Perfect Shadows (47 page)

I declined the chair offered me, and stood waiting, watching the
little man as he poured the last of the brandy from the small bottle I had
procured on my last visit to that little office room. As I took the cup I
noticed that the Secretary’s hands were cold as ice, chilling even to my own
unnaturally cool flesh.

“Essex has laid the full blame of his enterprise upon the backs
of his friends,” Cecil said abruptly. “He has even blamed his mother and his
sister for helping to lead him astray. The only innocent in the whole affair is
himself, it would seem. It’s spite, of course. He has heard that others have
confessed their various roles, and all to his dishonor.” Cecil passed a weary
hand over his high forehead, as if memory of the earl’s vituperation and
servility made him ill. “His chaplain is with him, and we will soon sort him
out. It is touching upon another matter that I wish to speak with you, your
grace. Her Majesty is most displeased by your attachment to Southampton, and
you are not to be allowed to see him. Neither will you present yourself at
court until she calls you back. I am sorry for it, my lord; the young man needs
a strong friend to guide him, but I fear he will only find sycophants.” Cecil
gazed at me for a moment, lost in thought. “We have often been at cross
purposes, I fear, when combining our forces might have served us, and the
crown, better.”

“It would have been an uneasy alliance, at best, with so little
trust between us. Would it be any less so now?”

“It might be so, now that I no longer have any perception that
you might mean her Majesty harm, your grace, and there are stronger foundations
than trust.” I nodded coolly, but returned no answer as I left the room.

Northumberland tossed in his shabby bed for an hour before
giving up and arising. The bedding was musty and the rushes on the floor needed
changing. His sharpened senses were far less tolerant of the odors produced by
neglect. He would have to move out while the residence was cleaned and
sweetened, a process he lately found had to be repeated two or three times a
year, where once had sufficed before. Immortality, it seemed, was going to be a
costly indulgence.

He went into his study and lit the candle, turning his attention
to the stained and battered manuscript Sommers had brought to him. The dialect
was obscure, and the book, a Latin translation of an Arabic original text,
appeared to have been pulled hastily from a fire at some point. He ground his
teeth at the thought of the priceless manuscripts that had been lost from his
own collection the night of the fire. He had only lately learned that the boy
had been rescued and that the fire had been set in an attempt to cover the
deed. He added these grievances to the mental tally that he kept, and set light
to the small brazier of coal laid ready nearby, rubbing his numb fingers
together in the meager warmth for a moment before picking up his pen. Sometime
later a slight sound behind him told of Sommers’ return.

“Did you make the arrangements?” Percy asked without looking
around.

“Aye, I did, but this will not be contrived at a twelve-penny
fee, my lord. The risks are too great,” and Sommers named a sum large enough to
cause the earl to turn and stare at him in amazement. “Aye, but that’s the
least amount. An you want it done, that’s the price. The date’s been set, and
the man but awaits your word.”

“Tell him I agree.” Percy studied the candle flame for a moment,
edging his quill into the flame until it began to smolder, then quickly jerking
it away. The smell of burned feathers permeated the chamber, masking the
noxious odors that rose from the rushes in this room as well. “About the other
matter,” the earl added, clearing his throat, “have you found anyone suitable?”
Sommers nodded, furtively licking his lips.

“Do you wish to see?” he asked, and Percy followed his limping
servant from the chamber to the little room in the second cellar. There was a
man laying there in the straw, shackled, but with fetters that had been well
wrapped with rags, to avoid galling the skin beneath. He turned vacant eyes to
the light, and gazed uncaring at his observers. He was a tall thin man, with
thinning sandy hair, narrow eyes over a hawk’s beak of a nose, and a
thin-lipped mouth. The resemblance was not remarkable, but it was there. Northumberland
rubbed his hands together in delight.

“Oh yes, well done, Newman. He is very well. Where did you find
him?” He bent to get a closer look.

