Perfect Shadows (25 page)

I jerked and nearly dropped my precious burden with the shock of
the pain that lanced through my upper arm, but I recovered and settled
Elizabeth’s child-like body firmly on the horse before me. The wolves had
already betaken themselves to the woods, and were probably well on their way
back to Chelsey, their part in the night’s adventure accomplished. A second
shot rang out and the Queen’s horse, some ten yards ahead of us by now,
screamed and dropped, only his head thrashing about for a few seconds before he
was still. Elizabeth was cursing as only a Tudor could when the laggard court
caught up to us. Someone had called for torches, and in the flickering light my
enhanced sight confirmed my suspicions. The horse had been shot through the
neck just above the withers, the warm blood from the wound steaming upon the
snow. The Queen gave orders that all were to return to Oatlands, rebuffing
Essex’s offer to take her upon his own horse, and the court, buzzing like a
wasp’s nest, straggled along after us. I saw Ralegh examining the body of the
slaughtered horse and noted the uneasy looks sent his way by Essex and his
followers.

We passed through the arches into the courtyard, ablaze with
torches and cressets, the court spilling in behind us, milling about and
getting in the servants’ way. Elizabeth slid from the saddlebow to the ground,
and several of her ladies cried out at the sight of the dark blood soaking and
staining her cloak and the front of her gown. She ignored them, catching at my
rein, her hooded almond-shaped eyes boring into me. “My lord prince, dismount
at once,” she commanded, and her voice brooked no opposition. I swung out of
the saddle, protesting that it was nothing, but allowing myself to be led
indoors. Ralegh flanked me, taking me by my unhurt right arm, but speaking
softly first, as he approached from my blind side. I was taken to a small
parlor where the wound, which proved indeed superficial though quite bloody,
was already beginning to close as it was dressed by Ralegh. He dismissed the
idea of calling in a surgeon with a disdainful wave of his hand, and murmured
to me that we would speak later.

If the Queen seemed disinclined to question the presence of a
banished man at the hunt, not so Robert Cecil. His twisted form slid in the
door like some goblin’s shadow before it had quite closed after Sir Walter.

“Your grace, I must have speech with you touching this attempt
upon her Majesty’s life,” he said softly, pulling a stool close to the bench
where I slumped against the wall. He ignored my weary nod, and proceeded to
question me closely about the Fantasticals, and my association with Almsbury
and Essex. I answered noncommittally.

“Why were you at the hunt, my lord, after being banished from
the court in disgrace?” Cecil barked abruptly. My head snapped up at that, and
I regarded the minister much as I would something unpleasant adhering to the
sole of my boot. “It seems most likely that you contrived this dangerous scheme
as a device to return yourself to her Majesty’s favor. You will return to
Chelsey and consider yourself under house-arrest there until the matter may be
taken up by the council.” Cecil rose and strode from the room, lingering
neither for assent nor protest. Council trouble again—it was passing strange, the
coils I could fall into. At any rate I had at least packed Roger off to
complete his convalescence in his own lodgings the week before. The possessive
jealousy that the puppy had shown upon Rózsa’s return from abroad was
intolerable, and exacerbated by her prolonged stay at Chelsey. As I sat lost in
these thoughts, the door opened once more to admit Elizabeth, with thunder on
her face. I struggled to stand, but sank back onto the bench at her furious
gesture.

“Cecil told me that he had placed you under arrest,” she said,
coming straight to the point. “He knows not that your banishment was at your
own request, and so needed no such histrionics to conclude it; only you and I
know that, my lord. So I ask you, whose plot did you foil?” I knew that without
proof she would neither welcome nor believe that it was her darling Essex, and
proof I had none, only the drunken ramblings of a dissolute and rakehelly boy.
I shrugged slightly.

“It was only luck, your Majesty, luck and curiosity, having
never before seen a moonlight hunt,” I countered.

“I saw the moonlight on a raised pistol, cousin,” she said.
“Someone shot at me.”

“Or at me,” I countered, and refused to add or admit anything
further. Elizabeth’s painted brows drew together in a scowl, and she motioned
me to leave her.

