Perfect Shadows

by Siobhan Burke

  “He fell down the stairs,” Cecil snapped, fighting down his nausea to answer the servants’ questions. The men looked doubtfully at the stairway, eighteen feet away and through a door, but nodded when Cecil repeated adamantly that the man had fallen down the stairs. He gave orders for the room to be cleaned, and the equipment it held dismantled. He found the pages that had been written while the prisoner had been yet able to talk, to answer the questions put to him, and retired to his office to study them. He poured himself a draught of wine, considered a moment, then doubled it, before settling down to read.

  The next evening, just after he called for the candles to be lit, Cecil realized that he was not alone. He gave a convulsive start and blinked at the long and jagged blot his pen had left on his page.

  “I think, my lord Secretary, that we had better deal plainly with one another,” Kryštof said, from his seat in the shadowy corner.

  “Yes,” Cecil agreed, gathering his thoughts and facing his uninvited guest. “I think we better had.” He considered a moment, then rapped out, “What business is it that brings you, night after night, to Drury House?”

  “The Earl of Southampton,” Kryštof answered carefully, “has a very beautiful wife.” Cecil stifled a wild desire to laugh. Was this all it truly amounted to? A bit of scandal and servant’s gossip? He shuffled through the papers before him, fishing for the report of the bribed servant inside Southampton’s establishment. He flipped the deposition to the top of the pile and scanned it quickly, clucking to himself at the contents, a list of the names of those closeted with the earls. Prince Kryštof’s name was notable by its absence, though prominent enough upon the list of those seen entering. He carefully folded the papers away, tucking them into a small brassbound chest, and removing two or three large and much blotted sheets.

  Cecil cleared his throat, wishing that the foreign prince would bring the distasteful subject into the conversation, but he just sat, regarding the little man with his glittering eye. Cecil cleared his throat again, and took the plunge.

  “My lord, the questioning of your secretary was never meant to end so. He was to be shown the instruments, and only the boot was to be used, as his hands were valuable to you—” he broke off as the man lunged from his stool, his face a mask of wrath. Cecil snatched at the bell to summon the footmen, but found that it rested in the prince’s hands, its brass gleaming dully in the candlelight. He watched in horror as those long and slender fingers twisted the heavy metal, wadding it as if it were paper, letting it fall with a muffled thump to the carpeted floor. His own hands clutched the papers he held and he made himself smooth them out on the table before continuing. “I am sorry, your grace, and I do hope that the young man may recover. Deacon should not have been allowed so free a hand, I see that now, of course. I did not know that he was mad, and certain matters kept me from overseeing him as thoroughly as I should.” He dragged his eyes from the papers before him to the face of the prince, to find that the man had righted his stool and once again sat across the table from him. He considered the face of his guest for a time before continuing.

  “Deacon died of a fall down the cellar steps that broke his neck,” he stated finally. “This is the only copy of the transcript made of Richard Bowen’s questioning, my lord, and I give it to you. He is a courageous young man, perhaps foolishly so. He broke at last, and answered the questions, but not before his mind had given way. The answers he made are meaningless; he seemed to be remembering scenes from his childhood in Wales.” Cecil handed the papers to Kryštof, who took the stained pages, and folded them away without looking at the contents. Cecil’s thin cheeks burned as he remembered the man’s disability, but the prince merely nodded, and left the room. The secretary sat for a moment, considering whether to call his guest back, to receive the other pages the chest held, the ‘confession’ that Percy had wrung from this same Bowen that Twelfth Night several years ago. He made his decision and deftly folded the papers away. One never knew when they might be needed, after all.

  Chapter 27

  My face wet with tears, I gently laid Richard’s bandaged body on the bed that Sylvana had made for him, knowing that there was no hope that the boy would recover from this ordeal. If only we had known where he was, that it was Cecil and not Percy who was holding the boy, we could have saved precious days, and probably his life. If he had been my lover, or Rózsa’s, there would have been a bond that would have led us to him, but there was nothing. He had been racked at whiles, and the bones in his hands and feet had been broken, splinters protruding through the mortifying flesh. I was surprised to see Richard’s eyes fixed on me: I had not expected the boy to regain consciousness.

