Perfect Shadows (11 page)

“The hectic badge of her fatal illness continued to glow in her
cheeks and I grieved, for I knew she would be taken from me, and I had come to
love her dearly. But then I saw other signs, and these I put together with my
observations of the prince, and one night I confronted him with my suspicions.’
My lord,’ I said ‘I think that you are a vampire, and that you are feeding upon
my child.’ He did not deny it, but said that she would not live to be a woman
without him, and that he had offered his gift to her, and that she had accepted
him. ‘So now, Nicolas,’ he said to me ‘what would you?’ I told him I would stay
with her, and become as he was, if he would extend his gift to me.

“He agreed, and a few weeks later, on Rózsa’s sixteenth
birthday, we dosed her heavily with poppy syrup, and Geoffrey smothered her as
she slept. She had no wound, no horror to fight through, you see. She slept,
and then awakened. A few days later, when we were certain that Rózsa would
live, I followed her.”

Nicolas fell silent, staring at the fire. I turned my attention
to Geoffrey, who said nothing, for a time, then abruptly spoke.

“About my living days there is little to be said. Much was done,
or so I’ve read, of which I am less than proud now, but given the circumstances
I would most likely not do any differently, saving only accepting horse and
armor from my brother John!” His smile was brief and bitter. “Richard was
always hell-bent,” he continued, “desiring only the glory of battle—no, not
even the battle, but rather the conquest, the forcing of others to do his will
against theirs. It was meat and drink to him. It’s whispered about that he
loved only boys,” Geoffrey’s cool gaze lit on me, and I shifted a little in my
chair. “That’s not true, of course. Richard loved only Richard. He took boys,
and men, because women were not, in his eyes, powerful enough to make the
taking worthwhile. He married a woman who could but intensify his belief in the
worthlessness of her sex. Had he married Constance of Brittany in my stead, she
would have taught him his folly, and they would probably have ruled the world!
She was a strong woman, and hated us all equally, but always held an eye for
the main chance. Mother, on the other hand, Richard never believed was human at
all. But there, I am wandering; you must bring me up short, or you will learn
more about my family than you ever imagined in your worst nightmare.”

I realized with a start that Geoffrey was talking of the
Lionheart, that this man had been alive then, four hundred years ago, had lived
the stories I had been raised upon. I shook my head and compelled my attention
back to the discourse.

“ . . . a tournament in Paris. John had made me a gift of a
beautiful destrier. I had looked the beast over, as would anyone who’d had so
long an acquaintance with my younger brother, and I could find no fault with
him, nor yet with the harness. But, in the mounted mêlée, I heard a strange and
piercing whistle, and the stallion reared suddenly, twisting in a peculiar
fashion; the cleverly contrived harness sundered and I was thrown. I knew as I
touched the ground that it was a plot, for the beast whirled and trampled me. I
felt the grinding of my ribs and the pain as a lung collapsed, then a flash of
shattered light as I received the death blow to my head.” He fell silent for a
time, before continuing. “You know well enough the state in which I found
myself upon waking. I marveled at being alive, and at last began to believe
some of the outlandish tales my mistress of five months had told me.

“She was beautiful beyond telling, this woman. Her name was
Alyssa of Byzantium, and she stood out among the blond belles of the French
court like as able flame, an exotic black lily in a field of meadow flowers.”

Geoffrey fell silent, staring at the dying embers of the fire
for a moment before continuing. “I began to hear rumors about her, that she was
a witch and practiced dark arts, but so enamored was I that this only made her
seem the better match for my own dark and witch-tainted Angevin blood; I
secretly began to hope that the rumors were true. I never saw her before
nightfall, and I never learned where she dwelt, though I begged her to come and
live openly with me, but she would only laugh and turn away.

