What seemed like hours later, Sir Thomas was lying in the frozen mud of the riverside, the burly water-man who had rescued the old man standing over him, awaiting his reward. Ned pushed his way through the gathering crowd to kneel at his uncle’s side. He noted, with a curious detachment, that the water streaming from the old man’s nose and mouth was freezing as soon as it touched the ground, then realized with a start that his uncle yet lived and was trying to speak. He leant down, placing his ear to the bloodless lips. “Lovell,” the dying man whispered. “Lovell. Ch-chel—”and the rest was lost in a frothing sigh as the life slipped from him.
Harry paced the solar, while Ned sat slumped in front of the cheerful fire, numb and unseeing. Presently Harry sniffed the air and leaped to pull his friend away from the fire; his boot-soles were beginning to smoke. “Ned, are you mad? Those are your only unpatched boots, and you’re ruining them!” Ned looked up at him without comprehension.
“He’s dead, Harry,” he said, for the fiftieth time, in a monotone that made Harry grit his teeth with the effort it took to keep from slapping him. “He’s dead,” he repeated, and Harry closed his eyes in exasperation, snapping them open a moment later as he realized that they were no longer alone.
“Who is dead?” a pleasant voice softly asked and Harry turned to face the Earl of Southampton, still in his night-robe and cap. He sauntered over to the fire. “Gentlemen, you wished to see me?” Ned nodded dumbly and Harry gave an exasperated snort. He was going to have to do the talking, and he hated it—the man was no kin of his, thank God. He took a breath and began, ignoring the other two men who silently entered.
“Lord Thomas Selby is dead, my lord. He met with an accident last night.” Slowly and with much hesitation, ignoring the outcry from Almsbury near the door, he told what the two had seen the night before, describing the serving-man in some detail at Southampton’s prompting. When asked about the man’s dying words, he could only shake his head and motion to his friend.
“L-lovell, in Chelsey. He said L-lovell, in Chelsey,” Ned whispered, after much coaxing.
“You are quite certain that he said Chelsey,” Southampton asked sharply, and Ned nodded. Hal turned to ask Almsbury to care for his friends, but changed his mind. Roger had gone ashy pale, and looked likely to faint. What had come over the fool?
It was barely dusk as Southampton slung himself from his horse with a snarl and bolted for the manor house door. He had come to warn the Prince Kryštof of Selby’s death and the use to which Essex had meant to put it, a return for the warning he had been given about Cecil. He had lost time extracting a promise from Robin to do nothing until his return, and he put but little faith in it, in any case; Robin’s sense of honor was often a shifty thing, focused entirely on what was best for Robin. He had not counted on Almsbury getting here first, though if the spavined hired hacks standing and shivering in the courtyard were any indication, he certainly had.
Southampton motioned to one of his retainers to see to the horses, all of the horses, as none of the household servants were about, and the other two to follow him. He shoved the door open, and his gut twisted at the sight that greeted him. A big man, the servant who had taken Selby to the inn by the description, lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, bleeding profusely from a head wound. A little dark-haired beauty was crumpled at the foot of the far wall, a bloodstain marking her point of impact and her progress to the floor. There were muffled sounds issuing from a nearby chest, which one of his men went to investigate, and more alarming sounds from the second floor. He took the stairs two at a time, and followed the noises to a room at the far end of the floor.
The prince had been hauled naked from his bed by two of Roger’s men, and held upright with his arms twisted behind him, his head lolling as if he still slept, or had passed out from the punishment inflicted on him by Almsbury’s third man. He evidently had become bored with using his fists, and had snatched up a small log from the store by the fireplace, using it to systematically club the unconscious man, covering that milky skin with livid bruises. Roger watched, giggling hysterically, so close that drops of the tortured man’s blood sprayed him with every blow. He turned his vacant gaze to the door as Southampton threw himself into the room.
