Perfect Shadows (9 page)

When I awoke I was in darkness once more. The candle had
guttered out and the smell of the smoking wick brought a burdensome memory: the
cavernous great cathedral, the scent of wax candles and incense, a show of
outward piety rotted from within by secret vice. I could feel the alderman’s
sweaty hands roaming my recoiling body, feel his hot, panting breath as he
pawed the child that I had been—I stifled a cry at the memory and the sound of
my own voice calmed me. Whatever it was, whenever it may have happened, it was
not now. And then the memories were gone, vanished into shadow like the light
of a blown-out candle. I knew that I had remembered something, but not what. I
threw myself against the restraints as if I could physically grasp the
memories, catch them and hold them if only I were free! In a frighteningly
short time, I was too exhausted to move, and slumped in my bonds. A sheen of
sweat covered me, chilling my flesh, so that my skin glistened in the sudden
light of the candle the heavy-set man carried as he entered.

“Nicolas!” I called out and laughed. “Nicolas.”

“My dear young friend! You remember me! What—”

“No. No, I do but remember that that name goes with that face: I
know you not.”

“But it is a beginning. And what have you been doing to so
exercise yourself?” he asked, pulling a large handkerchief from the sleeve of
his doublet and mopping at my brow.

“Remembering,” I said, wryly. He smiled at that and turned back
to the door. When he returned to the bed he proceeded to feed me as before. As
we finished a serving man entered bearing a tray laden with shaving apparatus.
The servant shaved me and combed out the dark curls that lay over my shoulders,
then retired.

“I am half blind—why?” I asked softly.

“You lost the eye when you were injured,” Nicolas said gently
and tied a black silk patch to cover the empty socket. He held a mirror that I
might study the effect. I looked into the face of a stranger, not unhandsome,
and the eye-patch gave my countenance a sinister air of which I thoroughly
approved.

“And now, my friend, do you feel up to meeting our host?”
Nicolas beamed at me.

“Then you are not—yes, I feel quite well. May I not be freed
first?”

He shook his head gravely. “No, that is for him to say. He has
much experience with injuries and illnesses such as yours and will know best.
Now rest yourself and I shall bring him.” It was only a few minutes later that
Nicolas returned with a man of overwhelming presence. He was tall and well
built with the lithe grace of a professional duelist, and like a duelist, he
radiated a sense of inherent danger. His clothing, somewhat conservative, was
of impeccable cut and somber in color. His full-cut trousers met high boots of
supple leather; his black satin doublet was richly embroidered with gold
thread. His shirt was of black silk, and even his falling band of cobweb-lawn
had been dyed sable. It set off perfectly the pallor of his complexion and the
tawny gold of his hair, tied into lovelocks with silk ribbons and flowing over
his right shoulder in rippling waves to his waist. In his left earlobe he wore
a cabochon ruby the color of blood, and a gold ring on the little finger of his
right hand.

His penetrating glance looked out from under finely arched
brows, his slate-grey eyes were shadowed by his long lashes and wide-set under
a high forehead with a pronounced widow’s peak. When I realized that I was
gaping like a bumpkin I flushed and looked away for a second, but my gaze was
drawn irresistibly back to this man, my host. Beside him, Nicolas looked like a
squat bundle of laundry and I guessed that I myself would appear but a callow
stripling. I certainly felt like one.

The man crossed the room to sit familiarly on the side of my bed
and smiled. His mouth sensitive, and his voice, when he spoke, was resonant and
deep, his English perfect, though with an odd intonation. “I am Geoffrey of
Brittany. Welcome to my house, Christopher Marlowe.”

Marlowe . . . Marlowe . . . the name echoed in my mind. Yes, I
was Marlowe, the darling of the playhouses. Images flashed before me: a
playhouse stage before a shouting crowd; a beautiful young man with eyes of
harebell-blue reaching up a slender hand to sweep his golden hair from his
sulky mouth; an older man’s sullen, envious face; a woman dark as the boy had
been fair, radiating a refined sensuality that could rouse a man three days
dead; then the memories slipped away again, taunting me. I shook my head to
clear it and smiled weakly back at my host. “Might I be loosed now, my lord?”

