It was nearly noon before Percy returned to the chapel. Well fed and rested, he stood for a moment just inside the door to listen to the quiet sobbing of his captive, nodding his approval. With a few words he made his wants known to the guard, and began to turn the narrow irons and adjust the small crucible of molten lead in the brazier that the man moved near to the prisoner. A pity, really, that he had such a short time to enjoy questioning the boy, but he doubted that anything he could devise would make the slightest impression on the lad when this night’s work was done, supposing that he in fact survived it. Sommers entered shortly with pen and ink, and began to take down the answers in the barely legible scrawl that was all his untutored hands could produce. By late afternoon they had some twelve pages, as brutal a tale of witchcraft, sodomy, and bestiality as the earl’s twisted mind could devise.
Richard had lost consciousness, his chest a mass of burns, but his face untouched. Percy hauled himself stiffly to his feet, noting the time with dismay. Without ceremony he jerked Sommers off the floor and shoved him towards the door, pausing only long enough to rouse the boy and allow him a deep drink from a prepared cup. They had to make the chamber ready for the ceremony, then dress and ride to Whitehall. Cecil would be waiting for the results of the day’s labor.
Northumberland, dressed as the Grand Inquisitor, a costume that afforded him no little amusement when he recalled that afternoon’s occupations, made his way to Cecil’s chamber, with Sommers, dressed as a devil, in tow. Robert Cecil, in his usual sober attire, allowed himself a slight smile at the sight of his visitors before turning to business and reading the pages Percy thrust into his hands. “Yes,” he said, as he perused them slowly. “Yes, this will do nicely. You have the girl safe? I will send for her after the arrest tonight. I think that the boy had best be—unavailable. I am informed that the prince intends to grace us with his presence tonight after all. My lord Almsbury knows his part, and the trap is set.” Almsbury stepped out of the shadows near the window, dressed in Southampton’s costume, with an auburn wig hiding his bright hair. Percy nodded in comprehension. This night would prove interesting indeed. He only hoped that the trap could be sprung before he had to return to Malvern Hall, to complete the ritual that he and Sommers had prepared before they left. Dark of the moon and Twelfth Night was not a combination to waste.
Maudie slipped naked through the cloister towards the chapel. It had been an easy thing to escape her cell, an invitation to the guard, a clout behind his ear. She was small, but strong, and the Devil had promised her all she wanted. And she wanted him, that pretty, unhappy boy who did not want her. It did not matter, the Cloven Hoof had taught her well, and she could make him rise to her purposes. She licked her dry lips and vanished into the chapel like a small white ghost.
Essex’s costume was a great success. The flowery speech he made to old Bess took her by surprise, disarming her temper even as the gifts of gold and topaz and amber, laid at her feet as the tribute of the sun, engaged her greed. He only half listened to her extempore speech of acceptance as the familiar classical references and phrases in Latin and Greek rolled over him. He was waiting, straining every nerve to hear the signal that would mean the trap was ready to spring. He would take the foolish old woman by the hand and lead her to the chamber where her foreign favorite practiced his unnatural lusts on another man, stand by her as the sodomite was arrested, and his servant’s accusation of witchcraft was read aloud before the court. He thought uncomfortably of Hal for a moment, those glaring eyes over the scarf that kept him silent, bound as he was to a bed in a locked room at Essex house. But he could be made to understand the necessity later: he could not appear at the Masque in the costume that Almsbury would wear later for the prince’s arrest. It would do Hal no good if the Queen deduced precisely whom the prince thought he was meeting in that room. Almsbury had his own reasons for playing the victim, reasons that Essex did not care to plumb. There, she’d finished at last, and he took his place at her side, scanning the crowd for the foreign prince. Would the cur never appear?
Richard awoke from a drugged and feverish half-dream of pain and despair to a reality that was worse. He could smell her in the darkness even before he felt her hands upon him. He had been given another drink of the acrid tasting liquid before being tied to the bare floor in the center of the large room, spread within some hastily chalked lines, and left there as the light grew dim, and dimmer still, until finally the darkness was absolute. He had given up any thought of rescue when the previous night had brought none, and now he was willing himself to die.
