Perfect Shadows (40 page)

“He would do well to remember who his mother is,” I muttered,
thinking of the beautiful Lettice Knollys, the “she-wolf ” Elizabeth called
her, who had enticed her sweet Robin Dudley away. That had effectively ended
the countess’s career at court—the Queen possessed the Tudor vindictiveness in
full measure. Hal nodded, and leaned towards me, dropping his voice to a
conspiratorial whisper.

“You see that it can’t continue, don’t you, Kit? Diabolus rules
in England now, and is moving to gather up the reins of the Scottish court as
well. He must be stopped, and the Queen must be protected from such usage, and
who better than Rob? His blood is as royal as hers, he’s Dudley’s stepson, and
brought up to care for her—”

“Damnation, Hal, listen to yourself!” I snarled, revolted. “Are
your wits wandering? Your Robin has been slavering for the crown all his short,
fractious life, and everyone knows it. You do not believe this prattle—or do
you?” I pulled Hal around to face me, catching his chin and forcing his gaze.
“You do, God help you, but you do,” I added flatly. I dropped my hand and
stepped away, shaking my head.

“You’ve been tucked so cozily away in Paris, you do not know
what it has been like here, banned from the court, watching Cecil, crook-backed
little spider that he is, usurp the power that rightfully belongs to others.
Rob’s been wrong more than once, granted, but he’s right in this, Kit, can’t
you see? There is no other way.”

“What I see is your handsome head gracing a pole on London
Bridge. Stop it, Hal, before it is too late for all of you. It’s already too
late for your Robin, and well he knows it! And he will bring as many down with
him as he can,” I said earnestly, reaching a hand to Hal’s cheek, only to have
it batted petulantly away.

“You don’t know Robin,” he said. “He has been betrayed too often
in his life to ever betray his friends! I think that he is the only truly noble
man left in this weary age. We must support him in this, or go and hang
ourselves! There is no longer a middle way, Kit! You’re the fool an you think
that Cecil will give you leave to tread one!” I shook my head and bade Hal good
night, then left the room.

A little time later I watched the men drift in from a shadowed
doorway down the passage: Hal’s friends and fellow conspirators, Almsbury,
Rutland, Mounteagle, Davers and Robin’s scandalously young stepfather, Blount.
He called for wine, and doubtless they set to work refining their enterprise.

Libby had been waiting for me when I left him, and begged to
speak with me privately, leading me to her little parlor. A small fire burned
in the hearth, and the windows were shrouded in heavy curtains to keep out the
drafts. A half-finished embroidery waited in its frame where she had pushed it
against the wall. She closed the door behind me, and leaned against it, eyes
closed, and her breath coming fast. “My lady?” My words implied a question as I
stepped to her side. She blindly put out a hand, and I took it, then supported
her to the settle near the fire, thinking she looked ready to faint. She buried
her face in her hands, and began to shake, racked by sobs, then fumbled in the
bodice of her gown to pull out a crumpled letter, and push it into my hands.

“Will you read it to me, my lady,” I asked gently and she
snatched the paper back, blushing hotly. To cover her blunder, she began to
read in an emotion-choked voice. The letter, from Essex’s protégé Anthony
Bacon, was brief, the writing crabbed and shaky, warning Hal that one answering
the description of Prince Kryštof had been seen frequenting the lodgings of a
well-known spy, one Robin Poley by name, in Paris, and might well be another
spy of Cecil’s. Care was urged in all dealings with the man. Hal had crumpled
the note and tossed it away. He refused to believe that I was in any way a tool
of the hated Cecil, but Libby had retrieved it, resolved to confront the
enigma.

“I am so frightened!” she whispered brokenly. “I love him so,
and he—they will kill him for this, and I shall die!” For a stunned moment, I
half-thought that she was speaking of Essex, but she continued. “You are trying
to discourage him, aren’t you? Will he listen to you?” Tears glistened on the
tips of her lashes, trembled and fell, staining the velvet of her gown. Gently
I brushed them away, and she caught my hand in both of hers. “Oh, he must
listen!”