  “Kit,” he whispered, using my fond name for the first time, “I am afraid to die, but I don’t want to live a cripple. Help me, Kit, please, help me.” I looked at him, startled, to see if he knew what he was asking. Richard gave an almost imperceptible nod and closed his eyes.

  “It may not work, Richard. It doesn’t always, and we may not have the time. . . .”

  “Please, Kit,” he repeated, and I gathered the broken body into my arms, pressing my mouth to the rapid and thready pulse in the throat. Richard relaxed as the pleasure welled in him, drowning the pain that had been his world for far too long; I thought with regret of the love and joy that might have been ours had he not been so needlessly afraid. I called him softly, rousing him from his thoughts. I used my sharp canine teeth to open the throbbing vein in my wrist. Like a woman feeding a child, I held the bleeding wound to Richard’s fevered lips and bade him drink. Eyes closed, he kissed the wound, then his lips parted, and he drew my dark, bittersweet blood into his mouth, and I trembled against him with the intimacy of the act. Soon he fell back, his pain much lessened, and he slept. I roused myself and wrapped a kerchief around my wrist.

  Geoffrey was waiting for me when I returned to Chelsey after my visit to Cecil the following evening. Wordlessly he followed me to Richard’s room. After I had taken away his pain the night before, Sylvana had set the bones in the boy’s hands and feet, and he was resting easier for it, though he had been much disturbed by the knowledge that he had broken under the torture, fearful of what he may have let slip about vampires, and about the nature of his own family. It was this that had prompted my visit to Cecil, and I had gone fully prepared to kill the twisted little man if it proved necessary, although given the inescapable repercussions of such an act, I was most relieved that it had not. I gingerly settled on the edge of Richard’s bed, conscious that even this slight shifting must hurt the torn places inside him, broken by the rack.

  “Richard,” I said gently, “I have the transcript. Cecil said that there was nothing to concern you. Whatever you may have told them, this is what they heard.” Richard’s troubled gaze turned to comprehension and then to quiet laughter as it traveled down the page, which reported that his brother and sister wore wool, and recorded numerous apparent references to the seaweed samphire. It was concluded that the captive’s mind had broken, and it was anger at this failure of his art that prompted Deacon’s final vicious attack upon the prisoner.

  “W-w-wearing w-w-wool! Oh, God, and samphire,” Richard’s stuttering laughter choked him, and I slipped an arm around his shoulders. Geoffrey caught the papers as they fluttered to the floor, and added his deep laugh to ours.

  “The disbelief of the enlightened is always our greatest ally,” he rumbled, added that he would meet me downstairs later, and left. Richard raised a halting hand to my face, drawing me into a kiss. I found that the pulse in the slender throat was somewhat stronger, though still rapid and uneven. I left the lad sleeping after the exchange, and went to find Geoffrey.

  I fumbled with the bandage at my wrist, and Geoffrey pushed my hand aside, to tie it securely himself. I thanked him, and settled into the chair before the fire. Eden rested on the floor between us, her head against Geoffrey’s knee, and he absently caressed her hair. After a few minutes she spoke, her words hardly more audible than the so
ft sound of the fire.

  “He was always the favorite, the baby. I was five when he came, and I never looked at a doll after that. It was little short of a miracle that he was not spoiled, with all the attention that he got, especially after his noble father noticed him. The village boys were prepared to take him down if he started lording it, but he never did. Oh, he had his faults. He could be an intolerable prig sometimes, and unable to understand anyone not living up to his lofty ideals, as you know, my lord. Will he—survive?” She ended her ramble abruptly, turning to look first at Geoffrey then at me.

  “We cannot know that, Eden,” Geoffrey answered gently, and she rose gracefully from the hearth. “I pray you join me later,” he added as she left the room, then turned his attention on me, studying my face for a few minutes before speaking again. “It is never an easy decision to make, Christopher, to make this exchange. He begged your help, and it is not within us to refuse such a plea. If he does not rise, you must take what comfort you can in the fact that you did all you could do,” he paused for a moment, then added softly, “but I think that he will.”