He was a failure at that, as well as everything else he had turned a hand to, he noted bitterly, as his heart went on beating and his lungs kept pushing his tortured chest up and down. Then he had felt the slight breath from the door, and smelled the madwoman’s unpleasant musk as she reached him, touching him and muttering in the dark. With horror he felt himself rising to her skilled fingers and mouth, felt a biting pain as she bound his stiffened manhood with a cord, then pushed herself down onto his unwilling but responsive flesh, her nails raking the raw burns on his chest. His body arched beneath her, a muffled scream fighting the silken stuff they had used to gag him, and he thought that he would black out then. He prayed to a god he no longer believed in to free him somehow, to let him die before the earl returned and fed his defiled and living flesh to the vengeful demon. She fumbled behind her, jerking away the cord that bound his manhood, and the sudden sharp pain brought the release he fought against. He felt his seed shooting into her, dooming him irrevocably to the ultimate horror that had claimed his sister’s life and eternally damned her immortal soul.
Chapter 16
Malvern was dark, except for the kitchens where the servants held their revels. I slid from the saddle, ground-tying the horse near the door to the chapel. The wolves flowed around my feet as I made my way to the massive door. I expected to find it locked, but it swung open silently at a touch. There were sounds in the darkness within.
My vampire’s sight picked out the scene in the middle of the chapel floor as though it were bright moonlight. I recognized the madwoman from the forest, and I crossed the room swiftly and silently, to pluck her from the tormented body she mounted; with a deft twist I broke her neck and let her fall. The wolves were all around now, nuzzling and licking at Richard, who had fainted as his tormentor was pulled free of him. I examined the shackles that held the lad, pleased to see that my strength was more than adequate to free the boy. Jehan and Rhys had assumed their human forms, and Rhys gently gathered his half-brother into his arms, wrapping him in the cloak that I slipped from my shoulders and wordlessly handed over. Sylvie and Eden, with a female’s intuition of what had occurred and its probable effect on Richard, kept to their wolf shapes and took up posts on either side of the door.
Jehan helped me fit the dead girl into shackles, stuffing her slack mouth with the gag taken from Richard, then gathered whatever he could find that would burn, piling the soiled rushes around the body while I made a swift survey of the earl’s library. I could not tell one from another, and though I hated burning books, hated it with a passion that knotted my guts, I knew I must. I could not take both the boy and the books on a single horse. I shrugged and poured the oils and aqua vitae from the worktable liberally over the books and the rushes. I added a trail of black powder from my flask, then pulled the unloaded snaphaunce pistol from my belt and used it to strike a spark. I ran from the chapel, and swung into the saddle, reaching to take the boy from Rhys and arranging the unconscious form in front of me before spurring the agitated horse away into the darkness. Scarcely a minute had passed before the shouts and turmoil behind us told me that the fire had been discovered. I settled the boy more firmly against me and urged the horse on, with the surging shadows of the wolves at our heels.
I had just lowered the unconscious Richard from my horse to the waiting arms of his brother when I stiffened and looked wildly over my shoulder, back toward London. I gave hurried instruction
s to care for the boy, and turned the horse back the way we had come, but Rhys tangled a hand in the reins, nearly dropping his brother in the process. “You’ll need afresh mount, my lord,” he grunted, and Jehan stepped forward, indicating with a jerk of his head to Rhys that he would see to it. I paced nervously while the fresh horse was readied, swinging into the saddle to spur the animal into a canter before we had cleared the courtyard.