The next evening I awakened to the news that I had been summoned
to council that morning. Sylvana had sent the messenger off with a flea in his
ear, saying that the master was wounded, and she was not about to wake him from
a healing sleep to go riding off in the sleet and bitter weather for a matter
that could just as well be handled by letter. She had stood there then, arms
folded, not budging until they had left. I shook my head ruefully, but with no
little admiration for the woman. Sylvie came in as Jehan was dressing me, to
say that another visitor had arrived, a little humpbacked man who had
identified himself only as Cecil. I resigned myself to an unpleasant evening,
and went to greet my guest.

The little man was standing near the fire, staring into the
flames as though reading an oracle. He spoke without turning as soon as I
entered the room.

“I have spoken with her Majesty, and she assures me that
this—accident—was no plan or plot of yours, though how she reached this
credulous conclusion she would not say. I do not agree that your part in this
is entirely innocent,” he paused, turning a piercing glance on me. “Until I am
so assured, I would like you to do a bit of work for me, to prove your good
intent towards her Majesty.” I made no sign, but stood still in the shadows by
the door. After a time Cecil continued. “The Earl of Essex and his friends are
.. . less than trustworthy, being to a man ambitious, harebrained, and up to
the eyebrows in debt. Essex, in particular, overrates his abilities; it will be
only a matter of time before his hubris leads him to disaster. I would contain
that disaster as much as possible, therefore—”

“You wish me to spy upon him and his friends, and report to
you,” I interrupted, my voice thick with disgust. Half-remembered days with the
Walsingham ring, and the Babington plot paraded hazy images through my brain,
and my gorge rose at the suddenly clear memory of Babington’s protracted
execution, at the thought that however remotely, I had helped to bring it about.
There was a knock at the door, which opened at once to admit Ralegh. His bright
blue gaze swept the room, assessing the situation immediately and accurately.
He sketched a bow to Cecil, a sardonic smile curling his lips.

“Lord Robert,” he said, enjoying the discomfited expression seen
so seldom on Cecil’s face.

“Sir Walter,” he answered, then turned again to me. “Consider
well the matter of which we spoke, your grace, and we will conclude it at
another time.” He stalked from the room.

“Well-a-day, Kit! So that crooked little man takes a dislike to
you yet again, does he? My guess would be that he wants you to spy for him. The
Fantasticals, presumably? He’d do better to lure one of them into spying on the
others for the payment of his debts. My kinsman Gorges does leap to mind, or
that that jackanapes Mericke. However I am not come to teach Cecil his
business, but to tell you what I found upon my examination of the slain horse.”

He took a seat by the fire, and waited patiently while food and
wine were brought in. When we were again alone he continued, handing me a small
black bundle. “I found this tied into Black Auster’s mane, and some scraps of
his fodder left in the manger had been admixed with several dubious herbs.
There is no doubt that the horse was provoked, but was the intent to kill the
Queen, or was another gallant rescuer meant to foil a supposed plot?” He sat
back in his chair, sipping the wine and letting the warmth creep back into his
toes. I was silent for a time, turning the little bundle over in my hands. It
was no more than folded silk, and all burned out on one side, where presumably
the contents had consumed themselves, erupting into some sort of flame, and
causing the horse to bolt. It reeked of Northumberland. I tossed the foul thing
back to Ralegh then stood with a curse and started to pace, almost colliding
with Rózsa, who glided soundlessly into the room, followed closely by Tom.

Ralegh leapt to his feet and performed a faultless courtesy,
evoking her delighted laugh. She accepted his hand and allowed herself to be
seated in the chair that he had occupied a minute earlier. She was dressed in
doublet, open down the front, and trousers, and but for her small breasts,
pressed into relief against the silk of her shirt, might have been taken for a
pretty, beardless boy. Tom, too secure now to let jealousy poison him, had
taken to Rózsa, and I knew that they, too, were occasional lovers. They had
been to see a play at Blackfriars, and their lively description of the work
served as an excellent diversion.

