“You have my leave, my lord,” Elizabeth snapped, turning her back, and I marched from the Hall to a chorus of ill-concealed titters. I fled to the stables, barked an order to the stable-boy, and galloped off into the night, trembling and sick. Northumberland had been there, I could feel him watching. I hadn’t seen him, but hadn’t needed to. The crawling in my flesh had been quite sufficient.
Part Three:
SHADOWS OF TREASON
Chapter 1
Mid-November, and the Accession Day festivities, found me living in my own house for the first time since my renascence. I had moved into the old manor at Chelsey, taking the loups-garous Jehan, Sylvie, and Sylvie’s mother Sylvana to run the house, with Nicolas as my keeper.
I had approached Nicolas with the idea of my own premises soon after my violent encounter with Geoffrey, and had been both startled and pleased when he deeded the manor over to me, with the proviso that one or another of my elders would stay near me at all times. Some time before he had informed me, as soon as I had healed enough to comprehend it, that a sum of money had been settled on me, and we had agreed that he would continue to manage it. I learned that I had a considerable income.
I had never had more than a few pounds to my name before, and was quite happy with these arrangements. I enjoyed being a gentleman of affluent means, and not having to buckle under the vagaries of public taste just to scratch out a meager living with my pen. I might not remember very much about my previous life, but the degradation poverty wreaked on it echoed still.
I shook myself fully awake and began to dress in the soft twilight afternoon. I still prowled the dark London streets, often lingering in the inns and taverns I had frequented while alive, sitting in the shadows and listening to the habitual wrangling of the players, almost always with Jehan along as watchdog.
The familiar surroundings enticed more memories from my cloudy past, memories that led me to the conclusion that I had been more than a little cruel, most malicious, and quite reprehensible while alive, but I shrugged this judgment aside. It was very easy to pronounce on someone, from the outside, but not at all easy to discern the truth within. The truth was that I would do whatever I had to now to stay alive just as I had done then. Only the means had changed.
Oh, I was no longer quite so brash and turbulent, that afternoon in Deptford had cured me of much of that, and the powers and abilities of my new estate far eclipsed the fleeting pleasures of defiant poses and furious disputes, even if I had had the wit remaining to so indulge myself. I was sitting in a dark corner of the Anchor musing upon this, when I was startled to hear my name spat out as if it were a swear word.
“Marlowe! That bombastic brabbler! What a pity he’s not here to see what a true poet can do with the drama—” A general round of laughter drowned the snarling voice.
“How now, Jimmy, did Kind Kit lampoon one of your youthful efforts before he went and got himself spitted?” The one called Jimmy growled an unintelligible reply to the laughing question.
“Come now, friends, the man is dead. Let him rest, if he can,” another suggested.
“You’re a deal too kind, Will. He was no friend to you!”
“And a worse yet to himself,” the one called Will retorted, brushing the hair back from his high forehead. “Yes, he had a viper’s tongue, and vicious temperament, but who was left to pay the reckoning but himself? Henslowe rejected your new piece, did he, Jimmy? Come, let us look at it, and see what we may do,” and resting his arm comfortingly across the angry man’s shoulders he led him from the room.
I may well have parodied something that the fretful Jimmy had written. Anyone I could think of had fallen victim to my spleen those last few weeks of my life, but I doubted that many had taken it so to heart. A rueful smile curled my lips as I belatedly recognized the man, Will, who had scooped up my fallen crown, writing some of the most popular plays in London. I felt resentment flare at the thought, but suppressed it. What had happened to me had nothing to do with Warwickshire’s Will, the sweetest-tempered of men, and deserving of patronage, not obloquy.
Jimmy Dighton, on the other hand, was a third-rate scribbler, presuming on his sister’s lightskirted affaires d’amour to gain patronage. I wondered if Will stood in need of money; the devil knew that most poets and play-writers did. I’d have to look into it, another time.