  Chapter 28

  Rózsa waited impatiently in the little parlor for the Countess of Southampton’s arrival. Kit had asked her to act as his emissary, bringing his regrets to Libby, as he did not wish to leave the dying Richard’s side. She turned her attention to the portrait over the mantel, a fine likeness of the earl. She studied the fine-boned face with its frame of long hair, lightened in the portrait to a more fashionable shade. The eyes followed one, and the artist had caught the hint of wistfulness under the supercilious stare. A slight sound behind her told that the lady had finally arrived. She was unprepared for the beauty that greeted her, and for the wave of attraction and desire that followed.

  Libby extended her hand, and looked up through her dark lashes at her visitor. With some surprise she saw that what she had taken for a slight and pretty boy was in fact a woman dressed in men’s clothing. The shock rendered her nearly speechless, and she spluttered, searching for a term of address. Her guest turned a dazzling smile on her, and she felt more confused than ever. The woman introduced herself as Prince Kryštof ’s cousin, Rózsa Miklos, the Baroness Ramnicul, and Libby vaguely remembered seeing her at court once or twice before her own banishment, though of course the baroness had not been dressed as a boy then. Somehow she responded to the formalities, and the expressions of regret that the prince could not attend upon her that evening, then shocked herself, blurting out, “Why are you dressed like that?” Rózsa’s eyes widened for a moment, then she laughed, the comradely laughter that draws two strangers into friendship.

  “It is much more fun, my lady, to swagger through the streets of London as a man. Have you never tried it? Oh, but you must!” Libby stared open mouthed at the idea, her mind whirling. Could she? She had spent all her life in a cage, making her little rounds, beating her wings against the bars, first in her father’s house, and then at Elizabeth’s court. The only time she had broken free was when she had followed her heart with Hal, and that had led her into pregnancy and the Fleet prison. He had rescued her, and then led her back to the cage, his cage, this time, but from the inside, she thought bitterly, the view was the same.

  The sudden urge to break free overwhelmed her. Hal had been so busy these last weeks, and except for the visits from the Prince Kryštof, Libby had been lonely indeed; even Penelope, her best friend, had been too preoccupied with her own fears and affairs to offer comfort or distraction. “Yes, if you will help me, I will! Tonight!” she cried out impetuously and fled from the room, beckoning Rózsa to follow. Hal was still closeted with Robin and the others at Essex House, dithering over what to do about a summons that had come that morning for Robin to appear before the council. He had declared illness, and sent for Hal. And Hal had gone without a backward look.

  Libby faltered for a moment, fearing that the time had come when the company would launch whatever witless and dangerous scheme they had been concocting, but she wrenched her mind back to the present and the proposed escapade. Anything to stop thinking, to stop the visions of Hal’s beautiful head topping a pole on London Bridge, that long thick hair stiff and lifeless on the breeze— she bit hard on a knuckle, then turned with a bright brittle smile to her companion. They were in Hal’s dressing room, and Libby began pulling things from the chests and cupboards, flinging them to the floor like a naughty child. Rózsa started to pick things up out of the muddle, and soon had an outfit assembled. These were things that Hal had worn and discarded as he had grown, hopelessly out of fashion and too small for him now, though still a little large for Libby. Rózsa played lady’s maid, stripping the giggling girl down to her shift, which was short enough to leave on under the shirt and doublet, and her corset did an admirable job of flattening her firm breasts. Rózsa helped her into the hose and trunk-hose, laced the doublet and tied the points, then reached for the soft cuffs and the falling band of cobweb lawn. The trunk-hose and doublet were midnight blue velvet, trimmed in narrow gold braid, setting off the girl’s red-golden coloring to perfection, though it must have been somewhat somber against the darker coloring of the earl. With a sudden chill, Libby recalled Hal wearing the outfit at a court funeral, but she shook off the ill-omened thought and concentrated on stamping her feet into the riding boots she had fetched from her own rooms. Rózsa smiled approvingly and helped to comb and curl the long hair into a dandy’s lovelocks. She stood back to study her handiwork, clucking as she noticed what was missing. A quick question caused Libby to gasp, but she answered, and then had to stifle the giggles as Rózsa buckled the sword on her, adjusting the baldric with a practiced hand.

