Perfect Shadows (3 page)

“I am Rózsa Treska Guadalupe de Salinas y Miklos, but I am
called Rózsa la Loba,” she said softly, handing me the glass. I drained it and
she filled it again

“Spanish?” I was both surprised and interested.

“Spanish and Hungarian,” she replied. “My godfather and
guardian, Nicolas von Poppelau, is Bohemian, a friend of my mother’s family. My
parents were killed and I have lived with him ever since.” She smiled and
anticipated my next question. “They were murdered by the Inquisition. Nicolas
spirited me out of Spain, back to my mother’s family in Hungary. They did not
want me either: ‘la Loba’ is another name for ‘half-breed’, you know.”

“I thought it meant ‘she-wolf ’,” I said feeling dizzy from more
than just the wine—how was she doing this to me?

“That as well,” she smiled and kissed me deeply before helping
me out of my clothing. She stood for a second, slipped off her gown and let it
pool around her ankles. I watched the firelight play over her body. She was
slender, almost, as the boy I had thought her, with small underdeveloped
breasts, slim hips, and flat stomach. She knelt beside me, pushing me back on
the pillows, her hair caressing my chest as she kissed my nipples. “You smell
of lavender and roses,” she murmured. The effort involved in actually forcing
my landlady to provide the weekly bath we’d agreed upon was prodigious, but I
was happy that at least this time I had persevered. I hated bedding an unwashed
lover myself—Rózsa realized that my thoughts were wandering and nipped me
sharply, then trailed her tongue lightly down my body. She took my manhood into
her mouth for a moment, then continued stroking me with her hand as she slowly
moved her lips to my inner thigh. I shuddered, gasped at a sudden sharp pain as
she bit me, then surrendered to the most intense carnal ecstasy I had ever
felt. It was pure pleasure; all that I thought of as myself, all thought
itself, vanished in wave after wave of bliss.

As the feeling receded I felt thoroughly enervated, almost
drained, unable to tell how much time had passed. She rose from me then, licked
her lips and smiled as she fetched a basin and ewer that sat nearby. “I wonder
that it’s not dripping from the ceiling,” I mumbled as she washed my spilled
seed off me. Try as I would, I could not stay awake. I mumbled an apology,
which was genially accepted, then gave myself over to sleep.

Before dawn she woke me with a kiss. I reached for her, but she
laughed and eluded me, thrusting my clothing into my seeking hands. I sat up
and began to dress, feeling oddly giddy and light headed, as if I had been
bled. Rózsa, having already donned her gown, awaited me by the door.

Only a few gamblers were still at the tables, their sodden heads
upon their arms Frizer among them. Seething with sudden uncontrolled rage and
humiliation at the memory of his words to Tom upon our parting, I drew my
dagger and stepped towards the drunken man. I did not truly know if I intended
to follow my impulse and cut the villain’s throat or to settle for merely
frightening him into soiling himself. A light touch on my arm swung me face to
face with Rózsa and all thought of vengeance fled. “Do not spill blood in this
house,” she said quietly and drew me out the door.

Dusk that evening found me, for once, sitting at home. I had
slept heavily until late afternoon, then dressed to go out, but had turned
instead to moping about my chamber thinking of Rózsa. I had never before been
attracted to any woman, never so much as found even one of them in the least
interesting. Why had she such an unaccountable effect upon me?

My friend and fellow playwright, Watson, had once taxed me with
being a sodomite for spite, saying that if it were made the common practice and
marriage forbidden, then Marlowe would surely wed a woman within a fortnight.
Had he after all been correct? Was it more a matter of perversity than
perversion? I did not like to think so, but then, Rózsa. Oh, Rózsa.

The winter daylight, limp and dingy as old linen, brightened
neither my chamber nor my mood. Twice I sat down to work, but found myself
merely thumbing through my pages with growing dissatisfaction. I was thinking
I’d not go out at all, but send out for a meal, when there was a light tap on
the door. I answered it and saw my pretty boy of two nights before, in doublet
and trunkhose of crimson velvet, shirt and hose of white silk, and a falling
band of fine Italian lace. He wore riding boots and had his heavy cloak thrown
over his arm, his hair braided into the elaborate lovelocks some of the more
fashionable courtiers were beginning to wear.

