He left the room then, his laughter trailing behind him as dry and lifeless as November leaves.
The window faced north, and while the diffused daylight did me no direct damage, it broke my rest, tormenting me, causing me to toss and strain against the manacles that held me. Seven such days and nights passed without so much as footsteps on the other side of the door. I thought I should go mad from the pain of my cramping limbs, the shackle-galls, and my rising hunger, my thoughts forever whirling around Northumberland’s words. An old friend and patron, he had said, and that could only be Thomas Walsingham. Had Tommy bartered my life away once more? On the seventh night Northumberland returned, and such was my state that I was almost glad to see him. He viewed my tortured body with satisfaction, and motioned to those behind him into the room. A heavy-set serving man entered, dragging a frightened boy along. The hunger coiled in me, I could smell the blood I needed, smell it even over the reek of unwashed bodies, theirs and my own. The earl took the arm of the struggling child, holding it firmly against my mouth. The hunger wrenched and twisted inside me like a living thing as I turned my head, forcing my lips away from the terrified boy. After a few minutes the earl released his hold and left the room, followed swiftly by the servant and the boy. This was repeated on the following nights, until upon the third night the hunger overpowered me and I fed.
I was allowed no more than a mouthful before the boy was wrested from me and bundled out of the room. Another night passed before Northumberland returned with a man, dwarfish in stature and obviously foreign. The earl stood gloating, then knelt on a cushion that the little man had placed on the floor beside my cot. He smiled as his doublet sleeve was removed and shirtsleeve turned up above his elbow. “You are in no doubt, Doctor?” he asked absently, not taking his eyes off me.
“None whatsoever,” the dwarf replied. “It is no different than being bled, my lord.” The earl nodded and pressed the vein in his wrist against my lips. The hunger possessed me and I sunk my teeth into the vein, filling my mouth and letting my pleasure overflow into the man who fed me until the connection was forcibly broken by the dwarf. “That will do, my lord. That is enough.” The earl collapsed against the side of the cot, his eyes heavy with satisfaction.
“Oh no,” he said, “oh, not at all like being bled, and not nearly enough.”
They kept me hungry, and my need forced me to continue feeding from the earl. In the fourth week of my captivity, the pattern changed. After I had fed, the earl took a dagger and slit my shirtsleeves from wrist to shoulder, then motioned to the doctor, who advanced slowly, holding a cup in his left hand. Ashe approached; he drew his right hand from the folds of his gown. I struggled against my bonds, straining futilely to break them when I recognized the object the little man held: a fleam. The dwarf placed the point against the vein in my inner elbow and gave the bar a quick firm tap with the cup, lowering it quickly to catch the dark blood that flowed freely from the wound. The knife was not made of steel, but of some hardened wood, so that the wound would remain open in my undead flesh. When the cup was full he handed it to the earl and swiftly bandaged the cut to close it.
Northumberland, a self-satisfied smile on his face, raised the cup in a salute, and drained it. I felt tears of despair scald my cheek, and I turned my face away. The act of blood exchange was meant to be a gift, a loving act of sharing. This was a violation, a defilement, and it left me feeling broken, degraded.
Time passed, maybe a week, maybe more, every night bringing a repetition of the bloodletting, and some nights more than one. I had retreated into a silence, distancing myself from what was being done to me in an effort not to go mad; I fed mechanically and no longer fought the knife. One night, after handing the empty cup to the doctor, the earl spoke to me. “How many times must the exchange take place?” I looked beyond him, making no response, even when the earl ripped the rags of my shirt from my body and nodded to the little man at the brazier they had set burning in the corner. An instant later a scream tore from my throat as the earl pressed the glowing end of a burning oaken brand against the skin of my chest, then tossed it aside and repeated his question. When no answer came he reached for another brand.
“Three times, maybe four,” I whispered, staring at the end of the brand, glowing cherry-red and cunningly carved into a circled five pointed star.
“But I wonder if that’s true?” the earl murmured, a mad luster glazing his murky, opaque eyes. He applied the brand again, to the other side of my chest, crooning almost as a lover when my scream rent the air and sank into a whimper. After a few moments he shook himself and stood, smoothing the velvet of his gown. “Well, then, I suppose it must be. Did you hear, Doctor Montague? We shall proceed tomorrow night,” he said, and turned back to me, asking what he could expect, how he would rise from the grave, and if I hesitated to answer the earl dragged a rough nail across my burned and blistered skin. An eternity later he turned to go, stopping almost as if in afterthought. “There’s someone waiting to see you,” he said with spiteful good humor, and threw open the door. I recognized the scent, civet and ambergris, before I even saw him. It was Tom.
He gave a cry at the sight of me, taking in the torn and stinking clothing, my matted hair and wasted frame, the sores where the wooden shackles had galled my flesh. His eyes swept the inflamed wounds along the veins in my arms, and the blackened blisters on my chest. I turned my head, my blood-smeared lips forming themselves into a travesty of a smile.
“Well, Tommy, it seems that I should not have dismissed your competence at vengeance quite so casually. How now, do you mislike what you have made?” My voice was hoarse and almost inaudible. Tom took a step back.
“I—I never intended this—”
“Never mind, Tommy,” I interrupted him wearily. “I forgive you. Now run along.” Tom opened his mouth as if to speak again, then fled the room, leaving Northumberland snickering behind him.
The next night, after vague dreams of being manhandled, I woke in a different room. The rags of my clothing had been stripped from me, and I was bound spread-eagled on a cold wood
en floor. The wooden shackles still encircled my wrists and ankles, the collar still in place around my neck, and I was pegged tightly to the floor beneath me. I could turn my head enough make out the broad lines of a pentacle chalked around me, but not enough to read its intent. My chest itched from the designs and symbols painted there with a stinking paste mixed from soot and shit. Presently the earl, robed in red, entered with his diminutive helper, robed in black. They set about their business, ignoring me as I waited helpless in the middle of the floor. Before long their preparations were completed and the invocation started, making it plain that they were about to conjure a demon into the circle with me.
I knew then that I would die this night, and desired only that whatever was conjured would make a quick end to me. The room filled with the smoke of the burning herbs, which did not rise from the braziers, but spilled out over the floor like a filthy ground fog. I had closed my eye against the acrid smoke, but opened it wide at the peak of the chant when a burst of power tore through the room, slamming the earl against a wall. It was as if a portal that should have opened only a crack had been thrust full wide to accommodate . . . what?
I realized that I was no longer alone inside the circle. A young man sat facing me, a beautiful young man, with hair of silver-gilt, and a naked form that set my heart racing. I stared at the high cheekbones, the long, slanting, lilac-colored and slit-pupiled eyes, at the mouth that cried out to be kissed. The demon raised a slender long-fingered hand to cradle my cheek, and I turned away, trying to hide my disfigured face. I well knew what Frizer’s dagger had done to my looks. An angry jagged scar puckered my eyelid and the lids were caught together with tiny stitches of silk, against the ruin behind them. I was aware of the sour smell of my soiled and defiled body, my filthy hair and unshaven beard. At least, being undead, I was spared the further humiliation of being louse-ridden. How could such beauty bear to look at my disfigurement?
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