Perfect Shadows (26 page)

“You shall have more another time, Roger, I do promise, but I
need to speak with you, and that I cannot do if you are passed out drunk.”

“Do not patronize me!”

“Oh, but Roger, what are you all angling for, if not patronage?
That was why Essex set you on me as soon as he had occasion, was it not? Do not
trouble yourself to lie, Roger, you haven’t the knack.” Roger’s jaw gaped open
and he propped it shut by resting his chin on his hand.

“Please ask my lords Southampton and Essex to be so kind as to
attend me here tomorrow night and we will discuss it. Or if that is not
convenient, we shall make other arrangements; you will see to it, and leave
word tomorrow. At any rate now, I’m sure that you have more important matters
to see to than waiting on me.” Roger recognized a dismissal when he heard one
and stumbled to his feet. He headed for the door, pausing for a moment to
mutter his resentful thanks in the matter of his rent. I motioned him out
without looking up from the fire. He had barely left before Walsingham was
shown in.

Soon Tom was lolled in his chair, thawing his feet at the fire
and his fingers around the cup of mulled wine, discussing the past summer’s
offerings at the playhouses. “Shakespeare has a patron in the Earl of
Southampton, but I doubt not that there are others in need,” Tom said, gazing
sleepily at the fire. “I wonder at your taking an interest, after that clumsy
stab at Ralegh. And the history plays, as well.”

“Well, one writes what one is paid to write, and the histories
were more or less common ground, several of us having worked on them, so Will
may have felt free to rework them himself.” I fell silent, thinking of Nicolas’
reaction to the history plays, the ones dealing with Richard III. Nicolas, in
his youth, had been presented at Richard’s court, had honored the man, and was
incensed that one who was so fair and upright in all his dealings, as well as a
just and able ruler, should be so portrayed as a monster of depravity and evil.
It had in fact been Richard’s own Queen Anne that had died of the same
consumptive illness Rózsa contracted, and Nicolas, loving the gentle little
Queen, had never gotten over her loss. It had taken some time to convince him
that the play, written on commission, had been aimed at the twisted body of
Robert Cecil, who was being groomed for high office, and who could not take the
merited offense at the play without seeming to defend Richard and the
Plantagenets, a most perilous posture in a Tudor court. Now, if one could set
the scene... With a start I realized that Tom had been speaking to me, and held
up my hands with a grin. Tom laughed aloud at the familiar situation.

“It’s good to see you working again, Kit,” he said simply.

I rode through the light snowfall that had started with the
dusk, obeying the summons from the Queen to attend her at Whitehall that
evening. I had had no word from Roger, whom I had commissioned to bring the
Earls of Essex and Southampton to Chelsey that night, but then the lad hadn’t
seemed to be listening. When the message came I shrugged and ordered my horse
saddled, leaving instructions where I could be found, and orders to care for
the earls if they arrived after all. I needn’t have worried. The first thing I
saw in the brilliantly lit room was the long and elegant form of the Earl of
Southampton lounging against a wall drawling advice at the players engaged in a
game of primero, to their great annoyance and his own apparent amusement. From
the way that his eyes narrowed I guessed that Roger had extended my invitation
in some rude or unflattering terms. I acknowledged Southampton’s glare with an
absent nod and proceeded to the Queen, standing at her right hand, and bending
to hear her words over the music.

“Well, cousin, what was that bit of by-play in aid of?”

I shrugged. “I do not think that the earl cares overmuch for
me,” I said, and the Queen’s pursed lips stretched into a reluctant smile.

Henry Wriothesley, Earl of Southampton, eyed the dark figure
shadowing the Queen for a moment before wandering off in search of Essex, his
thoughts chaotic. They had received the invitation—the summons rather, from
Almsbury that afternoon, and even given Roger’s perpetually sullen and
bellicose mood of late, had felt the demand arrogant in the extreme, although
Essex had overreacted, in Hal’s opinion. After all, it was he, not Robin, whom
the prince had disarmed with a lazy grace that was the purest form of insult, and
not once, but twice. Even then, though sorely vexed, Hal had found the man as
disturbingly attractive as he was profoundly aggravating.