“Come in! What are you doing here and why do you dress so?” I
questioned Rózsa, laughing as I pulled her into a room made suddenly bright.

“I came to invite you to dine with us tonight and I dress so
because it is both safer and more desirable in this world to be a man, or even
a boy, than a woman,” she grinned at me and I felt a tingle in the pit of my
stomach. I held her against the door, crushing my body’s length against hers,
turning her face up to kiss. She held back for a second, then her body flowed
against me, one hand tangling in my hair, the other dropping to stroke my
rising desire. I broke off with a gasp and she pushed me firmly away. “Anon,
anon! We must go now. Do you put on your boots and bring your cloak. I have
brought a horse for you; no, ’tis no great distance,” she forestalled my
protest,” but the streets are mired knee-deep from today’s thaw.” Numbly I
followed her. What was this woman, that she had such an effect on me, could
order me about, and have me obey like the veriest slave? As we passed a
common-room downstairs voices floated out.

“Oh, tell me another! What use would that stinkin’ sodomite
Marlowe behavin’ for a wench?” I felt my blood turn to ice then rush burning
hot to my face as I recognized the voice—Nicholas Skeres, a crony of my great
enemy, Frizer. He was lurking here for no other reason than to taunt and
torment me, I was certain. A red haze clouded my sight as I shook off Rózsa’s
restraining hand and slipped into the room. “He’s far more interested in a
boy’s backside,” the coarse voice continued over a chorus of guffaws.

“Or either side of pretty Thomas Walsingham, eh Skeres?” another
voice gibed.

“Oh, aye, I’d bet he bends over right enough for our Tommy!” I
was standing behind the drunken Skeres; close enough to watch the progress of a
louse through his thinning, filthy hair. As he reached his right hand up to
scratch, I grasped it, twisting it up behind his back as I tugged his dagger
from its sheath. The big man started to push himself up off his stool, his left
hand flat upon the table. I promptly leaned over and plunged the knife through
his hand and a good inch into the oak beneath. I then stood racked with vicious
laughter at his frantic efforts to free himself.

“I cry you mercy, Nick, but I mistook it for a rat,” I cried,
almost choking between rage and glee. Only one of his companions was sober
enough to stumble from his seat and charge me—he ran into the heel of my hand
and crumpled to the floor, spattering the rushes with blood from his broken
nose. I landed two solid kicks to the fallen man’s ribs before Rózsa stopped
me. She paused to glance scornfully at the bedlam and toss a couple of gold
coins into the blood pooling on the table top, then pulled me from the smoky
room. The roars of outrage and pain followed us into the yard where two horses
stood, one innocent white, and the other black as sin, held by a starveling
street boy. I found myself still shaking with rage and unable to look at Rózsa.
I had never learned to curb my violent impulses, rather the opposite, brawling
for sport. Though I had been warned often enough my temper would bring me
disgrace, this was the first time that I felt ashamed. She waited until I heaved
myself onto the white horse’s back then swung lightly onto the black. “You are
impetuous, Kit,” was all she said.

A small shadow, a child-sized man, slipped from the alley to follow
the man and boy, pausing for a moment to listen to the howls still coming from
within. It was not difficult to keep his quarry insight as the riders let the
horses pick their own way through the muddy, mucky streets of Norton Folgate.
They entered the City, where they soon reached Crosby Place, handed the reins
to a waiting groom, and vanished indoors. He sidled up to the serving-man,
showing a coin and asking a few hurried questions. The answers seemed to
satisfy him. He pressed the coin and its brother into the waiting hand before
scurrying away into the dark.

The little man made his way quickly to Aldgate, to one of the
many cottages that subdivided what had once been Northumberland House. He
stumbled to the little brazier that served to heat the room, and finally
managed to calm his breathing enough to blow the embers into life and light a
candle.

“Doctor Montague,” a colorless voice spoke from the shadows,
startling the little man so that he almost dropped the light. The candle
flickered wildly for a moment and the little man set it hastily on the dirty
table.