A few nights later I was riding alone, for once, back from an evening’s entertainment at Ralegh’s Durham house. The horse reared suddenly as a slight young man, giggling drunk from the sound of him, stumbled and rolled directly beneath the horse’s hooves. The big stallion crow-hopped backward a few feet and dropped again to all fours, sidling a bit as two more young men spilled from a tavern and stooped to pick up their friend. I controlled the horse, waiting until they had the drunken lad on his feet before speaking. Not that the purported rescuers were in any better shape, I noted.
“There are easier ways of killing yourself than being trampled to death,” I observed dryly to the wobbling trio before me. “Or by drinking yourselves to death,” I added as an afterthought. Two of them seemed to find this exceedingly funny, while the third, the one who had fallen in the street, took offense, drew his rapier and brandished it theatrically in my general direction. The battle-trained stallion, seeing the flash of steel before his nose, reared again, lashed out with one hoof and caught the would-be warrior neatly in the chest. I heard a bone snap; the youth dropped his sword into the half-frozen muck and stared at it stupidly for a few seconds before crumpling into an untidy heap beside it. Cursing, I vaulted from the horse’s back, dropped the reins to the ground, and knelt next to the fallen bravo. The other two stood gaping stupidly for a time before one of them spoke.
“We were going to the stews,” he said plaintively.
“Go then,” was my terse answer. The speaker shook his head.
“Roger was going to pay,” he said, mournfully indicating the figure at his feet. I snorted.
“Help me get him back inside, fetch a surgeon, and I’ll pay,” I said with distaste, and finally carried the young man back inside by myself, the other two being too drunk to help. When I stepped into the light the taller of the two gasped.
“It’s him,” he hissed to his companion. “Prince Kryštof, that Her Majesty banished from Court the last time we were there!”
“When did she?” the other asked bewilderedly.
“While you were outside spewing your tripes up,” he spat, then turned tome. “I am Sir Henry Warren, your grace, and this is Sir Edward Selby. That’s the Earl of Almsbury,” he added, indicating his unconscious companion. “We’ve been most anxious to meet you—” he withered under my baleful one-eyed glare, and the two beat a hasty retreat, returning shortly with a stooping gray-haired man, who wheezed and clucked, but seemed to set the collarbone competently enough. The young man regained consciousness at some point during the process, but fortunately seemed too drunk to feel it. As he turned his blond head to the light and opened his incredible violet-blue eyes I started: it was my young companion from the cemetery, Roger Randolph. I had seen Almsbury swanking around the court, but had never really paid him enough attention to recognize him. The boy smiled at me then sank into a stupor again. I turned to the other two asking where they lodged, but couldn’t get an intelligible answer. I flipped the two a gold noble and they departed, arguing over which brothel to patronize. I was between keepers at the moment, Nicolas having departed to spend a few months seeing to our business interests in Paris and Rózsa’s arrival from there being delayed by storms in the Channel, and that aided my decision. I shrugged and made arrangements to take the wounded man with me to Chelsey.
The innkeeper, seeing gold spent so casually, was as helpful as could be, bundling the young man’s dropped sword so it could be tied to the saddle, and assigning his largest stableman to lift the cloak-wrapped casualty to my saddlebow after I had mounted. The round-faced little man had stepped forward to attend that office himself, but one look at the stallion�
��s laid-back ears and rolling eye had been enough to convince him of his folly. I settled the lad against me then felt in my purse for coin. The innkeeper gasped as he deftly fielded the coin tossed to him, knowing it for gold by the weight, before he ever lifted it to the light. A silver piece followed, slipped to the stableman, but from the look on the master’s face, the hostler wasn’t going to see much of it. I frowned and asked the big man to check the girth, taking the opportunity to speak quietly to him.
“If you should find yourself wanting other employment, come to Lovell House, Chelsey. I wish to expand my stable, and can use a good hand with horses,” I said impulsively. The man’s glance flicked to the innkeeper and back to me, taking in the fine clothing and the well-fed and cared-for stallion.
