Shadow of Night (62 page)

“Benjamin ben Gabriel is Matthew Clairmont’s son,” Gerbert said reluctantly.

“His son?” Knox repeated numbly. Benjamin de Clermont was on none of the elaborate vampire genealogies the Congregation kept.

“Yes. But Benjamin disowned his bloodline. It is not something that a vampire does lightly, for the rest of the family is likely to kill him to protect their secrets. Matthew forbade any de Clermont to take his son’s life. And no one has caught a glimpse of Benjamin since the nineteenth century, when he disappeared in Jerusalem.”

The bottom dropped out of Knox’s world. Matthew Clairmont couldn’t be allowed to have Ashmole 782. Not if it held the witches’ most cherished lore.

“Well, we’re going to have to find him,” Knox said grimly, “because according to this letter Edward Kelley scattered the three pages. One he gave to Rabbi Loew, who passed it on to someone called Abraham ben Elijah of Chelm.”

“Abraham ben Elijah was once known as a very powerful witch. Do you creatures know anything about your own history?”

“We know not to trust vampires. I’d always dismissed that prejudice as histrionics, not history, but now I’m not so sure.” Knox paused. “Loew told Benjamin to ask his father for help. I knew that de Clermont was hiding something. We have to find Benjamin de Clermont and make him tell us what he—and his father—know about Ashmole 782.”

“Benjamin de Clermont is a volatile young man. He was afflicted with the same illness that plagued Matthew’s sister Louisa.” The vampires called it blood rage, and the Congregation wondered if the disease was not somehow related to the new illness afflicting vampires—the one that made it impossible for them to make new vampires. “If there really are three lost sheets from Ashmole 782, we will find them without his help. It will be better that way.”

“No. It’s time for the vampires to yield their secrets.” Knox knew that the success or failure of their plans might well depend on this unstable branch of the de Clermont family tree. He looked at the letter once more. Loew was clear that he had wanted Benjamin to heal not only the book but his relationship with his family. Matthew Clairmont might know more about the book than any of them suspected.

“I suppose you’ll be wanting to timewalk to Rudolphine Prague now to look for Edward Kelley,” Gerbert grumbled, trying to stifle an impatient sigh. Witches could be so impulsive.

“On the contrary. I’m going to Sept-Tours.”

Gerbert snorted. Storming the de Clermont family château was an even more ridiculous idea than going back to the past.

“Tempting though that might be, it isn’t wise. Baldwin turns a blind eye only because of the rift between him and Matthew.” It was Philippe’s only strategic failure, so far as Gerbert could remember, to hand over the Knights of Lazarus to Matthew rather than to the elder son who had always thought he was entitled to the position. “Besides, Benjamin no longer considers himself a de Clermont—and the de Clermonts certainly don’t believe he’s one of theirs. The last place we would find him is Sept-Tours.”

“For all we know, Matthew de Clermont has had one of the missing pages in his possession for centuries. The book is of no use to us if it’s incomplete. Besides, it’s time that vampire pays for his sins—and those of his mother and father, too.” Together they had been responsible for the deaths of thousands of witches. Let the vampires worry about placating Baldwin. Knox had justice on his side.

“Don’t forget the sins of his lover,” Gerbert said, his voice vicious. “I miss my Juliette. Diana Bishop owes me a life for the one she took.”

“I have your support, then?” Knox didn’t care one way or the other. He’d be leading a raiding party of witches against the de Clermont stronghold before the week’s end, with or without Gerbert’s help.

“You do,” Gerbert agreed reluctantly. “They are all gathering there, you know. The witches. The vampires. There are even a few daemons inside. They are calling themselves the Conventicle. Marcus sent a message to the vampires on the Congregation suggesting that the covenant be repealed.”

“But that would mean—”

“The end of our world,” Gerbert finished.

"Y
ou failed me!"

A red damask shoe sailed through the air. Matthew tilted his head just before it struck. The shoe continued past his ear, knocked a bejeweled armillary sphere off the table, and came to rest on the floor. The interlocking rings of the sphere spun around in their fixed orbits in impotent frustration.

