Perfect Shadows (18 page)

“ . . . I thank you, but I have taken accommodations in the
village. I do apologize for presuming on our acquaintance and bursting in, but
there are circumstances,” the broad Devon voice trailed off as Ralegh caught
sight of me. “I must have some speech with you, your grace, if you will permit
me. Privily,” he added as I looked to Geoffrey, who stepped forward, motioning
towards a room off the hall.

“There’s a goodly fire in the library,” he said. Ralegh’s eyes
flicked from Geoffrey’s face to Nicolas’s, but he said nothing as he followed
them into the cozy room and took the offered chair. They waited until I seated
myself at Ralegh’s side, then vanished back into the shadows of the hall.
Ralegh took tobacco and two pipes from his doublet, filled them, and handed one
to me. I took it warily. He caught up the small tongs hanging by the hearth,
using them to light the pipes with a coal from the fire, then sighed and gazed
at me for a few seconds before he spoke.

“Well, Kit, glad I am to see that you still smoke in private, at
least.” I recoiled as though I had been stung, breaking the fragile clay pipe
to bits. I tossed the fragments into the fire and brushed the bits of
smoldering tobacco from my clothing before turning my gaze on the older man.
“It is you, is it not, Kit? I do not know how you come to be alive when all
reports had you dead and buried, and I care not, but I am glad of it! Though I
was surprised to see you at court. No, I’ve told no one, and shall not.”

“Are these the circumstances of which you spoke,” I asked, happy
to hear that my voice remained quiet and steady even though I found myself
considerably agitated.

“Would it were,” Ralegh answered. “No, ’tis about the man you
shot that I have come. He was a distant, though fond relation of the Earl of
Essex, and it is lucky that our jolly Robin is sulking in the country just now.
Some of the gallants that have attached themselves to Essex are out for your
blood.”

“I find that less than fearsome,” I snorted, and Ralegh’s lancet
gaze flicked to my shoulder and back to the fire. “And so I must conclude that
there is more you wish to tell me.”

“Indeed there is. What have you done to drive your little lamb
Walsingham into Northumberland’s fold?” I started again, though I hoped less
obviously, and waited for the other man to elaborate. “He came to me the night
of the shooting, and Harry was there. The fool has no discretion at all, and
started babbling some nursery tale about men returning from the grave, and I’m
afraid, Kit, that before I could bundle him out of the room he cried out that
the prince we knew as Kryštof was none but Marlow returned from the grave to
revenge himself for the murder done him; he has the idea that the bullet you
fired was meant for him, you see. I stilled his tongue, but I fear that the
damage had been done.” He drew his fingers across the bruised knuckles of his
right hand reflectively. “Harry’s no fool, and though he seemingly accepted the
story I spun to excuse Walsingham’s behavior, I can put no trust in it. Walk
softly Kit, and watch behind you. Walsingham’s been close closeted with
Northumberland these two days past, and I hear rumors that Essex may not mump
as long in the country as some of us would care to have him.” Ralegh smoked in
silence as I contemplated his news, and the bright blue eyes never left me as I
went to the side table to pour a glass of wine.

“Is that how you recognized me, then,” I spoke softly, my
thoughts in turmoil. The time for denying Ralegh’s perception was certainly
past; I had wit enough left to see that, at least.

“I have been watching you at court, where I find it behooves me
to mark all my younger rivals,” Sir Walter answered, awry smile quirking the
corner of his mouth. “I often thought I had remembered some apt turn of phrase,
or felicitous cadence in your speech, but it was not until two nights past that
I identified you by the scar on your hand. Even then I put but scant faith in
what my eyes told me, until Walsingham’s outburst. And even now, I find that I
harbor some doubt.” He looked at his pipe and carefully knocked the ash out of
it before continuing. “Am I correct in assuming your survival has nothing to do
with our studies?”

“No, nor yet with my—how did Baines put it? My atheism, my
blasphemies, or my monstrous opinions, Wat,” I reassured him. His eyebrow
raised at the fond name as I continued. “It had more to do with a misplaced,
and later regretted, act of compassion—toward me, not by me. Sowing good intentions
reaps but a deadly harvest, or so it often seems.” Sir Walter did not meet my
eye.

