Free Perfect Shadows by Siobhan Burke Page A

embroidered with gold
thread. His shirt was of black silk, and even his falling band of cobweb-lawn
had been dyed sable. It set off perfectly the pallor of his complexion and the
tawny gold of his hair, tied into lovelocks with silk ribbons and flowing over
his right shoulder in rippling waves to his waist. In his left earlobe he wore
a cabochon ruby the color of blood, and a gold ring on the little finger of his
right hand.
    His penetrating glance looked out from under finely arched
brows, his slate-grey eyes were shadowed by his long lashes and wide-set under
a high forehead with a pronounced widow’s peak. When I realized that I was
gaping like a bumpkin I flushed and looked away for a second, but my gaze was
drawn irresistibly back to this man, my host. Beside him, Nicolas looked like a
squat bundle of laundry and I guessed that I myself would appear but a callow
stripling. I certainly felt like one.
    The man crossed the room to sit familiarly on the side of my bed
and smiled. His mouth sensitive, and his voice, when he spoke, was resonant and
deep, his English perfect, though with an odd intonation. “I am Geoffrey of
Brittany. Welcome to my house, Christopher Marlowe.”
    Marlowe . . . Marlowe . . . the name echoed in my mind. Yes, I
was Marlowe, the darling of the playhouses. Images flashed before me: a
playhouse stage before a shouting crowd; a beautiful young man with eyes of
harebell-blue reaching up a slender hand to sweep his golden hair from his
sulky mouth; an older man’s sullen, envious face; a woman dark as the boy had
been fair, radiating a refined sensuality that could rouse a man three days
dead; then the memories slipped away again, taunting me. I shook my head to
clear it and smiled weakly back at my host. “Might I be loosed now, my lord?”
    “Please, call me Geoffrey. Yes, I think that you may, upon your
word not to leave your bed without either Nicolas or myself beside you, until I
say you may. Do you so promise?”
    “Yes,” I said, eagerly. Within a few minutes I was free of the
restraints that had held me so long; I brought my hands together, rubbing them
slowly, although there was little of the numbness I had expected. I puzzled a
bit over the ring I found upon my right little finger, an amethyst intaglio,
the head of a handsome man in the classical style, set in gold. It was a fellow
to the one that Geoffrey, and, as I now noted, Nicolas also wore.
    “Now, we shall see if you are up to taking a few steps, yes?
Good.” I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stood in one motion. A wave
of dizziness swept over me. I swayed and might have crashed to the floor if
Geoffrey had not caught me and set me gently back upon the bed.
    “Not so fast, my young friend! You have been long abed, and must
expect to take some time to find your feet again,” Nicolas exclaimed. I nodded,
laughing ruefully, and took the proffered arm, managing only a few wobbly steps
before Geoffrey peremptorily ordered me back to bed. Again I felt the lethargy
stealing over me, and as I drifted into a heavy sleep I heard him murmur to
Nicolas “He does well. Another day of rest and he will be strong enough to. ..
.” and then sleep claimed me.

 
Chapter 2
    When I woke, still in darkness, the novelty of freedom overtook
me. Almost without volition I sat up on the edge of the bed, my feet a few
inches from the floor. My promise to Geoffrey slipped through my mind, but I
felt so much stronger, and he would never know . . . abruptly I threw myself
back onto the pillows, resigned to wait.
    “Very good, you do well to remember and obey,” Geoffrey said
softly in the darkness. I started, and was so overwhelmed by relief that I had
not pressed my folly that I could think of nothing to reply. Geoffrey silently
left the room, returning minutes later with a candle and a cup on a tray. I
took the cup, peered at it doubtfully and sipped. It was the same substance as
before, rich and flavorful, though only lukewarm. I cleared