At that moment the prince raised his head as if awaking, and then, so swiftly that Southampton could not see how it happened, brought the two that had held him around before him. Somehow, he was holding them now, and in a dreamlike, fluid motion he smashed their skulls together. There was a dull, wet, popping sound, and he let them fall. Southampton pulled Roger to one side as the erstwhile victim reached for his third attacker, who stood staring stupidly at the limp forms of his companions. Without seeming to be aware of what he was doing, the prince snapped the man’s neck in a single effortless movement, dropping him to the floor with the others. The sudden weight in his hands told Southampton that Roger had fainted, and he set him carefully against the wall before turning to the dazed man before him. He was sweating with the fear that he would be killed with that same nightmarish ease, before he could make it understood that he was not part of the assault.
Chapter 7
I woke from the day-trance to explosions of pain, just as Southampton pulled Roger away from me. I summarily dealt with the servants, but when I looked around there was only. . . .
“My lord? Hal?” I mumbled through bleeding lips; more than one blow had found my face. Southampton moved swiftly then, though he had seemed frozen with fear. He eased me back onto the bed, then smoothed my hair back from my marred face, and startled. I realized that he was seeing me for the first time without my eye-patch. I resisted the impulse to turn my head away and watched him as he looked at the thick puckered scar that disfigured my eyelid, and the almost invisible stitches of silk, buried in the thick fringe of my lashes, that caught the lids together.
“Kit? Kit!” a voice called from below.” What the devil is going on here?” Southampton sent a questioning look at me. I smiled, or grimaced, it was hard to say.
“It’s a jest of Sir Thomas’s,” I replied to the unspoken question. “He says that I put him in mind of a friend of his that died. I do not mind, and it is also a fond name for Kryštof.” I sat up sharply as a thought struck me. “Jehan and Sylvie—they must be—they couldn’t have gotten to me, otherwise,” I struggled to stand, and Southampton got an arm around me, keeping me from slumping to the floor.
“I’ll see to them and send Sir Thomas up to you—”
“Sir Thomas is already here,” said a cold voice from the door, where Tom stood, arms folded, glowering at the scene before him. Southampton flushed, probably remembering a number of times that Walsingham had been the butt of his rather vicious humor.
“Jehan?” I asked, fear and anger distorting my voice.
“He and Sylvie are injured, but they are being cared for and will be fine in a day or so. You have a good man there,” Tom added to Southampton, somewhat grudgingly, and seemed surprised when he was returned only a subdued acknowledgment, and not some sarcastic retort. “Sylvana was harmed only in her dignity. They shut her in the big cloak-chest,” he said, then whirled to face Roger who moaned and tried to stand. They both saw the bodies on the floor at the same instant. Roger pressed the back of his hand to his mouth and bit down hard as if to keep from screaming. Tom’s eyes narrowed and flicked around the room, coming to rest finally on my bruised and naked body. “Would someone kindly tell me what in the name of Christ has happened here?”
“I fear it is somewhat complicated, Tom,” I said.
Sylvana, an older and somewhat stouter version of her daughter Sylvie, chose that moment to appear in the doorway. She dropped a brief curtsey then homed in on me. “I must speak private with you, my lord,” she said determinedly. I shot a rueful glance at the others.
“If you would take Roger down to the study and keep him there,” I said wearily, “I will join you as soon as I may.” Tom looked as if he were about to protest, then shrugged and hauled Roger t
o his feet by one arm. Southampton took the other and the two eyed each other warily for a moment before towing their captive from the room. “Now, mistress, what is the matter?”
“Two things, my lord, and the first is this,” she spoke firmly, advancing on me with a bared forearm. “If you intend to make it down that stair without calling on your friends for help, you had best feed.” I nodded, but ignored the proffered arm and pulled her down onto the bed beside me. She kissed me gingerly, avoiding the hurts, and her body arched as my teeth found the vein in her throat. When I pulled back she stared at me for a few seconds through heavy-lidded eyes before shaking herself back to business. “Oh, yes,” she spoke in confusion, “the second thing is . . . well, you had best come and see for yourself. In the kitchen.”
