Perfect Shadows Part 15

On Twelfth Night, Richard had stayed as close to Krytof '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 Krytof of Sybria? Yes. What is your master's involvement with the Ess.e.x 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.

Deacon jerked the door open and dragged the resisting prisoner out into the pa.s.sage, where two men waited to aid in the removal. There were a score of witnesses, pet.i.tioners hoping to see Lord Robert, but they appeared blind to the struggle before them, conversing in quiet voices as the young man was dragged away, down into the dark and damp second cellars beneath Cecil's house, where he was thrust into an airless cell and left. The key turned in the lock with the sound of a falling axe.

It was nearly a week later that Cecil made his way down to those cellars to review the progress of this recalcitrant prisoner for himself. He had been called out of the city for a few days, and unable to supervise the interrogation. He had read the regular and unsatisfactory reports, but they had not prepared him for the sight that met his eyes in the little torture chamber that he preferred to call the questioning room. The young man was tied to the wall, his broken and swollen hands raised above his head, and his back no more than b.l.o.o.d.y strips of skin, flayed by the whip in Deacon's hand. The blows still fell with a wet, rhythmic sound. Deacon's eyes were glazed, and his breeches drooped around his knees. Cecil, his gorge rising, saw that the man was fondling himself with his other hand. As his mouth opened to demand that this iniquity cease, Deacon was suddenly plucked backward as though he were pulled by a rope, and over the startled man's shoulder Cecil saw the face of the one-eyed Sybrian prince, wild and furious in the flickering light, his lips twisted into an animal snarl. Cecil took an involuntary step back against the wall at the sight, as the prince, with a swift and utterly effortless motion, twisted Deacon's head around entirely backwards on his thick neck, then let him fall, kicking him out of the way as he went to Richard. He broke the manacles holding the victim as if they were made of piecrust and caught the young man as he fell, mercifully unconscious. The prince turned another inarticulate snarl on Cecil where he cowered against the wall, before taking his burden and vanishing up the stairs like a shadow.

When his breathing returned to normal, Cecil called for help. The three answering grooms found him stooping over Deacon's dead body, and he rose at their approach. The corpse's breeches were still tangled about its knees. The tiny p.e.n.i.s, scarcely bigger than a woman's little finger, jutted obscenely up from his hairless groin.

"He fell down the stairs," Cecil snapped, fighting down his nausea to answer the servants' questions. The men looked doubtfully at the stairway, eighteen feet away and through a door, but nodded when Cecil repeated adamantly that the man had fallen down the stairs. He gave orders for the room to be cleaned, and the equipment it held dismantled. He found the pages that had been written while the prisoner had been yet able to talk, to answer the questions put to him, and retired to his office to study them. He poured himself a draught of wine, considered a moment, then doubled it, before settling down to read.

The next evening, just after he called for the candles to be lit, Cecil realized that he was not alone. He gave a convulsive start and blinked at the long and jagged blot his pen had left on his page.

"I think, my lord Secretary, that we had better deal plainly with one another," Krytof said, from his seat in the shadowy corner.

"Yes," Cecil agreed, gathering his thoughts and facing his uninvited guest. "I think we better had." He considered a moment, then rapped out, "What business is it that brings you, night after night, to Drury House?"

"The Earl of Southampton," Krytof answered carefully, "has a very beautiful wife." Cecil stifled a wild desire to laugh. Was this all it truly amounted to? A bit of scandal and servant's gossip? He shuffled through the papers before him, fishing for the report of the bribed servant inside Southampton's establishment. He flipped the deposition to the top of the pile and scanned it quickly, clucking to himself at the contents, a list of the names of those closeted with the earls. Prince Krytof's name was notable by its absence, though prominent enough upon the list of those seen entering. He carefully folded the papers away, tucking them into a small bra.s.sbound chest, and removing two or three large and much blotted sheets.

Cecil cleared his throat, wishing that the foreign prince would bring the distasteful subject into the conversation, but he just sat, regarding the little man with his glittering eye. Cecil cleared his throat again, and took the plunge.