“Up on the borders, my lord. May he be distant kin, think you?
He has the Percy look to him.” Sommers winked vulgarly, and Percy brushed the
possibility aside impatiently, much to his companion’s secret amusement. Percy
would be using his own half-brother for this purpose, and would neither admit
it, nor allow it to be suggested. “I shall see him bestowed tomorrow, then.”

“Yes, yes. He will suit us admirably. See to it, Newman, but
return as soon as you may.”

In the evening of the day that saw Essex to the block, Richard
made his first appearance downstairs, supported on Jehan’s arm, for his broken
feet had not yet fully healed. I glanced up as the invalid was settled into the
chair near the fire, and then looked more closely. He was bound to create no
end of disturbance, wherever he went. Even I could feel the pull of his nature:
a mortal would have no chance at all. Richard smiled shyly, waiting for me to
speak, but no words came. After a few minutes, I shook my head and smiled back.

“Richard, I—” I broke off at the sound of a disturbance in the
hall, but before I could do more than stand, Nicolas bounced into the little
room, beaming at us and catching me in a rough hug. He stepped back and
contemplated Richard, for a moment, then drew the boy to his feet and into a
warm and gentle embrace.

“Welcome to our family, Richard,” he said simply, and began
hunting around for a seat. I nudged him into my chair, and took a seat upon a
stool near the fire, asking him what had brought him to England again.

“Business, my boy, always business. We must see about a settlement
for young Dickon, here, and I must see that our interests are not affected by
the change of sovereigns.”

“Do you think that it will be soon?” I inquired quietly. I was
truly fond of the shrewd and shrewish old woman, and had heard little to the credit
of her probable successor, although I was somewhat troubled by a feeling that
in my reckless and impetuous previous life I may have thought quite the
opposite. Nicolas stirred and answered softly.

“The Earl of Essex died today, and the light has gone from her
eyes. She is a tired old woman, and all of the friends of her youth have died
away. It can be a terrible thing to live on when there is no one to remember
you in your youth.”

“I remember her, riding through Canterbury, more beautiful than
any tale, all in gold and glittering with jewels,” I spoke as if to myself.

“Yes, many do, but the ones who knew her familiarly have all
gone before. It is a hard thing to see those you love descend into death and
decay, Kit, and no less hard for us, though we do not. It may be that we, by
accepting the dark gift, deny ourselves any chance at reunion with those we
love.” A sudden tear slipped down his plump cheek, and disappeared into the
silky beard.

“Nicolas, what has happened? Is Anneke—”

“She died last month, of a fever, and did not rise,” Nicolas
said flatly, and buried his head in his hands. Richard rose silently and
hobbled from the room, leaning on various pieces of furniture for support.

“I am sorry, Nicolas. I do not know what to say,” I began softly
as Sylvana slipped into the room, leaving Richard, who had fetched her, leaning
unsteadily on the doorjamb. She knelt beside the weeping man and held him,
soothing him as she would a child. When he quieted somewhat she stood and drew
him to his feet, leading him from the room. Richard stepped out of the way and
tottered for second, but before he could fall I caught him and settled him back
into his chair. “Thank you, Richard. That was very well done.”

“Sylvana is a healer,” Richard said simply, then looked sharply
to the door. Nashe stood swaying there, a squat black bottle in his hand. He
landed himself on the hearth in a series of swoops and staggers, and sat
grinning up at me.

“I found a bottle,” he said, flourishing it before indulging in
a healthy pull. He offered it to me, but I refused gently. “No drink? But I
forgot, you’re dead. I am too, but not nearly so dead as all that!” He turned
to Richard and stared a moment, but did not offer the bottle. “My God, Kit,
he’s a pretty one! Where did you find him? You always did find the prettiest
boys . . . I used to hate you for it, you wouldn’t look at a homely wart like
me.”

“You never were one for boys, Tommy, that I ever heard,” I
answered gently. Nashe nodded emphatically.

“True! I just wanted you to notice me. I was on the outside, and
you were there, with Chapman and the Walsinghams, and Ralegh too, so brilliant
it hurt the eyes to look on you. I never attacked you, though. That was just a
lie. Harvey, the hangman’s son!” He spat into the fire.

