Perfect Shadows (23 page)

“There is little chance that he will not rise, if his fear of
dying could drive him into . . .” I found myself unable to continue.

“No, that is not so,” Nicolas said thoughtfully. “Simple fear of
death has never made a vampire in the history of the world, but only the will
to live, to survive. They are not one and the same.”

“There are other ways to preclude his rising,” Geoffrey said,
still eyeing me.

“This is neither the time nor the place, Geoffrey,” Nicolas
said.

“What does he mean?” I asked, suspecting that I would rather not
know.

“That killing you before his death will undo the effect of the
exchange, ”Geoffrey said flatly. The room spun as I scrambled to my feet, and I
caught at Nicolas’s angry voice as if it were a lifeline.

“We do not know that! It is merest superstition! Are there so
many of us that we should sacrifice Kit, only to find that we still have a
rogue vampire on the loose, and one less of us to call on as ally? Is that not
so?”

Geoffrey nodded curtly, and turned again to me. “Since it seems
that you will be among us yet a while,” he said coldly, “you may tell us why
you allowed yourself to be taken so.” I recoiled at the deadly tone of the
rebuke. “You endangered not only yourself, but every one of us by your
foolhardiness. You did not even tell Jehan, who might then at least have given
us an idea of whereto begin a search.” His burning eyes had turned to ice.

“I never thought—”

“No, you did not.” Geoffrey’s voice was a whiplash, but I found
myself pushed too far, angry rather than cowed.

“I am not a child!” I said, through clenched teeth.

“That is
precisely
the thing that you are! Even were you
whole, you are yet young in our ways, and your impairment makes you vulnerable
where another would be strong. You agreed once to live under my rule,
Christopher, and though I give you into Nicolas’s care, this you must yet do.
We will make it as agreeable as we may, but you will submit, by choice, or by
force, if necessary.” I knew what he meant, that if I did not comply either he
or Nicolas, perhaps both, would feed on my blood, to enforce their domination.
I nodded, unable to force words past the burning knot of anger, alarm, and
shame that choked me. I rose then, and returned unsteadily to my room.
Mephistophilis’ words came back—crippled, he had called me. Crippled I was, and
must learn to curb my defiance before I died of it.

A few days before All Hallows, I paced the South Gallery at
Nonsuch, waiting. I had met Percy once or twice at court and the revulsion was
almost overwhelming. Though the man had taken no overt notice of me, I could
sense the intensity of his constant scrutiny and it had prompted me to ask for
this present interview. I shook my head to clear my thoughts and continued my
pacing. It had felt like hours, but the full moon shining on the frosted garden
had moved no more than a finger’s width across the sky when she joined me,
announced by a tapping of jeweled slippers and the rustle of white and tawny
silk. “How now, Shadow? Mumping?” The brittle teasing tone failed to hide the
concern in the old woman’s voice.

“Majesty, I—” I broke off as she frowned, then drew a breath and
began again. “Majesty, I beg you, banish me from court. There is one here whom
I cannot meet,” I reached an imploring hand, which she caught in her own,
drawing me from the shadows. She began to untie the small ruffs at my wrists,
slapping my hand smartly as I tried to pull back. First one ruff then the other
fell away. She pursed her lips at what she saw there, and searched my face for
a moment before retying the ruffs as deftly as any tiring-maid. She turned to
the window, watching the moon as she spoke tome. “My lord, I have spent some
little of my time in the Tower, and while none dared to fetter me, I know the
marks of shackles well enough.” She wheeled to face me, eyes glittering in the
candlelight. “Was it my lord of Essex?” she demanded sharply.

“Majesty! No! No, it was not,” I gasped.

“And you will not tell me who did this to you, or for what
purpose?” I shook my head dumbly, and she shrugged, setting her wide standing
collar of lace moving gracefully. She slipped a ring from her thumb, and took
my hand.” When you have need to see me, for any reason, send this ring to me
and I shall arrange to see you.” I examined the ring and found that it was a
simple medallion showing a maiden in a small boat on a stormy sea. Though made
only of pewter, it was set in finest gold. “It was a token that—my mother—” I
knew by her voice how difficult any mention of her mother was for her, “gave to
my father, once upon a time, and he had it set in this ring. I found it not
long ago, shoved into a dusty box of half-forgotten documents. You have few
enough friends, cousin, though enemies aplenty; send this to me when the
jackals close in. Now, come along, my lord, and watch this aged dragon, that
has swallowed my maiden youth, breath some fire—mind you do not get singed in
the blast.”

