“Yes,” Cecil agreed, gathering his thoughts and facing his uninvited guest. “I think we better had.” He considered a moment, then rapped out, “What business is it that brings you, night after night, to Drury House?”
“The Earl of Southampton,” Kryštof answered carefully, “has a very beautiful wife.” Cecil stifled a wild desire to laugh. Was this all it truly amounted to? A bit of scandal and servant’s gossip? He shuffled through the papers before him, fishing for the report of the bribed servant inside Southampton’s establishment. He flipped the deposition to the top of the pile and scanned it quickly, clucking to himself at the contents, a list of the names of those closeted with the earls. Prince Kryštof’s name was notable by its absence, though prominent enough upon the list of those seen entering. He carefully folded the papers away, tucking them into a small brassbound chest, and removing two or three large and much blotted sheets.
Cecil cleared his throat, wishing that the foreign prince would bring the distasteful subject into the conversation, but he just sat, regarding the little man with his glittering eye. Cecil cleared his throat again, and took the plunge.
“My lord, the questioning of your secretary was never meant to end so. He was to be shown the instruments, and only the boot was to be used, as his hands were valuable to you—” he broke off as the man lunged from his stool, his face a mask of wrath. Cecil snatched at the bell to summon the footmen, but found that it rested in the prince’s hands, its brass gleaming dully in the candlelight. He watched in horror as those long and slender fingers twisted the heavy metal, wadding it as if it were paper, letting it fall with a muffled thump to the carpeted floor. His own hands clutched the papers he held and he made himself smooth them out on the table before continuing. “I am sorry, your grace, and I do hope that the young man may recover. Deacon should not have been allowed so free a hand, I see that now, of course. I did not know that he was mad, and certain matters kept me from overseeing him as thoroughly as I should.” He dragged his eyes from the papers before him to the face of the prince, to find that the man had righted his stool and once again sat across the table from him. He considered the face of his guest for a time before continuing.
“Deacon died of a fall down the cellar steps that broke his neck,” he stated finally. “This is the only copy of the transcript made of Richard Bowen’s questioning, my lord, and I give it to you. He is a courageous young man, perhaps foolishly so. He broke at last, and answered the questions, but not before his mind had given way. The answers he made are meaningless; he seemed to be remembering scenes from his childhood in Wales.” Cecil handed the papers to Kryštof, who took the stained pages, and folded them away without looking at the contents. Cecil’s thin cheeks burned as he remembered the man’s disability, but the prince merely nodded, and left the room. The secretary sat for a moment, considering whether to call his guest back, to receive the other pages the chest held, the ‘confession’ that Percy had wrung from this same Bowen that Twelfth Night several years ago. He made his decision and deftly folded the papers away. One never knew when they might be needed, after all.
Chapter 27
My face wet with tears, I gently laid Richard’s bandaged body on the bed that Sylvana had made for him, knowing that there was no hope that the boy would recover from this ordeal. If only we had known where he was, that it was Cecil and not Percy who was holding the boy, we could have saved precious days, and probably his life. If he had been my lover, or Rózsa’s, there would have been a bond that would have led us to him, but there was nothing. He had been racked at whiles, and the bones in his hands and feet had been broken, splinters protruding through the mortifying flesh. I was surprised to see Richard’s eyes fixed on me: I had not expected the boy to regain consciousness.
“Kit,” he whispered, using my fond name for the first time, “I am afraid to die, but I don’t want to live a cripple. Help me, Kit,