"My lord, the questioning of your secretary was never meant to end so. He was to be shown the instruments, and only the boot was to be used, as his hands were valuable to you-" he broke off as the man lunged from his stool, his face a mask of wrath. Cecil s.n.a.t.c.hed at the bell to summon the footmen, but found that it rested in the prince's hands, its bra.s.s gleaming dully in the candlelight. He watched in horror as those long and slender fingers twisted the heavy metal, wadding it as if it were paper, letting it fall with a m.u.f.fled thump to the carpeted floor. His own hands clutched the papers he held and he made himself smooth them out on the table before continuing. "I am sorry, your grace, and I do hope that the young man may recover. Deacon should not have been allowed so free a hand, I see that now, of course. I did not know that he was mad, and certain matters kept me from overseeing him as thoroughly as I should." He dragged his eyes from the papers before him to the face of the prince, to find that the man had righted his stool and once again sat across the table from him. He considered the face of his guest for a time before continuing.

"Deacon died of a fall down the cellar steps that broke his neck," he stated finally. "This is the only copy of the transcript made of Richard Bowen's questioning, my lord, and I give it to you. He is a courageous young man, perhaps foolishly so. He broke at last, and answered the questions, but not before his mind had given way. The answers he made are meaningless; he seemed to be remembering scenes from his childhood in Wales." Cecil handed the papers to Krytof, who took the stained pages, and folded them away without looking at the contents. Cecil's thin cheeks burned as he remembered the man's disability, but the prince merely nodded, and left the room. The secretary sat for a moment, considering whether to call his guest back, to receive the other pages the chest held, the 'confession' that Percy had wrung from this same Bowen that Twelfth Night several years ago. He made his decision and deftly folded the papers away. One never knew when they might be needed, after all.

Chapter 27.

My face wet with tears, I gently laid Richard's bandaged body on the bed that Sylvana had made for him, knowing that there was no hope that the boy would recover from this ordeal. If only we had known where he was, that it was Cecil and not Percy who was holding the boy, we could have saved precious days, and probably his life. If he had been my lover, or Rozsa's, there would have been a bond that would have led us to him, but there was nothing. He had been racked at whiles, and the bones in his hands and feet had been broken, splinters protruding through the mortifying flesh. I was surprised to see Richard's eyes fixed on me: I had not expected the boy to regain consciousness.

"Kit," he whispered, using my fond name for the first time, "I am afraid to die, but I don't want to live a cripple. Help me, Kit, please, help me." I looked at him, startled, to see if he knew what he was asking. Richard gave an almost imperceptible nod and closed his eyes.

"It may not work, Richard. It doesn't always, and we may not have the time. . . ."

"Please, Kit," he repeated, and I gathered the broken body into my arms, pressing my mouth to the rapid and thready pulse in the throat. Richard relaxed as the pleasure welled in him, drowning the pain that had been his world for far too long; I thought with regret of the love and joy that might have been ours had he not been so needlessly afraid. I called him softly, rousing him from his thoughts. I used my sharp canine teeth to open the throbbing vein in my wrist. Like a woman feeding a child, I held the bleeding wound to Richard's fevered lips and bade him drink. Eyes closed, he kissed the wound, then his lips parted, and he drew my dark, bittersweet blood into his mouth, and I trembled against him with the intimacy of the act. Soon he fell back, his pain much lessened, and he slept. I roused myself and wrapped a kerchief around my wrist.

Geoffrey was waiting for me when I returned to Chelsey after my visit to Cecil the following evening. Wordlessly he followed me to Richard's room. After I had taken away his pain the night before, Sylvana had set the bones in the boy's hands and feet, and he was resting easier for it, though he had been much disturbed by the knowledge that he had broken under the torture, fearful of what he may have let slip about vampires, and about the nature of his own family. It was this that had prompted my visit to Cecil, and I had gone fully prepared to kill the twisted little man if it proved necessary, although given the inescapable repercussions of such an act, I was most relieved that it had not. I gingerly settled on the edge of Richard's bed, conscious that even this slight shifting must hurt the torn places inside him, broken by the rack.

