Percy received him with outward cordiality, but Sir Walter knew that he seethed inside at this interruption. Of what he might be interrupting, Ralegh did not care to think. Harry had wine brought to the study where he received his guest, but did not inquire whether or not he had yet supped. Ralegh stretched his hands to the mean little fire, ignoring the wine, which he knew from previous experience would be thin and sour. Everything about the man was shabby and mean, Sir Walter snorted to himself. He was one of the richest peers in England, but you would never know it, and yet there was a fine intellect there. He turned his attention to Harry, who asked him directly what had brought him.
Before he could answer the door burst open and a naked wench tumbled into the room, the meager firelight gleaming on her fine skin, marred here and there by bite-marks and bruises. She saw the stranger and rushed to him, wantonly shaking her ripe breasts close to his face, reaching for his crotch with one hand and fingering herself with the other, laughing wildly.
“Jesú!” Ralegh pushed himself away from her, knocking over the stool he had occupied in his haste to distance himself from this shameless succubus, as horrified by the mad light in her eyes as by her actions. Harry was shouting, and two serving-men rushed in, catching the woman and dragging her from the room, one of them pinching her nipple with a free hand, while twisting her arm painfully all the while. Another man pushed past them into the room, an ugly man of medium height who walked with a limp. Northumberland spoke angrily to him in an undertone while Ralegh righted the stool and downed the cup of vinegary wine in a single gulp. He turned as Harry introduced the newcomer, and was instantly repelled by the man, whom he knew must be the companion that Essex had mentioned. The man’s manners were impeccable, but Sir Walter’s skin crawled at the touch of his hand, and he found himself surreptitiously wiping his own against his canions, as if to remove that contaminating touch. The man’s soul seemed to peer out of those pallid eyes like a mad animal peering out of a hole in a bank. Percy was muttering something about owing an explanation. Sir Walter nodded absently. “An you think it possible,” he answered dubiously.
Hal rode through the chill dusk, reaching the house in Chelsey just as the first flakes of snow began to fall. The man, Rhys, took his reins and motioned him towards the house. As Hal stepped into the dim light of the hall he saw Richard leaving the study and called to him, asking after Kryštof. The handsome boy gave a sullen flick of his hand towards the room behind him and turned to go. Hal caught his shoulder, spinning him around and clouting him soundly over the ear. “You will find him in the study, my lord,” he hissed, releasing him with a shove towards the kitchens.
“You will find him in the study, my lord,” Richard parroted tonelessly, and made his escape.
Hal pushed the door ajar to find Kit sitting at the table poring over the large account books, much as a wounded man will pick at scabs. He looked up and smiled.
“Why, Hal, what brings you to Chelsey in such weather? Sit and warm yourself,” he added, stepping to the door, where Sylvie met him with a tray of mulled wine and the little comfit cakes that Hal loved. She was smitten with Hal, and he was not unaware of the fact. She moved a small table closer to the fire and set the tray upon it, her movements deft and graceful. Then she knelt and began to tug at his damp, cold boots. Hal resisted a moment, then relaxed.
“I shall not return to London tonight after all,” he said decidedly. “The snow gives a perfect excuse.” When Sylvie finished and left the room he turned to Kit, telling the tale that Robin had told to him. Before he had done, Sylvie had returned in distress, saying that Richard had gone, and had taken the earl’s horse.
Richard had no clear plan, no idea where to go or even why he had taken the horse and ridden furiously from that house. The blow that he had received from the contemptuous earl had knocked all reason from his head. He allowed the horse to slow to a walk and turned his head to peer behind him, but he saw no signs of pursuit. Stopping, he listened intently, but he heard only the faint clicking sounds from the frozen branches overhead. The boy shivered suddenly, wishing that he had thought to snatch up a cloak on his way out. The horse sidled under him, and he nudged it into a walk, giving it its head.
His thoughts turned to the house that he had left, and to the master of that house. He had felt the seductive lure of the man, if you could call him a man any longer, and had been torn between jealousy and disgust at the liaison between the vampire and the foolish earl, who had not the sense to know that he was being fed upon. Or maybe he did, and it was worth it to him? Richard recalled the angered vampire’s words to him — “I could show you what I am, Richard, and make you like it, make you crave it above all else, if I so chose,” — and the young man shivered again, but not with the cold.