“This is not your barbarous Sybria, my lord clodpoll!” Elizabeth
screeched, slapping my face noisily as we stepped into the brightly lit Hall,
riveting the attention of the entire court. I stepped back, raising my hand to
my flaming cheek. She had pivoted, hitting me on my blind side, and I had had
no warning, just the stinging crack of her hand on my flesh. “Go, now! I am
done with shadows at my court.” Essex slid silkily to the old woman’s side, his
expression bordering on a smirk. I bowed low, kissing her offered hand, and
leaned close to her to speak softly as I rose.

“I see the maiden, quite plainly,” I whispered. She gave me a
violent shove, and, with the eye away from Essex, winked. “Your Majesty,” I
said formally, “I leave you, then, to the sun. If you have want or need of me,
you know where—”

“Shadows are found? Under rocks, I believe,” drawled an insolent
voice from somewhere behind Essex.

“Hal,” Essex remonstrated, magnanimous in his perceived victory,
and the Earl of Southampton stepped forward to view me, as if I were a freak at
a fair. I returned the favor, causing the elegant man to drop his eyes, and
shrug off the confrontation with a laugh.

“You have my leave, my lord,” Elizabeth snapped, turning her
back, and I marched from the Hall to a chorus of ill-concealed titters. I fled
to the stables, barked an order to the stable-boy, and galloped off into the
night, trembling and sick. Northumberland had been there, I could feel him
watching. I hadn’t seen him, but hadn’t needed to. The crawling in my flesh had
been quite sufficient.

Part
Three
:

Mid-November, and the Accession Day festivities, found me living
in my own house for the first time since my renascence. I had moved into the old
manor at Chelsey, taking the loups-garous Jehan, Sylvie, and Sylvie’s mother
Sylvana to run the house, with Nicolas as my keeper.

I had approached Nicolas with the idea of my own premises soon
after my violent encounter with Geoffrey, and had been both startled and
pleased when he deeded the manor over to me, with the proviso that one or
another of my elders would stay near me at all times. Some time before he had
informed me, as soon as I had healed enough to comprehend it, that a sum of
money had been settled on me, and we had agreed that he would continue to
manage it. I learned that I had a considerable income.

I had never had more than a few pounds to my name before, and
was quite happy with these arrangements. I enjoyed being a gentleman of affluent
means, and not having to buckle under the vagaries of public taste just to
scratch out a meager living with my pen. I might not remember very much about
my previous life, but the degradation poverty wreaked on it echoed still.

I shook myself fully awake and began to dress in the soft
twilight afternoon. I still prowled the dark London streets, often lingering in
the inns and taverns I had frequented while alive, sitting in the shadows and
listening to the habitual wrangling of the players, almost always with Jehan
along as watchdog.

The familiar surroundings enticed more memories from my cloudy
past, memories that led me to the conclusion that I had been more than a little
cruel, most malicious, and quite reprehensible while alive, but I shrugged this
judgment aside. It was very easy to pronounce on someone, from the outside, but
not at all easy to discern the truth within. The truth was that I would do
whatever I had to now to stay alive just as I had done then. Only the means had
changed.

Oh, I was no longer quite so brash and turbulent, that afternoon
in Deptford had cured me of much of that, and the powers and abilities of my
new estate far eclipsed the fleeting pleasures of defiant poses and furious
disputes, even if I had had the wit remaining to so indulge myself. I was
sitting in a dark corner of the Anchor musing upon this, when I was startled to
hear my name spat out as if it were a swear word.

“Marlowe! That bombastic brabbler! What a pity he’s not here to
see what a true poet can do with the drama—” A general round of laughter
drowned the snarling voice.

“How now, Jimmy, did Kind Kit lampoon one of your youthful
efforts before he went and got himself spitted?” The one called Jimmy
growled an unintelligible reply to the laughing question.

“Come now, friends, the man is dead. Let him rest, if he can,”
another suggested.

“You’re a deal too kind, Will. He was no friend to you!”

