Perfect Shadows (30 page)

“I
am more content this night,” he told me, “than I have been since ever I came to
court.”

Northumberland prowled the gallery and fidgeted in the old
chapel he had taken as his study at Malvern Hall. The disturbances there had
begun quietly enough some two or three weeks after the disastrous attempt to
summon the demon Cadavedere, begun with a few rappings and tappings, and had
grown in intensity until they could not be ignored. A sudden flung stone had
broken a retort, spilling the results of two weeks work across the pages of an
irreplaceable grimoire, and Percy had had enough. He briefly considered calling
in a priest to try to exorcise the spirit, but had decided against it on the
grounds that he probably knew more than his priest did on the subject of
exorcism. Instead he had carefully set a mirror and murmured the spells of
concentration and calming he had always found so useful preceding attempts to
scry. A second stone shattered the costly mirror, and a tattoo of rapping broke
out.

The earl, enraged, found himself shouting “Who in the name of
hell are you?” then watching in horror as a massive wax candle began to burn
down one side, as if it were subject to a heavy draft, although there was no
breath of air stirring and the flames of every other candle in the room burned
straight and still. The wax streamed from the candlestick, splashing onto the
scarred tabletop, but oddly, deliberately. Northumberland leant forward, and
gasped as his nearsighted eyes picked out the device that imprinted itself in
the hot wax, the sigil of Mars encompassed in a star of thirteen points. He
knew of only one man that had used that device: Aestatis Montague. Percy
cleared his throat. “D-d-doctor, is that you?”

The upshot was that now, weeks later, the earl paced throughout
the early evening, waiting for the time to ripen so that he could begin a rite
that, as far as he knew, no one had ever attempted before. He stepped back into
the shrouded chamber. It had originally been the Lady Chapel of the old abbey,
and the candlelight gleamed on the scrubbed and polished floor, the icy white
marks of the chalk patterns, and the sweating, naked body of the gagged man
shackled in the center of those markings. He was not a prepossessing man, a
beggar in fact, with a twisted clubfoot and a fleering sidelong glance under
thatchy eyebrows, red, like his matted hair and scabby beard. It had been an
easy matter to lure him to the house under the pretense of charity, and even
easier once there to drug him, and keep him drugged until the most propitious
time to perform the rite. But he was not drugged now, and he strained against
the bonds that held him, twisted and fought for a freedom he would never win in
the flesh.

“It is time to begin,” the earl said quietly, though there was
none but his victim to hear him. He picked up a sword from the altar behind
him, and slowly, expertly, began the chant and the accompanying motions,
watching in fascination as he actually seemed to see the man’s soul pull out of
his extremities and bunch towards the head. There was a snap that was almost
audible, and the soul floated above the fettered body, attached by a thin
silvery cord. Percy, still chanting, flicked his blade out and to the left, and
the large and ornate sword, the Templar’s sword, severed the filament holding
soul to body. With a wail that would trouble the earl’s dreams, the ghostly,
amorphous shape shot from sight; immediately Percy dropped the weapon and
caught up an aspergillum from a chalice standing by, sprinkling the lifeless
body with the contents until it was evenly covered. He tossed the aspergill
aside and snatched up the candelabra, holding it over the corpse while the
chant reached a crescendo.

“ SURGAT! SURGAT! SURGAT!” he shrieked, and a mist seemed to
form over the body, sinking into it like a stone into a weed-choked pond. At
the final syllable, the dead man opened his eyes.

An hour or so later the beggar’s body had been loosed from the
floor, washed, draped in Percy’s own brocade night-robe, and placed before the
fire to sip a cup of mulled wine. He watched the earl, faded blue eyes peering
from beneath the heavy brows, but he had not spoken, and when Northumberland
tried to speak to him, he’d look away, nodding to the stoup of wine on the
hearth. His patience at an end, the earl clouted the man viciously over the ear
and strode to the door, intending to call for a groom to take the beggar back
to the cellars and dispose of him. What had gone wrong? He’d chosen the time
most carefully, had culled the chants from unimpeachable sources, had coated
the body in a mixture of Montague’s own blood and sea-water after the rightful
owner had been ousted and cut off from returning—what had gone wrong? A small
sound came from behind him, stopping him in the act of reaching for the latch.
He turned to see the beggar reaching an imploring hand to him, mumbling
something he could not hear. Slowly he made his way back to the hearth, and the
words became clearer.

