Perfect Shadows (48 page)

“I saw Essex executed this day,” he said abruptly, and set his
cup on the hearth. “I watched from indoors, as my presence seemed to trouble
him; I learned later that he had asked to be reconciled at the end, and I
wasn’t there. The story is going about that I refused him. I would have gladly
reconciled with him, Kit, at anytime.”

“Yes, I know that, Wat, though, I do doubt that he would have
had such consideration for you, if the positions had been reversed,” I
commented sourly.

“No, I suppose that the urge to gloat would have overpowering.
He made a good end, after all, Kit, and recanted the craven statement he made
after the trial. But while I watched, as the axe was raised above his kneeling
form, something happened, and it seemed for a few seconds that I was out there,
climbing the scaffold to meet a traitor’s death. It was so vivid, I could smell
the straw they had placed to catch the blood, and see my breath on the air. The
ravens were racketing, and then, as I reached the top step, I was back behind
the glass, and Essex’s head fell into the straw. It took three blows to sever
his head, and the tavern-birds are even now making jokes about his stiff neck,”
he said, with a mirthless smile, and then shivered. “I think that I saw my own
death, Kit. Well, all must die sometime. Or most must,” he added with a
sidelong look at me.

“All must, Wat, even me. Someday.”

“You called that young man your cousin, but I recognized him as
your former servant, Bowen, though he seems much changed. He has become like
you, then?”

“He has. You are not frightened of us?”

“I am not frightened of you, Kit, and I do not see that you do
anyone harm. On the contrary, you seem to accomplish much that is good.”

Northumberland rubbed his hands together, then dipped a finger
into the pot of blood before him. He began tracing the complex lines and
circles of the conjuration on the stone floor of his new study, in the vault
under the ruins of the old chapel. Let his enemies try to burn this one down,
or even find it, he gloated to himself. Sommers was lighting the candles, black
with designs carved into them and filled with red wax. It was the last quarter
of the moon, most propitious for the spell he had in mind. He drew the last,
and most complex, symbol, then stepped from the circle, closing it after him.

He took the heavy Templar’s sword from Sommer’s hands and began
the antiphonal chants, while Sommers grunted the responses. Soon the
temperature in the stuffy chamber dropped, and Percy could see the puffs of his
breath with each word he spoke. In the center of the circle a cloud was forming,
more tenuous than his own vaporous breath at first, but gradually coalescing
into a human form. The transparent man stood gazing around the room, his sad
and frightened eyes taking in the earl and widening in recognition. “Harry?”
The lips formed the word, but the sound seemed to come from everywhere. Sommers
started, the sheen of sweat on his forehead glinting in the candlelight. He was
trembling, fear and excitement commingled. “Harry?” the apparition spoke again,
sounding like a lost child.

“Well, Robin,” Percy mumbled, his tongue suddenly thick in his
mouth.

“Am I not dead? What holds me here?”

“Thou art dead, Robin, and I hold thee here,” Percy answered,
then motioned Sommers forward to confront the reluctant spirit. “Do you see my
servant, Rob? He was once as you are now, a wandering ghost. I put him into the
flesh, and so I can do with you. A reward, perhaps, for your aid to me.”

“My reward is in Heaven, Harry, and there I had hoped to be ere
now. Of what aid may I be?”

“You know a great deal, and have the power to know even more. If
you do not wish a fleshly reward, there can still be punishment. I could encase
you in the body of a dwarf or other grotesque, and cast you adrift in the
world. You might get as far as Bedlam, a little mad thing raving that he is the
martyred wild Earl of Essex. What think you, my Robin? Would it not be a better
thing to help me willingly and then take your surcease of suffering forever?”
The distressed spirit cried out, then raised its hands in a gesture of
submission. Percy put his questions, and the spirit grew more and more
agitated, but brought forth the answers that he could not have known in life.

After a time Percy pronounced himself satisfied for the time
being and dismissed the spirit, who dissipated with a mournful cry. The earl
retired to his study to ponder what he had learned, and sent Sommers out to
secure a suitable monster to keep on hand should Robin become recalcitrant and
require an incentive in the future.

