Perfect Shadows (42 page)

“It is much more fun, my lady, to swagger
through the streets of London as a man. Have you never tried it? Oh, but you
must!” Libby stared open mouthed at the idea, her mind whirling. Could she? She
had spent all her life in a cage, making her little rounds, beating her wings
against the bars, first in her father’s house, and then at Elizabeth’s court.
The only time she had broken free was when she had followed her heart with Hal,
and that had led her into pregnancy and the Fleet prison. He had rescued her,
and then led her back to the cage, his cage, this time, but from the inside,
she thought bitterly, the view was the same.

The sudden urge to break free overwhelmed her. Hal had been so
busy these last weeks, and except for the visits from the Prince Kryštof, Libby
had been lonely indeed; even Penelope, her best friend, had been too
preoccupied with her own fears and affairs to offer comfort or distraction.
“Yes, if you will help me, I will! Tonight!” she cried out impetuously and fled
from the room, beckoning Rózsa to follow. Hal was still closeted with Robin and
the others at Essex House, dithering over what to do about a summons that had
come that morning for Robin to appear before the council. He had declared
illness, and sent for Hal. And Hal had gone without a backward look.

Libby faltered for a moment, fearing that the time had come when
the company would launch whatever witless and dangerous scheme they had been
concocting, but she wrenched her mind back to the present and the proposed
escapade. Anything to stop thinking, to stop the visions of Hal’s beautiful
head topping a pole on London Bridge, that long thick hair stiff and lifeless
on the breeze— she bit hard on a knuckle, then turned with a bright brittle
smile to her companion. They were in Hal’s dressing room, and Libby began
pulling things from the chests and cupboards, flinging them to the floor like a
naughty child. Rózsa started to pick things up out of the muddle, and soon had
an outfit assembled. These were things that Hal had worn and discarded as he
had grown, hopelessly out of fashion and too small for him now, though still a
little large for Libby. Rózsa played lady’s maid, stripping the giggling girl
down to her shift, which was short enough to leave on under the shirt and
doublet, and her corset did an admirable job of flattening her firm breasts.
Rózsa helped her into the hose and trunk-hose, laced the doublet and tied the
points, then reached for the soft cuffs and the falling band of cobweb lawn.
The trunk-hose and doublet were midnight blue velvet, trimmed in narrow gold
braid, setting off the girl’s red-golden coloring to perfection, though it must
have been somewhat somber against the darker coloring of the earl. With a sudden
chill, Libby recalled Hal wearing the outfit at a court funeral, but she shook
off the ill-omened thought and concentrated on stamping her feet into the
riding boots she had fetched from her own rooms. Rózsa smiled approvingly and
helped to comb and curl the long hair into a dandy’s lovelocks. She stood back
to study her handiwork, clucking as she noticed what was missing. A quick
question caused Libby to gasp, but she answered, and then had to stifle the
giggles as Rózsa buckled the sword on her, adjusting the baldric with a
practiced hand.

“Where shall we go?” she asked, and Libby faced her in surprise.

“You don’t mean—I only meant to—” she broke off at Rózsa’s soft
laugh.

“All that work, and you don’t want to show it off? Come, I know
just the place, and it is not far. The ground has frozen, so we may easily
walk,” she added, then settled the cloak around the trembling girl’s shoulders,
pinning it firmly. She donned her own cape and the two set off, hiring a link
to light their way.

The tavern was crowded that Saturday evening, the whirl of
colors and smells nearly overwhelming the bewildered girl as she followed Rózsa
to a small table set in an alcove. A woman was dancing on a nearby table,
wearing only a flimsy shift, while the men surrounding her beat time with their
fists on the tabletop, almost drowning out the pipe and drum that supplied the
music. Someone shouted a word that Libby didn’t catch, and the woman began to
spin wildly, the men counting the turns that she made, and placing bets. On the
forty-third she missed her footing and collapsed laughing onto the lap of one
of the men at the table, who kissed her before good-naturedly paying up on his
lost wager. His hand dropped to fondle the woman’s breast through the thin
cloth of her shift, and then he stood, tossing the wench over his shoulder like
a sack of grain, working his way towards a stair at the back of the room,
slapping her buttocks when she struggled. Raucous laughter and rude comments
marked his progress, and Libby felt herself blush. She lifted the tankard of
Rhennish that Rózsa had ordered for her, and sipped to hide her embarrassment.
She picked at her plate of cold beef and cheese, too excited to eat. The wine
was starting aglow in the pit of her stomach, and she recklessly downed the remainder
and asked for another. She was beginning to be drunk, and she reveled in the
feeling of freedom that she had, joining in on the chorus of the popular catch
that was being sung, her clear treble rising above the coarse voices around
them, and attracting the attention of one or two. She fell silent as a looming
shape cut off the light.