“Aye, I might,” he grunted, the corner of his mouth quirking in a good-humored smile, and I urged my horse forward and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 2
Roger stretched slowly, his foggy mind dealing reluctantly with returning reality. There was a feather bed beneath him, so he concluded he was not at home as he’d had to pawn his featherbed several months ago. The bed-curtains reduced the glare in the room to a level that merely poached his eyeballs, instead of the searing that opening his eyes in his own sunlit chambers would have produced, his bed-curtains having gone the way of the featherbed. So, he was not at home, and this was not any brothel he’d ever frequented before. Where in hell was he, then? At least he was alone. He hated waking up in the morning, or more likely late afternoon, with someone he didn’t remember bedding, and when sober, wouldn’t have looked at twice. He sat up to find that his left arm was bound tightly to his chest and his whole left side ached, the throbbing pain matching exactly the one behind his eyes. And he needed to find the necessary; well, he could always piss in the fireplace. If there was a fireplace. He cautiously drew the bed-curtains aside the merest inch and peered out into the surrounding room. His eyes met those of a large wolfish dog stretched out by the fire. The animal gazed at him for a few seconds then pushed itself to its feet and padded from the room, its claws soundless on the thick carpet that covered the floor.
A few minutes later a tall serving-man came in bearing a tray which he set on a nearby chest. He smiled at the blinking young man, pulled the chamber pot out from under the bed, and left the room without saying a word. When he returned with hot water and shaving gear the earl felt much better, although the food that had been left on the tray, bread and soft cheese accompanied by a tankard of ale, came close to making him retch. His clothing had been sponged and brushed and he was wearing a clean white linen shirt that was too large for him. His own shirt and collar were nowhere to be seen. The large man introduced himself as Jehan and offered to shave the earl if he desired it. Roger glanced at his own trembling hands and nodded ruefully.
He wished that he could grow a beard, a dashing pointed one like Ralegh’s, but whenever he tried it came in patchy and red, looking as if mice and moths had pillaged it. As his head was tilted back and the razor laid to his throat, it suddenly occurred to him just how vulnerable his position was. He started at the touch of the cold steel and might have caused himself serious injury if not for the lightning reflexes of the servant, who snatched the blade away almost before there was need. “I will not harm you, my lord,” he said quietly, seeming a little hurt. Roger blushed and nodded, submitting with what grace he could muster. Afterward he was helped to dress and taken downstairs.
The house was old and filled with a sense of brooding peace and a timelessness that Roger found somewhat oppressive. He was very much of the progressive party and “antique” was a term of utter condemnation. The uncarved golden oak paneling and plain whitewashed plaster without a trace of strap-work struck him as more impoverished than elegant, though the plenitude of wax candles and the richness of the subdued carpets and hangings gave that the lie. He shrugged and settled into a comfortably padded chair to await the arrival of his host. He must have dozed off again, for it was early evening when he woke with a slight start to find the opposite chair occupied.
He started again as he recognized the person sitting there eyeing him and smiling. “Your g-g-grace,” he stuttered, then found himself at a loss. He had often watched the elegant prince at court, planning the clever things he would say to impress him should they ever meet privately, and now, when his chance had come, he found himself as tongue-tied as any peasant lout. The man smiled at him and Roger melted. Oh please, he thought to himself, please let him . . . let me . . . he realized that the man had spoken to him and was obviously awaiting a reply. “I uh . . . oh, hell. I—” he broke off, blushing in confusion as he realized that his companion was laughing at him, then laughed himself as the ridiculousness of the situation overtook him.
“I asked how you were feeling, my lord,” the prince repeated, with amusement. Roger shrugged, then winced at the pain that shot through his left side.
“What happened?” he asked, and then winced again, mentally, at the banality of the question. He found himself blushing anew as the tale of last night’s adventure was relayed to him. He couldn’t have made a more perfect ass of himself if he’d set out to do so on a wager. Falling down drunk and waving his sword about was bad enough, but to be kicked to the ground by a disdainful horse! It didn’t bear thinking about.
