Perfect Shadows (24 page)

The
innkeeper, seeing gold spent so casually, was as helpful as could be, bundling
the young man’s dropped sword so it could be tied to the saddle, and assigning
his largest stableman to lift the cloak-wrapped casualty to my saddlebow after
I had mounted. The round-faced little man had stepped forward to attend that
office himself, but one look at the stallion’s laid-back ears and rolling eye
had been enough to convince him of his folly. I settled the lad against me then
felt in my purse for coin. The innkeeper gasped as he deftly fielded the coin
tossed to him, knowing it for gold by the weight, before he ever lifted it to
the light. A silver piece followed, slipped to the stableman, but from the look
on the master’s face, the hostler wasn’t going to see much of it. I frowned and
asked the big man to check the girth, taking the opportunity to speak quietly
to him.

“If
you should find yourself wanting other employment, come to Lovell House,
Chelsey. I wish to expand my stable, and can use a good hand with horses,” I
said impulsively. The man’s glance flicked to the innkeeper and back to me,
taking in the fine clothing and the well-fed and cared-for stallion.

“Aye,
I might,” he grunted, the corner of his mouth quirking in a good-humored smile,
and I urged my horse forward and disappeared into the night.

Roger stretched slowly, his foggy mind dealing reluctantly with
returning reality. There was a feather bed beneath him, so he concluded he was
not at home as he’d had to pawn his featherbed several months ago. The
bed-curtains reduced the glare in the room to a level that merely poached his
eyeballs, instead of the searing that opening his eyes in his own sunlit
chambers would have produced, his bed-curtains having gone the way of the
featherbed. So, he was not at home, and this was not any brothel he’d ever
frequented before. Where in hell was he, then? At least he was alone. He hated
waking up in the morning, or more likely late afternoon, with someone he didn’t
remember bedding, and when sober, wouldn’t have looked at twice. He sat up to
find that his left arm was bound tightly to his chest and his whole left side
ached, the throbbing pain matching exactly the one behind his eyes.
And
he needed to find the necessary; well, he could always piss in the fireplace.
If there was a fireplace. He cautiously drew the bed-curtains aside the merest
inch and peered out into the surrounding room. His eyes met those of a large
wolfish dog stretched out by the fire. The animal gazed at him for a few
seconds then pushed itself to its feet and padded from the room, its claws
soundless on the thick carpet that covered the floor.

A few minutes later a tall serving-man came in bearing a tray
which he set on a nearby chest. He smiled at the blinking young man, pulled the
chamber pot out from under the bed, and left the room without saying a word.
When he returned with hot water and shaving gear the earl felt much better,
although the food that had been left on the tray, bread and soft cheese
accompanied by a tankard of ale, came close to making him retch. His clothing
had been sponged and brushed and he was wearing a clean white linen shirt that
was too large for him. His own shirt and collar were nowhere to be seen. The large
man introduced himself as Jehan and offered to shave the earl if he desired it.
Roger glanced at his own trembling hands and nodded ruefully.

He wished that he could grow a beard, a dashing pointed one like
Ralegh’s, but whenever he tried it came in patchy and red, looking as if mice
and moths had pillaged it. As his head was tilted back and the razor laid to
his throat, it suddenly occurred to him just how vulnerable his position was.
He started at the touch of the cold steel and might have caused himself serious
injury if not for the lightning reflexes of the servant, who snatched the blade
away almost before there was need. “I will not harm you, my lord,” he said
quietly, seeming a little hurt. Roger blushed and nodded, submitting with what
grace he could muster. Afterward he was helped to dress and taken downstairs.

The house was old and filled with a sense of brooding peace and
a timelessness that Roger found somewhat oppressive. He was very much of the
progressive party and “antique” was a term of utter condemnation. The uncarved
golden oak paneling and plain whitewashed plaster without a trace of strap-work
struck him as more impoverished than elegant, though the plenitude of wax
candles and the richness of the subdued carpets and hangings gave that the lie.
He shrugged and settled into a comfortably padded chair to await the arrival of
his host. He must have dozed off again, for it was early evening when he woke
with a slight start to find the opposite chair occupied.