“I wanted Kelley, you fool. Instead I got the emperor’s ambassador, who told me of your many indiscretions. When he demanded to see me, it was not yet eight o’clock and the sun had barely risen.” Elizabeth Tudor was suffering from a toothache, which didn’t improve her disposition. She sucked in one cheek to cushion the infected molar and grimaced. “And where were you? Creeping back into my presence with no concern for my suffering.”

A blue-eyed beauty stepped forward and handed Her Majesty a cloth saturated with clove oil. With Matthew seething next to me, the spiciness in the room was already overpowering. Elizabeth placed the cloth delicately between her cheek and gums, and the woman stepped away, her green gown swishing around her ankles. It was an optimistic hue for this cloudy day in May, as if she hoped to speed summer’s arrival. The fourthfloor tower room in Greenwich Palace afforded a sweeping view of the gray river, muddy ground, and England’s stormy skies. In spite of the many windows, the silvery morning light did little to dispel heaviness of the room, which was resolutely masculine and early Tudor in its furnishings. The carved initials on the ceiling—an intertwined
H
and
A
for Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn—indicated that the room had been decorated around the time of Elizabeth’s birth and seldom used since.

“Perhaps we should hear Master Roydon out before you throw the inkwell,” William Cecil suggested mildly. Elizabeth’s arm stopped, but she didn’t put down the weighty metal object.

“We did not seek your opinion, Mistress Roydon,” the queen of England said sharply. “Like too many women at my court, you are utterly without governance or decorum. If you wish to remain at Greenwich with your husband rather than being sent back to Woodstock where you belong, you would be wise to take Mistress Throckmorton as your model. She does not speak unless directed to do so.”

Mistress Throckmorton glanced at Walter, who was standing next to Matthew. We had met him on the back stairs to the queen’s private chambers, and though Matthew dismissed it as unnecessary, Walter had insisted on accompanying us into the lion’s den.

Bess’s lips compressed as she held back her amusement, but her eyes danced. The fact that the queen’s attractive young ward and her dashing, saturnine pirate were intimate was apparent to everyone save Elizabeth. Cupid had managed to ensnare Sir Walter Raleigh, just as Matthew promised. The man was utterly besotted.

Walter’s mouth softened at his lover’s challenging stare, and the frank appraisal he gave her in return promised that the subject of her decorum would be addressed in a more private venue.

“As you do not require Diana’s presence, perhaps you will let my wife go home and take her rest as I requested,” Matthew said evenly, though his eyes were as black and angry as the queen’s. “She has been traveling for some weeks.” The royal barge had intercepted us before we’d even set foot at the Blackfriars.

“Rest! I have had nothing but sleepless nights since hearing of your adventures in Prague. She will rest when I am through with you!” Elizabeth shrieked, the inkwell following in the path of the royal footwear. When it veered toward me like a late-breaking curveball, Matthew reached out and caught it. Wordlessly he passed it to Raleigh, who tossed it to the groom already in possession of the queen’s shoe.

“Master Roydon would be far more difficult to replace than that astronomical toy, Majesty.” Cecil held out an embroidered cushion. “Perhaps you would consider this if you are in need of further ammunition.”

“Do not think to direct me, Lord Burghley!” the queen fumed. She turned with fury on Matthew. “Sebastian St. Clair did not treat my father thus. He would not have dared to provoke the Tudor lion.”

Bess Throckmorton blinked at the unfamiliar name. Her golden head turned from Walter to the queen like a spring daffodil seeking out the sun. Cecil coughed gently at the young woman’s evident confusion.

“Let us reminisce about your blessed father at some other time, when we can devote proper attention to his memory. Did you not have questions for Master Roydon?” The queen’s secretary looked at Matthew apologetically.
Which devil would you prefer?
his expression seemed to say.