“He will not be dissuaded, I fear, but perhaps I can keep him
from the ultimate consequence of his folly. I am no spy, and I will do what I
may, my brave lady,” I answered quietly, fighting an almost irresistible desire
to press my lips, my teeth, against her soft, white throat.

“You think that I am brave? Why?”

“If I were in Cecil’s employ, showing me that letter would be
either very brave, or very foolish. I prefer to think that you are brave,” I
said. She was dazzling, the firelight burnishing her coppery hair, turning the
hazel of her eyes into sunlight on forest pools. Sunlight— she seemed drenched
in it, golden as honey in harvest time, and I had not even known that I missed
it until now. Her next words brought me out of my reverie with a thump.

“You were his lover, weren’t you? Before you went to France, and
when he joined you there? No, he said nothing, but I knew.”

“You must hate me, then, and how hard it must have been for you
to confront me!” I breathed, trying to pull away, but she held me fast.

“Oh, no! No, my lord, I—I found that I was envious—of you both!”
She turned her face away to hide her furious blush. I turned her face to mine,
and slowly bent to kiss her, to kiss the sun that I had been so long denied,
but ready to pull back if she shied. She returned my caress, first bashfully,
then ardently, setting the roots of my canine teeth to aching. My lips drifted
to the vein throbbing in her throat, and I felt her shiver against me as my
teeth pierced her skin. A scant moment later I raised my head, licking her
sweet salt blood from my lips before kissing her mouth again. I rose from the
settle, leaving her drowsy and relaxed. I bent to kiss her forehead, whispering
“I will save him then, if I can, for both our sakes,” and saw her smile as her
sleep deepened. I stepped to the door and opened it a crack, watching the
members of this maladroit compact file in. I slipped from the house, melting
into the shadows of the dark London streets, the taste of Libby still sweet in
my mouth.

She was waiting breathlessly the following night. The disorder
in the room told me how she must have paced her small parlor, catching up her
needle then tossing it away, picking up the lute and striking a few chords, and
setting it down. As I surveyed the mess she laughed without humor and told me
that every time she’d heard a step in the passage she had flown to the door to
peek out, only to find that it was always someone to join the gathering about
Hal. Then, when I’d opened the door and stepped into the little room, she
hadn’t heard me until I softly spoke her name. She’d spun around, dropping the
heavy curtain at the window, holding out her hand. I crossed to her, gathering
her into my arms and kissing her. She flowed against me, and I could hear the
wild beating of her heart, feel the blood pulsing in her veins against the skin
of my hands. She pushed herself away, and my dark gaze followed her, puzzled,
until she locked the door and turned laughing, unfastening the buttons of her
surcoat, letting the rich velvet fall crumpled to the floor as she stood in her
shift of sheer lawn, like the sun veiled by the thinnest of summer clouds.

I saw that she had pulled the cushions from the settle and made
a nest before the fire. There was food and wine, and the sweet faintly balsamic
scent of the wax candles was like incense. She fumbled at my clothing, her
slender hands shaking. I caught them in my own, pressing a kiss to each before
dropping them to her lap and slipping off my doublet and shirt. She traced the
silvery scars on my chest while I removed the rest of my clothing, then raised
her face and kissed me. I took her there before the fire, slaking her lust, and
drowning my own appetites in her body and her blood. I left her before the
departure of Hal’s guests at midnight, promising to return soon. We continued
to meet thus once or twice a week, whenever Hal was preoccupied with his own
intrigues.

Not many weeks passed before Geoffrey felt the need to
interfere. He sent for me to attend him at Blackavar, and I rode through the
December gloom in a mood as foul as the weather. My cloak crackled with frozen
sleet as I dismounted in the icy courtyard and strode into the hall, looking
for Geoffrey. He was standing before the fire, and in no better mood than I.
Before I could open my mouth, he motioned me into the study.

“You
will cease to involve yourself in the affairs of the earls of Southampton, and
of Essex,” he said bluntly.

“But
I—” I began.