"Richard," I said gently, "I have the transcript. Cecil said that there was nothing to concern you. Whatever you may have told them, this is what they heard." Richard's troubled gaze turned to comprehension and then to quiet laughter as it traveled down the page, which reported that his brother and sister wore wool, and recorded numerous apparent references to the seaweed samphire. It was concluded that the captive's mind had broken, and it was anger at this failure of his art that prompted Deacon's final vicious attack upon the prisoner.

"W-w-wearing w-w-wool! Oh, G.o.d, and samphire," Richard's stuttering laughter choked him, and I slipped an arm around his shoulders. Geoffrey caught the papers as they fluttered to the floor, and added his deep laugh to ours.

"The disbelief of the enlightened is always our greatest ally," he rumbled, added that he would meet me downstairs later, and left. Richard raised a halting hand to my face, drawing me into a kiss. I found that the pulse in the slender throat was somewhat stronger, though still rapid and uneven. I left the lad sleeping after the exchange, and went to find Geoffrey.

I fumbled with the bandage at my wrist, and Geoffrey pushed my hand aside, to tie it securely himself. I thanked him, and settled into the chair before the fire. Eden rested on the floor between us, her head against Geoffrey's knee, and he absently caressed her hair. After a few minutes she spoke, her words hardly more audible than the soft sound of the fire.

"He was always the favorite, the baby. I was five when he came, and I never looked at a doll after that. It was little short of a miracle that he was not spoiled, with all the attention that he got, especially after his n.o.ble father noticed him. The village boys were prepared to take him down if he started lording it, but he never did. Oh, he had his faults. He could be an intolerable prig sometimes, and unable to understand anyone not living up to his lofty ideals, as you know, my lord. Will he-survive?" She ended her ramble abruptly, turning to look first at Geoffrey then at me.

"We cannot know that, Eden," Geoffrey answered gently, and she rose gracefully from the hearth. "I pray you join me later," he added as she left the room, then turned his attention on me, studying my face for a few minutes before speaking again. "It is never an easy decision to make, Christopher, to make this exchange. He begged your help, and it is not within us to refuse such a plea. If he does not rise, you must take what comfort you can in the fact that you did all you could do," he paused for a moment, then added softly, "but I think that he will."

Chapter 28.

Rozsa waited impatiently in the little parlor for the Countess of Southampton's arrival. Kit had asked her to act as his emissary, bringing his regrets to Libby, as he did not wish to leave the dying Richard's side. She turned her attention to the portrait over the mantel, a fine likeness of the earl. She studied the fine-boned face with its frame of long hair, lightened in the portrait to a more fashionable shade. The eyes followed one, and the artist had caught the hint of wistfulness under the supercilious stare. A slight sound behind her told that the lady had finally arrived. She was unprepared for the beauty that greeted her, and for the wave of attraction and desire that followed.

Libby extended her hand, and looked up through her dark lashes at her visitor. With some surprise she saw that what she had taken for a slight and pretty boy was in fact a woman dressed in men's clothing. The shock rendered her nearly speechless, and she spluttered, searching for a term of address. Her guest turned a dazzling smile on her, and she felt more confused than ever. The woman introduced herself as Prince Krytof 's cousin, Rozsa Miklos, the Baroness Ramnicul, and Libby vaguely remembered seeing her at court once or twice before her own banishment, though of course the baroness had not been dressed as a boy then. Somehow she responded to the formalities, and the expressions of regret that the prince could not attend upon her that evening, then shocked herself, blurting out, "Why are you dressed like that?" Rozsa's eyes widened for a moment, then she laughed, the comradely laughter that draws two strangers into friendship.

"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 Krytof, 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 Rozsa to follow. Hal was still closeted with Robin and the others at Ess.e.x 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. Rozsa started to pick things up out of the muddle, and soon had an outfit a.s.sembled. 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. Rozsa 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Rozsa 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. Rozsa 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 Rozsa 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 Rozsa'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 Sat.u.r.day evening, the whirl of colors and smells nearly overwhelming the bewildered girl as she followed Rozsa 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 b.u.t.tocks when she struggled. Raucous laughter and rude comments marked his progress, and Libby felt herself blush. She lifted the tankard of Rhennish that Rozsa had ordered for her, and sipped to hide her embarra.s.sment. 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 coa.r.s.e 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, Rozsa 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. Rozsa skipped back in disgust as the frightened man's p.i.s.s 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. Rozsa 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. Rozsa 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." Rozsa 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. Rozsa 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.

