Perfect Shadows Part 7

"Will you be wantin' a bed?" Frizer growled. He stood with his meaty hands on his hips, looming over me. I smiled, and Frizer's frown deepened. "Too good for an honest inn, be you?"

"Not at all. Mayhap too good for this one." By ones and twos the others were leaving. When we were alone, Frizer reached down and grasped the front of my doublet, and I let him pull me to my feet. Before my renascence Frizer had had the advantage of me in inches, but now we were eye to eye.

"Well, now, if y'hand over your purse, perhaps I can persuade my friends out there not to lay hands on ye." Frizer's breath stank of cheap wine, and for a moment I sagged, overcome by the memory of my murder, of being helpless in this man's merciless hands. Frizer laughed, thinking me faint with fear, and shook me. Then he was being held by both wrists, and slammed down onto the bench, while I bent over him, feeling my lips twist into a feral smile.

Holding his crossed wrists easily in one hand, I smashed the heel of the other up under his chin, knocking his head against the wall with stunning force. As he slumped, I caught him again, cracking a blow across his cheek. Calmly I lowered the lax hands, and just as calmly bent his right thumb back until it broke. He came to with a howl, that doubled in volume as the left thumb was broken, then dwindled to a whimper. "Why? Why me?"

"As you've asked, Ingram, I shall tell you. Do you remember Deptford, Ingram? Eleanor Bull's house? Do you boast and brag about getting away with murder that sultry, summery day?"

"M-m-marlowe? N-n-no! Dead! Dead and buried!"

"So I am often told. I think not. But you will be. You may thank Sir Thomas Walsingham that I do not kill you outright, and if I hear that you have troubled him again in anyway, I shall kill you anyway. Or if I should hear further tales of travelers molested after leaving your inn.

"You see, it was I cut Nick Skeres throat for him, Ingram," I said, and laughed. "You should have seen his blood spouting through his fumbling, useless hands," I continued, pausing a moment to lick my lips, and Frizer shuddered. "Do you remember when you so kindly told me what I could expect from a traitor's death? I shall not be so refined with you, but the results will be the same. You will be begging me to die, before it's done, scrabbling through your guts with your own two hands. Oh, not tonight, but one day. One night you will see me again, and you will know then that I have come to collect the reckoning.

"You could cheat me, of course. If you bandy the tale of this night about, you will certainly be locked up as a lunatic. I would still kill you, but it would have to be quickly done. Not that you wouldn't beg for it, after you'd been locked up in Bedlam for a time." I stepped back, poised in case he should attack, but the man just sat there, rigid, slack-jawed and beginning to drool. A touch at my arm whirled me around, and I almost struck her before I realized it was woman I had seen earlier.

"My lord, you best go out the back. They be waiting for you in the yard," she said, her voice dull and colorless. She looked down at Frizer with apathetic eyes. "It's the apoplexy; he's had small fits before. One day, G.o.d willing, he'll die of it." I was surprised at the venom in her voice, until I noticed the bruises on her arms. She hastily rolled the sleeves of her shift down to cover them. Shyly, she offered me a half-smile, and I thought that at one time she must have been quite pretty. Almost without volition I drew her to me. She resisted for only a second before sliding into my embrace. I left her, dazed from the pleasure of my feeding, there on the bench beside her husband.

As I stepped from the front door of the inn, I spotted my adversaries hidden around the inn-yard. Five of them, two armed with swords, two with cudgels, and one with what appeared to be a length of stout chain. They couldn't know that I had seen them, and I strode through the courtyard to the tumble-down shack that served as a stable. They moved then, but not as silently as they believed. Before any of them could reach me, I had drawn my sword, and stood smiling at them over the length of it. Within seconds all were bloodied and the two swordsmen were down, one with a death wound. The others fled. I laughed aloud, retrieved my horse and rode into the night towards Blackavar, well pleased with my night's work.

I heard there was great wonder the next day in Eltham, when Mistress Frizer told how the two swordsmen had quarreled and fought each other. The survivor agreed with her tale, for to dispute it would be to admit a murderous a.s.sault upon the one-eyed stranger.

We had taken a house in Chelsey when the court had moved to Whitehall, and I attended the Queen every night. To forestall further trouble with the court bravos I challenged three of them, one after the other, to an exhibition of swordsmanship, and her majesty bade us perform before the a.s.sembled court. The third man was Henry Wriothesley, the young Earl of Southampton, handsome, arrogant and attractive. . . .