“I commenced to have a recurring nightmare about then, that I
was attending a funeral, and when I looked upon the body it was my own, broken
and torn almost beyond recognition. I told Alyssa, and she was troubled enough
to trust me with the mystery of her nature and to offer her gift to me. The
dreams continued and worsened. I not only saw myself, but members of my family
and their reactions to my death: my father bewildered, my mother grieved, my
wife relieved, Richard unconcerned, and John gloating. One night, a month
before the tournament, I accepted her gift. I did not know if I believed her,
but I would take what assurances I could. The dreams stopped on that night and
never returned.

“After the fatal tournament, I woke bound and blind, fighting my
restraints like an animal, but soon settling to the sound of her voice. I, like
you, had a severe injury to the brain, and had taken a long, long time to heal
to the point of awareness, but made a rapid recovery from that point.”

“How is it that your body was not missed?”

“Mine was not the only mangled corpse upon the field that day,
and once the surcoat is changed, one broken body is very like another. People
see what they want to see. I think that my mother did suspect, for when I
visited her later she did not seem surprised.

“Eleven years passed before I was healed enough to take up the
threads of my life, and much had changed in that time. Richard was pursuing his
war with Philip and building his beloved castle Galliard. John was out of my
reach, as Richard was keeping too close an eye on him. And I learned that I had
a son, so I went back to Brittany. Alyssa had returned to Constantinople, but
had left me well provided for. I watched Arthur, my son, grow into a young man,
watched him learn to hate his dead father and all his father’s family.

“When Richard met his ignominious end I was in Prague; by the
time I had returned to France, my son was in a fair way to be murdered, and by
the same hand that had engineered my own demise. I saved my son, but I learned
that John could do what I could not—I could not slay my own brother, however
much he deserved it. Even though I could not accomplish it outright, I knew
that it was not the defiance of death or the will to live that occasioned my
renascence, but the desire for revenge. This, I think, you share.” I felt the
blood drain from my face as I thought of Frizer and his taunting laughter when
he drove the dagger into me, his helpless victim, oh so slowly, prolonging my
agony as much as possible: Oh, yes, I wanted revenge, and not just on the
minions. My pallor and clenched fists gave the answer I could not force past
the knot in my throat. Geoffrey nodded and stood, offering me his hand. “Good,
then tomorrow we will start teaching you to be not only vampire, but an
Alexandrine prince.”

After Geoffrey left the room, Nicolas fumbled with some books on
the floor, and handed a large volume to me. “My journals,” he said simply,
settling back by the fire. I glanced at the page, but could make nothing of it.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot make out your hand,” I said, handing
the volume back. He gave me a sharp look, but said nothing. He thumbed the pages,
reading aloud bits here and there that told of his feelings about me and the
course that Rózsa had charted. He had not thought it likely, at first, that I
would rise, but that had changed when he learned of the monstrous manner in
which I had died. He told me of those endless nights before the inquest, when
they knew not if I would rise, and the desperate plans to steal my body. My
corpse—I realized with a sickening lurch of my stomach that this body had been
a dead body, a defiled and unclean thing. I forced my attention back to his
words, away from my morbid thoughts.

I felt shaky and sick, but still I sat as Nicolas related the
details of the difficult journey that brought me, oblivious, to this house.
Geoffrey had not been here; he arrived in mid August, the night I awoke from my
catalepsy. With horrified fascination I listened to the account of my first
“awakening”, how I had raped and nearly killed a serving wench. How I had been
no more than a ravening beast, mad and slavering. . . I cried out in shock and
disgust. I could hardly bear Nicolas’ look of sympathy. “Where is the girl?”

“She died,” he told me, then seeing the spasm that crossed my
face at his words, grasped my arm. “No! Not by your hand! It was an accident,
last month. She was trampled to death in Paris. What happened was not your
fault, Kit. It was mine, or no one’s. Geoffrey was unsure, but I thought it was
important for you to know why you have been kept bound, and why we thought it
best to send Rózsa from here.” He got up heavily and left without another word,
and I sat staring at my hands for many long minutes after he had gone. How
right they had been to send Rózsa away! I could never have faced her if she had
seen me so. I felt that I could not even face the servants, and slipped up to
my room unseen, to lie waking until the day-trance claimed me.