The first caress of Spring warmed the night air as I made the
rounds of the taverns, not for my own pleasure, but searching for Nashe, who
had vanished from the kitchen that afternoon. I had begun my search early that
evening, but it was now nearing ten. I slipped shadow-like into the Anchor,
although I truly couldn’t imagine that Tom could have come so far in his
condition. But there he was, laughing in the corner with some of Burbage’s men:
Armin, Phillips, and Shakespeare, whom I had met several times before while on
the prowl. Tom saw me come in and gestured wildly at me.

“Kit!” he called, almost falling across the table. Will caught
him and returned him gently to his seat. Armin made room at the table, glancing
at Nashe with that sort of amused contempt that the sober reserve for the tipsy.
“I told you that he was a ghost, and now you all see that I was right,” Nashe
continued. “Tell them, Kit. Tell them that you area ghost. You see, Will? I
always told you that you could meet more things walking in this world than you
could ever dream of. . . .” his head sank down on his arms and he began to
snore gently.

Shakespeare turned his quizzical gaze on me. “He thinks that you
are his dead friend,” he said quietly. “Robin, Gus, this is Christopher Dare.
Dare, Robin Armin and Augustine Phillips, whom you may have seen on the boards.
What brings you to the Anchor?”

“I was looking for Nashe. He is very ill, and is being cared for
by a foreigner, Prince Kryštof. He bade me look for Nashe and bring him home.
The prince much admired
The Unfortunate Traveller
, being so often a
traveler himself,” I added by way of explanation.

“Well, God send us all such a friend in our need,” Phillips
said. “Here, I didn’t mean—” he protested as I pulled out my purse, then
shrugged and let me pay the bill for them all. Armin had vanished, but
reappeared a few minutes later just as we got Nashe outside. He had hired a
cart to take the unconscious man back to Chelsey. Armin and Phillips took their
leave, but Shakespeare insisted upon accompanying the cart, and we rode along smoking
companionably, until Will suddenly broke the silence.

“I’m curious—what is your connection with this foreign prince?”
he asked.

“I met him one night when he was set upon by thieves,” I
answered carefully, “and he has been good enough since to offer me occasional
employment.”

“Odd, isn’t it, that you both should be one-eyed and left
handed,” Will said, peering into the darkness ahead of us, and then changing
the subject abruptly. “It’s odder still that Nashe should name you Marlowe,” he
said. “You haven’t the look of him at all, as I remember him, and certainly he
had not your courtesy. Ah, well, he is dead and gone, and Nashe nearly so, poor
toad. If I may be of any service to you—to your lord, he has only to ask, ”Will
finished as we turned into the manor yard, and I swung down from the cart. Rhys
stepped out to greet us, and take the unconscious Nashe from the cart to the
kitchen. Shakespeare started to refuse the coin I pressed upon him, but
accepted with a laugh when I suggested he stand a round for the players. I
stood watching until the cart rumbled out of sight, then turned to the house.

When I reached the kitchen, I found that Nashe had awakened. The
little man smiled drunkenly at me, and then without warning began to cry.
Sylvana knelt beside him, and he threw himself into her arms, burying his face
in her shoulder. Leaning forward, I was able to make the broken words: “I want
to go home, oh, I want to go home.” At my touch upon his shoulder Nashe looked
up, still crying unashamedly. He took the proffered handkerchief, and blew his
nose, which set him to coughing violently. When the spasm had passed he was
calmer, clearly worn out. “I—I want to see my mother, Kit. Might I go and see
her?”

“Yes, Tom, I’ll make the arrangements, and you can leave in the
morning. Sylvana? Will you and Jehan take Tom to his mother’s tomorrow? Good.
Now, you must rest for your journey, Tom. Go to sleep.” I smoothed the damp
stubbly hair back from my old friend’s brow, and looked questioningly at
Sylvana, who sadly shook her head. Nashe, almost asleep, laughed suddenly.