“Please, call me Geoffrey. Yes, I think that you may, upon your
word not to leave your bed without either Nicolas or myself beside you, until I
say you may. Do you so promise?”

“Yes,” I said, eagerly. Within a few minutes I was free of the
restraints that had held me so long; I brought my hands together, rubbing them
slowly, although there was little of the numbness I had expected. I puzzled a
bit over the ring I found upon my right little finger, an amethyst intaglio,
the head of a handsome man in the classical style, set in gold. It was a fellow
to the one that Geoffrey, and, as I now noted, Nicolas also wore.

“Now, we shall see if you are up to taking a few steps, yes?
Good.” I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stood in one motion. A wave
of dizziness swept over me. I swayed and might have crashed to the floor if
Geoffrey had not caught me and set me gently back upon the bed.

“Not so fast, my young friend! You have been long abed, and must
expect to take some time to find your feet again,” Nicolas exclaimed. I nodded,
laughing ruefully, and took the proffered arm, managing only a few wobbly steps
before Geoffrey peremptorily ordered me back to bed. Again I felt the lethargy
stealing over me, and as I drifted into a heavy sleep I heard him murmur to
Nicolas “He does well. Another day of rest and he will be strong enough to. ..
.” and then sleep claimed me.

When I woke, still in darkness, the novelty of freedom overtook
me. Almost without volition I sat up on the edge of the bed, my feet a few
inches from the floor. My promise to Geoffrey slipped through my mind, but I
felt so much stronger, and he would never know . . . abruptly I threw myself
back onto the pillows, resigned to wait.

“Very good, you do well to remember and obey,” Geoffrey said
softly in the darkness. I started, and was so overwhelmed by relief that I had
not pressed my folly that I could think of nothing to reply. Geoffrey silently
left the room, returning minutes later with a candle and a cup on a tray. I
took the cup, peered at it doubtfully and sipped. It was the same substance as
before, rich and flavorful, though only lukewarm. I cleared my throat and
Geoffrey, who had busied himself lighting the room’s many candles turned to
look at me quizzically.

“I think I may be ready for more solid food?” I said and flushed
to hear what I had meant to be a statement twist itself into a question.
Geoffrey shook his head kindly but said nothing.” What is this potion, if I may
ask?”

“Oh, you may ask what you will, but I only answer what I
choose,” Geoffrey said curtly. He stepped to the door and handed me a bundle
that had been laying there. I drained the cup and opened the parcel, which
contained princely clothing that had most probably once belonged to him. I
became suddenly conscious of my nakedness before him, and swiftly shook out and
donned the shirt. It was cream-colored silk and finer than anything I had ever
worn, of that much I was certain. There were full-cut trousers, rather than the
trunk-hose I’d unconsciously expected, to tuck into leather boots lined with
fleece, but no hose or stockings. The doublet, like the trousers, was a deep
garnet-red velvet, embroidered with gold and pearls. When I was dressed,
Geoffrey offered his hand and helped me rise. I felt considerably stronger and
steadier than I had the previous day and eagerly agreed when Geoffrey suggested
that I seemed well enough to walk downstairs. We stopped on the landing of the
wide staircase to allow me to rest, as I found navigating the stairs difficult,
having no depth perception. I saw through the oriel windows that it was night.
There was snow on the ground, but the sky was clear and dominated by the full
moon, which bathed the scene in unearthly light. I stared, entranced, until
Geoffrey coughed softly behind me.

“Your pardon,” I smiled, “but it is beautiful.”

“And you are a poet,” he nodded. A poet, was I? Oh, yes,
Marlowe, so they told me, however unlikely it seemed. We continued down the
stairs, through the hall and into a small nearby room. A fire was burning
brightly, and before it my friend Nicolas was sitting with a woman. Nicolas
bounced to his feet when he spied us and offered his chair. I took it, but kept
my gaze upon the woman. She was beautiful, but not the dark woman of my
fleeting vision. Her hair was white-blonde, framing the face of a Flemish
Madonna and falling unbound over a body that would be the envy of a Venetian
courtesan. Her clothing was well cut, less revealing than court costume, but
revealing enough. Nicolas went to stand behind her chair, leaning over to rest
his hands on her shoulders. “This is Anneke, my wife,” he said proudly.
“Anneke, this is my English friend, Christopher Marlowe.” We exchanged
pleasantries for a few minutes, but I was distracted by an odd phenomenon:
Anneke seemed almost to glow with a visible light. I found myself leaning
towards her, and the sudden desire to touch her, to bring her pulsing wrist to
my lips, almost overpowered me.