“You are right, William. It is not in the nature of lions to dally with mice and other insignificant creatures.” The queen’s disdain somehow managed to diminish Matthew to the size of a small boy. Once he looked suitably contrite—though the muscle ticking in his jaw made me wonder how sincere his remorse really was—she took a moment to steady herself, her hands retaining a white-knuckled grip on the chair’s arms.

“I wish to know how my Shadow bungled matters so badly.” Her voiced turned plaintive. “The emperor has alchemists aplenty. He does not need mine.”

Walter’s shoulders lowered a fraction, and Cecil smothered a sigh of relief. If the queen was calling Matthew by his nickname, then her anger was already softening.

“Edward Kelley cannot be plucked from the emperor’s court like a stray weed, no matter how many roses grow there,” Matthew said. “Rudolf values him too highly.”

“So Kelley has succeeded at last. The philosopher’s stone
is
in his possession,” Elizabeth said with a sharp intake of breath. She clutched at the side of her face as the air hit her sore tooth.

“No, he hasn’t succeeded—and that’s the heart of the matter. So long as Kelley promises more than he is able to produce, Rudolf will never part with him. The emperor behaves like an inexperienced youth rather than a seasoned monarch, fascinated by what he cannot have. His Majesty loves the chase. It fills his days and occupies his dreams,” Matthew said impassively.

The sodden fields and swollen rivers of Europe had put us at a considerable distance from Rudolf II, but there were moments when I could still feel his unwelcome touch and acquisitive glances. In spite of the May warmth and the fire blazing in the hearth, I shivered.

“The new French ambassador writes to me that Kelley has turned copper into gold.”

“Philippe de Mornay is no more trustworthy than your former ambassador—who, as I recall, attempted to assassinate you.” Matthew’s tone was perfectly poised between obsequiousness and irritation. Elizabeth did a double take.

“Are you baiting me, Master Roydon?”

“I would never bait a lion—or even the lion’s cub,” Matthew drawled. Walter closed his eyes as if he couldn’t bear to witness the inevitable devastation. “I was badly scarred after one such encounter and have no desire to mar my beauty further for fear that you could no longer abide the sight of me.”

There was a shocked silence, broken at last by an unladylike bellow of laughter. Walter’s eyes popped open.

“You got what you deserved, sneaking up on a young maid when she was sewing,” Elizabeth said with something that sounded very much like indulgence. I shook my head slightly, sure I was hearing things.

“I shall keep that in mind, Majesty, should I happen upon another young lioness with a sharp pair of shears.”

Walter and I were now as confused as Bess. Only Matthew, Elizabeth, and Cecil seemed to understand what was being said—and what was not.

“Even then you were my Shadow.” The look Elizabeth gave Matthew made her appear to be a girl again and not a woman fast approaching sixty. Then I blinked, and she was an aging, tired monarch once more. “Leave us.”

“Your . . . M-majesty?” Bess stammered.

“I wish to speak to Master Roydon privately. I don’t suppose he will permit his loose-tongued wife out of his sight, so she may stay, too. Wait for me in my privy chamber, Walter. Take Bess with you. We shall join you presently.”

“But—” Bess protested. She looked about nervously. Staying near the queen was her job, and without protocol to guide her she was at sea.

“You shall have to help me instead, Mistress Throckmorton.” Cecil took several painful steps away from the queen, aided by his heavy stick. As he passed by Matthew, Cecil gave him a hard look. “We will leave Master Roydon to see to Her Majesty’s welfare.”

When the queen waved the grooms out of the room, the three of us were left alone.

“Jesu,”
Elizabeth said with a groan. “My head feels like a rotten apple about to split. Could you not have chosen a more opportune time to cause a diplomatic incident?”

“Let me examine you,” Matthew requested.

“You think to provide me care that my surgeon cannot, Master Roydon?” said the queen with wary hope.

“I believe I can spare you some pain, if God wills it.”

“Even unto his death, my father spoke of you with longing.” Elizabeth’s hands twitched against the folds of her skirt. “He likened you to a tonic, whose benefits he had failed to appreciate.”