He located Robin closeted with his stepfather Blount and old
Selby, and leant against the wall, waiting. “He’s here,” he announced
laconically during a lull in the conversation, then drifted over to the table
to pour some wine. The three were looking at him expectantly, so he raised his
cup with an exaggerated flourish. “Her Majesty’s sinister Shadow, even now,” he
said, and drained it, watching Essex’s reaction over the cup’s rim with an
interest that was more than a little tinged with malice. Robin leapt to his
feet, knocking the stool sideways into the fireplace. Blount swore and pulled
it away, using it as an excuse not to look at his stepson, while Lord Selby
flushed and licked at lips gone suddenly dry. Essex, by force of will, regained
his control.

“Is he, by God,” was all he said before striding from the room,
followed seconds later by the others.

No one could have staged a scene more carefully to goad Essex
than the one that met his eye. Kryštof was leaning sideways against the back of
Elizabeth’s chair, toying with her ruff and jewelry, whispering in her ear. He
straightened at the sight of the approaching earl, and allowed a complacent,
goading smile to flit briefly across his lips before schooling his features
into indifference. Essex, more than half in his cups, flushed an ugly red
color, and leapt forward to strike his rival away from the throne. Kryštof
stumbled from the dais, regained his balance and whirled to face his assailant,
only to step back with hands raised when he saw that Essex had done the
unthinkable: he had drawn unbated steel in the presence of his Sovereign.

Essex advanced until he stood with his rapier held lightly
against his rival’s throat. His hand shook and a drop of blood welled beneath
the rapier’s tip, dark as a garnet against that silken white skin. It seemed to
break the spell that held the entire court motionless. Uttering a curse, Southampton
flung himself between them, pushing the rapier-point to the ground with his
forearm, incidentally slashing the prince’s doublet and the shirt beneath from
neck to navel, his own arm protected by his padded and jeweled sleeve. Blount
leapt to place himself between the Queen and Essex. A thin line of dark blood
traced the weapon’s path down Kryštof ’s chest. Selby tittered nervously and
Robin gazed, stunned, at the stained tip of his weapon before throwing it to
the floor and turning to the Queen. He held imploring hands out to her, but she
glared at him, ordering to Blount to take him away.” Elizabeth!” he cried out,
piteously, then allowed himself to be led from the chamber. Southampton had
already gotten a firm grip on Kryštof ’s arm and shoved him through a side door
into an adjoining gallery, not realizing that he accomplished his task only
because it suited the purposes of the foreign prince.

The gallery was dimly lit, the windows shrouded against the
chill winter night, and Southampton stood with his face shadowed, looking
sidelong at the marred face of the prince. Kryštof turned his face and their
eyes met.

“Essex is a hotheaded fool,” Kryštof said quietly, and
Southampton nodded slightly. He stifled a gasp as the prince reached a hand to
turn his face to the light, and resisted the urge to pull away. He was
attracted to the man, but he was no Almsbury to be ruled by his lusts, though
he was almost sorry when the prince let him go. His next words caused Hal to
stare.

“Cecil is watching you all, waiting. He suspects Devereux of
plotting rebellion, and the man proves his folly often enough to make it
believable.” The words uttered quietly, but with a steely intensity. “You may
all end up in the Tower, or worse, if you continue in this fashion, my lord.”

“Why do you tell me this, your grace?”

“I tell you because I do not like being enjoined to spy, and as
little as I may care for my lord of Essex, I care for Cecil even less. Make of
it what you will, my lord, but do consider yourself warned.”

“It may be, of course, that you say these things on commission
from Cecil to scatter us,” Southampton riposted, and was answered with a cool
nod.

“Time alone must answer that,” Kryštof said and turned to go,
almost colliding with Selby as he rushed into the gallery in a flurry of
rustling silk, one jeweled hand lifted to keep his cartwheel ruff from flying
up and blinding him.