Southampton's dark auburn hair almost brushed the floor as he bent to retrieve his rapier. "This was no fair trial," he said, with a sulky bad grace. "If you were right-handed-"

"The sinister troubles you, my lord? No matter," I said, and switched my rapier to my right hand, on my blind side. There was a muttering among the onlookers, and the earl had the grace to look abashed as I saluted him with my blade. The second bout took but little longer than the first. Even as his sword touched the floor, Southampton was already striding away. I bowed to his rigid, retreating back, then turned to accept the applause of the court. I picked up the earl's fallen blade and gave it to a pa.s.sing servant, instructing him to give it into the earl's hand. The hilt had still been warm from his grip-I seemed to feel that warmth on my palm for a longtime after, and mightily regretted offending the elegant, intelligent, and above all, handsome young man.

"My lord, I was told to give you this," Jehan said one evening not long after, handing me a folded piece of paper." He said you'd be able to read it," he added in answer to my quizzical look, and went to shake out the clothing I would wear that night. I raised myself on one elbow and unfolded the letter, smoothing it in the light of the candle that stood on the table near the bed. When I saw the contents I chuckled. I could read this, absolutely-the paper contained a series of drawings. St. Paul's cathedral was unmistakably rendered, with its blocky tower, its spire lost to a fire some years past. Next was a waxing quarter-moon and abroad-faced clock, its hand pointing to ten. An earring pierced the page where the signature should be, a good-sized orient pearl suspended from a st.u.r.dy gold hoop. My stomach lurched as I recognized it: I had worn it the day I died.

I rose from the bed and let Jehan dress me. Nicolas had said that Poley had been given the earring as his pay for watching the door as I was murdered. Though I had been unable to discover his whereabouts, it looked as though Poley had found me out. I frowned; little Robin was soon going to be one very dead spy. The moon was waxing now, and the quarter would be in four nights time. I idly wondered if the clock face meant ten in the morning? If so, Poley would have a long wait. I slipped the thin silver hoop from my earlobe and set the pearl in its place.

The night of the quarter-moon I dressed plainly in wool and linen, armed myself with pistols as well as rapier and dagger, and set off for St. Paul's. I was glad of my vampire's sight as I threaded my way in darkness from the dock to the cathedral. It was just before ten when I took up a position a little way away, among the shuttered stalls of the stationers, to watch for Poley. I had not long to wait before a man with Poley's furtive gait pa.s.sed me, the light of the link carried before him showing off his tarnished finery. I stepped from the shadows and laid a hand upon his arm. He twitched away, and I saw a stranger's face grinning up at me. I became aware of someone behind me at the same instant that something smashed into the back of my head. There was a flash of light inside my skull, then only darkness.

Chapter 14.

I awoke lying on my back on a bare wooden bench or cot in the center of a small room, and when I tried to sit up I realized that I was fettered in such a way that movement was almost impossible. My arms were stretched at right angles to my body and chained securely to either wall, my feet caught at the foot of the cot, and a collar kept me from raising my head, which throbbed painfully. I turned my head to look at the shackles, and my stomach twisted. They were made of wood, reinforced with steel; someone knew entirely too much about me.

The room was bare except for the narrow cot on which I lay, and the pile in the corner that I recognized as my clothing and my weapons. I was left in my shirt, breeches, and stockings. A pad had been thoughtfully placed between my head and the bench beneath me, keeping contact with the wood from exacerbating the wound. The wall at my feet was almost entirely made of gla.s.s, and I supposed that the door was behind me. It was not long after I woke that I heard a key turn in a heavy lock and someone entered. I struggled to see who was behind me, but it was useless. The wood of my fetters galled me, blistering my undead flesh when I pulled against it, and preventing me from exercising my full strength. I stopped moving and waited. The man walked slowly around the bed, stepping carefully over the taut chain, and held the candle up that I might see him. My stomach knotted inside me as I recognized him: Northumberland, the so-called Wizard Earl. His clothing stank of smoke.

"I trust you are comfortable, Master Marlowe?" he asked tauntingly.

"Tolerably, given the situation, and my name is Krytof. You may call me 'your highness', or 'your grace'. If ransom is your purpose, I'm afraid you've chosen poorly. My brother is not very likely to spare much coin for me," I told him, a.s.suming a composure that I was far from feeling.

