Perfect Shadows (29 page)

He
had gotten the shock of his life when Sylvana had opened the back door,
recognizing instantly what she was, as she did him. They soon decided that they
must be kin, however distantly. Rhys and his siblings were pre-Celtic,
descended from folk that had been pushed back into the Welsh hills before the
Celts themselves had been driven to those same hills first by the Romans and
later by the Saxons. Rhys was big, though not quite so big as Jehan, and Eden
and Sylvie were almost of a size. They all had dark chestnut hair, and the same
tilted tawny eyes as Jehan and Sylvie.

Dickon,
who had been singing, was different, shorter than his brother and slender, with
hair so black that it shone with purple highlights in the candlelight, his dark
eyes the violet-grey of storm clouds, each iris ringed in jet black. The fine
bones of his face and hands suggested aristocratic blood, and he hadn’t changed
when the others did. The boy caught the speculative look I swept over him and
his face reddened. “I’m a bastard, a half-brother,” he snarled and strode from
the room. I rose to follow him, glancing at Rhys, who nodded me on.

“Dickon,
wait,” I called softly into the darkness of the great hall. My vampire’s sight
easily picked the lad out of the shadows and I crossed to him. “I am sorry, I
meant no insult or injury to you. Will you forgive me?” He gave me a quick
glance then turned his face away.

“Dickon’s
a family name, my lord,” he muttered.

“I
see. Your name is Richard, then? Good, I shall call you that. But you haven’t
answered my question, Richard. Will you forgive me?” I saw the sullen nod.
“Good, again. Rhys said that you read and write. Would you care to act as my
secretary? I need someone to read and write for me, as I can do neither.” I
could see that I had surprised the boy out of his sulks at any rate.

“Why
not, my lord?” he asked simply, neither snarling nor muttering. I smiled.

“The
assault that took my right eye took that as well. I enjoyed reading, and
writing too, and I would appreciate it a great deal if you would help me.”

“Of
course, my lord,” Richard answered somewhat coolly.

“You
have a beautiful voice, Richard.” I saw the quick flash of the boy’s grin.

“You
wouldn’t have thought so, last year! I used to sing trebles in the choir, till
it broke. It’s only a few months that it’s settled. I—I’m happy that it pleases
you,” his voice took on the hint of a snarl. Neither accustomed nor reconciled
to being used as a servant, I thought.

“It
does please me, and it would also please me if you would sing some more,
tonight, if you are not too tired,” I said gently. Richard paused a moment,
then nodded and allowed himself to be led back into the kitchen.

The
next evening I sat bolt upright as the day-trance released me. The comfortable
sound of my bath being filled would tell me that I was not alone even if the
presence of living blood had not alerted me by senses less conventional. I drew
the curtain aside, and was surprised to see Rhys, not Jehan as I had expected.
Rhys smiled uneasily and crossed the room to the bed.

“Jehan
and Sylvie are resting, but Sylvana says they’ll be well tomorrow, the way we
heal. They should’ve gone straight to their beds last night, but they were that
worried about you, my lord, that you’d have no one to care for you, see.” He
went on to say that Almsbury had gone with Southampton’s men when they came for
the horses that afternoon. “Tomorrow Jehan’ll be back caring for you and I’ll
look after the stables. But now,” his voice took on a low, wary tone. “Sylvana
told me about you, my lord, and we have tales that tell of your kind among our
folk. They say that we are never so well off as when we serve you, and she told
me what you—what you need, see. I can’t say that I’m not fretted, my lord, but
I need your help more than you need mine, so I am willin’.” He sat down on the
bed, cautiously as if it were a nest of snakes, or as if he expected me to
lunge at him and drain him on the spot. I shook my head.

“No,
Rhys. Sylvana spoke out of turn. You need not—feed me, to ask for and be
granted such protection as I can afford you. I can manage without your
sacrifice. I take it that you have spoken of my nature to your family? Good,
but do not trouble yourself. Jehan, Sylvie and Sylvana have all sustained me,
and shall again, by their own choice, but I do not ask that of you or yours.
But, Bowen, we do not know how things may fall out, and neither would I turn
you or Eden away. Richard is still a child, and whatever else you may think of
me, know that I do not take children. Do you understand?” Rhys nodded, his face
a careful blank, as he got up and left the room.