The call was plain, tugging at me, guiding me. It was Hal, of course, and something was wrong, more than just being lied to about my attendance at the Masque. I followed that inner call, not to Whitehall, as I had expected, but to Essex house, in the Strand. There was revelry in the kitchens here, too, and the porter nodded in his cups at his post. I left the horse in the shadow of the wall and slipped past the drunken man like a wraith. The call was plainer inside, and I made my way up the dark stairs and through several rooms to a locked door at the end. The door was made of stout oak panels with a heavy iron lock affixed to it. I was happy to see that I would not have to try my strength against those thick planks—the key was in the lock.
The lock turned easily, but the hinges made a faint protesting squeak as I slowly pushed the door open. There, in the light of a wildly guttering candle, I saw Hal, the lower half of his face muffled by a gag, his eyes nearly starting from his head as he watched the slow swing of the door. He recognized me and sagged against the ropes that held his hands bound over his head to the heavy bedstead. Swiftly crossing the room, I pulled the scarf from his face, plucking the gag from his mouth, and paused a second to kiss his bloodless lips before setting to work on the ropes.
“Thank God you are here, Kit! They took my costume to trap you, Robin and Cecil. Robin said I would come to thank him for his saving of me, when I understood it,” Hal said hoarsely, the words tumbling from him. He was clad only in his shirt and hose, and fumbled around on the floor for the rest of his clothing. “How did you know? Thank God you did not go—did you go to Whitehall? What has happened?” he shrugged into the doublet, ignoring the points that would tie it to the trunk-hose he pulled over his long legs. He stamped his feet into his boots and snatched the cloak that I held out to him.
“It’s rather a long story, I fear, too long to tell you now. We should go.” He nodded, and followed me from the room. The porter still dozed at the door, but as I stepped into the courtyard I saw a groom leading my horse in through the gate. The man had probably stepped out to relieve himself and spotted the animal. I cursed my luck and lunged forward, my fist connecting solidly with the man’s face. I felt bones break beneath my hand, and my opponent slumped to the ground. The porter roused, opening his mouth to cry out, and Hal spun lightly, lashing out and dropping him neatly across the threshold.
He turned back to see me awkwardly trying to tie a kerchief around my bleeding hand while holding the reins of the shying horse. Hal took the cloth, and raised my hand to his lips for a moment, to lick the bittersweet blood from my wound before binding it. I leaned forward to kiss him deeply, tasting my own blood in my lover’s mouth, then mounted and reached down to pull him up pillion behind me. I could hear raucous shouting from the kitchens, rude comments about the size of the missing man’s bladder, as we bounded away into the darkness.
Chapter 17
Northumberland gazed at the smoldering ruin with unseeing eyes. The faltering servant had told him how the building had seemed engulfed within seconds of the blaze being discovered, how the intensity of the heat had forestalled the attempts to quench the fire, and how a blast had rocked the ground and shattered the windows of facing buildings. The latter did not surprise him, as he had had powder stored there in the chapel. He stood stolidly, waiting for the embers to cool enough to permit examination of the ruins. Sommers appeared at his elbow, muttering curses under his breath.
“She’s gone, my lord. Maudie’s gone. The groom that had the watching of her said that she vanished during the confusion of the fire. I set the men to search for her,” Sommers gabbled hoarsely. He knew, none better, the purpose of the night’s thwarted ritual. They had but a few hours before dawn, before the moon turned its phase, in which to accomplish that purpose. He shifted his weight from his deformed foot, and tried to frame the words to remind Northumberland that their time was short. The earl turned his pebbly eyes on his companion for a few seconds, then looked back at the destruction before him.
“It matters not, old friend. There will be other nights, after all.” He stepped forward, but the ashes under the soles of his thin court shoes were still too hot for comfort, driving him back. He strode away to the house without another word.
Hours later, sifting the ruins with the help of Sommers and two trusted grooms, Percy came upon the pitiful remains shackled to the floor; the bones were seared and twisted, the fetters buckled by the heat, and the lot crushed by fallen beams. The earl stood and brushed the soot from his clothing, giving instructions that the bones be removed and thrown into the river without delay. The sound of hooves caught his attention, and he turned to find a groom approaching dressed in the livery of his brother-in-law Essex.