“And a worse yet to himself,” the one called Will retorted,
brushing the hair back from his high forehead. “Yes, he had a viper’s tongue,
and vicious temperament, but who was left to pay the reckoning but himself?
Henslowe rejected your new piece, did he, Jimmy? Come, let us look at it, and
see what we may do,” and resting his arm comfortingly across the angry man’s
shoulders he led him from the room.

I may well have parodied something that the fretful Jimmy had
written. Anyone I could think of had fallen victim to my spleen those last few
weeks of my life, but I doubted that many had taken it so to heart. A rueful
smile curled my lips as I belatedly recognized the man, Will, who had scooped
up my fallen crown, writing some of the most popular plays in London. I felt
resentment flare at the thought, but suppressed it. What had happened to me had
nothing to do with Warwickshire’s Will, the sweetest-tempered of men, and
deserving of patronage, not obloquy.

Jimmy Dighton, on the other hand, was a third-rate scribbler,
presuming on his sister’s lightskirted affaires d’amour to gain patronage. I
wondered if Will stood in need of money; the devil knew that most poets and
play-writers did. I’d have to look into it, another time.

A few nights later I was riding alone, for once, back from an
evening’s entertainment at Ralegh’s Durham house. The horse reared suddenly as
a slight young man, giggling drunk from the sound of him, stumbled and rolled
directly beneath the horse’s hooves. The big stallion crow-hopped backward a
few feet and dropped again to all fours, sidling a bit as two more young men
spilled from a tavern and stooped to pick up their friend. I controlled the
horse, waiting until they had the drunken lad on his feet before speaking. Not
that the purported rescuers were in any better shape, I noted.

“There are easier ways of killing yourself than being trampled
to death,” I observed dryly to the wobbling trio before me. “Or by drinking
yourselves to death,” I added as an afterthought. Two of them seemed to find
this exceedingly funny, while the third, the one who had fallen in the street,
took offense, drew his rapier and brandished it theatrically in my general
direction. The battle-trained stallion, seeing the flash of steel before his
nose, reared again, lashed out with one hoof and caught the would-be warrior
neatly in the chest. I heard a bone snap; the youth dropped his sword into the
half-frozen muck and stared at it stupidly for a few seconds before crumpling
into an untidy heap beside it. Cursing, I vaulted from the horse’s back,
dropped the reins to the ground, and knelt next to the fallen bravo. The other
two stood gaping stupidly for a time before one of them spoke.

“We were going to the stews,” he said plaintively.

 
“Go then,” was my terse
answer. The speaker shook his head.

 
“Roger was going to
pay,” he said, mournfully indicating the figure at his feet. I snorted.

“Help
me get him back inside, fetch a surgeon, and I’ll pay,” I said with distaste,
and finally carried the young man back inside by myself, the other two being
too drunk to help. When I stepped into the light the taller of the two gasped.

“It’s
him,” he hissed to his companion. “Prince Kryštof, that Her Majesty banished
from Court the last time we were there!”

“When
did she?” the other asked bewilderedly.

“While
you were outside spewing your tripes up,” he spat, then turned tome. “I am Sir
Henry Warren, your grace, and this is Sir Edward Selby. That’s the Earl of
Almsbury,” he added, indicating his unconscious companion. “We’ve been most
anxious to meet you—” he withered under my baleful one-eyed glare, and the two
beat a hasty retreat, returning shortly with a stooping gray-haired man, who
wheezed and clucked, but seemed to set the collarbone competently enough. The
young man regained consciousness at some point during the process, but
fortunately seemed too drunk to feel it. As he turned his blond head to the light
and opened his incredible violet-blue eyes I started: it was my young companion
from the cemetery, Roger Randolph. I had seen Almsbury swanking around the
court, but had never really paid him enough attention to recognize him. The boy
smiled at me then sank into a stupor again. I turned to the other two asking
where they lodged, but couldn’t get an intelligible answer. I flipped the two a
gold noble and they departed, arguing over which brothel to patronize. I was
between keepers at the moment, Nicolas having departed to spend a few months
seeing to our business interests in Paris and Rózsa’s arrival from there being
delayed by storms in the Channel, and that aided my decision. I shrugged and
made arrangements to take the wounded man with me to Chelsey.