Perfect Shadows (37 page)

“You are beautiful to me, Hal,” I told him, and reinforced it
with a gentle kiss. Jehan cleared his throat, and Hal laughed.

“I will await you downstairs,” he said, and slipped from the
room. I let Jehan shave me, and then settled into the bath to soak and to
think. That had been a bad moment, thinking that Hal had discovered my true
nature, and I could not help but wonder what we would have done if he had.

Nearly a week had been spent at Blackavar, discussing the recent
events with Nicolas, Geoffrey being out of the country at the moment, while Richard
recovered somewhat from his ordeal. It had seemed a long journey, and we had
taken turns carrying the boy, shocked and semi-conscious, on the saddlebows.
Dawn had streaked the sky when we arrived, and I was myself unconscious,
overtaken by trance before the doors of the great hall had opened. Nicolas had
been sitting on the edge of my bed when I awoke, to greet me, and then scold me
for taking chances with the sun and the day-trance while I was yet young enough
to be so vulnerable. Later that evening his pleasant features grew hard and
cold as he listened to the tale that I told him.

“Where are Sylvana and the others?”

“I sent them to Ralegh, they will be safe at Durham House, and
will return here once I have found a place to take the boy. Eden will try to
see him if she is near, she cannot help it, and he cannot bear it.” Nicolas
nodded his approval and suggested a place, Blackthorne Farm, that was currently
untenanted. It was a solid house, and much care had been lavished on its
reconstruction, glazing all the windows and rebuilding the chimneys. But it was
lonely, tucked away amid a tangled mass of elm, elder and the sloes that gave
it its name. Local superstition named it an unchancy place, so that tenants
were few and seldom stayed long, which suited its current use admirably. We
would stay another few weeks, then join Geoffrey in Paris. I shook off my
reverie and dressed quickly, joining Hal and Richard before the comfortable
fire. The storm had blown itself out during the day, but the night was freezing
cold.

“We had begun to think that you had drowned,” Hal teased,
keeping his head turned to hide his ragged hair. He and Richard had disposed of
a platter of beef, most of a small cheese and two loaves of bread between them,
and were working manfully on the second or possibly the third flagon of wine.
Supplies were brought in daily from the village, no one at the farm having the
least skill with cooking. The gold that paid for these services was much
appreciated in the village, and did much to assuage the local fears about the
foreigners, as anyone from as far away as the next county was called, while the
size of the two serving-men and the occasional sight of large wolfish dogs
discouraged any thought among the less honest of taking all the gold at once.
We passed a pleasant evening, playing primero for pins, and talking until late.
I sent Richard off to his bed, reminding him that he was still convalescent.

“It was kind of you, to let him win,” I said, smiling when he
had gone.

“I find that I like that child,” Hal answered, “and the more so
since I found that he is no rival to me in your bed. He is a child,” he added
defensively, goaded by my expression.

“He is not much younger than were you, when you first loved a man,
and a good deal older than I,” I retorted, then laughed. “In years, at any
rate. Yes, though, he is still much more a child than I was. Or, I suspect,
than were you. Now, you should seek your own bed.”

“I would far rather seek yours!”

I drew a finger lightly across Hal’s bruised cheek. “Would you?
Come along, then.”

There were no clean rushes available for the floor, so it had
been strewn with sweet smelling straw that rustled faintly as we crossed to the
bed. A fire burned brightly on the hearth, and the bed linen was scented with
lavender. Shivering slightly in his shirt and hose, Hal slipped into the bed
beside me. Later he sat up and stretched, turning his face away as he spoke.

“I am thinking of joining you in Paris, Kit, if I may, and if
your brother would not object. There’s nothing at court for me now.” His tone
was bleak, and I reached my hand to cup his chin and turn that sad proud face
to my own. Hal resisted a moment, then gave in.

“I can think of nothing that would please me more, Hal. Weather
permitting, we leave for Dover next week.”

Hal settled into his own bed, in the room where Richard slept on
the truckle, sinking at once into a pleasant dream, only to be jerked awake by
a heart-wrenching cry.