“. . . Harry? Why . . . what happened . . .”the nervous gaze
fell on the outstretched hand, its calluses and coarse red hairs, and a look of
disbelief spread across the heavy features. The frightened man held his hands
before his face, and bit off a scream. “Fetch me a mirror, you fool,” he
rasped, the words almost lost in his hysterical breathing. Northumberland let
the insult pass for the time being, and brought the mirror, holding it up
before the beggar’s face. There was a howl from the man, and he batted at the
mirror, to strike it to the ground, to shatter the offending image, but Percy
was expecting something of the sort and held the glass safely out of reach.
“Harry? Why did you do this to me?” came a broken whisper and the body before
him was racked by sobs. Percy knelt and filled the cup again, holding it to his
colleague’s lips. Montague grasped it clumsily and began to gulp the contents,
spilling them liberally down the front of the borrowed robe. Northumberland
eyed the ruin of the expensive garment with distaste. Maybe it could be made
over for the Doctor? God knew that the man was going to need anew wardrobe and
the thought of having to lay out the money for it was a cheerless one; he
shoved the thoughts aside to be dealt with at a later time.

“You should rest now, Doctor,” was all he said before summoning
a groom to see the weeping man to the chamber that had been prepared for him.
They would talk in the morning.

Southampton smoothed the oyster-white satin of his doublet,
glowing with that special pride produced by overshadowing someone else, in this
case Lord Mounteagle, who had made the monumental mistake of bragging on the
outfit he had commissioned for the Christmas court. He had been preening
himself on the satin, taffeta silk that shimmered with the shifting colors of
pearls, and so dear that enough to make a pair of sleeves and trim the rose
velvet doublet had cost an entire year’s rents from one of his few remaining
manors. Nothing else would do but that Hal should have an entire suit of the
satin, trimmed in silver lace and black pearls. He had waited patiently, timing
his entrance to the hall so that Mounteagle would have plenty of time to let
everyone know the price he paid for the cloth before settling into some
pastime. Hal then sauntered up behind his quarry, leaning nonchalantly on the
back of his chair, so that everyone at the table, save Mounteagle himself, had
a good view of the costume. “God you good den, my lords,” he said quietly. “And
you especially, Will,” he added to Mounteagle, who did not bother to look
around. Lord Sandys glanced up indifferently, then looked again sharply, a
vicious grin splitting his weary face; Sir Henry Warren laughed aloud; Sir
Edward, now Lord Selby, choked violently and sprayed a mouthful of wine across
the table.

Mounteagle cursed, brushing at the flecks of wine and spittle
dotting his oyster-white sleeve, then muttered a greeting to Southampton, still
without turning. Hal grinned back at the others, raising an eyebrow before
drifting away from the table to show himself off to the rest of the court,
eddies of stifled laughter swirling in his wake.

“God’s
teeth
, my lord!” Elizabeth bellowed. How that
tiny, wizened woman could produce such volume was a mystery. Every head in the
large room swiveled towards them, and Hal swept into an elegant bow, so low
that his dark auburn curls came close to brushing the floor. There was a
further sound of choking from the corner where the gamblers laired, drowned by
the tide of helpless laughter that flooded the room. Mounteagle indeed must
have made doubly sure that every last person in the hall knew the cost of that
oyster satin to every last farthing.

“Your Majesty,” Hal offered his hand to the Monarch, but she
brushed him aside, a wink of her eye and the quirking of her lips forestalling
insult, as she beckoned Ralegh to her side.

“I thank you, but no, my lord,” she answered in a voice gurgling
with repressed mirth, and he understood. She might enjoy the prank, but that
was not enough to overcome the antipathy she felt for him. Ralegh himself
smiled with the purest appreciation as he bowed his courtesy to the earl before
sweeping the Queen off into the dance, a stately pavane. Hal wandered back to
the table, where Mounteagle was now conspicuous by his absence. He settled into
the vacant chair and reached for the wine jug. Ned pushed it towards him,
giggling helplessly.