"You must be wondering why you have been brought here," the earl continued, as if he hadn't heard. "I have had some very interesting conversations with an old friend and patron of yours, that served to spur my own research," he fell silent, but his cold eyes, the greasy grey-green of pond ice, continued to roam my captive body. It seemed hours, but can really only have been a few minutes before he recalled himself and turned to me. As he moved I smelled the smoke again, and it recalled memories of nights at Ralegh's manor, Durham House, memories of the several futile attempts made to conjure demons. There had been only one success claimed, though I had not seen it myself, and that had been Northumberland's endeavor. The earl moved to my side, and I, looking at the window, shuddered. When the morning came . . . I tried to jerk my head away as the earl leaned over me, but the collar bit into my throat, choking me." If you were not who I believe you to be, the jewel would not have fetched you, and you would not have mistaken my groom for the one who sold it to me. But who you are is of no consequence; it is what you are that interests me, and that I know very well." He stood smiling, gazing at the windows.

"Do you remember how you would mock me, kind Kit? I do," he said softly, and turned his smile on me. My gut knotted at that smile, and I knew that he meant to kill me. After a time he continued. "I have spent weary years searching in vain for the philosopher's stone, not for vain gold, but for immortality, and now you, a baseborn little cobbler's son, you have the immortality I've squandered my life to gain. I mean to have it and you will give it to me." I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. "No matter," the earl laughed without humor. "I have the knowledge and the wherewithal to take it, Marlowe, Marley, Merlin." He was prodding me as he ever had, upon my commoner's name, and that I had, for time in the pride-filled way of youth, a.s.sumed the name of the great wizard. He left the room then, his laughter trailing behind him as dry and lifeless as November leaves.

The window faced north, and while the diffused daylight did me no direct damage, it broke my rest, tormenting me, causing me to toss and strain against the manacles that held me. Seven such days and nights pa.s.sed without so much as footsteps on the other side of the door. I thought I should go mad from the pain of my cramping limbs, the shackle-galls, and my rising hunger, my thoughts forever whirling around Northumberland's words. An old friend and patron, he had said, and that could only be Thomas Walsingham. Had Tommy bartered my life away once more? On the seventh night Northumberland returned, and such was my state that I was almost glad to see him. He viewed my tortured body with satisfaction, and motioned to those behind him into the room. A heavy-set serving man entered, dragging a frightened boy along. The hunger coiled in me, I could smell the blood I needed, smell it even over the reek of unwashed bodies, theirs and my own. The earl took the arm of the struggling child, holding it firmly against my mouth. The hunger wrenched and twisted inside me like a living thing as I turned my head, forcing my lips away from the terrified boy. After a few minutes the earl released his hold and left the room, followed swiftly by the servant and the boy. This was repeated on the following nights, until upon the third night the hunger overpowered me and I fed.

I was allowed no more than a mouthful before the boy was wrested from me and bundled out of the room. Another night pa.s.sed before Northumberland returned with a man, dwarfish in stature and obviously foreign. The earl stood gloating, then knelt on a cushion that the little man had placed on the floor beside my cot. He smiled as his doublet sleeve was removed and shirtsleeve turned up above his elbow. "You are in no doubt, Doctor?" he asked absently, not taking his eyes off me.

"None whatsoever," the dwarf replied. "It is no different than being bled, my lord." The earl nodded and pressed the vein in his wrist against my lips. The hunger possessed me and I sunk my teeth into the vein, filling my mouth and letting my pleasure overflow into the man who fed me until the connection was forcibly broken by the dwarf. "That will do, my lord. That is enough." The earl collapsed against the side of the cot, his eyes heavy with satisfaction.

"Oh no," he said, "oh, not at all like being bled, and not nearly enough."

They kept me hungry, and my need forced me to continue feeding from the earl. In the fourth week of my captivity, the pattern changed. After I had fed, the earl took a dagger and slit my shirtsleeves from wrist to shoulder, then motioned to the doctor, who advanced slowly, holding a cup in his left hand. Ashe approached; he drew his right hand from the folds of his gown. I struggled against my bonds, straining futilely to break them when I recognized the object the little man held: a fleam. The dwarf placed the point against the vein in my inner elbow and gave the bar a quick firm tap with the cup, lowering it quickly to catch the dark blood that flowed freely from the wound. The knife was not made of steel, but of some hardened wood, so that the wound would remain open in my undead flesh. When the cup was full he handed it to the earl and swiftly bandaged the cut to close it.