“Your pardon, your highness,” he murmured, and sketched a bow.
“Hal, Robin escaped from—”

“Of course he did,” Southampton interrupted impatiently. “As the
Queen intended when she consigned him to his stepfather’s custody. Do not
practice to be a fool, Tom, you may find it a habit hard to break. Rob will
sulk for a time and then come weening his way back into the Queen’s favor. Do
not hush me, the prince is well aware of the truth, and, I should guess, not
offended when he hears it. And he has already assured me that he does not care
for spies.” Southampton turned a genuine smile on the prince, and Kryštof found
himself smiling back. Hal was a most attractive man. “About your invitation for
tonight, your grace, we—”

“I quite understand, my lord; perhaps another evening?” Kryštof
interjected smoothly and left the room, followed by Selby’s distracted gaze and
Southampton’s speculative one.

Several hours later, Southampton lay at full length before the
fire at Essex House in the fashionable Strand, reviewing the events of the day.
The exiled Essex was now engaged in pacing the room, calling the foreigner
every foul name he could think of. His powers of invention were not that strong
and he had begun to repeat himself. Hal sat up and stretched.” Leave off,
Robin,” he yawned, “or administer some of that cudgeling wit to your own back.
If you hadn’t acted the lackwit you wouldn’t find yourself in this plight. Did
you truly think the man would draw and duel with you then and there?”

“He’s a puling coward, hiding in a woman’s skirts!”

“You’re a fool an you think so! That man is no coward, whatever
else he mayor may not be. He never even broke a sweat and you were in a fair
way to cut his throat.” Southampton shivered slightly at the memory of that
deadly calm, and the dark blood beading that unnaturally pale skin. “Another
thing, I warrant, you could have done nothing more likely to please Ralegh. He
was grinning like a crocodile through the whole piece. What possessed you,
Robin?” Essex shrugged and threw himself into a chair.

“He maddens me! How Her Majesty can dandle with the likes of
that outlandish, beardless, black gipsy—”

“The same way that she could fondle with a jumped up Devon
squire, I should imagine, Rob, and I must say that you handled that rather
better. Tossing the Throckmorton wench in his way was a stroke of pure genius,
and all the better for that no one suspects your hand in it. Why can you not
command yourself so in this?”

“I cannot think of that villain without flying into a rage! He
killed my cousin William, you know—”

“
After
you sent William out to waylay the man, to kill a
prince like a dog in the road! That was not well done; Robin and you do know
it. You were lucky there that naught worse happened than the loss of a distant
kinsman.”

“I never meant them to kill the man.”

“Just club him insensible and leave him there to bleed to
death?” Hal snorted and reached for the wine jug. “This is empty, and so is
your store of wit tonight, Rob. I advise you to your bed, and I’ll to mine.
Things may look clearer on the morning.”

I woke the next evening to the news that I had company, not
Southampton, as I had hoped, but Selby. I dressed hastily and went down to the
room that served as my study. Lord Selby stood with his back to the door,
rifling through the papers on the table. The man would never make a spy, I
thought irritably, and I was going to have to see that another room was readied
for the reception of guests, if this was any indication of what I might expect
of their courtesy. I cleared my throat and the visitor turned, pages still in
hand, and smiled at me, raising his soft, ring-laden hand to hide his blackened
teeth.

“You are a poet, your Highness! I did not know.” He dropped the
pages carelessly back onto the table and stepped closer holding out his hand. I
stepped back, turning to the door and calling for wine as an excuse for not
touching the man. I took the tray from Sylvie at the door; serving the wine
myself sooner than expose her to my guest’s attention, then settled myself into
a chair and motioned the man into another. Selby, well aware that he had been
insulted, swallowed his pride with an ease that argued long practice and took
the proffered seat.

“It is no secret, my lord, that I neither read nor write,” I
said sharply, lightly tapping my eye-patch.