Perfect Shadows (8 page)

“Why? Why, what did you think, sweet, kind Kit? That you could
dance and drink and never have to pay? You’ll pay right enough now, my lad.
You’ve been winking at your damnation for far too long! My master’s head may be
softer than his heart, but even he could see that you’d gone too far this
time!”

“I only regret that the last thing I’ll ever see is your ugly
face, Ingram,” I slurred. His habitually pious expression twisted into a snarl.

“This will mend both your manners and your mouth!”

“Murderers!” I gasped as Frizer pulled a white silk handkerchief
from his sleeve, placed his knees to hold my head immobile and stuffed my mouth
with it. Then, with a look of unholy relish, he slowly plunged the dagger into
my right eye. I felt the searing pain, saw the tearing light, heard the
guttural laughter of my murderers and my own stifled outcry dying away. Then
there was nothing.

Nicolas sat and stared at the fire, waiting for Rózsa to join
him, as they had so often awaited young Marlowe. As he turned at her footstep,
she caught sight of his face and crossed the room swift as a shadow. “Nicolas?”

“It has happened—Kit died in Deptford
yesterday.”

“How?” Her voice was barely audible, her hands crushing the
velvet of the doublet she carried.

“I do not yet know how he died but I do mean to find out. I beg
you to wait here, child, while I do.”

“Wait,” Rózsa said. Nicolas had expected her to ask to accompany
him, but she did not. She stared at the crimson cloth bulging between her
fingers for a moment, then looked up defiantly. “I made the exchange with him,”
she said flatly, and Nicolas nodded.

“Yes, I was almost certain you had. Did you tell him of the
possible consequences?” She shook her head, and he sighed. “This does
complicate things,” he muttered, then kissed her forehead, and gave her a brief
hug.” We will save him, child. Never fear,” he said, and went out.

Several hours later he returned and sat staring at the fire
without looking at Rózsa, who still awaited him there. Finally she spoke,
sharply. “Well?”

“I have learned how he died, from the one that engineered the
murder and stood looking on while it was carried out.” Tersely he gave her the
dreadful details of her mortal lover’s death.

“I trust you killed that treacherous, scabby little pimp!” she
burst out, but he shook his head.

“You know I did not, and you know why—that is not our way,
Rózsa. If he rises, the vengeance must be Kit’s to work as he wills. If he is
truly dead, then, and only then, will you and I see to it that this traitor’s
life, and the lives of all Kit’s murderers are both very painful and very
short. But our time runs out—the inquest is tomorrow and if justice runs its
usual tardy course, we may have to steal his body away tomorrow night. I have
set plans in motion for various contingencies and there is nothing more that we
may do. Morning nears—we can but seek our beds and wait.” She nodded and the
tears that had filled her eyes overflowed, running down her smooth skin like
liquid opals in the firelight.

“Will—will you hold me tonight?” she whispered. He nodded and
put his arm around her shoulders to lead her to his bed.

When they woke, Nicolas’ servant Matthieu
stood at the foot of the bed, shifting from foot to foot in his excitement.

“I’ve got him, master,” he said, breathlessly. “The inquest
ended and the judges decreed that he should be buried at once with no
witnesses, and I had bribed the sexton, as you told me. Master Marlowe waits
here in the chapel, sir.” He beamed, until he remembered the funereal nature of
his news and schooled his expression to match. Nicolas leapt to his feet,
thankful that they had rested that day fully clothed. Rózsa scrambled after
him, but he stopped her.

“No, my child, he died so violently—let us see to him first.”

“No! I must know, do you not see? I must!” Nicolas gave way and
allowed her to follow him to the chapel. The corpse lay on a hastily
constructed bier before the altar and Nicolas bent to view the broken body of
his friend. His gentle fingers touched the clotted blood that matted the fine
hair of the shattered skull. He noted the heavy bruising on the man’s wrists
where he had been held immobile against his struggles, and on his chest, where
it seemed as if a great weight had been placed.