Northumberland, a self-satisfied smile on his face, raised the cup in a salute, and drained it. I felt tears of despair scald my cheek, and I turned my face away. The act of blood exchange was meant to be a gift, a loving act of sharing. This was a violation, a defilement, and it left me feeling broken, degraded.

Time pa.s.sed, maybe a week, maybe more, every night bringing a repet.i.tion of the bloodletting, and some nights more than one. I had retreated into a silence, distancing myself from what was being done to me in an effort not to go mad; I fed mechanically and no longer fought the knife. One night, after handing the empty cup to the doctor, the earl spoke to me. "How many times must the exchange take place?" I looked beyond him, making no response, even when the earl ripped the rags of my shirt from my body and nodded to the little man at the brazier they had set burning in the corner. An instant later a scream tore from my throat as the earl pressed the glowing end of a burning oaken brand against the skin of my chest, then tossed it aside and repeated his question. When no answer came he reached for another brand.

"Three times, maybe four," I whispered, staring at the end of the brand, glowing cherry-red and cunningly carved into a circled five pointed star.

"But I wonder if that's true?" the earl murmured, a mad l.u.s.ter glazing his murky, opaque eyes. He applied the brand again, to the other side of my chest, crooning almost as a lover when my scream rent the air and sank into a whimper. After a few moments he shook himself and stood, smoothing the velvet of his gown. "Well, then, I suppose it must be. Did you hear, Doctor Montague? We shall proceed tomorrow night," he said, and turned back to me, asking what he could expect, how he would rise from the grave, and if I hesitated to answer the earl dragged a rough nail across my burned and blistered skin. An eternity later he turned to go, stopping almost as if in afterthought. "There's someone waiting to see you," he said with spiteful good humor, and threw open the door. I recognized the scent, civet and ambergris, before I even saw him. It was Tom.

He gave a cry at the sight of me, taking in the torn and stinking clothing, my matted hair and wasted frame, the sores where the wooden shackles had galled my flesh. His eyes swept the inflamed wounds along the veins in my arms, and the blackened blisters on my chest. I turned my head, my blood-smeared lips forming themselves into a travesty of a smile.

"Well, Tommy, it seems that I should not have dismissed your competence at vengeance quite so casually. How now, do you mislike what you have made?" My voice was hoa.r.s.e and almost inaudible. Tom took a step back.

"I-I never intended this-"

"Never mind, Tommy," I interrupted him wearily. "I forgive you. Now run along." Tom opened his mouth as if to speak again, then fled the room, leaving Northumberland snickering behind him.

The next night, after vague dreams of being manhandled, I woke in a different room. The rags of my clothing had been stripped from me, and I was bound spread-eagled on a cold wooden floor. The wooden shackles still encircled my wrists and ankles, the collar still in place around my neck, and I was pegged tightly to the floor beneath me. I could turn my head enough make out the broad lines of a pentacle chalked around me, but not enough to read its intent. My chest itched from the designs and symbols painted there with a stinking paste mixed from soot and s.h.i.t. Presently the earl, robed in red, entered with his diminutive helper, robed in black. They set about their business, ignoring me as I waited helpless in the middle of the floor. Before long their preparations were completed and the invocation started, making it plain that they were about to conjure a demon into the circle with me.

I knew then that I would die this night, and desired only that whatever was conjured would make a quick end to me. The room filled with the smoke of the burning herbs, which did not rise from the braziers, but spilled out over the floor like a filthy ground fog. I had closed my eye against the acrid smoke, but opened it wide at the peak of the chant when a burst of power tore through the room, slamming the earl against a wall. It was as if a portal that should have opened only a crack had been thrust full wide to accommodate . . . what?

I realized that I was no longer alone inside the circle. A young man sat facing me, a beautiful young man, with hair of silver-gilt, and a naked form that set my heart racing. I stared at the high cheekbones, the long, slanting, lilac-colored and slit-pupiled eyes, at the mouth that cried out to be kissed. The demon raised a slender long-fingered hand to cradle my cheek, and I turned away, trying to hide my disfigured face. I well knew what Frizer's dagger had done to my looks. An angry jagged scar puckered my eyelid and the lids were caught together with tiny st.i.tches of silk, against the ruin behind them. I was aware of the sour smell of my soiled and defiled body, my filthy hair and unshaven beard. At least, being undead, I was spared the further humiliation of being louse-ridden. How could such beauty bear to look at my disfigurement?