I stood, finding that the pain had subsided a great deal. I was stiff and it felt like a couple of ribs were cracked, but the fresh blood would hasten my healing. Sylvana clucked at me, helping me to dress before leading me into the kitchen at the back of the house. Three people waited there. I recognized the big hostler from the inn where I had taken Roger the night that his collarbone had been broken. With him were a younger man, little more than a boy, really, and a young woman. The stableman cleared his throat awkwardly and began to speak nervously, with a lilting musical accent.
“Name’s Bowen, my lord, Rhys Bowen, and this is my brother Dickon and my sister Eden. You said I was to come, and I have, see.” I looked in confusion at the three for a moment, then turned to Sylvana.
“I think that I had better sit,” I said faintly.
“Aye, that you better had,” Sylvana replied cryptically, fetching me a stool. I sank onto it gratefully, as she turned back to the others. “You best show him,” she said. The three looked at her dubiously, and exchanged glances. Rhys shrugged, and then two of the three were enveloped in a familiar silvery mist. Within seconds two wolves stood there before the fire, feet tangled in the clothing they had worn, looking about and wagging uncertain tails. The boy, Dickon, had not changed, and stood looking somewhat wistfully at his siblings.” That’ll do,” Sylvana said, and they took their human forms again, and started to dress without a trace of embarrassment or shame.
I passed a shaking hand over my forehead. “I see,” I said.
I left Sylvana to sort things out in the kitchen and made my rather faltering way to the study. Roger sat slumped in a chair by the fire, his face streaked with tears, Tom stood leaning against the wall by the door, and Southampton lounged comfortably on a chest that sat under the only window large enough to provide an exit. As I approached, I schooled my aching body into a firmness I was far from feeling, then strolled over to where Roger sat, and stood over him. Roger shot a sulky glance up at me through his wet lashes, then let his eyes sink back to his hands, writhing on his lap like a nest of adders.
“What do you want,” he mumbled sullenly. I found myself laughing. I drew a chair in close and leaned towards the boy.
“Why, Roger, you do owe me an apology, an explanation at least, do you not?” I asked in a light and pleasant tone that in no way diminished the underlying menace. “Why did you do it?” I added gently.
“You killed him! He—I need him, needed him. You wouldn’t have me and then you killed him!” Almsbury drew a shuddering breath and glared at me. I nodded thoughtfully.
“Go to sleep, Roger. I shall return to you presently. Now, go to sleep.” My voice was quiet, and yet Southampton turned to look at me, as if he heard a note of command there that disturbed him. Roger’s head lolled back and he began a light sniffly snore. I stood and turned to the others. “Gentlemen, I need your advice. Upstairs.”
Rhys awaited us in the bedchamber, where he had laid the corpses out side by side. “My lord, I know these three. They do whatever they be paid for, and the more hurtful the more they enjoys it. London’s a better place without them, see. Best I should put them in the river now.”
Southampton cleared his throat. “Well, your grace, I have no better advice to give. Give them to the river. I shouldn’t think that there’ll be much outcry over the likes of them,” he finished and looked over at Sir Thomas, who nodded mutely.
“I can help,” a low voice growled from the doorway and Jehan stood there, a bandage around his head, eyeing Rhys distrustfully. Rhys returned the stare, then stuck out his hand with a grin. Jehan stepped closer, continuing his scrutiny, then his own face cracked into a smile, and he took the callused hand, giving it a firm shake. “Jehan,” he said.
“Rhys,” the other answered, “You take the little ’un, then, you bein’ hurt. I’ll get t’other, and we’ll come back and do the big ’un between us.” That settled they shouldered their burdens and disappeared down the passage, leaving us gaping behind them.
“God’s Lights, your grace, where do you find your servants?” Southampton drawled in mock awe, and we all broke into laughter.
“Come back to the study,” I said genially. “I think that I can find us something fit to drink.”
“Thank you, Kit, but I’ll just pick up what I came for and be off,” Tom said, adding in a voice pitched for my ears alone. “Take care, Kit. And I’ll stay if you think that I should.” I shook my head. Back in the study I handed Tom a large packet of Rózsa’s manuscripts wrapped in oiled silk, then saw him out to the courtyard.