Rozsa 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.

"Rozsa," Libby whispered, her face flaming, "I need to-I mean-"she floundered for a moment before Rozsa 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." Rozsa 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, Rozsa 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. Rozsa 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 Rozsa's small b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 Rozsa's mouth, and Libby threw up her hands, abandoning herself to a fit of the giggles, punctuated with hiccups. Rozsa patted the shaking shoulders for a moment, then fetched a small box from the mantel. Libby's eyes widened as Rozsa took a small pipe in the shape of a dragon from the box and began loading it with a crumbly green-brown substance. Rozsa 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 pa.s.sed 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 Rozsa 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 Rozsa was unable to resist her appet.i.te 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 t.i.tle 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. Rozsa 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 Rozsa 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 Ess.e.x. A thrill of foreboding went through her, and she slipped out of the gate and followed the messenger the short distance to Ess.e.x 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, Ess.e.x'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 Ess.e.x 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 Ess.e.x 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, s.n.a.t.c.hing the reins and swinging herself astride into the saddle. The dispossessed man, seeing by the clothing that the usurper was a n.o.ble, 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.

When she caught up with them Robin was proclaiming the plot against his life, exhorting the citizenry to follow him, to protect the Queen, and to save his life. A few people gathered, but stood on shifting feet, giving each other sidelong glances before drifting away, or waving and smiling as if the desperate gamble were just another Sunday outing for the gentry. In vain Robin tried to rally them, crying that the Crown had been sold to the Spaniard, but only a few st.u.r.dy beggars and other riffraff collected, with an eye to spoils. When Hal stepped up to him, speaking quietly and gesturing to the dwindling crowd, he threw up his hands in defeat and turned away.

Libby slipped away from the others there in Fenchurch Street, making her way home, as Ess.e.x sat in the Sheriff 's house and called for meat. She dismounted not far from the house and slapped the horse's rump, letting it go where it would. There was a great crowd gathered about Ess.e.x house, not faraway, and she wondered apathetically how Hal and Robin planned to get back. Wearily she made her way to her chamber, ignoring the horrified squeaks of her maids, stripped off her clothing and fell into the soft bed utterly exhausted.

Chapter 29.

Ess.e.x sat unmoving, his hands pressed against his aching forehead. It had been a long and wearying day, and this waiting was the worst part of it. They had arrived back at the house by boat, fighting their way through the mob in the garden, only to find that Ferdinando Gorges had freed their hostages in an effort to mitigate his part in the fiasco, and so robbed them of their last desperate hope.

"Anyone with so Spanish a name should never have been trusted in the first place," Almsbury snarled, although he knew well that the man, a kinsman to Ralegh, was as English as any there. "We should leave for France, now, tonight!" he added, mopping his dripping brow with shaking hands.

"Better Ireland," Southampton laughed at him, "although I do not allow for a minute that we would get as far as Windsor, even supposing we escaped the grounds. You fool! The time for running was while we were still free, not now. If I'm to finish earthed up like a badger anyway, I'd as lief it be without any further such strenuous pastime. They'll have sport enough with us ere this night's out, without our providing more. If you've nothing sensible to say, Roger, do go to bed, or at least hold your tongue." Roger's fair skin had flushed furiously and he stepped towards Southampton with his hand on the hilt of his sword, but Hal had merely laughed at him again. "If you truly desire another fight you have only to wait, as the Queen's guard will be along presently to fetch us all to the Tower," he told the younger man, who made no answer, but turned his back on the company. Blount had been taken at the Ludgate, charging the guards withdrawn sword when they had found their way blocked. They had been fired upon and Robin had come close to being hit. His page, Henry Tracy, had died at his feet.

Mericke kept up a steady droning litany of blame, his own name conspicuous in its absence, until Robin screamed at them to take themselves away. He burnt every sc.r.a.p of his correspondence.