"What, dost thou turn from me yet again, my Kit? Dost thou not know me?" The voice matched the form to perfection: low and musical, with a ringing purity of tone. "How then, wouldst thou also rather I take the form of an old friar? I did not think it of thee." His last words took on a husky, insinuating tone.

"Mephistophilis," I breathed, and turned back to look my fill at my own personal demon. He nodded, and trailed a talon-tipped finger down my chest, wrenching a shuddering sigh from me. The talons, iridescent as mother-of-pearl, only added to the perfection of those hands. "Why," I started, but the demon silenced me with a kiss.

"Dids't thou think that I would let another come for thee, my Kit? Or dost thou think mayhap that I would not be let to come to thee?

"Dost thou believe that there are no reprieves, No solaces in h.e.l.l, my Kit? There are, There are, to make our d.a.m.nation sharper,"

Mephistophilis said, and laughed low in his throat at my startled reaction.

"Canst thou wonder at my speech when 'tis thou That didst teach it me? Oh, most knowing pen, Should I then speak thee less fair than Faustus?"

My voice was torn between fear and longing as I asked, "Am I d.a.m.ned, then? Art thou come for me?" but my demon shook his head.

"Thou hast chosen another way, my Kit: I might else have come for thee at Deptford. Now I but caught at an opening, and it will be many and many a long year ere I come to thee again."

"Had I as many souls as there be stars, I'd give them all for Mephistophilis,"

I whispered brokenly.

"It is, withal, the courtesy of h.e.l.l, to let Marlowe word his own d.a.m.nation," he agreed softly, then broke my fetters with a snap of his fingers. He helped me to sit up, and wiped the noisome glyphs from my chest with arose-scented handkerchief that appeared from nowhere and vanished accordingly. He leant to brush his exquisite lips against the burns on my chest, and I shuddered at the exquisite mingling of pain and pleasure. I raised a wondering hand to that flawless face, formed of my dreams and for my d.a.m.nation, and Mephistophilis caught it in his own, holding it against his cheek and leaning over to kiss me deeply and searchingly.

"Ah, my Kit, my poor crippled creator, thou couldst not make me now! I must take my leave of thee forthwith; my task is accomplished, thou art safe and my time hath sped." He vanished in a cloud of silvery-lilac rose petals that exactly matched his eyes.

Chapter 15.

Geoffrey pushed his way through the smashed window, easing himself into the firelit room, taking in the black candles and other paraphernalia, his nostrils flaring at the stench of burning herbs. His eyes moved to the pentacle and Marlowe on his knees in the center, empty hands cupped before him, empty eyes fixed upon nothing, with an expression of incalculable loss. Jehan's wolf shape hurtled through the windows behind Geoffrey, his form changing before he hit the floor. The big man took a step forward but was held back by Geoffrey, who called softly to those outside. Sir Walter crawled through the window and glanced with some bemus.e.m.e.nt at a naked serving man where a beast should be, but dragged his attention to the pentacle. He drew a sharp breath at the condition of the unseeing form within it." Christ Jesu!" he exclaimed, and that blank face turned to him for a second before the body crumpled to the floor and lay unmoving.

Nicolas soon followed the others in and shook his head at Geoffrey's unspoken question before vanishing into the bowels of the house. Sir Walter had circled the pentacle, kicking over the braziers and stamping out the embers, then carefully rubbing some of the chalked figures out with the toe of his boot, muttering with disgust. He finally nodded at Jehan, who sprang to his master's side in an instant, cradling the man in his arms.

"A thoroughly loathsome piece of work," Ralegh growled to Geoffrey. "He was trying to conjure Cadavedere, a minor demon, 'the eater of the dead', into the circle with Kit." Before they could explore the ramifications of this Nicolas returned, his mouth twisted with revulsion.