He started again as he recognized the person sitting there
eyeing him and smiling. “Your g-g-grace,” he stuttered, then found himself at a
loss. He had often watched the elegant prince at court, planning the clever
things he would say to impress him should they ever meet privately, and now,
when his chance had come, he found himself as tongue-tied as any peasant lout.
The man smiled at him and Roger melted. Oh please, he thought to himself,
please let him . . . let me . . . he realized that the man had spoken to him
and was obviously awaiting a reply. “I uh . . . oh, hell. I—” he broke off,
blushing in confusion as he realized that his companion was laughing at him,
then laughed himself as the ridiculousness of the situation overtook him.

“I asked how you were feeling, my lord,” the prince repeated,
with amusement. Roger shrugged, then winced at the pain that shot through his
left side.

“What happened?” he asked, and then winced again, mentally, at
the banality of the question. He found himself blushing anew as the tale of
last night’s adventure was relayed to him. He couldn’t have made a more perfect
ass of himself if he’d set out to do so on a wager. Falling down drunk and
waving his sword about was bad enough, but to be kicked to the ground by a
disdainful horse! It didn’t bear thinking about.

“You are young yet, Roger, if I may call you that,” the prince
spoke without a trace of condescension, as if, Roger noted with surprise,
peering at him through his eyelashes, as if he were speaking to an equal. He
nodded belatedly and the man continued. “And you are of the proper age to make
a fool of yourself. But do try not to get yourself killed.”

“Why? Would you care if I did?” Roger heard the words fall from
his lips with horror. How could he be so unguarded? His preferences could bring
him to the stake, and however careless he was about the rest of his life he
considered himself most circumspect in that regard. Usually. He doubted Essex
even suspected, or Southampton, though he, Roger, suspected Hal of leaning more
than a little in that direction himself . . . oh, no. He’d lost the thread of
the conversation again. The prince was watching him with a quizzical smile
quirking the corner of his mouth. Abruptly the man stood.

“I understand you have not eaten yet today, Roger. I will see
what may be done to remedy that,” and he slid from the room like a shadow,
returning minutes later with a large tray. He filled a plate with sliced beef
and Cheshire cheese, added a serving of warm white manchet bread and set the
plate on Roger’s knees, then he poured a rich dark wine into a pair of Venetian
glass goblets.

“You do not sup, my lord?” Roger asked softly and Kryštof shook
his head, holding out one of the glasses, which Roger gratefully accepted.

“I make it a habit never to take solid food after dark,” Kryštof
told him. He watched as Roger finished his meal, awkwardly using his one free
hand, then took the plate from him. “Tell me about yourself, Roger.” And Roger
did, with an openness that surprised himself. Soon the prince knew all about
the indebtedness that plagued the ‘Fantasticals’, as he and his friends were
called by the more staid members of the Court, and had even garnered a few
veiled hints on how they meant to remedy the situation. Roger, sunk sleepily
down into his chair, sat suddenly bolt upright, turning an incredulous gaze on
Kryštof.

“I dreamt of you, once. I fell asleep in a churchyard, and I
dreamt that you were there, wounded and weakened, and that I helped you. I
hadn’t even seen you then, but I dreamt of you. Then I saw you at Court, and I wanted
it to have been real,” he left off, looking at the prince from under his lashes
again. The man didn’t look disturbed, but rather amused.

“What is it you are trying to say, Roger?”

“I want to share your bed,” Roger answered baldly, then blushed
redder than his wine, sneaking another look to see what effect his rash words
had had upon the prince, who looked, not disgusted or horrified as Roger had
feared, but rather calculating, as if he were weighing actions and
consequences, a practice with which Roger and his circle were almost wholly
unfamiliar. Several minutes passed, while Roger tried to think of any way to
take back his words that wouldn’t only worsen the situation. What was it about
the man that affected him so? Finally the prince smiled at him.

“Ask me again when your collarbone has healed,” he said. “You
are welcome to stay here, or if you would prefer, I will take you back to your
lodgings.”

“I would like to stay, thank you, your grace. My lodgings are a
bit Spartan, just at present,” Roger answered hastily. The prince smiled again
and left his guest to apply himself rather diligently to the wine.