I awoke the next evening to a light tap on the door, followed
immediately by Nicolas’ kind face. He smiled to see me awake, and spoke over
his shoulder as he stepped into the room. He was followed by Jehan and the
serving-wench who had helped me on the stairs yesterday, both with their arms
full of clothing. I blushed, remembering what I had learned the night before,
but soon became interested in the finery spread before me.

“Ah,” Nicolas said with a smile. “I thought that you would enjoy
this. You told me once that you never had the money to indulge yourself in the
sort of wardrobe you would like, and how you hated it when your appearance
marked you as lower class. Indeed, you were still wroth years later, at having
been clapped into Newgate as a ‘yeoman’ rather than the ‘gentleman’ to which
you were entitled by virtue of your university degrees.” If that were true, I
thought, my values were seriously awry. Nicolas chose a shirt and breeches for
me, and waited outside while I dressed, a little puzzled by the plainness of
the selected garments.

I was soon enlightened, for Nicolas led me, not to the study as
I had expected, but to a wing of the building that had been fitted as a
salle
d’armes
. Geoffrey, clad in much the same fashion, awaited us there. “There
are fine schools of fencing near Cambridge,” he said with a feral grin. “Made
you any use of them?”

“We shall see,” I answered with a grin of my own, and strolled
to the racks lining one wall to select my weapons. I found abated rapier whose
length and weight pleased me, and a practice dagger, then turned to face
Geoffrey, rapier in hand. I looked down in surprise, realizing with a start
that I was left-handed. My grin faltered a moment, then returned as I glanced
at Geoffrey.

“I trust this does not inconvenience you,” I
said.

“Not at all,” Geoffrey answered, switching his own blade to his
left hand and deftly leaning into the attack.

Two hours later I returned to my room, dripping with sweat and
feeling as though I’d run to Paris and back. I was delighted to see that Jehan
had prepared a bath for me, the wooden tub lined with linen. I wasted no time
but quickly stripped and eased myself into the steaming water, enjoying the scents
of costmary and lavender. My anatomy had been considerably altered from what I
seemed to remember; only the occasional scar seemed the same. I had been only a
bit above middle height, somewhat awkward and gangly; now I was tall, lean and
muscular, and my strength, agility, and grace were extraordinary, or would be
when I recovered from the months of enforced inactivity. But I was half blind,
and was having to learn to compensate. Again and again Geoffrey would attack
from my blind right side, and I, who would have been hard put to best him even
with two good eyes, would overcompensate, allowing him an opening and receiving
a blow that resulted in a spectacular bruise. Being yet unused to the
ministrations of a body servant, I dismissed Jehan, and when the water began to
cool I dried myself, reveling in the feel of the old soft linen against my
sensitive skin. I dressed in the clothes that had been laid out for me,
midnight-blue velvet doublet and breeches, pearl-grey silk shirt, and
silver-lace band. I pulled on my boots, wandered down stairs, and, hearing
quiet voices from the study, tapped on the door.

“Ah, Kit! Come in, my boy,” Nicolas called happily. “We were
just discussing whether we should send someone to tip you out of that bath!” I
laughed and took my usual seat between them. I stroked the velvet of my sleeve
for a moment, then “What happened to my things?” I asked suddenly. Nicolas
sighed. “I was unable to get them. Someone was there before me, from the
council, I suspect. All of your personal belongings were attached by your
landlord to pay your rent, and your friend Nashe rescued the manuscripts from
being used for fire-starters, or to line pie-dishes. I believe that Thomas
Walsingham has them now. Chapman is completing the
Hero and Leander
—” he
broke off at my confused look. “It was the poem you were writing at the time of
your death,” he explained gently.

“Oh, of course,” I said, and stretched, a little
self-consciously, trying to cover my embarrassment. “My clothing would ill fit
me now, anyway, I suppose. I rather think that I could pass unknown among my
closest friends.”