As they awaited developments in the long evening, Hal lounged in a chair by the fireplace, cracking nuts and throwing the sh.e.l.ls into the blaze. "Will you stop that infernal noise?" Robin snapped, and Hal stared at him for a second before shrugging and tossing the handful of nuts, meats and all, into the fire. "I do not understand how you can eat anything, anyway," Ess.e.x added petulantly, rubbing the heel of his hand across his disordered hair. His doublet was unfastened, his ruff hung limply askew.

"I plan to eat as long as I have a mouth to put meat into, and as long as my gullet is still attached to my belly," Hal retorted. He looked as fresh as he had that morning, save for a few mud stains on his boots and hose, and a large splotch of dried blood on his collar, from the nose of a man who had laid hands on him during their scramble from the water stairs at the bottom of the garden to the house. There was a feverish light in his eyes, and something about his contained stillness was more terrible than frenzy. Robin recalled with a start just where he had seen such restraint before, the night when he had held his naked blade to Prince Krytof 's throat. Even though he had drawn blood the man had stood just as perfectly still and as seemingly unconcerned. He realized, belatedly, what exactly Hal had said.

"She will have us killed," he whispered, as what little color he had left drained from his face, leaving it haggard and ashen. Hal snorted.

"I really do not suppose that she will be content to slap your wrist and forgive you this time, Robin. The crown is the only thing that she holds sacred, which makes this day's work not merely treason, but sacrilege," he broke off as the footman brought word that their captors desired some speech with them. "I'll go," Hal said, rising from the chair as vigorously as if he had not just spent a day of terror following a sleepless night. He turned back as Robin caught his arm.

"Why did you come with me?" Rob's voice was a cracked whisper.

Hal grinned mirthlessly. "Oddly enough, I believed in you," he said. "I must have been moon-mad." He made his way to the roof of the house, looking down at the sea of gloating faces below. A perverse recklessness seized him and he called out for a safe pa.s.sage to see the Queen, and for hostages against their safe return, and was taken aback by the scoffing reply. The crowd parted to show him the ordnance that had been brought up and aimed at the house. It was a house and no fortress; it would not take much time for cannon to bring it down about their ears. Hal felt a moment of panic then, trying to remember if Libby were here or at home, and called the attackers craven, to threaten war upon a house sheltering women. Let the women go, he promised, and they would have war enough to content them. "We are every one of us fully resolved to lose our lives fighting," Hal taunted, as Robin joined him to echo Hal's sentiments, and denounce their enemies. Eventually it was agreed that the women should all be allowed to leave the premises, and that accomplished, the rebels withdrew to discuss their alternatives. Robin and Hal, backed by old Lord Sandys, who felt that he had nothing to lose, urged defiance unto the death.

"Better to die as men with sword in hand, than crawl to Cecil, and meet death on a scaffold," Sandys told them. "There is no honor in an axe." Almsbury paled at the cold certainty of violent death facing them, and urged them to surrender, almost frantic with fear: he had seen the cannon. Other voices added their fears to Almsbury's, wearing down Robin's resolve, and submerging his martial ardor in a mora.s.s of self-doubt and depression.

One veteran among them, Owen Salisbury, reading the earl's intent, spun Ess.e.x around to face him. "I will not be taken, like a dog in a kennel!" he shouted, but the earl shook off his hands without appearing to notice him. Almsbury, his sweating palms leaving damp stains on the soldier's doublet, pulled him away, ignoring the look of scorn turned on him. Without another word Salisbury doffed his steel cap and stalked to the window, throwing it wide, and jeering at the crowd below, daring one of them to shoot him. Seconds later he staggered back, his hand pressed to the side of his head, blood pouring between his fingers. "d.a.m.ned fool," he muttered, "I would that he had shot a little lower," and then gave a little sigh as he lost consciousness. There was a matching sigh from across the room as Almsbury, fainting, crumpled into a heap on the floor. Hal eyed him with distaste as he gave orders for the care of the wounded man, and the relocation of the swooning lord.

After a time Ess.e.x returned to the roof to call out his terms for surrender, though forced eventually into agreeing to no more than the promise that the Lord Admiral should arrest them and treat them in a civil manner, that they be granted a fair and impartial trial, and that his chosen clergyman, Master Ashton be allowed to join him in prison, to requite his spiritual needs.