I
rose and crossed to the bath. I would heal without heavier feeding, though not
as swiftly, I reflected as I sank into the hot water, letting it soak the
soreness and stiffness from me. Yet I wanted more, and I suddenly recognized
the feeling. I wanted a lover. Tom was comfortable, an old friend, and a good
one, but even he had felt the need for the new, and had found Rózsa. I wanted
the excitement, the—I realized that I was not alone.

Southampton
stood in the doorway, and, seeing my eye upon him, slouched into the room. He
had dressed with great care, at the summit of style. His fitted slashed doublet
and trunk-hose were all of satin, most appropriately of the rich crimson-blood
color called Mortal Sin, crusted with gold thread and winking with jewels. The
finest white knitted-silk hose clung to the muscles of his thighs and calves;
his shoes of red and gilt Moroccan leather were graced with knots of gold
ribbon. The falling band that he wore instead of the old-fashioned starched
ruff was made entirely of lace as delicate as frost on a windowpane, perfectly
accenting the dark auburn curls tumbling over it. Oh, yes, I thought, smiling
to myself,
that
is what I want.

“Why
hello, Hal,” I said softly. “What brings you back so soon?”

“I
could not stay away,” he snarled, his voice ragged. “I do not understand why,
how
,
you affect me so. Whenever I think of you I’m filled with lust, and an urge to
fling discretion to the four winds and myself at your feet. . . .” He trailed
off, looking down at his clenched fists, while the color drained from his face.
I rose from the tub and reached for the towel, ignoring the tearing sound of
his breath.

“Go
on down to the study, Hal, and I will join you there when I have dressed. It
would appear that we have much to discuss,” I said gently, and he turned on his
heel and left the room without a backward glance.

A
half-hour or so later I entered the study, wearing a black shirt of cobweb-lawn
open to the waist and smoothly flowing black velvet trousers, tucked into
soft-soled boots. Hal stood tapping nervous fingers on the skull-shaped
reliquary that rested in its niche in the mantelpiece. He spun with a gasp as
the door opened, looking for all the world like a stag brought to bay. I
ignored his near panic and set the tray I carried on the table, pushing the
litter of books and papers to one side with the back of my hand and sliding the
tray into place; I was closely followed by Rhys, who set a covered basin and
ewer on the chest beneath the window and withdrew silently. I poured a cup,
turned and offered it to my guest, who took it with shaking hands.” Sip it,
Hal,” I warned, “it’s brandywine. That’s a pretty toy, is it not?” I continued,
nodding at the jeweled skull. “I picked it up in Rome, but I forget which
saint’s skull it was supposed to hold. I use it for quite a different purpose.”
I crossed to the fire and took down the box, flipping back the top to reveal a
small pipe and a greeny-brown cake. “It’s hashish, from Turkey. Would you like
to try it?” Hal nodded and watched with interest as I prepared the pipe.

“What
did you do with the skull?” he asked suddenly.

“We
buried it,” I smiled. “It was a woman’s, Geofri said, or a child’s. There are
ossuaries there, as you know, and an endless supply of ‘martyr’s bones’, but
somehow we thought returning the pitiful object to the earth was best, to keep
her from being taken away and sold again, as was likely if we had returned her
to the catacomb. Geofri has rather strict views on the respect due to the
dead.” I lit the pipe and drew the smoke before handing it to Hal, who took it
gingerly and imitated me, but choked on the unfamiliar taste. He soon became
accustomed to the flavor, and began to relax.

I
pushed the chairs back, pulling the cushions from them and arranging them on
the floor before the fire. I stretched out my legs, using one of the heavy
chairs as a backrest. Hal gazed at me for a moment, then did the same, settling
between me and the fire. “Now Hal, do you wish to tell me why you could not
stay away?” He hesitated, unsure. “Well, I think that I know,” I said
carefully. “But this choice must be yours, and I will not try to force you to my
will, or even influence your decision. Have you loved with a man before?” He
nodded slowly, his eyes smoky with memory.