It was nearing the late winter dawn when Richard woke from a stupor engendered by the cold to find that he was in the courtyard of a fine house, a house near the river. He realized with a start that the horse had brought him into the outskirts of London, to its own stable. He slid from the saddle, and tottered for a moment, his legs unsteady from the cold and the long ride. A torch flared in his face and he jerked back as a rough voice sounded loudly in his ear.
“Here now, you young villain, what be you doin’ with my lord’s horse? Here, not so fast, th’ earl’ll want a word with you.” Hard hands grasped his shoulders and spun him about, shoving him at two other men who were coming across the courtyard towards him. He struggled, but they held him fast, twisting his arms behind him until he cried out. He had fleeting glimpses of kitchens and passages, then steep stairs down into the darkness, and a small cellar room where he was flung into the gloom, hitting the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The door was firmly shut and locked upon him, and the flicker of the torchlight faded from under the door as the footmen retreated back up the stairs.
It was hours later that he was hauled up to stand before the Earl of Essex, held tightly between the two men that had tossed him into the cellar. Essex viewed him with distaste, then looked beyond to someone who had entered the room behind him. Richard craned his neck to see who was standing there, and almost fainted at the sight of the stooping sandy-haired man who smiled back at him, followed closely by a red headed man with powerful shoulders and a pronounced limp.
“Well, Dickon, my lad, I see you have not forgotten your old benefactor. It is lucky that one of my grooms spotted you and told me that you were here, is it not? Else I might never have known,” he laid a menacing hand on the quailing boy’s shoulder, and turned to Essex. “Yes, Robin, as I thought, it is my runaway servant, and glad I am to get him back. I think it would be best if we say that the horse returned of itself, which is no more than the truth, after all. We need not mention that the lad was upon it at the time. I would prefer his whereabouts remain a mystery for the time being. I suppose that your men can hold their tongues?” he added, eyeing the grooms who exchanged swift glances, then looked impassively straight ahead.
“Of course, Harry. You think to use—”Robin broke off with a knowing smile at a nod from his brother-in-law. “I see. Well, take him with you, if you will. Do you wish him bound?”
“I think it best,” Northumberland answered, snapping his fingers at the limping man who had remained by the door. He crossed the room with a feral grin, and pulled a handful of braided cords from a fold of his cloak. The cords were tied cruelly tight, cutting into the boy’s wrists, causing him to bite his lip in an effort not to cry out.
Northumberland waited a moment then checked the bonds, and clucked reprovingly at Sommers. “Now, Doctor, we do not wish to cripple the boy, at least not yet. Loosen these a bit for now. Of course if he refuses to cooperate, you may then have a free rein to practice upon him. But I expect you will cooperate, won’t you, Dickon? Yes, I think that you will.” Sommers loosened the cords a fraction, then knelt to tie the boy’s ankles, adding another set of cords above the knee, and reaching a surreptitious hand to caress a buttock. Richard cried out, flinchi
ng away from his tormentor, and earning a casual backhanded blow from Northumberland that sent the tears streaming from his eyes. Sommers laughed softly, and rising to his feet, pulled a kerchief from his sleeve and stuffed the captive’s mouth with it, binding it in place with a second one offered by the earl. He then muffled the boy in the cloak brought for the purpose and chopped him expertly behind the ear. The footmen caught him as he fell and carried him to the cart that waited below.
Chapter 14
Jehan and Rhys returned just before dawn, stumbling with weariness as they made their way to the study where I awaited them, sitting alone before the fire. Hal had retired some time before with Sylvie to console him. I motioned the tired men to take seats by the fire, and poured them wine. “Well?” I said.
“There was not snow enough to hide the scent, my lord. The horse went straight back to my lord Essex, and was in the stable yard before we caught up. The boy was hauled off him and locked away, and messengers were sent out. One’ll be here directly, and one went another way. Eden betook to follow that one.” Jehan spoke quietly, Rhys nodded in agreement, but kept his troubled gaze locked on the fire. I stood abruptly and crossed the room to the door, turning back at the threshold to speak.