“I’m going to be away for a time, up in Derbyshire. Rózsa’s going with me, you know, so heed what I said and do not hesitate to send if you need us,” Tom said. I agreed solemnly, and Tom leaned from the saddle to kiss me good-bye, then reined his horse around and vanished into the night. I stood for a few moments looking after him, steeling myself for the unpleasantness ahead, and returned to the house.
Roger still slept in his chair. Southampton had pulled another closer to the fire, and sat plying the poker among the coals. “If you could find that wine, I’ll mull it,” he said without turning around. I came in and stood behind his chair, resting my hands on the back of it. “I’ve bespoke it,” I said and Sylvie, also bandaged, presently came in with a tray.
“Your men are in the kitchen, my lord,” she said, curtseying shyly to Southampton. “We can put them up if you’ll be staying.”
“You are welcome to stay, my lord,” I added, and Southampton twisted around in the chair to stare at me for a moment before replying.
“No, I think not, not tonight,” he said reluctantly. “If someone could hail a boat, I think that we’ll go home by river, though, and leave the horses until tomorrow.” Sylvie nodded and slipped from the room. “Your grace, what I had come to tell you is that, as you may have gathered, Lord Selby died last night after throwing himself into the river. The man’s last words were evidently ‘Lovell’ and ‘Chelsey’, and your servant was seen taking him to the inn. Robin— Essex—thinks to use this to discredit you at court, or at least keep you away for an extended time and involved in scandal. Oh, he’ll not say aught that you could challenge, or even trace back to him. But it could—will—get ugly.”
“I had intended to withdraw myself from court again. Indeed, I had not returned at all but that I got wind of your Robin’s plot to endanger the Queen and advance his position by rescuing her. Or by not rescuing her. I’m not sure if he knows himself which he intended,” I said. “You look shocked. Did he not tell you?” Southampton shook his head, his handsome face pale.” Well, perhaps then he tenders a better care of your honor than of his own. I learned of the plot from Roger,” I added, answering the unspoken question, and Southampton nodded.
“Roger,” he said flatly. “What do you intend to do with Roger?”
“Well, I do not intend to harm him, if that is your concern. You are welcome to stay and watch, if it will set your mind at ease. Although,” I continued,” it may not be pretty. I intend to find out his connection with Selby, and I expect it to be a twisted one. If you do not care to stay, you may come and collect him tomorrow.”
“I shall, or send someone. And you have my word of honor, your grace, that
nothing I have seen or heard here tonight will be passed on.” I gazed at him, covertly noting the growing bulge at his groin. I knew that he desired me, then, as he knew I desired him, and that the knowledge left him flushed and shaking.
“I had not thought otherwise,” I smiled. “And it would please me much if you, too, would call me Kit.”
It was close to the laggard December dawn before I sought my bed, weary beyond belief. The story I had wrenched from the young man had sickened me. Roger had been lured into going to Selby for a loan by the man’s nephew Edward, at Selby’s instigation. It was not simple lust that drove the older man, but the corruption or perversion of innocence that gave him his greatest gratification, though in Roger’s case the intended victim had become the willing pupil. Selby had watched me at court, and the combination of my high position and the relentless sensuality of the vampire had aroused the aging lecher until the desire to dominate and degrade me had become an obsession.
My ultimate rejection of Roger without ever bedding him had enraged and humiliated the boy, turning him into a willing accomplice, fed on the promises of having me given over to his forcible attentions when Selby had finished with me. He had correctly concluded from the man’s last words that the plan had been put into motion that night, but had gone fatally awry, and he blamed me for the man’s death, thinking me no better than a murderer. He had not thought nor planned, had just found himself in the company of the three ruffians, and had hired them to “do a job of work” for him. He hadn’t paid them to kill, but wouldn’t have cried if they had. I took the memories from him, suggesting, and doubly reinforcing the suggestion, that Roger had come to Chelsey that night and drank himself into a stupor mourning his friend. He did not, and would not, believe that I had had anything to do with Selby’s death. He was given a large jug of sugared sack mixed with brandywine and allowed to drink himself into oblivion.
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