“You are very much changed, Kit,” he finally said, his voice
soft with sorrow and distress. And pity, too, the most pernicious of all.
“I would have expected you to be off to your beloved Americas,” I said lightly,
changing the subject.

“Aye, and so I would be, save that her majesty ordered me not to
leave her,” Sir Walter said. “Her majesty cannot do without her lap dog, some
say. Lap dog!” he repeated fiercely, and I laughed.

“So they call me, as well, and any that she favors,” I told him.
“And if you’ll notice, Wat, the very ones who say it loudest would be the first
to leap up if the lap were but offered them!” He laughed at that, and we fell
into silence, contemplating the fire. I brooded over Walsingham, and the Earl
of Northumberland. Percy had helped me in the past, but we had fallen out long
before. He was not a passionate man, but cold and vengeful, and one who would
wait years if need be to exact that revenge—“I must speak to Geoffrey,” I said
abruptly, pushing myself out of the chair and through the door, returning a few
minutes later with Geoffrey in tow. Ralegh quickly recapped what he had told me
earlier, and waited patiently while we contemplated the problem. Geoffrey was
the first to speak.

“And was it only this warning that brought you here tonight?”

“Not entirely, your grace. Her majesty bade me come and assess
the extent of her Shadow’s injuries, and to hear from his lips what befell him
on the road from Nonsuch. What answer must I make, do you think?”

“And if I should say that I rode home by a different way and
know nothing of these things?” I inquired, a smile tugging at my lips. Ralegh
shook his head regretfully.

“Much as I should like to see the reactions to that, I fear that
hound won’t hunt, Kit. Too many saw you go in that direction, and too many are
prepared to swear it.”

“Then say to her that I was beset on the road by what I took to
be thieves and brigands, who made no answer when I asked their business, thus
forcing me to fire upon them in effecting my escape. Tell her Majesty that I
took no serious hurt, and, with her permission, will wait upon her two nights
hence,” I replied, and Ralegh nodded thoughtfully then took his leave, saying
that he would return the following evening, having some business to attend
during the day.

“Well, Kit,” Geoffrey said quietly.

“I bade Tom not to speak, and bound him with a compulsion. I can
only suppose,” I added wryly, “that the blast of the gun, the smell of the powder,
and not least the fear for his life has whelmed my suggestions. I shall take
care, and I shall visit him again some night, and renew the bonds he has
broken.”

“That, I think, would be most unwise until we see what his grace
of Northumberland purposes to do with his information. But what of Ralegh?”

“Sir Walter is a man of both honor and discretion, and fosters a
healthy concern for both his dignity and his neck. He will not, I think, risk
either by supporting, or even seeming to heed, Tom’s ravings. I was a part of
his so-called School of Night, you know, and we often spoke alone together
until dawn, after the others left. He will not betray me, I’d lay my life.”

“As indeed you do,” Geoffrey retorted. “And ours.”

The next night, true to his word, Ralegh returned. The Queen had
sent a gift of game and her joy in Ralegh’s tidings. She looked forward to
seeing her Shadow the following afternoon, for she would attend the inquest
upon the death of William Baskerville. After this brief unpleasantness, it
would give her great joy if Prince Geoffrey and Prince Kryštof would attend the
masque being held in honor of the Queen’s birthday and the dancing that would
follow. Though worded as an invitation it was certainly a command.

“I cannot attend in the afternoon,” I said, wondering how much I
should tell Ralegh about my limitations.

“I
will appear in your place, Christopher,” Geoffrey said, “As is my right as your
liege-lord. There will be no trouble, I think, if I place a bond against your
later appearance, if required.”

I
lazed back on the pillows, indifferent to the glares aimed at me, toying with
the heavy strand of pearls I wore. The Queen idly stroked my hair, giving it a
sharp tug now and then when I made some particularly derisive, albeit apt,
criticism of the masque. Geoffrey sat beside her in a chair, giving a more
erudite and far less corrosive commentary.