“Twice,”
he answered huskily. “One older and one younger. I was fifteen, and he was
twenty, a groom in Lord Burghley’s household, assigned to look after me, though
not, I fear, in the fashion he did,” Hal chuckled, then saddened.” He died
about a year later, of the plague. I took a younger boy, a page, as a lover, to
try to forget him, but . . . it was a mistake,” his voice hardened.

“The
boy threatened to go to Burghley if you didn’t pay dearly for his silence, I
suppose. What did you do?”

“Planted
a ring of mine among his things and went to Burghley myself, and had him turned
out for stealing. He tried to tell Burghley anyway, to defend himself, but as I
had been rather spectacularly discovered that morning with two of the
serving-wenches in my bed, no credence was paid him.” Hal smiled as I laughed
out loud.

“Masterful!
I must be wary, I see.” I reached out and tentatively touched his hand, running
my fingertips across the back and around the thumb into the palm, lightly
holding it, and raising it to my lips to press a kiss there. Hal shivered, then
sat up and began deliberately undoing his doublet, one jeweled button at a
time, his gaze never straying from my face. He untied his points and slid out
of doublet, trunk-hose and hose in one graceful movement, with practiced ease.
Clad only in his shirt he leaned over me, first easing my filmy shirt over my
shoulders, then his eager hands searching for the fastening of the outlandish
trousers. I could see his eyes catch on the scars upon my shoulder and chest,
arrow wound and brands. He tenderly bent his head and kissed them, causing me
to shudder with the intensity of my desire.

“Do
you know what you are doing, Hal? Is this truly what you want?” I asked
hoarsely. “You still have a choice.”

Hal
shook his head sadly, raising on one elbow to turn a bittersweet look on me. “I
have no choices at all,” he breathed, then smiled tightly as I leaned forward
to kiss him, gently at first, then more ardently as the depth of his reaction
drove me. I found myself aching to learn the limits of the man, all the nuances
and subtleties of his responses. I had meant to hold back, to build gradually,
but fell helplessly into the desire to push and master him, reading without
conscious thought his unuttered needs. When I came at last to press my teeth to
the vein in his throat, tangling my hand in that burnished hair and drawing his
head back almost to the point of pain, my own release was shattering. The rich
sweetness of his blood filled my mouth, and his body shuddered as wave after
wave of pleasure engulfed us both.

I
withdrew from the spent and sobbing man beneath me, turning him and drawing him
up until the tear-soaked face rested on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hal,” I
murmured, kissing the sweat-dampened curls. “I hadn’t meant for it to belike
that.” Hal pressed his fingers to my lips, to hush me.

“Don’t
be sorry,” he whispered, then raised his face to mine.

“Lo, I confess I am thy captive, I,

and hold my conquered hands for thee to tie,”

he
quoted, smiling, and I stared at him in surprise. “It’s from Marlowe’s Ovid,”
he explained quietly. “Kit Marlowe was the dead friend that Walsingham has
named you for.”

“Yes,
I know,” I said, disentangling myself to fetch the basin, which held heated
towels, and the ewer full of water that was still pleasantly warm. I began to
wash, first myself, then him. Hal shivered at the attention, his eyes growing
heavy with content. He reached a hand and caught my wrist, kissing the fading
scars still visible there.

“If
that was not how you meant it to be, you might still show me how you did intend
it . . . ” his voice trailed off as I leaned over him, a shadow between him and
the fire, then a fire between his teeth when our lips met. I was gentle this
time, using every ounce of my skill to bring his release, and every ounce of my
will not to feed from the man again. All too soon, it seemed, we broke apart.
Hal laid back and when I asked him what he was doing replied: “Drinking the
sight of you like wine, some heavy and heady rich wine, red as blood, rarer and
more precious than rubies,” and laughed at the giddy simile. I brought the
tray, uncovering the dishes to reveal the rare beef and sallet of sorrel and
rose petals, and poured him a wine redder than blood from a second flagon. He
leaned against me, letting himself be fed and basking in my attentions.