"You had best come and see this for yourself, Geoffrey," he said tonelessly, leading him to the chamber that had served as Marlowe's prison. Geoffrey's soft cursing was the only sound for a time as he examined the room. He turned to his companion, cold fury clouding his sight." It is worse, even, than you think," Nicolas said quietly, showing Geoffrey the cup, its interior still filmed with the young vampire's dark blood, and then held out the fleam. Geoffrey took it wordlessly and studied it. That it was not made of metal, as he had expected, testified to its purpose. He closed his grip on the instrument, breaking it to splinters, and cast the bits from him in disgust. Nicolas caught up the weapons and clothing from the corner, and, still in silence, they made their way back to the others. Ralegh knelt inside the broken circle beside Kit, who still stared into his empty hands, oblivious of Jehan holding him tenderly as tears streamed down his face. Geoffrey dropped down by Jehan and took Marlowe from him. "Fetch the saddlebags," he ordered.

As Geoffrey and Jehan dressed the unresisting body, Sir Walter and Nicolas poked about the rest of the house, which was almost completely empty, and returned to the study. Sir Walter nudged a pile of cloth, almost invisible in the shadows against a wall, and gave a short startled bark as he rolled the corpse out into the light. "Aestatis Montague," he breathed, as he stooped to make out the little man's grotesquely contorted features. The eyes had bulged nearly out of the sockets and the tongue protruded obscenely, already blackening.

"You knew the man?" Nicolas asked, tautly.

"Knew of him, rather. He is, was," Ralegh corrected himself, "a defrocked priest, and made a great study of demons; he probably knew more than any other man about Lamia and other such spirits. He was said to have known, by some to have been the model for, the original Faustus, though they were mistaken in the latter case. He studied a great deal in the East. I had not known that he was in England, or that Harry knew him," he replied, and jerked around as Geoffrey returned carrying a cask of oil which he dumped out over the floor.

"One moment, your grace," Ralegh cried, crossing to the table at the far end of the room, scooping up the empty saddlebags as he went. He began hurriedly to sort the books there, a number of which he loaded into the bags, and included the sack holding the herbs for the braziers. He nodded to Geoffrey when he had done, and slung the heavy bags to his shoulder. Geoffrey returned the nod, waiting until Nicolas and Sir Walter had climbed back out of the window before kicking the contents of the smoldering brazier into the spreading slick of oil, igniting it.

Jehan stood by the horses, holding Marlowe against his body before him, his arms crossed over his chest and held tightly at the wrists. There was a wildness in the unseeing face that disturbed Nicolas, and Geoffrey, a.s.sessing the situation, swiftly mounted. He reached for the man, to set him on the saddlebow, but Marlowe twisted from the loosened grip and ran, stumbling and weak from his long imprisonment. Jehan was on him in an instant, knocking him heavily to the ground and pinning him there, then looking helplessly up at the others.

"We'll have to bind him," Geoffrey said, raising a hand to quell the protests. "Yes, I know, but we have no choice. The dawn will be upon us soon and we must be home safe before it. Sir Walter?" Ralegh nodded and s.n.a.t.c.hed a hanging from the window even as the fire caught it, throwing it to the ground and stamping on it before hacking it into long strips with his dagger. Marlowe fought wildly, his empty expression less than sane, but Nicolas was relentless, and the younger man was soon trussed wrist, knee, and ankle. They set him sideways on the saddle bow before Geoffrey, who spoke him gentle, noting the tears that ran freely down the left cheek, and seeped slowly through the st.i.tched lids of the ruined right eye. The other two mounted and Sir Walter started as Jehan transformed before his eyes in the flickering light of the blazing house, but said nothing as they galloped into the night.

Harry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, sat in the shadows of the wood, watching the house burn. What could he expect of his life from now on? He should have questioned Marlowe further while he had him, he could see that now. His tongue flicked nervously over his lips as he thought of the outcry his victim had made at the branding, and how swiftly he had broken. Percy unconsciously stroked the swelling at his crotch, thinking of other thing she might have done to the helpless man, and other things he might have learned. Too late, now, but there could be other times, would be other times. A sudden doubt a.s.sailed him as he recalled with sickening clarity what he had seen that night.

It had begun routinely enough; they had sweptback the rushes covering the floor and had them carted from the room. The servants were dismissed, sent into the village, not to return until the following morning, and he and the doctor had scrupulously cleaned every inch of the floor on their hands and knees before bringing the unconscious Marlowe down from his confinement. His fetters were secured tightly to the rings let into the floor. It was not the first time that a sacrifice had been spread and bound there, although usually the rites did not result in the death of the victim, or at least not directly. He drew the chalk over the lines lightly inscribed into the wooden floor while Montague scribed symbols on the offering's chest, and all was in readiness. They withdrew to await the proper time.