I had arrived with the dusk, just as the inquest brought in its
verdict of death by misadventure. I joined Geoffrey, and we were immediately
conducted to a private audience, where her majesty questioned us both sharply,
ending with a query that had puzzled her for some time. She wanted to know how
it was that a man unable to even read could hold his own in a country
over-devoted to print, and thus learned both that the disability was caused by
my injury, and that Geoffrey had nothing to do with it.

“Other than seeing to it that I was better able to defend myself
another time,” I added, smiling, and we adjourned to watch the play.

“You shall sit beside me, Cousin,” she had said to Geoffrey and
indicated a chair so close to hers that it was half under the cloth of state.

“And where shall I sit?” I bantered.

“Why where else would a good shadow be, but at his mistress’ feet,”
she replied, matching me tone for tone and motioning to the cushions waiting
there. I slung myself down with easy grace and smiled up at her. “No,” she
said, consideringly, “I find thou art too dark, cousin, and would lighten thy
aspect somewhat, as the moon doth kindle a dark night.” She beckoned to one of
her ladies who stepped forward and removed a strand pearls from the royal gown.
It was obvious to the entire court from the easy way it was dislodged; the
necklace had been donned with just such a removal in mind. With a swift
birdlike movement she dropped the jewels over my head, and scowled at the faces
surrounding her, as if daring them to react. The masque began then, providing a
welcome distraction.

Cecil had watched this by-play sourly. He had frequently
expressed his opinion, within my hearing, though prudently not within the
Queen’s, that her habitual playing at dalliance with men a third her age
reflected absurdly upon the dignity of the Crown. He was close by, and watching
us rather than the masque, most intently. I had seen such attention before,
anywhere a cat waited by a mouse hole. My own gaze narrowed, and I sat up to
look at him more closely, but just then his groom touched his sleeve,
whispering that the awaited messengers had arrived. He stood and slipped from
the crowded room, only to return a few minutes later, a complacent smile on his
lips while he composed himself to await the end of the masque. When it ended
and the courtly compliments had been paid, he made his way to the Queen, bowing
low.

“I have just received some information I think will interest
your Majesty,” he purred, bending over her hand. She snatched it away.

“Not now, my lord,” she snapped.

“Robert—” his father, Lord Burghley, started, and broke off at a
gesture from the Queen.

“I humbly entreat your pardon, Majesty, but I think you must
hear. The information is from Sybria.” Geoffrey turned a steely gaze on him.

“Perhaps we both should hear,” he said quietly as I scrambled to
my feet.

“Speak, then,” Elizabeth said waspishly.

“I would prefer to speak privately,” he began, then shrugged his
crooked shoulders and continued. “The ruling Prince of Sybria, Mihai Viteazul,”
he stumbled a bit on the unfamiliar syllables, “sends his greetings to your
gracious Majesty, and knows nothing of any Princes Geofri and Kryštof.” He
paused to allow the implications of this to sink in, then continued. “The Holy
Roman Emperor, Rudolf, claims a cousin Geofri, who calls himself a prince—” he
broke off with a gasp at the Queen’s baleful glare.

“Majesty, may I speak plainly,” Geoffrey asked smoothly.

“I so command you,” she replied shortly.

“Some years ago, when your misguided sister held this throne,
you were at divers times importuned to leave this kingdom. You, being the
wiser, did not, and thus you gained your throne, to grace it these bountiful
years. But if you had gone abroad, would you have been any less the prince for
that? And whoever sat here in your absence, would you have considered yourself
anything less than the true prince? I think not, and I think you know something
of the pain of exile.” The Queen listened solemnly to Geoffrey’s apologia,
nodding to herself. When he finished, she took his hand in hers, and motioned
both Burghley and his erring son closer. Robert swallowed convulsively and
obeyed, followed closely by his father.

“Little man, do you study music?” she asked, with seeming
irrelevance, but fixing him with a glittering eye, and Burghley winced, looking
as if he wondered what had possessed his son. Robert nodded and she continued
icily.” Then you must look to your timing, my lord. It lacks . . . delicacy.
See you to it, my lord,” she added turning to Burghley.