“What’s two pretty gallants like you doing out all alone?” the
man slurred, reeking of stale beer and tobacco, as well as other less pleasant
smells. He stretched a filthy hand to catch Libby’s chin, and she shrank away
from him, sobered and fearful, but he never touched her. Too swiftly for her to
follow, Rózsa had the bully against the wall, a drawn dagger in her hand, point
up and buried in the scraggly beard under the man’s weak chin. His eyes crossed
as he tried to look at her, the whining sound he made dying in his throat as a
drop of blood ran down the bright blade. Rózsa skipped back in disgust as the
frightened man’s piss splashed from his clothing and into the rushes at her
feet. His eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted, sliding down the wall to
sit in his mess. She leant forward long enough to daintily clean her blade on
his jerkin before sheathing it. Her eyes swept the room as the music started
again, but no one met her gaze. She shrugged, offering Libby her hand and
pulling her from the bench to her feet. Libby’s knees were shaking so that she
wondered if she would be able to stand, let alone walk, but she managed,
following her new friend from the tavern. Rózsa paid with a tossed coin, and
scooped the two flasks she had bespoken earlier as they made their way out.

“Do you want to go home?” she asked Libby as they paused to
breath the cold clean outside air. Libby shook her head, her eyes bright in the
flickering light of the lantern. Rózsa nodded. “I have rooms near here, if you
would—”

“Oh, yes! I would—I mean, I do not want to go back. Hal will not
be home for hours yet.” Rózsa led the way to her comfortable lodgings not far
from the Strand. The rooms were well proportioned, and fires of fragrant woods
burned, mingling their scents with the sweet smell of the beeswax candles.
Libby struggled with the fastening of her cloak, crying out as she ran the pin
deep into her finger, and letting the cloak fall to the floor. Rózsa took the
injured hand in hers, the welling blood glistening like a large ruby as she
gently raised it to her lips, kissing the fingertip and sucking the blood from
the wound. Libby shivered uncontrollably, her mind drawn back to her first days
at court as the most junior of the Maids of Honor, and how Robin’s sister
Penelope, now Lady Rich, had taken her in, sheltering her from the malice of
the other, less beautiful, maids, even taking the frightened child into her own
bed. She leaned against her new friend, turning her face up to be kissed,
pulling her hand away from those seductive lips, to tangle in the woman’s hair,
drawing her into the kiss.

Rózsa hesitated only a scant second before returning the
embrace, her arms slipping around the smaller woman, her teeth instinctively
pressing against the throbbing vein in the lovely neck before she forced
herself back: Libby was Kit’s property.

“Rózsa,” Libby whispered, her face flaming, “I need to—I
mean—”she floundered for a moment before Rózsa came to her rescue.

“Yes, that is the difficulty with the clothing. We, unlike the
men, must unlace everything before using the necessary. Come, I will help you,”
she added, leading her to the bed waiting in the next room. Libby sank into the
sanctuary it offered, with its warmed sheets scented with lavender, the
well-filled and soft feather bed, and a fleecy coverlet.

“It’s odd,” she said, “but I feel protected, safe, for the first
time in, oh, months.” Rózsa unlaced the borrowed doublet, and pulled loose the
points that fastened it to the trunk-hose, then reached under the bed for the
jordan. As a vampire, she had no use for such an item, but her guests
frequently had. While Libby relieved herself, Rózsa went to the door of the
outer room and called out. A very handsome young man answered the call within
minutes, and removed the used pot. Rózsa spoke quietly to him for a moment,
then sent him on his way.