“My lord earl,” he said, in a voice as shaky as his hands. “You
startled me.”

“You told me that you held the secret of immortality in your
hand, Doctor. Was that an idle boast?”

“I may say that it is within my grasp, my lord. Have you heard
of the undead? The vampire?” His voice sank into a whisper and the two heads,
one sandy and one dark, almost touched as the nobleman leaned close to catch
the commoner’s words.

I followed Rózsa into a small study off the main hall where her
guardian awaited us. A table had been placed before the fire and spread with a
sumptuous meal, but laid only for one. The heavyset man stood upon our entry
and took my hand in both of his. “I am Nicolas von Poppelau, and I am so
pleased to meet you,” he said, “so very pleased! Rózsa has talked of nothing
but Marlowe for days! You have made her very happy.” I felt as if the floor had
given a sudden lurch. What did these people want? Did he know of last night’s debauch?
Did he expect me to marry her? I could barely support myself, let alone a wife,
even if I’d wanted one, and anyway, they were obviously quality . . . I shook
my head to clear it and von Poppelau laughed. “Your thoughts flicker across
your face as plain as print, my boy! No, pardon me for laughing, it was not at
you; sit and eat and I will try to answer some of your questions.”

“But do you not dine?” I asked, indicating the solitary place.

“No, no. It is our habit never to take solid food after sunset,”
von Poppelau answered. “But we will join you in some wine.” Ashe poured; I
studied my host’s face. It was broad and pleasant, the eyes deep-set and
shrewd, the mouth wide and friendly, set under a prominent nose and over a firm
chin. I found myself liking the fair-haired man and started to relax a little.
The meat and wine were exceptional and the conversation excellent. The man had
a penetrating grasp of political affairs and was most widely read, as was
Rózsa, much to my wonderment and delight. My sisters, though sharp enough in
the mathematics of money, had never shown the slightest interest in learning to
read, and indeed had teased me unmercifully about my own studies.

Rózsa showed me the translations of Catullus she was working on
and I promised to bring her my own translations of Ovid’s Elegies. As I reached
for the sheaf of papers she extended, she started and caught my hand, turning
it to examine the palm. She gave a short exclamation and said something in a
language incomprehensible to me. That caused Nicolas to lean over and also
stare at my captive palm for a few seconds. He spoke to Rózsa in the same
language and she smiled ruefully at me, then put the papers into my hands with
an apology for the rudeness.

“But what was that about?” I pressed them, laying the papers
aside. Rózsa, obviously discomfited, looked to Nicolas, who considered a moment
then spoke.

“You know of the theories of physiognomy? That a man’s character
may be read in his face? Yes, well, there is a like school of thought that the
lines in the hand will reveal much about a person.” He took my hand, turning
the palm to the light. “You see here, this line indicates your emotions: you
area person who loves greatly, passionately, but you are prideful and given to
jealousy. This line shows that you are creative, but rash and reckless, withal.
This cross here below your little finger is the mark of the writer, and here,
this circle just below the ring finger, that foretells a brilliant success.
Just something we have been studying, you see.” Rózsa began to speak then, but
Nicolas gave a slight shake of his head and she fell silent.

They kept my cup filled and we talked for hours discussing
astronomy, philosophy, and religions. “What is any church, save a business?” I
found myself saying emphatically. “The priests call themselves shepherds, do
they not? Well then, what is a shepherd’s business, but to fleece the flock in
order to increase the wealth and importance of his masters? And here is Rome,
the greatest wolf in shepherd’s array that the suffering world has ever seen,
gobbling up the globe like a pig at trough, and for what? To save the savage
souls? Hah! They’d not have nearly the interest in those souls if the bodies
containing them came less often clothed in gold!”

“Do you find the Protestant church superior?” Nicolas asked with
interest.

“I do not!” I said emphatically. “Old King Hal let Rome go, but
not far enough! What, in the name of reason, can you expect from enforced
celibacy, but secret vice?” I found myself telling them what I had told no one
in all these years, of my own experience with the church, and with “celibate”
churchmen.