“By Christ, Hal, you’ve made a friend into
an enemy with this night’s work,” Sandys said sententiously.

“A poor sort of friend,” Hal shrugged, and sipped at the wine, a
sorry sour excuse for a beverage, he found himself thinking, remembering his
entertainment of the night before.

“A poor friend might still make a deadly enemy,” Sandys
continued, seeming ready to extend the lecture indefinitely. A flash of color
caught at the corner of Hal’s eye and he shoved the cup away, excusing himself
to follow, as Libby had known he would.

Out of the hall, and down a corridor he went, the sweep of
skirts always vanishing before him, but always lingering long enough that he
would be able to follow. He caught up with her in the Queen’s private chamber,
catching her wrist as she tried to twist past him, laughing delightedly deep in
her throat.

“Hal! Not here! Are you mad? Come, we shall use the old place:
I’ve gleaned us candles and wine, even a little food,” she laughed again as he
pressed her body hard against the wall with his, his lips hot on her throat,
then let her slide away from him, following her up the narrow stairs to the
garret they had fitted out to meet in. She was wearing velvet of the rich
grassy green indelicately known as goose-turd, which set off her red-gold hair
and creamy skin to perfection, the whole trimmed in gold bone lace, and the
bodice cut so low as to be indecent. He slipped a feverish hand into the
bodice, cupping her breast, feeling the nipple harden against his fingers as
her breath grew ragged. He had taken her here for the first time weeks ago, her
maiden’s blood staining the short cloak he had placed beneath them, ruining it.
He had given it to the players under his patronage, the Lord Chamberlain’s Company,
and it amused him to see it on stage, draped over a player’s shoulder, parading
her loss of virtue before the whole of London, if they had but known it. They
had met as often as they could manage, sometimes leisurely, stripping to the
skin and enjoying the sensations of flesh against flesh, sometimes, like
tonight, hurriedly, disarranging the heavy and elaborate clothing they wore as
little as possible and still manage to achieve their purpose. He fumbled at his
canions with one hand, pushing up her skirts with the other as she lay on the
smuggled featherbeds, dropping to his knees beside her.

“It happens, my dearest,” she told him, stroking the damp hair
back from his heated face. “It happens to every man sometimes, Penny told me,
and that it means nothing—” she broke off at the angry motion of his hand. He
gulped at the wine she had poured for him. It had never happened to him before,
that he was unable to accomplish his desire. He fastened up his clothing,
hauled Libby to her feet and propelled her out of the door before him. He had
to see Kryštof, but it was too late tonight. Tomorrow then. He would see him
tomorrow, and he felt his belly clench with desire, his lust, so stubbornly
flaccid minutes before, rising traitorously at the thought of the man.

I stirred as the trance released me, then sat bolt upright; I
was not alone, and it was not a servant with me. Hal sat on the foot of the
bed, leaning back against the curtain-padded post.

“How did you get in here?” I snapped. No one was supposed to be
allowed into my room while I was helpless, no one. Hal shrugged.

“Your servants asked me to wait downstairs, but I wearied of it.
It was not long ere they were all occupied and ceased to notice me. Do you
always sleep so?” he added, with a searching look.

“What do you mean?” I asked, cursing the tremor in my voice.

“As if you were dead, or dead drunk, or drugged senseless. It is
a wonder that you have not had your throat cut, except for—” he indicated the
large wolf resting by the fire, watching our every move through slitted eyes.
“He was here when I came in. What sort of dogs are they? I cannot recall seeing
any like them before.”

“Sybrian alaunts,” I answered promptly. “First cousins to
wolves,” I added truthfully as the beast rose, grinned at us, and padded from
the room. I stretched and rolled out of bed as Jehan appeared a few minutes
later carrying large water cans to fill the linen-lined tub. “Will you wait
downstairs? I will be there presently.” Southampton shook his head.
“I would rather watch,” he said thickly, his gaze roaming my naked and
shameless body, and I realized that he had been drinking. I crossed to the tub,
tossing a smile back over my shoulder.