“That
is an order, not a request, Christopher.” Stunned, I turned to leave, but he
took my shoulder and spun me about, pushing my back against the door. His eyes
were like an icy dagger, glittering grey. All the years of frustration at being
restricted, regarded as a child, exploded in me then, and I shoved him away,
fumbling for the door-latch behind me. His blow came from my blind side,
knocking me to the floor. I rolled to my feet, and blocked the next blow, but
the strength of it caused me to stumble, and a third slap put me back on the
floor. Geoffrey hauled me to my feet and shook me like a terrier with a rat.
“You will not flout me, and you will do as I say,” he told me.

“May I speak?” I asked, choking on my anger and humiliation. He
nodded. “I am not involved with Essex at all,” I told him. “My involvement with
Hal, and with his wife, is of a personal nature. I do not intend to stop seeing
them.”

“Personal? Then see that it remains so,” he said, coldly. “You
must not dispute my custody, Christopher, and you must not contend with me. It
is a battle you cannot win. I do not enjoy hurting you, but I will, to keep our
family safe. Do you understand me?” I nodded, unable to speak. “Then, to show
that all is forgiven between us, will you share my bed?” I nodded again,
swallowing my pride, and followed him from the room. I knew it was his way of
exerting his dominion over me; though that shamed me, I wanted him as I had
wanted no other man, and would take whatever I could get. At least I
understood, now, why Tom would so often goad me to violence before we coupled.

Christmas had come and gone and January was passing. Although
Geoffrey and Rózsa were frequently to be found there, I had made only one visit
to the court, accompanied by my family, as we presented our gifts to the
Sovereign on Twelfth Night. Sylvie had attended Rózsa that night, as Richard
attended me, and she had scandalized the court by darting forward with her own
gift to the Queen. Elizabeth, who never forgot anything unless it suited her,
remembered the vibrant serving-girl from their brief meeting some years before,
and signaled that she should be allowed to approach. She accepted Sylvie’s gift,
a little pomander filled with rose-petals and sweetbrier, and beautifully
worked with a silken Tudor rose. Elizabeth thanked her gravely, and, tucking
the sachet into her bodice, said it was the sweetest gift she had that night.

As they did each year, Geoffrey and Nicolas had presented,
besides their more regular gifts, a sizable coffer of gold coin, with which
they bought our freedom from persecution in the matter of our family’s
non-attendance at the established church. I had given her a curious ivory and
ebony fan from far Cathay that folded into what amounted to a small club, and
the Queen made great use of it for the remainder of the night, finding it even
more efficient than the flat kind for administering quick corrections.

Essex was not there, and had sent word that his health did not
permit his participation, but rumor had it that it was the lack of an
invitation that had caused his illness.

On Twelfth Night, Richard had stayed as close to Kryštof ’s side
as his menial position allowed. A heavy-set man, with regular features and
light-brown close-cropped hair seemed to be watching his every move. Later,
catching Richard’s eye, he nodded and smiled, the sweet and innocent smile of a
child, and Richard had shuddered, happy to leave for home shortly thereafter.
He started to tell Kit about the occurrence, but when he tried to put the
thought into words it sounded silly.

In mid-January, while walking through the area around St.
Paul’s, Richard was arrested without warning and brought before the Secretary
Cecil in his austere office. Richard recognized the man waiting there, standing
just inside the door when the guards had shoved him into the room, as the
observer at the Twelfth Night’s court. Lord Robert, sitting behind his work
table and writing, signed the paper before him, sanded it and sealed it before
he glanced up at the young man before him.

“You are Richard Bowen? Yes. And employed as secretary to the
man styling himself Prince Kryštof of Sybria? Yes. What is your master’s
involvement with the Essex faction?” Richard stared at the small man in
amazement but said nothing. Cecil’s glance flicked for a second to the other
man, who leapt forward, catching Richard’s arm in his long and beautiful hands,
twisting it up until the young man cried out with shock and pain. “I see that
you are unwilling to help us,” Cecil said tranquilly, “so we shall have to find
means to persuade you.” He motioned the pair from the room with a wave of his
hand, and turned back to the papers on his desk.