“Rope-maker’s son.” I corrected.

“Halter-maker, hangman, it’s all one. Brays like an ass! Kit,
they burnt all my books!” Tears slid down his cheeks, and he looked up through
his sandy lashes guiltily. “Kit, I took the
Dido
and published it with
my name beside yours. I needed the money, you see.”

“You did good work on it as well, Tommy. I’m not angry, but glad
to see it printed, and do you suppose that I do not know how you fought with
those who denigrated me while I lay dead and defenseless?” I said soothingly.
Nashe began to laugh then.

“Do you remember that time you bet all your month’s allowance
that you could write a better poem than the other students? Fifty-four
shillings in the purse, one from each lad in your class, and Roger Boyce, from
the lower form, tried to talk you out of it? ‘If you lose, you’ll be without
money for a month!’ said he, but you just laughed, and said ‘But I’ll win, and
then I’ll have a further fifty-three shillings to keep mine company!’ and ran
laughing up the stairs.”

“How did you know about that, Tommy? It was at Canterbury, at
the King’s School, not at Cambridge.”

“Boyce told me about it. He never forgot it, he said, your hair
flying and your eyes flashing as you ran up those twisted stairs, and of course
you did win. Did you come to London like that, ready to win the world like so
many shillings?”

“I do not remember, Tommy,” I said helplessly.

“Ah,” Nashe replied, nodding sagely, “that comes of being a
ghost, you see. Ghosts are like that.”

I smiled. “I think you have had enough drink for one night,
let’s get you to your bed,” I said and lifted the little man to his feet. When
I returned a few minutes later Richard looked at me thoughtfully.

“It is hard to think of you as Marlowe the poet and playwright.”

“So I should imagine. That Marlowe is dead, Richard, as dead as
Richard Bowen. Or deader, as I have very few memories of my former life. I
cannot even read the works I wrote before and may never be able to do so. Are
you sorry that you asked my gift of me?” I asked abruptly, my voice harsh in my
own ears.

“No. I am only sorry that I wasted so much that I might
otherwise have had by pushing you away for so long. Oh, and sorry for judging
you when I knew nothing about you, as well,” Richard added, looking at the
fire.

“I remember dying,” he went on. “I felt the life slip out with
my breath, and I seemed to be watching you and Eden from above. I saw a light,
and moved towards it, drawn by its beauty, but it receded from me, and the more
I longed for it the farther away it was, until I was left drifting in the fog.
I could make out nothing and I cannot tell you how long that lasted. After a
time I became aware of my body again, that it was somewhere that I was not, and
a need to find it possessed me. I was frightened that I wouldn’t be able to
return, but when I calmed myself, I felt a tug, and followed it. I moved faster
and faster, until it seemed that I was falling, and I started, as one does from
a dream, before I hit the bottom. When I opened my eyes you were there, and I
knew that I was safe. Was it—I mean, did you—”

“No. I did not remember anything for a long time. Then, what I
did remember was close to intolerable.” I realized that my hands were shaking,
and clenched them together. Richard stirred uncomfortably and looked immensely
relieved when Nicolas returned.

He motioned us to keep our chairs and took the stool. As we sat
in companionable silence we heard a horse cross the cobbled court, and I
recognized Ralegh’s voice as he hailed Rhys to come and care for his beast. I
left Nicolas and Richard and went to greet my friend. I asked Sylvana to bring
mulled cider and took Ralegh into the study. He and Nicolas were old friends
and occasional business partners, but he gave Richard a keen glance as I
introduced the young man as my cousin. Sylvana brought in the cider and Ralegh
gratefully wrapped his chilled fingers around the pot-bellied silver cup,
gazing at the fire. Richard, who seemed revolted by the smell of the drink,
excused himself, and Nicolas helped him from the room. I took Richard’s chair
and settled back, sipping my cider and waiting for my friend to unburden
himself. Presently Sir Walter stirred, and turned troubled eyes on me.