“How so?” Matthew made no effort to hide his curiosity. This was not a story he had heard before.

“He said you could rid him of an evil humor faster than any man he had ever known—though, like most physic, you could be difficult to swallow.” Elizabeth smiled at Matthew’s booming laughter, and then her smile faltered. “He was a great and terrible man—and a fool.”

“All men are fools, Your Majesty,” Matthew said swiftly.

“No. Let us speak plainly to each other again, as though I were not queen of England and you were not a
wearh.
”

“Only if you let me look at your tooth,” Matthew said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Once an invitation to share intimacies with me would have been sufficient inducement, and you would not have attached further conditions to my proposal.” Elizabeth sighed. “I am losing more than my teeth. Very well, Master Roydon.” She opened her mouth obediently. Even though I was a few feet away, I could smell the decay. Matthew took her head in his hands so that he could see the problem more clearly.

“It is a miracle you have any teeth at all,” he said sternly. Elizabeth turned pink with irritation and struggled to reply. “You may shout at me when I am done. By then you will have good reason to do so, as I will have confiscated your candied violets and sweet wine. That will leave you with nothing more damaging to drink than peppermint water and nothing to suck on but a clove rub for your gums. They are badly abscessed.”

Matthew drew his finger along her teeth. Several of them wiggled alarmingly, and Elizabeth’s eyes bulged. He made a sound of displeasure.

“You may be queen of England, Lizzie, but that doesn’t give you a knowledge of physic and surgery. It would have been wiser to heed the surgeon’s advice. Now, hold still.”

While I tried to regain my composure after hearing my husband call the queen of England “Lizzie,” Matthew withdrew his index finger, rubbed it against his own sharp eyetooth so that it drew a bead of blood, and returned it to Elizabeth’s mouth. Though he was careful, the queen winced. Then her shoulders lowered in relief.

“’Ank ’ewe,” she mumbled around his fingers.

“Don’t thank me yet. There won’t be a comfit or sweetmeat for five miles when I’m through. And the pain will return, I’m afraid.” Matthew drew his fingers away, and the queen felt around her mouth with her tongue.

“Aye, but for now it is gone,” she said gratefully. Elizabeth gestured at the nearby chairs. “I fear there is nothing left but to settle accounts. Sit down and tell me about Prague.”

After spending weeks at the emperor’s court, I knew it was an extraordinary privilege to be invited to sit in the presence of any ruler, but I was doubly grateful for the chance to do so now. The voyage had exacerbated the normal fatigue of the first weeks of pregnancy. Matthew pulled out one of the chairs for me, and I lowered myself into it. I pressed the small of my back against the carving, using its knobs and bumps to give the aching joints a massage. Matthew’s hand automatically reached for the same area, pushing and kneading to relieve the soreness. Envy flashed across the queen’s features.

“You are in pain, too, Mistress Roydon?” the queen inquired solicitously. She was being too nice. When Rudolf treated a courtier like this, something sinister was usually afoot.

“Yes, Your Majesty. Alas, it is nothing peppermint water will solve,” I said ruefully.

“Nor will it smooth the emperor’s ruffled feathers. His ambassador tells me that you have stolen one of Rudolf’s books.”

“Which book?” Matthew asked. “Rudolf has so many.” As most vampires had not been acquainted with the state of innocence for some time, his performance of it rang hollow.

“We are not playing games, Sebastian,” the queen said quietly, confirming my suspicion that Matthew had gone by the name of Sebastian St. Clair when he was at Henry’s court.

“You are always playing games,” he shot back. “In this you are no different from the emperor, or Henry of France.”

“Mistress Throckmorton told me that you and Walter have been exchanging verses about the fickleness of power. But I am not one of those vain potentates, fit for nothing save scorn and ridicule. I was raised by hard schoolmasters,” the queen retorted. “Those around me—mother, aunts, stepmothers, uncles, cousins—are gone. I survived. So do not give me the lie and think to get away with it. I ask you again, what of the book?”