Hal stood beside Robin, rigid with suppressed rage and shame, then turned to follow him to the ignominious conclusion of their enterprise. He struggled to hold his temper in check when he was told to kneel before Henry Howard, the Lord Admiral, but shrugged and dropped to one knee with an insolence tantamount to a slap. A mutter of outrage swept the gathered forces, but was waved down by the Admiral. Southampton ceremoniously presented his sword to the man, and grinned to see Robin do the same, for all the world as if he were granting the admiral a signal honor. They followed the guards through the jeering crowd and out to the barge that waited to convey them to Lambeth Palace and from thence to the Tower.

Libby woke heavy-eyed to someone shaking her furiously. "Wake up, you little fool!" spat Penelope, Lady Rich, raising her hand to slap her drowsy friend, but Libby finally sat up, looking around confusedly.

"Penny? What's wrong?"

"Everything," Lady Rich snapped. "While you've been dreaming here, Robin and Hal were fighting for their very lives! They're-"

"Hal! Is he-was he hurt? Killed?" Libby's soft voice rose to a shriek, and she struggled with the bed clothes, flinging them aside and scooping her clothes, Hal's clothes, from the floor. She gazed at them for a moment, then crumpled to the floor, holding his shirt to her face as she cried. She was dimly aware that Penny was still talking, but she couldn't take in the words until her friend tore the shirt from her hands and shook her again.

"Will you listen to me, you infuriating child? They are still at Ess.e.x House. They went back there when the City betrayed them. Robin thought that the City would rally to him, when he disclosed the plots against him, but no one followed. He said that no one even seemed to hear. It must have been horrible!"

"It was," Libby replied dully. "I was there." Lady Rich looked at her as if she were mad, then at the men's clothing strewn about the floor, and dropped to sit on the floor at her friend's side.

"Oh, clever Libby!" she breathed, slipping her arms around the girl. "I wish that I had thought of that! I should have been there too!"

"No, you were right, it was horrible and there wasn't anything I could do. I left them in Fenchurch Street; what happened later?"

"When they got to Ludgate, they found that they couldn't pa.s.s through, so they came back by river. Robin was fired upon, and there's a hole straight through his hat. His page and a brace of bystanders were killed! When they reached the house, they had to fight their way in, and Gorges had let the hostages go, to help the cause he said. To weasel out, I say, and it certainly took the marrow out of their mad plans to use the hostages to gain an audience with the Queen. She's been enjoying herself, too, from what I hear, wanting to join the sortie from Whitehall as if she thought they were going a-hunting. They're all sitting around discussing their choices. Robin is declaring his intention to fight to his last breath, and Lord Sandys, the old fool, is egging him on. I suppose that they will surrender sooner or later: the Lord Admiral brought up cannon. They let me go a few minutes ago, and I came here because Hal was worried about you. If he knew that you'd been in the city with them, his hair would go stark white!"

Chapter 30.

I watched wordlessly as Eden washed and dressed Richard's corpse, her tears falling silently onto the fresh linen. She would allow no one to help her in this, not even Sylvana. The boy had drawn his last breath a few moments since, in my arms. He had felt his approaching death, and his eyes had betrayed his fear. He clung to me gratefully when I had reached out to him, then eased into an unconsciousness that had lasted less than a quarter of an hour before his breath sighed out and the tension in his muscles relaxed. He looked peacefully asleep when Eden had finished laying him out, the lines of his agony smoothed away. Only the dark smudges below his eyes and the clean bandages on his hands suggested that he had suffered. The shutters had been closed and curtained against the light, and candles burned. His sister would watch throughout the days, and I the nights until Richard arose, if arise he would. Eden collapsed into the cushioned chair that I had had placed beside the bed, her tears spilling through her fingers and her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. I leaned over her, and kissed her hair as the approaching dawn drove me to seek my rest. I heard Rozsa in the next room as the trance claimed me. Word was waiting for me when I woke the next evening: Ess.e.x had fought his rebellion, and lost.

The earls, I learned, had been given ten days to prepare their defense, although they were not allowed to communicate with each other. Cecil had visited them, and displayed an aversion to the use of torture to gain the needed answers that confused his fellow members of the council. Watching the still form in the candle-lit chamber, I felt a bitter smile twist my lips at that news, reflecting that at least Richard's tortuous death had bought that much; Hal would be spared what Richard had suffered.