“No, no! Please, NO—”

It was Richard, he realized, and reached for him. It was not
long after dawn, by the look of the pale light through the chinks in the
shutters. Hal fell to his knees on the truckle, scooping the boy up, shaking
him awake then holding him while he cried. Richard pushed himself violently
away from the earl before he had regained his senses enough to realize who held
him, then mumbled an apology.

“You were dreaming, Dickon,” Hal said softly, the fond name
coming easily to him. “I purposed nothing but comforting your fear. You are a
very pretty boy, but I do not seduce children!” He rose from the truckle and
crossed shivering to the door, calling for Jehan, who appeared almost at once
and began helping the earl into his clothing.

“My lord, I—I am sorry, I was still caught in the dream,” he
shuddered, sickened at the memory, but stirred by the earl’s touch. “I am not a
child, my lord,” he gulped, but Hal, dressed now, merely nodded and left the
room. When Richard came down later he found him folding a note and addressing
it.

“You
must see that your master gets this when he wakes tonight, Richard,” Hal said
coolly, holding it out to him.

“My
lord, I shall have to read it to him,” Richard said, dismayed. Could the man
know so little about one with whom he was so intimate? Hal stared at him for a
second, then crumpled the paper into a hard ball and threw it into the fire.

“I
had thought that only another one of Robin’s calumnies,” he muttered, adding
aloud “I have seen him at his books.”

“It
sorely vexes him, and he must make himself believe that one day he shall read
again, and so he tries. He cannot, as yet.”

“Then
you must tell him that I returned to London and will join him in Paris as soon
as I may. Will you do that for me, Richard?” The boy nodded dumbly, and the
earl gathered his riding cloak and strode from the room. Richard, from his
position by the window, watched the man mount and ride towards the village,
before turning his hand to the tasks he had set himself that day.

Hal
paced nervously before Robin’s fire, stopping now and again to fill his cup
from the flagon of wine on the hearth. Willoughby had put the story all over
court the next day that Southampton had attacked him and been soundly beaten,
and that he had pulled out some of the earl’s hair. It was said that her
Majesty laughed, and said it was good, as she never liked the pretty earl, and
liked even less his influence on Essex. Influence Robin! As well try to
influence a wild horse, and she herself called him that. “God’s Light, Hal,”
came a chuckle from the doorway. “You look like a felon!” Robin, still
laughing, came in and settled himself by the fire, picking up the wine, and
setting it down again when he found that only the dregs remained. “Just call
for Dido to bring more wine, as you’ve seen fit to swill all this. Now, what
did truly happen that night? You were a fool to assault Willoughby in that
secret fashion, after publicly insulting him,” Robin said in a voice purring
with satisfaction. He had waited for some time to turn this epithet on Hal. “A fool,”
he repeated, savoring the word. Hal snorted.
“So I would have been, had I done so. I challenged him fairly, Rob, and he
attacked me in the dark. I had but one man with me to his dozen. But I did not
come here to cry my tale to you; I am going to Paris for a time, and I wished
to say good-bye.”

“Does
Diabolus know?”

“I
imagine he does: he has asked me to meet with him this afternoon. He would have
to know, sooner or later, in any case, if I am to have any sort of position at
all, and, of course, I shall need a passport. Goodbye, Robin,” Hal said, and
strode to the door. He stopped to glance at Robin for a second over his
shoulder, then crossed again to the fire when his friend petulantly called him
back.

“You
will desert me then. You will be of no use to me in Paris, Hal. I need you
here.” His eyes narrowed and his mobile lips curled into a sneer. “Oh, of
course, I did hear that your precious black princeling is leaving the country,
and I see that he needs must bring his little lap-dog with him,” he spat, and
stood, turning his back. Hal caught his shoulder and whirled him around.