  “Where shall we go?” she asked, and Libby faced her in surprise.

  “You don’t mean—I only meant to—” she broke off at Rózsa’s soft laugh.

  “All that work, and you don’t want to show it off? Come, I know just the place, and it is not far. The ground has frozen, so we may easily walk,” she added, then settled the cloak around the trembling girl’s shoulders, pinning it firmly. She donned her own cape and the two set off, hiring a link to light their way.

  The tavern was crowded that Saturday evening, the whirl of colors and smells nearly overwhelming the bewildered girl as she followed Rózsa to a small table set in an alcove. A woman was dancing on a nearby table, wearing only a flimsy shift, while the men surrounding her beat time with their fists on the tabletop, almost drowning out the pipe and drum that supplied the music. Someone shouted a word that Libby didn’t catch, and the woman began to spin wildly, the men counting the turns that she made, and placing bets. On the forty-third she missed her footing and collapsed laughing onto the lap of one of the men at the table, who kissed her before good-naturedly paying up on his lost wager. His hand dropped to fondle the woman’s breast through the thin cloth of her shift, and then he stood, tossing the wench over his shoulder like a sack of grain, working his way towards a stair at the back of the room, slapping her buttocks when she struggled. Raucous laughter and rude comments marked his progress, and Libby felt herself blush. She lifted the tankard of Rhennish that Rózsa had ordered for her, and sipped to hide her embarrassment. She picked at her plate of cold beef and cheese, too excited to eat. The wine was starting aglow in the pit of her stomach, and she recklessly downed the remainder and asked for another. She was beginning to be drunk, and she reveled in the feeling of freedom that she had, joining in on the chorus of the popular catch that was being sung, her clear treble rising above the coarse voices around them, and attracting the attention of one or two. She fell silent as a looming shape cut off the light.

  “What’s two pretty gallants like you doing out all alone?” the man slurred, reeking of stale beer and tobacco, as well as other less pleasant smells. He stretched a filthy hand to catch Libby’s chin, and she shrank away from him, sobered and fearful, but he never touched her. Too swiftly for her to follow, Rózsa had the bully against the wall, a drawn dagger in her hand, point up and buried in the scrag
gly beard under the man’s weak chin. His eyes crossed as he tried to look at her, the whining sound he made dying in his throat as a drop of blood ran down the bright blade. Rózsa skipped back in disgust as the frightened man’s piss splashed from his clothing and into the rushes at her feet. His eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted, sliding down the wall to sit in his mess. She leant forward long enough to daintily clean her blade on his jerkin before sheathing it. Her eyes swept the room as the music started again, but no one met her gaze. She shrugged, offering Libby her hand and pulling her from the bench to her feet. Libby’s knees were shaking so that she wondered if she would be able to stand, let alone walk, but she managed, following her new friend from the tavern. Rózsa paid with a tossed coin, and scooped the two flasks she had bespoken earlier as they made their way out.

  “Do you want to go home?” she asked Libby as they paused to breath the cold clean outside air. Libby shook her head, her eyes bright in the flickering light of the lantern. Rózsa nodded. “I have rooms near here, if you would—”

  “Oh, yes! I would—I mean, I do not want to go back. Hal will not be home for hours yet.” Rózsa led the way to her comfortable lodgings not far from the Strand. The rooms were well proportioned, and fires of fragrant woods burned, mingling their scents with the sweet smell of the beeswax candles. Libby struggled with the fastening of her cloak, crying out as she ran the pin deep into her finger, and letting the cloak fall to the floor. Rózsa took the injured hand in hers, the welling blood glistening like a large ruby as she gently raised it to her lips, kissing the fingertip and sucking the blood from the wound. Libby shivered uncontrollably, her mind drawn back to her first days at court as the most junior of the Maids of Honor, and how Robin’s sister Penelope, now Lady Rich, had taken her in, sheltering her from the malice of the other, less beautiful, maids, even taking the frightened child into her own bed. She leaned against her new friend, turning her face up to be kissed, pulling her hand away from those seductive lips, to tangle in the woman’s hair, drawing her into the kiss.