“Christopher!” Geoffrey’s voice was sharp, slinging me back in
my chair. I looked up in confusion as Nicolas helped Anneke to her feet. I
started to mutter an apology, but he waved it aside.

“I understand, Kit, as does Anneke, better than you do yourself
just now. Geoffrey, I agree: it is time. I will return soon.” The prince
nodded, crossing the room to sit in the chair next to mine, and eyed me
thoughtfully.

The fire in the hearth whispered. Outside, beyond the shrouded
window, the only sound was the occasional snap and fall of a branch
overburdened with ice.

“I do not like it, Christopher,” he said, “But I must force your
memory. Were we at my home in Sybria I could spare you the time, but Brittany
is no longer safe.”

“There is danger?”

“There is always some danger, but now doubled,” he said
impatiently. I realized that when such a mood was upon him, one did not safely
question Geoffrey. After a moment he continued. “You must be made to remember.
If you can. I must learn your limits and your abilities, and determine if you
are a peril to us.” I did not need to be told my fate should Geoffrey perceive
my existence as a threat. “You have always been a passionate, impetuous man,
volatile, reckless, and self-destructive. If that part of your nature has
survived and increased without tempering, you will be a continuing danger to
us.” Geoffrey stood and began to pace again.

Within minutes Nicolas returned and drew another chair up to the
fire on my other side, as Geoffrey took his former place. We were silent for a
time, until I could bear it no longer.

“What has happened to me? I do not—” Geoffrey cut me off with an
abrupt gesture.

“It would be better, perhaps, to let you remember at your own
pace, but that I cannot do—” he broke off and it took every ounce of control I
could muster not to reveal my impatience. He shrugged slightly and continued.
“I must tell you that forcing your memory may drive you into madness, and such
a madness as would compel me to destroy you to protect others; doubt not that I
would do so,” he reiterated. Somehow I did not doubt it in the least. “Look at
the portrait,” Geoffrey stood and lit the candles on the mantel, throwing a
golden light onto the painting over it. I stood to view it and gasped.

That was the woman from my memory; the wide-set smoky dark eyes,
the finely modeled face with its dark sweeping brows, long straight nose, and
slightly disdainful mouth over a chin a bit too prominent for classical beauty,
all setoff by the abundant glossy waves of russet-black hair. But the painting
couldn’t capture the sophisticated carnality, the passion that had permeated my
vision.

“We were staying at the Mayor’s house in London; there you saw
her first,” Nicolas spoke softly.

I realized that I was sitting again—my knees had given out. I
took up the narrative in a voice suddenly hoarse and toneless. “The night
before the Lord Mayor’s Twelfth Night Masque.” The surging memories of my final
months of life almost overwhelmed me in their sudden clarity, faster and
faster, flooding my mind, drowning my will, until Frizer’s dagger plunged at my
face and a scream tore at my throat, though no sound came forth. I felt myself
falling, but couldn’t raise a hand, crippled with shock and terror. I welcomed
the darkness that rose up to swallow me.

I awoke in darkness, bound once more and this time gagged as
well. As my consciousness returned so did memory, and memory was intolerable.
My muscles knotted and I bucked against my bonds in convulsion, but my
awareness did not forsake me. When the attack passed I remained conscious,
though sweat-soaked and exhausted. Twice more the agony racked me, each time
growing a little less savage. As I came out of the third seizure I realized the
room was candlelit and I was no longer alone. Nicolas sat on the foot of the
bed watching me compassionately. Restrained as I was, I could only look at him.
After a few minutes had passed with no further paroxysms Nicolas stood and
removed the gag. “Why?” I asked, in a voice cracked with fatigue.