Later, Northumberland, watching from the pa.s.sage, noted the futile tugs at the shackles when Marlowe awakened, tugs that soon gave way to a seeming indifference to the fate in store for him. That would change, the earl had chuckled to himself, when the vampire found the eater of corpses crouching on his chest! He had found himself trembling with excitement, wondering what would happen. The minor conjuration was nothing, but what would the demon do upon finding the corpse it came to feed upon was undead? This was the sort of question that teased him. He set the herbs in the several braziers to burning, and as the room began to fill with the fumes he quickly closed the remaining chalk lines to begin the ritual.

He had felt the portal beginning to take shape and grow in the circle, when suddenly it was forced open, wider than ever before, wider than Percy had ever felt. A shock-wave of power caught him, lifting him and slamming him with stunning force against the wall behind him. He slid dazedly to the floor, watching in horror as a shape formed in the circle; this was no minor fiend appearing before him now. This was a Prince of h.e.l.l.

The monster was eight feet high or more, leperously grey and scaly, patched here and there with tufts of coa.r.s.e black hair. He turned a sulfurous yellow gaze on the earl, reaching for him with gnarled and twisted fingers, each tipped with a dirty and cracked black claw. Webs of filthy skin stretched from the abomination's hips to its wrists, and upon seeing the circle restraining it the thing laughed, a thick, tearing sound, like a leopard snarling, showing the earl its broken teeth and yellowed tusks. The smell of it rolling out over the room was intolerable, middens and jakes and foetid London streets at the height of summer in a plague year. The earl pulled himself to his feet and pointed a shaky finger at the devil, bleating a question in Latin rendered all but incoherent by shock and fear. The materialization in the circle snorted its contempt, and turned to the man lying at its cloven hoofs.

Percy had watched in horrified fascination as it knelt to caress the helpless man, and seemed to converse with him, although he couldn't make out what was said for the blood pounding in his ears. The fetters had been shattered, and Marlowe, far from fleeing the foul thing, had embraced it, had gazed at it adoringly, and hungrily kissed it. He himself had fled then, smashing through a window, running and retching into the night.

Northumberland's gorge rose again at the memory, and he vomited until his sides ached with the strain. Was this the result of the exchange? Had he sold his soul without knowing it? He forced these thoughts away-after all, Marlowe had always been a perverse villain, l.u.s.ting after d.a.m.nation the way a normal man might crave a wench.

As he had bolted for the woods, he had seen the approaching hors.e.m.e.n, and was aware that one of them broke away to pursue him, but he had made the shelter of the woods, and the man had turned back to the house. He was not too far away to make out their ident.i.ties, however. So, Marlowe's friends had come to rescue him, had they? What would they find in that h.e.l.l awaiting them? He had not banished the demon, he recalled, his gut twisting, sweat beading his brow. Well, Ralegh could do it, the self-righteous fool. He waited, and had watched them bind Marlowe with some satisfaction. The man had endured enough to drive him into madness, and that would suit the earl very well. He stood watching the fire for a few minutes, regretfully thinking of Montague. The little man had been of great use, renting the house and seeing to the special demands of the stratagem, but of course he would have had to die sooner or later, as would any who had learned of the vampire's existence. The serving man and his son had already been dealt with, having met with an unfortunate accident on the way back from market late one night. The earl brushed off his clothing and began the walk back to his own house, some five miles distant.

Marlowe strove against the rags that bound him, but the knots were good, and Geoffrey's strong arms held him fast. Presently he ceased to struggle.

Geoffrey felt him slacken, and the ashen face and blank expression troubled him. The long miles vanished beneath the pounding hooves, but as the dawn approached Kit grew restless, the remembered torment of his exposure welling in him, and Geoffrey murmured to him, gentling the man as he would a restive horse. Jehan, running on his own four paws across the fields, reached the manor first and as they arrived he, without bothering to dress, was preparing the bath in the heavily shuttered room Kit would occupy. Geoffrey and Nicolas brought the bound and struggling man in between them, and he quieted somewhat in the safe shadows of the room. Geoffrey, on his guard, cut away the rags that bound his young ward but Kit just stood there, and allowed Jehan to strip him and lower him into the waiting tub. The hot water relaxed him, and the day-trance claimed him within minutes. Geoffrey gave Jehan his instructions before he and Nicolas left to take their own rest.