“What was the verdict?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“Self defense, master,” Matthieu answered. “That man Frizer had
two small cuts on his scalp. Had they been on his chin, he might have got them
shaving,” he added scornfully, but Nicolas was no longer listening. He turned
the dead man’s head and Rózsa cried out when she caught sight of the ravaged
face with its ruined right eye.

“I would have spared thee,” Nicolas said softly, but she shook
her head, tears falling freely. “You think of George, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” she confessed, “but of poor Kit, too! How could they,
how could they do—that—to him!” Nicolas just shook his head. He knew that she,
of all people, needed no answer. Soon they had the corpse cleaned and dressed,
and Rózsa sat with it while Nicolas returned to the study to write in his
journal, as he did every night. He returned just before dawn.

“Has he—” he began, but Rózsa shook her head and Nicolas
composed himself to wait. It was not long before the body before them convulsed
with a shattering cry. Before either could reach him, he collapsed, lying as
limply as if he had but newly died upon the bier. Matthieu pressed the veins of
his right wrist to the man’s lips, but to no avail. Rózsa stood with dagger in
hand and Matthieu let her open a vein. When he pressed the bleeding wound
against the slack lips, they closed upon it and the undead man fed eagerly for
a short time, then fell back into his catalepsy. Nicolas cleared his throat.

“I will send word to Geoffrey to expect us in Brittany soon.
Matthieu, see to the traveling arrangements. We must get him out of the country
as soon as possible.” Marlowe was transferred to the lightless room prepared
for him and the others set about their various tasks.

The journey across the channel was not as difficult as it might
have been. The winds were fair, but the sailors muttered about the sick man in
the hold, telling tales of plague and derelict ships sailing eternally on the
chartless seas of hell. They thankfully crossed themselves when the passengers
debarked in the gathering dusk and watched with relief as the stricken man was
placed in the waiting litter and carried away into the night.

At last the cortège came to an old manor house, tucked away in a
hidden valley between two rocky headlands. Geoffrey was not in residence, but
the servants said that he was expected back before the end of the summer.
Orders were swiftly given and Marlowe was put to bed. At Nicolas’ insistence
Rózsa went to stay with friends in Paris, though she protested bitterly. The
very extent of the injuries the poet had sustained and survived made Nicolas
uneasy and he did not wish Rózsa to be on hand should something go wrong. He
prepared himself for what might be a long wait.

Long days and uneventful nights passed, until one night the
peace was rent by screams of terror, coming from Marlowe’s chamber. The
household converged to find the door bolted from the inside and heard the
sounds of struggle weakening within.

“We must break it down,” Nicolas shouted. He lent his strength
to the servant’s efforts and within seconds stepped into the chamber. Marlowe
was there, crouching over the limp form of one of the serving wenches, Annette,
who had come to check on him, as she did every morning and evening. Blood
dripped from his lips, drawn back in a feral grin. The torchlight glittered in
his remaining eye and there was nothing human in his face.

Nicolas snatched a torch from a servant and used it to drive the
snarling beast from his kill. When he was backed into a corner, batting at the
torch and howling his pain and rage, Nicolas motioned and two of the grooms
leapt in to drag the girl’s body from the room. “She lives,” someone said and
Nicolas sighed in relief. With animal cunning, Marlowe was watching, looking
for an opening. When one of the grooms returned, he glanced away just long
enough for Nicolas to stun him with the butt-end of the torch. They bound the
unconscious man securely to his bed-frame, and Nicolas gave orders that the
door be repaired and strengthened, and that the bolt be removed from the
inside. He turned his attention to the injured wench.

She had been violated, he saw with disgust, brutally, and then
almost drained of blood. More than ever he wished for Geoffrey’s advice, his
knowledge. Had their brilliant young poet become no more than a monster? Would
this be the extent of his new life? If so, it would not be a long one. The
servants took the girl away to care for her and he went to calm himself by
writing. He had not been at it long when he heard horses; Geoffrey had arrived
at last.