“You
dare to address me so? I have my spies at court as well, Rob, and I know just
what you said, and how you joined in and laughed when Willoughby told his lies,
and presented my hair as a trophy to the Queen. Look at me, Rob! Do I look as
if he pulled my hair out in a brawl? Does my face look as if we were evenly
matched? I grant you that I may be rash upon occasion, but have you ever known
me to be that stupid? A laughingstock is of no use to you at court, and that is
what I have become,” he snarled, “a butt for all to fire their barbs and jests
against, without a single friend there to defend me.” Essex stirred guiltily at
that, but Hal raised his hand in a gesture of finality. “I must go, Robin, and
I will.”

“Yes,
I know you must,” Robin agreed, shamed by his friend’s words. He pulled a
folded bit of paper from his sleeve, pushing it into Hal’s hands. “From Libby,”
he said, and turned his face away. Hal tucked it into his own sleeve, and
stumbled from the house, giddy with the wine. He had all but forgotten Libby.
Damn it all! He smoothed the paper against the wall as he waited for the groom
to bring his horse. A fine rain was falling, and the letters faded into an inky
blur before his eyes, but not before the message was read. She would wait for
him in the Privy Gallery every afternoon until he came to her. It was dated
five days ago, the day after his misadventure. He crumpled it into a sodden
ball, and tossed it onto the midden as he passed.

Cecil’s
rooms were austerely furnished, holding only his great worktable, one chair,
two bookcases overflowing with books and bundled letters, a locking cabinet,
and two stools, upon one of which Hal sat, although his rank should entitle him
to the chair. Robert Cecil, Diabolus, as he was scornfully called behind his
hunched back, sat and gazed at him across the table, his dark eyes as
inexpressive as the wet paving stones outside the window. The door opened
quietly behind him, and Hal fought the impulse to look and see who had entered.
One of the aides came in and whispered to his master, waiting while Cecil
considered the message. A smile flitted across that stern face, causing Hal,
unexplainably, to shudder. “Have him join us,” Cecil instructed the aide, who
slipped from the room like a shadow.

“My
lord, I understand your reasons for wishing to leave England for a time, indeed
I am most anxious to accommodate you. But then you must, in return, accommodate
me. I will expect reports from you upon the movements of the princes Geofri and
Kryštof, among other things.” He glanced up as the door creaked open again,
motioning the arrival to take the other stool. “My lord, this is my servant,
Thomas Deacon; Thomas, my lord the Earl of Southampton.” Deacon was in his late
twenties, a few years older than the Earl, heavyset, but with long and
beautiful hands. His face was unlined, showing a singular sweetness of
expression in the regular features that made him seem far better looking than
he was in fact. His light-brown hair was cropped shorter than Hal’s own, and
his clothing, though of fine cloth, was most sober and severe. He looked at
Hal, at the ravaged hair, and his fingers twitched, as though he wished to
stroke it. Hal shifted uncomfortably away from the newcomer. “Thomas does
courier service between London and Paris for me, albeit he is currently serving
me by serving as an assistant, an apprentice if you will, of Master Topcliffe,
though perhaps, given his progress, journeyman would be amore fitting term.”
Deacon smiled innocently as Hal paled at the mention of the torturer. “Now my
lord, back to our business. I think we understand each other. I shall look
forward to your correspondence, which you may entrust to Deacon when you see
him in Paris. That is all.”

Hal
rose numbly from the stool, his face flushed by the outrage boiling in him. He
was an earl, not some common lout to be made a spy and a minion of! Damn
Cecil’s twisted soul, and damn Robin too! There was an overt threat in Cecil’s
insistence on Deacon’s presence, and the knowledge that he was employing his
own torturer, but whether it was aimed at Prince Kryštof, or at himself, or
both, Hal was not certain. It was intolerable! The sooner he left the pesthole
of court, the better off he would be, and bedamned to them.

He
settled the hood of the cloak closer about his face, making his way through the
dusk to the gallery where Libby had said she would await him. His attendants
left him at the gallery doors, and he slipped in, almost blind in the dimness.
The curtains had been drawn, and the candles not yet lit. A lighter blob of
shadow detached itself from the wall and hurled itself at him. He caught her in
his arms, crushing her against him.