“You lost the eye when you were injured,” Nicolas said gently and tied a black silk patch to cover the empty socket. He held a mirror that I might study the effect. I looked into the face of a stranger, not unhandsome, and the eye-patch gave my countenance a sinister air of which I thoroughly approved.
“And now, my friend, do you feel up to meeting our host?” Nicolas beamed at me.
“Then you are not—yes, I feel quite well. May I not be freed first?”
He shook his head gravely. “No, that is for him to say. He has much experience with injuries and illnesses such as yours and will know best. Now rest yourself and I shall bring him.” It was only a few minutes later that Nicolas returned with a man of overwhelming presence. He was tall and well built with the lithe grace of a professional duelist, and like a duelist, he radiated a sense of inherent danger. His clothing, somewhat conservative, was of impeccable cut and somber in color. His full-cut trousers met high boots of supple leather; his black satin doublet was richly 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