“Yes,” he said. “I can sleep now. Thank you for being a ghost,
Kit! I’m not at all afraid to sleep now, not at all afraid,” he said. He closed
his eyes, and died. I could see the life leave him, soft as a sigh, and Sylvan
laid him tenderly back into his bed, her tears falling gently upon his ravaged,
peaceful face.

“Take him tomorrow to—to Lowestoft, to be buried there,” I said
shortly, dredging the name of the town out of my memory with no little
difficulty. I left the house to walk in the darkness by the river until the
coming dawn drove me back indoors to an uneasy rest.

The next night found me back in the Tower. I detached myself
from the shadows near the door and crossed Southampton’s prison room. The
guests that had thronged there earlier had drifted away, and Hal, sitting alone
at his table, his forehead resting on his hands, startled as my cool fingers
touched his temples, massaging and soothing away the headache I suspected was
throbbing there.

“You are reckless, Kit. You shouldn’t have come,” Hal began,
leaning his head back against me, and letting his hands fall laxly into his
lap.

“That is most likely true,” I agreed, tugging at the strings
holding Hal’s collar, and tossing it to the table. Hal shrugged out of his
doublet and slung it into the corner, sighing as my hands went to work on the
knotted muscles in his neck and shoulders. “A full half of your guests here
tonight were Cecil’s spies, and I do not imagine that I escaped the notice of
one of them, let alone all. Diabolus will know within the hour, and the Queen
within the day, no doubt. But we have tonight, or at least an hour of it.”

“And just how do you propose to leave? The door is bolted. What
will you do, call a guard and ask to be let out?”

“If necessary, yes. I have a . . . friend among the guards,” I
answered easily, smiling slightly at the thought of the handsome young man.

“I hate this!” Hal burst out. “I begin to think that Robin was
the more fortunate, after all. Every time that bolt is shot, it is as if a part
of me dies.” He indicated the comfortably furnished room. “This is still
prison, and all the sharper when visitors go and I must stop. And the queen,
every time she passes between Richmond and Whitehall, has the cannon fired in
salute and mocks my captivity with a fanfare! I think I shall go mad!” He rose
and faced me, as if to emphasize the change of subject. “Did you know that
Libby is pregnant?”

“I had heard, yes.”

“Mine, or yours?” Hal’s eyes glittered and his fists clenched,
as I took a step backward.

“What, Hal? Horn-mad at last?” My tone was easy, but I tensed
and stood lightly, ready to take action if necessary. “The child is most
unlikely to be mine,” I continued. “I am unlikely to father a child, or so I am
told,” I said, relaxing somewhat as Hal settled back onto the stool, his back
to the table.

“Mad, at least, so why not horn-mad?” Hal muttered, then smiled
sheepishly up at me. “It was Harry Percy asked if I was certain of my
children’s father. I should have known that it was naught but spite and malice.
What ever did you do to him?”

“He did me a great wrong once, and has never forgiven me for
it,” I said. “I did not expect him to drag you into the middle of our enmity,
although it seems an obvious enough ploy, after all.” I considered a moment,
then grinned. “But I didn’t come here to discuss the likes of Harry Percy, I
assure you!” I reached for him and we tumbled together onto his bed.

The sound of the bolt being shot back roused me from the
languorous aftermath of lovemaking and feeding. Hal mumbled, reluctant to stir.
I had just enough time to straighten my clothing before Cecil stepped into the
room. “You should not have spurned me, when I told you there were stronger
foundations than trust. Now, your grace,” he said, quietly, “now I have you.”
He motioned to the guards behind him, and they flanked me while Cecil led the
way. I glanced back over my shoulder to Hal’s pale, troubled face. I shrugged,
and though he answered my defiant grin with one of his own, it never reached
his eyes.

Geoffrey awaited us in the small room that served as Cecil’s
office at the Tower. I stood absolutely still just within the door, not meeting
his eyes, while Cecil crossed to his desk. He dismissed the guards, then took a
paper from a stack and handed it to Geoffrey. Geoffrey advanced on me, his
expression one of cold, controlled, fury. “You will sign this, Kryštof,” he
told me, his voice edged with contempt.