Robert Devereux, second Earl of Essex, paced in his study much as the captive animals in the Tower menagerie paced their cages, occasionally throwing himself down to rest, only to be up and pacing again but moments later. At a diffident knock he threw the door open violently, sending the startled groom leaping back into the passage. The man handed over the folded paper that he held then vanished towards the kitchens. Essex broke the seal, stepping to the window to read Northumberland’s message. He crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire with a curse. Would no one help him? He had returned last night in a foul mood: the deceitful prince had not come to Whitehall after all, and the strain of waiting had made him irritable and sulky, which caused the Queen to remark acerbically upon his temper and increase his ill-humor.
He had returned to free Hal from his confinement, and to try to explain what had driven him to such extraordinary measures, only to find the captive gone. The servants were in an uproar, having found one of their number dead in the courtyard, drowned in the blood from his shattered face. The porter had been rendered unconscious, and had, upon awakening, identified the Earl of Southampton as his assailant.
“Well, jolly Robin, is there something you wish to tell me?” Essex whirled at the sound of Hal’s honey and acid voice, and gaped at the long pistol held leveled at his heart.
“Do you intend to shoot me then, Hal,” Essex asked, managing a tone of polite inquiry even though his heart was thumping against his ribs like a rabbit in a box. He crossed to the heavily carved sideboard and poured two glasses of wine, intensely aware of the pistol swiveling to follow him.
“Not at all, Robin,” Hal answered easily. “I merely intend to keep myself free of your enforced hospitality while you try to satisfactorily explain last night’s mummery to me.” Essex set the glass within Hal’s reach and retreated to the other side of the room. “I am waiting, Robin. You assured me last night that when you made your reasons plain I would agree with you. I doubt very much that I will, but I am sure that I shall enjoy your efforts.” Essex gulped his wine, then laid bare the bones of the plot against the foreign prince.
“So, you see, Hal, it was to keep you safe. Cecil will bring him down, and I did not wish that you be caught in the ruin. He has bewitched you, of that I am certain. How did you get loose, last night? Was he here? Did he kill my groom? Old Tip, the porter, says that you hit him, and that he did not see anyone else. I reported that the man had been set upon by ruffians, because I thought that you had killed him, but it was Kryštof, wasn’t it?” Though the fire cast little heat to the far side of the room, a sheen of sweat glistened on Robin’s brow. Hal considered his friend for a time before replying.
“No, Robin, it was I. I worked the knots loose and when the groom tried to hinder me, I killed him, or left him to die, it comes to the same thing. If you wish to alter the tale that you told to the watch, you will find me with Kryštof.
” He shoved the unloaded pistol through his baldric and departed the house without another word, leaving Robin to his uncomfortable thoughts.
Chapter 18
I sat in the brightly lit room where the unconscious boy rested, the cause of his coma obvious in the odor of the drugs borne on his shallow breath. He had scarcely stirred when Sylvana had cleaned and dressed the burns on his chest, and had lain still and pale all the day with only the faintest sign of breath on a mirror to show that he lived. His breathing had deepened as night fell though still feeble, and he stirred now and then. I had sent the exhausted Rhys to rest, but the man would obey no further than to doze in his wolf ’s shape near the fire. Many candles had been lit and the sweet smell of the wax blended agreeably with the fruitwood of the fire, and the kettle of broth that warmed there. When Richard cried out and struggled out of his dark dream I was holding him even as he opened his eyes, and the candles served to allay his fears almost at once. He collapsed sobbing against my chest, clinging as a small child will when delivered out of a nightmare.
The angry tapping sound of her heels was audible for some time before the figure of the Queen became visible in the dancing shadows of Whitehall’s Privy Gallery. I slipped out of my concealment and waited for her, watching the intermittent glitter of her jeweled gown as she moved through the pools of light scattered the length of the gallery. I dropped to one knee before her, and she clouted me lightly over the ear before grasping my hair to tug me to my feet.
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