“I must rest now. I suggest you do the same, and let Sylvana deal with the earl’s messenger. And Rhys? We will get him back, and that soon, I do promise you.” Rhys jerked his gaze from the fire at the sound of his name, and nodded slowly at my words.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said.
Hal had sent a letter to make his final plea that I join him at the Masque the following night, and to tell me that though the horse had returned to Essex House, its rider had not come there. Eden read the missive aloud to me, and a gasp of indignation broke through her normal reserve as she snapped sharply “That’s a lie!”, before crumpling the paper and tossing it onto the fire. I nodded thoughtfully. In her wolf-shape, she had followed the messenger to Percy’s town house, and the earl back to Essex House. She had seen the bundle loaded into the cart, and her keen wolf’s nose had identified her half-brother. She had followed again, to Malvern Hall, watching impotently as the helpless boy fought his captors only to fall unconscious from a vicious blow. She had taken to her paws then, and run all the way back to Chelsey, to sit now bone-weary and sipping brandy before the fire. She had missed the commotion caused by Essex’ messenger, as had I, lost in the thrall of the day-trance.
The man, disbelieving Sylvana as to the well-being of the earl, had pushed his way upstairs, and burst into the room Southampton occupied. He’d found his master’s friend disporting himself with Sylvie, and most irate at being disturbed. Blundering back out of the room, the groom had trodden heavily on the tail of Jehan, who had stationed himself outside my door. The large wolf, irritable from lack of sleep, had slashed the messenger from knee to ankle, and only the high boots the man wore had saved him from a serious injury. As it was, he bled profusely from the long flesh wound, and had bawled like a calf. Sylvana had bandaged the man’s wound and hastily stitched the soft leather of his boot back together while Southampton berated him. Hal ordered a boat to take himself and the unfortunate groom back to Essex House, instructing Rhys to care for the horse, which would be called for later. That evening, I had been unable to stifle a grin when the tale was relayed to me by an exasperated Sylvana and a somewhat sheepish Jehan, though I sobered at the news that Eden brought.
“Tomorrow night,” I repeated over the protests of the siblings. “Tomorrow night is Twelfth Night. Northumberland will be at court, and I have told Hal to look for me there as well, so they will not expect us to strike, even if they thought that we knew where they had the boy. I do not think that they will harm him so soon. Here is what we will do,” and I outlined my plan.
Chapter 15
Richard cursed himself for a fool a hundred times over in the hour that followed his awakening in the bumping cart. What had it mattered if the scornful earl had given him a buffet? He swallowed fretfully; the gag was slowly strangling him, and he almost wished it would. How could he have been such a fool? He felt the cart jolt over cobbles, hard hands lifting him, and found it impossible not to struggle against them. He welcomed the blow that sent him back into unconsciousness.
When he woke the second time the choking gag was gone, as were the biting cords. As he stretched he discovered that his clothing had also been removed and he had been shackled hand and foot. The rough straw beneath him stung his skin, and the room was dank and cold. A little dim light found its way in through a grating set high in the wall above his head, along with a faint breath of damp air and the smell of the jakes. He realized that he had had nothing to eat since noon the day before, and was uncomfortably aware of his own need for the jakes when the low door before him opened soundlessly admitting the red-haired man, who held a smoking tallow candle. He leered at the naked form cowering before him and licked his dry lips once or twice before speaking.
“Well, Dickon my lad—it is Dickon is it not? Come along my lad, my lord wishes to speak to you,” he said jovially, but there was a dry insinuating rasp to his tone that sent his victim cringing against the wall. The crippled man darted forward, caught the chain between the manacles that encircled the prisoner’s wrists, and hauled the boy to his feet. Sommers half dragged him up two flights of stairs, through twisting passages and into a large vaulted room that might once have been an old chapel, where he shoved the boy down into the rushes at his master’s feet. The earl, sitting in a large chair at one end of the room surveyed the prisoner with a smile.