Sir Walter made his way to his own rooms, stopping only long enough for a word or two with another guest, who had observed their entrance from the shadows of the gallery. When he reached his bed he threw himself down, not even removing his boots, asleep before his body touched the mattress. He woke late in the day to peruse the books and other flotsam he had rescued from the fire and that evening took his findings to Geoffrey.

"I am concerned about Kit's-condition, your grace. I have examined the contents of the braziers that were burning around the pentacle, with disturbing results. Among the more usual herbs were hemp and blighted rye."

"I am familiar with the effects of hemp, Sir Walter, but why blighted rye?" Geoffrey said, frowning.

"Francis Bacon was experimenting with it. He had an idea that the visitations of the Devil that plague some villages were in fact the result of poisoning. This led him to ingest some of the spoiled grain, and when he ran mad with what seemed to be a case of possession, his manservant called in Northumberland, who being a wizard, as the man thought, ought to be able to deal with it, as well as keep it quiet. Harry told me later that Bacon reported seeing everything from the devil to the dancing dead. Who knows what demons Kit may have seen, or thought that he had seen? I feel that this may be why he has withdrawn." Geoffrey nodded consideringly.

"I thank you, Sir Walter. We will bear this in mind."

Three days pa.s.sed and Marlowe woke each evening with a convulsive start, fighting the bonds that no longer held him. Jehan would catch him, holding him until the struggling body relaxed. Sylvie would fetch Geoffrey, who would sit on the bed taking the man's face in his hand, turning it toward the light. He was more than a little disturbed by the vacant expression. On the third night he raised his voice, calling Kit by name and slapping him sharply on one cheek. He flinched, but otherwise gave no sign that he had heard his name, or even felt the blow. After a quiet exchange with Jehan, Geoffrey left Marlowe resting with the large serving man on one side and Sylvie on the other, and retraced his steps to the small study where Nicolas waited.

"I do not know," he answered the unspoken question. "It may be that Northumberland has broken him past healing. He has said nothing and is refusing to feed-" he swung around at an abrupt motion from Nicolas and faced Sir Walter in the doorway.

"Your pardon, your grace," the man said smoothly. "I did not mean to eavesdrop."

"But you have questions and wish answers," Geoffrey finished for him, and Ralegh nodded, his eyes narrowed to ice-blue slits in his weathered face. Geoffrey indicated a seat near the fire and Sir Walter sat and began to fill his pipe.

"First of all, my lord, I do not know, nor do I care, what your natures maybe. That you are good men and that my old friend is well befriended in you in his great need, I have no doubt, so we may dispense both with those questions and your explanations. No, I wish to know what your plans are regarding Northumberland," Ralegh said softly, gazing at the coals. Geoffrey, too, studied the fire a time before answering in a remote wintry voice.

"Were you ever raped, Sir Walter? No, I thought not, but that is what was done to Krytof. No, I do not believe that the earl violated the man carnally, but what he did do was a rape of the very soul. I do intend to kill him," Geoffrey finished flatly.

"And I have come, then, to plead for his life, albeit against my own preference. I cannot but agree that he deserves to die for what he has done, but at this time that could well see us all undone, myself not the least." Ralegh shifted in his chair.

"Harry has changed, the thirst he had for knowledge has become twisted. He has had to live down his family's reputation for treachery, confined to London as if the Queen and her ministers do not trust him out of their sight-as indeed they dare not. He has supported many scholars and poets, even Marlowe, in his time, giving to intellectual pursuits that energy that in others of his family has turned to pride and to treason. Let me speak to him," Ralegh finished, seeing that Geoffrey was unmoved. After considering for a time longer his host nodded.

"I also desire to speak with him, and will accompany you." It was not a request, Ralegh noted. "Nicolas will speak with Krytof, when he is willing or able to speak again. Nicolas?" The second man shrugged his consent, and rose from his seat.

"He should not be left alone, and his servants have been with him all the day. I'll bide with him a time," he said and strode from the room, colliding with his houseguest, Walsingham, at the door. They exchanged a few quiet words and withdrew from the room.

"-he was always given to dark moods and sudden violence," Sir Thomas said to Nicolas as they entered the room where Marlowe lay unseeing and uncaring on the rumpled bed. "Perhaps I can-oh Kit!" A cry was wrung from him at the sight that met his eyes. He slung himself onto the bed, gathering the abused man into his arms, ignoring Sylvie and Jehan, who slid from the bed and left the room.

Chapter 16.