The next night I rode to Roger’s lodgings, where, upon my paying
his arrears of rent, the landlady had allowed me to go up. The rooms were not
small, but were ill-kept and dirty, assaulting my sensitive nostrils with the
odors of moldering food and the dregs of sour wine. Other noisome smells issued
from the fireplace which, although obviously most well used, had not seen a
fire in sometime. I threw open the casement windows, letting the freezing air
scour some of the stench from the chambers. Shouting down the stairs, I
arranged for the scullion to come and clear the worst of the mess from the
room, for a further handful of small coin. Roger and an older man, both drunk,
arrived in the midst of the operation. I listened with contempt as Roger’s bellicose
voice floated up the stairs.

“Well,
I’m
not paying you! Or were you trying to rob me,
you knave?” There was the sound of a brisk slap and the clatter of a dropped
bucket, then Roger’s weaving form appeared in the doorway. “Oh, ’s’you, is it?
Milord Selby, ’low me t’present his disgrace Prince Kryštof of Syllabub,
Sib-simple-somewhere,” said Roger, giggling helplessly at his attempted humor.
He sketched a flamboyant courtesy and fell on his face. Selby, perhaps through
long practice, handled his own sodden condition somewhat better.

“Please forgive him, your grace, he’s . . . we are both somewhat
the worse for wine, this evening . . . though I am most pleased, most pleased
to make your acquaintance,” he took my hand in his, holding it just a few seconds
too long and with an eloquent intensity. His eyes were bloodshot, and the skin
of his face, once fair and smooth, had begun to sag and display tiny purple
lines, which he had tried to cover with a plastering of cosmetic. I brushed the
apology aside with a wave, and stepped to the door, pausing on the threshold.

“Please tell Roger, when he is sober, that I shall await him
tomorrow evening at my house in Chelsey. Good night, my lord.” I turned on my
heel and left.

When I reached Chelsey, Ralegh was waiting for me, his cynical
smile firmly in place. Once I was seated before the study fire, Sir Walter
showed me the results of his day’s researches. He had made up a pouch similar
to the one that had been fixed in the horse’s mane, which he had affixed to a rod
about a yard long. Throwing a piece of horsehide down on the hearth he
proceeded to rub the bag briskly against it. I watched in amazement as a blue
spark crackled, followed immediately by a spurt of flame.

“Are you thinking of trading adventuring for
a conjurer’s robes, Sir Walter?” I asked bemusedly.

“Not at all, Kit. It’s a simple sort of trickery, after all, not
magic, as we had feared. You, of all people, should recognize stage fire!”

“But what set it off, and how did they time it?” Ralegh silenced
me with a wink, then set about filling his pipe as he continued.

“The paper was held in folds of silk, which, when chafed against
animal hair, makes this spark. Cat fur works even better, but horsehair is well
enough, and the spark ignited the paper, causing the horse to bolt. They shot
the poor beast to conceal that his fodder had been poisoned, the poison acting
to make him touchy and hard to control. He would have been dead by morning most
likely, and that would have pointed directly at Sir Christopher Blount, Essex’s
young stepfather and the old Earl of Leicester’s Master of Horse.” Ralegh
leaned forward, deftly removing a coal from the fire with the small tongs
provided for the purpose and studiously lighting his pipe. As the smoke began
to wreath his features he settled back and grinned at me. I found myself
smiling back for an instant before standing to pace the room once more.

“It always comes back to Essex, doesn’t it. I vow, the man’s as
vain and empty-headed as a peacock, swaggering and boasting about. He’ll be
having his portrait painted with the rest of his band for posterity next,” I
added sourly, referring to the fatuous Babington, who had done just that.
“Almsbury’s coming here tomorrow night, and I will try to talk some sense into
him, though I doubt any likelihood of success in that venture! They seem most
eager to seduce me into their ranks; perhaps I should let them, for a time.”

Ralegh shook his head and leaned over to knock his pipe against
the hearth. “Take care, Kit. They, and you, do play a most dangerous game,” he
said.

Roger arrived promptly at dusk, sober and in no good humor, his
sky-blue doublet showing the ravages of last night’s debauch. His mood, sour
enough to begin with, worsened perceptibly upon my arrival, and was only
slightly assuaged by the feast set before him. He was surly and taciturn,
falling to his food and ignoring me. I had let my guest finish his repast
before approaching the matter at hand, but had allowed him only three small
cups before having the wine removed with the remains of the meal. I smiled
indulgently at Roger’s glare.