“You are young yet, Roger, if I may call you that,” the prince spoke without a trace of condescension, as if, Roger noted with surprise, peering at him through his eyelashes, as if he were speaking to an equal. He nodded belatedly and the man continued. “And you are of the proper age to make a fool of yourself. But do try not to get yourself killed.”
“Why? Would you care if I did?” Roger heard the words fall from his lips with horror. How could he be so unguarded? His preferences could bring him to the stake, and however careless he was about the rest of his life he considered himself most circumspect in that regard. Usually. He doubted Essex even suspected, or Southampton, though he, Roger, suspected Hal of leaning more than a little in that direction himself . . . oh, no. He’d lost the thread of the conversation again. The prince was watching him with a quizzical smile quirking the corner of his mouth. Abruptly the man stood.
“I understand you have not eaten yet today, Roger. I will see what may be done to remedy that,” and he slid from the room like a shadow, returning minutes later with a large tray. He filled a plate with sliced beef and Cheshire cheese, added a serving of warm white manchet bread and set the plate on Roger’s knees, then he poured a rich dark wine into a pair of Venetian glass goblets.
“You do not sup, my lord?” Roger asked softly and Kryštof shook his head, holding out one of the glasses, which Roger gratefully accepted.
“I make it a habit never to take solid food after dark,” Kryštof told him. He watched as Roger finished his meal, awkwardly using his one free hand, then took the plate from him. “Tell me about yourself, Roger.” And Roger did, with an openness that surprised himself. Soon the prince knew all about the indebtedness that plagued the ‘Fantasticals’, as he and his friends were called by the more staid members of the Court, and had even garnered a few veiled hints on how they meant to remedy the situation. Roger, sunk sleepily down into his chair, sat suddenly bolt upright, turning an incredulous gaze on Kryštof.
“I dreamt of you, once. I fell asleep in a churchyard, and I dreamt that you were there, wounded and weakened, and that I helped you. I hadn’t even seen you then, but I dreamt of you. Then I saw you at Court, and I wanted it to have been real,” he left off, looking at the prince from under his lashes again. The man didn’t look disturbed, but rather amused.
“What is it you are trying to say, Roger?”
“I want to share your bed,” Roger answered baldly, then blushed redder than his wine, sneaking another look to see what effect his rash words had had upon the prince, who looked, not disgusted or horrified as Roger had feared, but rather calculating, as if he were weighing actions and consequences, a practice with which R
oger and his circle were almost wholly unfamiliar. Several minutes passed, while Roger tried to think of any way to take back his words that wouldn’t only worsen the situation. What was it about the man that affected him so? Finally the prince smiled at him.
“Ask me again when your collarbone has healed,” he said. “You are welcome to stay here, or if you would prefer, I will take you back to your lodgings.”
“I would like to stay, thank you, your grace. My lodgings are a bit Spartan, just at present,” Roger answered hastily. The prince smiled again and left his guest to apply himself rather diligently to the wine.
The next few days, or rather evenings, followed the pattern of the first, much to Roger’s delight, for he hated mornings and found that the prince’s largely nocturnal habits suited him. He was restless, however, and pleasantly surprised late one afternoon to learn that he had a visitor. Robin had ferreted him out. He had been shown into the small parlor, and stood toying with a jeweled reliquary from a niche in the mantelpiece. He turned and smiled at Roger, dazzling in his white silk and tawny velvet. Roger, clad at the prince’s expense in silk brocade of cornflower blue, smiled back and indicated the chairs that waited by the fire.
“Well, Roger, you do seem to have landed on your feet for once,” Essex drawled and Roger laughed. “Have you sounded your host upon our enterprise, then? No? Well, perhaps that is just as well. There is a chance, a strong chance that all might be resolved sooner. My stepfather, Blount, is arranging a moonlight hunt at Oatlands in a week’s time, weather permitting. The Queen will ride Black Auster,” his voice sunk to a whisper, as he outlined his daring plan, to Roger’s growing dismay.
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