She returned to the bedroom, stripped to her shirt, and sat on
the edge of the bed, the firelight gilding her long legs. Trembling, Libby
stroked the curve of Rózsa’s small breasts through the fine linen of the shirt,
then giggled nervously. She tried to control herself, clamping her mouth shut,
but the sound escaped through her nose. She opened her mouth to apologize, and
to her horror, she hiccuped loudly. A smile quirked the corner of Rózsa’s
mouth, and Libby threw up her hands, abandoning herself to a fit of the
giggles, punctuated with hiccups. Rózsa patted the shaking shoulders for a
moment, then fetched a small box from the mantel. Libby’s eyes widened as Rózsa
took a small pipe in the shape of a dragon from the box and began loading it
with a crumbly green-brown substance. Rózsa smiled.

“Did your husband never teach you to smoke? Men are such selfish
brutes, sometimes. It is quite easy,” she added, and lit the pipe with a taper
from the chest by the bed. She passed the pipe to Libby, teaching her to draw
in the smoke without choking, and to hold it before exhaling.

“It doesn’t smell like Hal’s pipes,” Libby ventured doubtfully,
and Rózsa nodded. “That’s right. It’s hashish, a habit brought to Sybria more
than a century ago by the Turk. Tobacco is a stimulant, but this will help you
to relax. Here, bend forward a moment: that corset must be uncomfortable.” She
deftly unlaced the rigid garment and cast it to the floor, then settled herself
against the head of the bed, resting Libby’s head on her shoulder. They talked
for a time, slipping into their lovemaking and out as sleekly as otters dipping
in and out of water, and Rózsa was unable to resist her appetite a second time.
She felt the pulsing vein beneath her teeth, and before she was aware of her
act the sweet blood filled her mouth as Libby’s cries of pleasure and release filled
her ears. Still mindful of Kit’s title to this beauty, she took but little,
though she was loth to leave when she felt the pull of the impending dawn. At
length she roused herself and gently shook her sleeping companion. Libby’s eyes
were heavy, and she felt languid and enervated. Rózsa leaned over and kissed
her deeply, then pulled her to her feet.

“Come, I must see you safely home,” she said softly, and helped
Libby dress before swiftly donning her own clothing. The false dawn colored the
east as Rózsa kissed Libby at the gates of Drury House, and left with the
servant that had accompanied them.

Libby was still standing in the courtyard, leaning against the
gate and watching her new friend out of sight when a rider sped past her, and
she recognized the livery of the Earl of Essex. A thrill of foreboding went
through her, and she slipped out of the gate and followed the messenger the
short distance to Essex House, pulling her hat further down her forehead and
joining the throng milling about in the earl’s courtyard. Feeling light-headed,
she had fallen asleep leaning against the wall, only to be awakened by
gunshots. An outcry of murder was raised, but it was only Blount, Essex’s
stepfather firing wildly at Ralegh where he and Gorges sat talking in skiffs on
the river, trying to defuse the situation.

Shortly after, three men arrived, with only a small retinue. She
recognized Egerton, who had had the keeping of Essex after his rash return from
Ireland, and also the Lord Chief Justice Popham.  The third was Robin’s
uncle, William Knollys. They entered the house, though their servants were made
to wait outside the gate, and once more there was the cry that a plot had been
uncovered against Essex and the Queen. There were shouted demands that the
three be killed, led by one Gilly Mericke whom Libby had always despised for a
reckless rattlepate, but cooler spirits prevailed, and the three courtiers were
held hostage. Robin made ready to lead his men to the City, some horsed, but
the rest ignominiously on foot, as the arrival of their enemies had taken them
off guard.

Libby, not believing what was happening, shouldered a large man
aside as he prepared to mount, snatching the reins and swinging herself astride
into the saddle. The dispossessed man, seeing by the clothing that the usurper
was a noble, swallowed his protest, and went off looking for someone of lesser
rank that he could treat similarly. Libby kneed the horse and followed the
others, her thoughts reeling. Was Robin mad? His brain must have softened, to think
that this was going to lead anywhere but to the Tower and thence to the block.
Once again the horrible image of Hal’s severed head on a pole overwhelmed her
but she was jerked back as her horse stumbled, and she reined up a moment to
regain her balance, marveling at the security of her seat and the ease of
riding in this fashion; she would certainly keep this in mind, she thought,
urging the recalcitrant nag forward.