The next few days, or rather evenings, followed the pattern of
the first, much to Roger’s delight, for he hated mornings and found that the
prince’s largely nocturnal habits suited him. He was restless, however, and
pleasantly surprised late one afternoon to learn that he had a visitor. Robin
had ferreted him out. He had been shown into the small parlor, and stood toying
with a jeweled reliquary from a niche in the mantelpiece. He turned and smiled
at Roger, dazzling in his white silk and tawny velvet. Roger, clad at the
prince’s expense in silk brocade of cornflower blue, smiled back and indicated
the chairs that waited by the fire.

“Well, Roger, you do seem to have landed on your feet for once,”
Essex drawled and Roger laughed. “Have you sounded your host upon our
enterprise, then? No? Well, perhaps that is just as well. There is a chance, a
strong chance that all might be resolved sooner. My stepfather, Blount, is
arranging a moonlight hunt at Oatlands in a week’s time, weather permitting.
The Queen will ride Black Auster,” his voice sunk to a whisper, as he outlined
his daring plan, to Roger’s growing dismay.

“But Robin,” he fairly squeaked, “there’s too much that can go
wrong! She’s an old woman! The shock might well kill her, even if she kept her
seat. And if she fell. . . . ” his voice trailed off at the amused expression
on his companion’s face.

“You worry too much, Roger. It would take more than that to
shock old Bess, and the horse has never been foaled that could throw that
harpy, once she hasher talons set,” Essex retorted then rose from his chair to
greet the man stepping through the door.

“You honor my poor house, my lord,” his host said smoothly, with
the slightest inclination of his head. Essex answered with a bow of
supercilious courtesy.

Damn the man, Roger thought to himself. No matter how good
Robin’s intentions might be, Kryštof brought out all the earl’s pride and
insolence. Robin could barely manage to be civil even though they could use
Kryštof and his considerable resources in their enterprise, and his recent
disgrace should have served to play him into their hands. The prince was just
standing there, viewing them with a look of dry amusement that could not have
incensed Essex more if it had been by intent. Robin muttered his excuses and
fled, and the expression that crossed his face upon noting the companionable
hand the prince had dropped on Roger’s shoulder boded ill. Roger grimaced, as
once outside, Robin soothed his feelings by speaking sharply to the stableman,
and spurring his horse into a canter from a standing start. Imagining Robin out
of sorts for the rest of the evening, losing at cards and snapping at the
Queen, he smiled.

Basking in the importance of his visitor, and wanting to impress
me, Roger couldn’t wait to give news of the upcoming hunt. I had heard the
allusions to Elizabeth’s abilities as a horsewoman, and the scorn underlying
the words. I plied Roger with wine to relax him, and before morning had learned
enough of the plot to be worried. I was happy to find that Roger was still
susceptible to my suggestion, as I found that I had no desire at all for the
pretty, petty boy. The seductiveness natural to the vampire roused his ardor to
the point of foolhardiness, past even my powers of suggestion to gainsay it,
adding to my distaste.

My first impulse was to discuss it all with Rózsa or Nicolas,
but no, this was my problem, my country and Queen. I would see to it myself. I
had to reclaim my life and independence, and the sooner I could prove to
Geoffrey’s satisfaction that I no longer needed a keeper, the happier I should
be.

The full moon silvered the frost that veiled the meadows and woods,
deepening the shadows where I waited, watching the progress of the hunt. It was
a perfect night; the cold was exhilarating rather than bitter. I watched the
puffing breath of nobles and horses—my own left no trace upon the chilly air.
There was a sudden clamor as a black horse broke away from the main hunt,
leaving the fields for the woods, bent, it seemed, on scraping the tiny
ermine-muffled figure off its back. Shadowy shapes materialized from the
concealing woods, darting and nipping at the beast’s foam flecked nose, keeping
him to the meadow and out of the wood. I spurred my horse into a gallop at the
first outcry, easily matching my stallion’s pace to that of the runaway, and
reached for the Queen, to drag her to safety. She looked furiously at me,
starting to motion me away, when something seemed to catch her eye. She kicked
free of the pommel, stood balanced on the planchette, then slung herself
towards me just as the flash and blast of a pistol discharging rent the night,
echoed by shouts and screams from the court.