“You should have kept him bound—did you not receive my letter?”
Geoffrey said, pacing by the fire. Nicolas shook his head. “This is but his
animal nature that has awakened, his passions and furies. It often happens so
when there are such injuries to the brain as those that took his life; it was
also thus with me. But, even so, he may yet heal and so we must watch over him
and wait.”

“My poor unfortunate friend! And if he gets no better?”

“Then, my old friend, we shall be forced to destroy him,”
Geoffrey answered, gently. “If his wits have gone, it would be no kindness to
let his body live on as a ravening beast. Where is Rózsa?”

“In Paris,” Nicolas said thankfully. “I shall send her word not
to return yet awhile.”

“I think that would be best.”

Part Two
:

I struggled for a time against the bindings that held me fast,
then gave up in exhaustion. I was in total darkness, half sitting in what
seemed to be a bed. My arms were stretched out to either side and securely
tied. A wide band crossed my midsection, and my feet were caught together and
knotted firmly to the bed’s foot. Pillows cushioned my contact with the
headboard behind me, which also seemed to be swathed in many layers of soft
cloth. My bonds, so my questing fingers told me, were wrappings of the finest
silk. I tried to remember what may have brought me to my present pass, but
other than a few random images, I could remember nothing—nothing at all, not
even my name.

Fear coiled in me, leaving me shaking and sick. I wrenched again
at the bonds, frantically, when I heard a door open and saw the glow of a
candle. “Where am I?” I whispered, but the serving wench who carried the candle
only squeaked at my faint words and ran from the room. I tried to call out
after her but again only produced a whisper. The light, however brief, had
given me further food for thought: the room looked curiously flat and I seemed
to be blind in my right eye.

The door opened again and a heavyset, jovial man of middle-age
bounced through it. He set his candle upon a table and turned to the bed, his
broad and placid face beaming.

“Kit, lad! So happy to see that you are—awake. How are you
feeling? Confused, I warrant and rightly so. Hungry too, I doubt not. Anneke!”
he bellowed the last, causing me to flinch back into my pillows. The sharp eyes
in that round face missed nothing and the shout was not repeated. “I shall just
see to it, shall I?” and he whisked from the room with an agility that belied
his bulk, to return a few moments later with a bowl and spoon. He sat on the
edge of the bed and began to feed me. The bowl held not the broth that I had
expected, but something dark and only lukewarm, with an unusual salty-sweet
flavor, rich and delicious. I delayed my questions until we had finished, then
asked, “Why am I bound?” in a hoarse voice, faint still, but better than a
whisper.

“You’ve been ill, Kit, very ill, for a very long time, and at
times quite violent. This is for your own sake. We feared you would do yourself
some further injury.”

“Will you free me now?”

“No, not yet, but soon Kit, that I promise. Now, do you remember
aught of what has happened to you? Aught at all?”

“Not even being Kit,” I said and found myself grinning weakly,
possibly with relief at finding my captor so friendly. “Am I Kit? And who might
he be?” My voice was stronger now, a husky, light baritone.

“It will be better if you can remember on your own. Shall I read
to you? No? Well, rest you then and I’ll look in on you anon.”

“An it please you, leave the candle.” The heavy man nodded and
shut the door gently behind him.

I studied my surroundings. The chamber appeared to be
windowless, as the fine hangings on the walls did not so much as sway, though I
could hear the wind outside whistling around the corners of the house. The
candle flame burned steady and tall, and the candle was expensive hard wax, not
cheap tallow. The bed where I lay was adorned with the richest of hangings and
the floor was covered over in peerless Turkey carpets which at home would be
carefully kept on tables and chests, the floors making do with rushes or straw.
I drew a sharp breath. Home! The memory was but a glimpse and try though I
might, nothing more would come of it, so I returned to my contemplation of my
prison. I could hear, faint and far away, voices and music, and beyond that the
forlorn howls of wolves. Though I had not meant to sleep, I soon found a
dulling lethargy stealing over me, drowning my will.