The false dawn colored the horizon late on the third night of our vigil, and no hint of life showed in the corpse as Eden watched in despair. I leaned forward, alerted by some sense that I could not describe, and took the frantic woman's hand, turning her attention to the boy's pale face. He gave a twitch, as one who dreams of falling, and the eyelids fluttered open. With a glad cry she kissed him, then rushed from the room, returning a few minutes later with a clean kitchen knife. Her hands were shaking too badly to open her vein and feed her brother, and I took that office, cutting swiftly and holding the wound to the boy's mouth, speaking quietly all the while, much as one would to any invalid awaking from a long and serious illness. Richard did not speak, but eagerly drank the blood that his sister supplied him, and collapsed into a heavy trance before the rising sun cleared the skyline. I bandaged Eden's wound, which was already beginning to close, and fell into my own trance there in the bedside chair.

When I woke I was in my own chamber, my bath steaming before the fire, but the sounds of voices drew me to the outer room. I drew on a heavy dressing gown and pushed the door open. Rhys, with Eden behind him, waited on one side of Richard's bed, and Sylvana sat on the other, stroking the boy's forehead and muttering low in her throat in no language that I knew. She smiled and nodded over at him, but never paused in her invocation.

When she had done she leaned down and kissed the sleeper's eyelids and lips, gathering his damaged hands into her own strong and work-hardened ones. "Richard, Richard," she called to him and he woke, confused but unafraid. Sylvana began to remove the bandages from his hands, and the improvement was striking. The bruising was reduced to a faint greenish stain under the skin, and the places where the bones had broken through the skin were healed over. The scarring was considerable, but should fade with time. She moved to his feet and removed those bandages with similar results, then turned him to examine his back. The skin was renewing there as well, but still looked tender and inflamed. He winced as she smoothed a white salve over the wounds and dressed them in clean linen before pulling an old and worn shirt over his head. Richard gave a little sigh of relief as the anesthetic salve eased the burning itch. He smiled tentatively at me, and I crossed to the bed, taking the seat that Sylvana had vacated. She gathered up her gear and left the room, signaling the others to follow. Rhys kissed his brother's forehead, and smiled, then fled without speaking. I waited, then took one of Richard's hands gently in mine.

"Well, Richard," I began, at a loss for what to say next. There was a light scratching at the door, and Rozsa slipped in. She was dressed soberly in green wool so dark it looked black in the candlelight, doublet and venetians, and a plain white linen band. She spoke over her shoulder and Sylvana followed her back into the room.

"Welcome to our family, Richard," Rozsa said, and slipped a ring bearing the amethyst intaglio onto his finger then bent and kissed him on the lips. "Now, it is time for you to feed, to speed your healing, and enter upon your new life. Sylvana will stay with you, and we will leave you alone for now. Krytof and I have much to discuss," she added, drawing me back into my room. As I closed the door I saw Sylvana shyly sit beside Richard on the bed, smiling at him.

"Do you think that Sylvana is the best choice? He is yet inclined to fear women, after all," I inquired, to cover the unexpected surge of jealousy I felt.

"Yes, since he knows her, and she is comforting to him. This is going to be difficult for him, Kit. It is not so much now that he fears women as that he fears the carnal act itself. I do not know how that conflict will resolve itself finally. We are such sensual creatures, after all," she added, not looking at me. She wandered over to my bath and dipped her fingers in the water. "Your bath is getting cold," she said.

"Rozsa, are you trying to tell me something?" I asked as I dropped my robe to the floor and stepped into the tub. The water was cooler than I liked it, but still hot enough if I hurried. Rozsa watched me with appreciation for a moment, then abruptly told me of her adventure with Libby. I sat dumbfounded for a time, then laughed. "Well, why I should be surprised? She is a beguiling little thing, after all. Have you seen her again?"

"Yes, every night. She is desperate over Hal's arrest, terrified that he will be executed, and she wants to see you, Kit. I will stay with Richard tonight, if you wish. I confess that I have fed from her, though but very little," she smiled at the memory.