“You see, my little Welsh lamb, you really cannot escape me, after all,” Northumberland said softly. “But you need not fear me, boy, I will not hurt you, unless I am forced to do so. I am your friend, you know. I will protect you from him.” Richard struggled to his feet and flicked a glance at Sommers who lounged against a nearby wall, warming his hands over one of the braziers that served to heat the large room. “Oh, no, child, Sommers will not hurt you. I meant the man who names himself Prince Kryštof. You know what he is, do you not? How he preys upon the living, drinking their very blood? Yes, I thought so,” the earl’s voice had dropped even lower, so that Richard had to lean forward to catch the words. “He is a servant of Hell, Richard. He would seduce you, drive you into sin and madness, as he has done my pretty young cousin. But we will stop him, and you will help us.” There were little flecks of spittle on the thin lips, and that serpent’s tongue flicked over them, driving Richard back in disgust.
“No,” he heard himself saying, clenching his fingers over the chains that bound him. Like a cat, Sommers crossed the room behind him, and drove a fist hard as a stone into his kidney. Richard folded to the floor, blinded by the pain, and realized with humiliation that he had lost control of his bladder. The earl laughed softly.
“Oh, I think yes.” He motioned to Sommers, who hauled the boy over to an alcove and there fastened his shackles to rings set into the floor. “Come now, Sommers,” he added when the man had finished his task, “we must ready ourselves for tomorrow night’s masque. The lad will do well enough here, for the time being.
Richard tossed on the polluted rushes beneath him, the worse for the filth he had perforce added himself, itching from the vermin that swarmed over him. Tears ran unchecked from his eyes, and he needed to blow his nose. He had never been so dirty, so utterly wretched, in his life. A light shone softly from the door, and a draft of clean outdoor air struck him. A woman crossed swiftly to him, and his heart leapt, thinking that she had come to free him. She set the candle she carried on the floor near him, and turned to examine him by its flickering light. She was young, he saw, and very nearly as dirty as he was himself. Her tongue flicked over her lips for a second, then she leaned over him, bringing her mouth to his and thrusting her tongue deep into his mouth. He flinched, jerking his head away from the obscene touch, and she laughed. Sitting back on her heels she threw back the surcoat that was her only garment. She fondled her breasts then leaned
forward again, and when he turned his face from her she jerked his head around by the hair, shoving her nipple against his mouth as he opened it to cry out at the sudden pain. Anger flooded over him, and he bit hard, tasting her blood and spitting it into the rushes as she rocked away from him. He saw a figure behind her, and recognized the man Sommers, whose fingers closed around the woman’s throat, dragging her back and away from her intended victim.
“You stupid slut,” the man muttered under his breath, “you want him to kill us all?” He tangled one hand in her hair, and fumbled at his own clothing with the other. Freeing himself from his breeches he slapped her hard, sending her sprawling to the floor beside Richard, who watched in horror and revulsion as the crippled man violently plunged himself into the small woman again and again. She clawed at him, not to fight him, but to goad him to further violence, Richard realized, and he began to retch uncontrollably, the bile spilling from his mouth to pool under his head.
Sommers had barely uttered the bellow that marked his release when Northumberland strode cursing into the chapel, thrusting the torch he carried into a bracket near the door and motioning the men who followed him to pull the two apart and stand them before him. “Goddamn you, Sommers, if you’ve allowed this whore to ruin the boy, you’ll take his place tomorrow night, and you know what that will mean. You’ve seen what happens when the offering is defiled, and this time it will be you!”
The earl, quivering with rage, knelt by the boy and began to speak soothingly to him. When the boy had calmed, he began to question him. Satisfied, he turned back to the lewd pair. “No real harm done, this time,” he admitted grudgingly. “But keep that slut locked up! No one is to touch him until after the ceremony tomorrow night. Did you hear me, Dickon? You must be virgin when the demon comes for you. Your sister was not, you know,” and his voice sank to a whisper as he recounted to the helpless boy the horror of Eve’s last hours. Richard was crying uncontrollably as Percy rose stiffly to his feet and turned to one of the grooms. “You, Amyas, stay here and watch him. If he starts to sleep, wake him. He is not to sleep, do you hear?” Assured that his orders would be obeyed, he motioned the two holding Sommers to release him, and the company left the chapel. The man designated to stay and watch Richard sat himself comfortably close by, and settled in to wait for the morning.
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