Deliver us from Evil (19 page)

'To celebrate the news that the King will return.'

Robert nodded; but as he watched, he knew that she was wrong. For he could make out the revellers now, and recognise them. He was staring at the villagers from Woodton, the same who had watched his mother burn; they were all about him on the streets outside, unmistakable, for cruelty and greed were stamped upon their faces, and murderous intent. They were laughing at him; and Robert knew they were celebrating his parents' deaths. He closed his eyes, but it made no difference. The villagers' faces were still before him, their expressions leering and twisted with hate. 'And yet despite you all,' Robert whispered, '
I
shall win back what was lost.
I
shall be restored to Emily, and see my parents once again.'

Such a vow remained with him, even in the very depths of his fever. He clung to it, although there were times when he believed himself dead and damned in Hell, for he seemed lost amidst horrors too great for a mortal to bear. Yet the worst of it was that he knew he had already borne them; for he was visited by nothing but what he had endured before. Often he would see the villagers again, in a barbarous rout; often he would be with Faustus, riding towards the stones; often he would hear Emily screaming out for help. Sometimes, more rarely, he would see his parents watching him, staring down - his mother a veil of ashes, his father drained white. He would watch their mouths frame wordless commands; but he did not need to hear their words. 'Do not forget, do not forget': the syllables already sounded in his head. Still they echoed; and gradually, from the nightmares, he began to emerge.

One day, he opened his eyes. He could feel a strip of fabric on his brow. It was sodden; but when he moved it the skin beneath was free of sweat, and he knew that his fever had left him at last.

He looked down at the fabric: a square of lace.

'You would not be without it. When
I
tried to replace it, your fever would grow worse.'

Robert stared round. From the depths of his memory, a word rose. 'Milady.' He whispered it.

She smiled at him. The girl's eyes were as cold and gleaming as before, yet she was also as beautiful; and although he knew he should be afraid of her, Robert found her presence a strange comfort. He became aware that he was lying on a bed, in a small, oak-lined room. He turned back to his companion. 'Where am
I
?' he asked.

'Safe,' she replied.

Again, he stared into her eyes. This time, he did shiver. Their brightness was like sunlight on a lake of ice. He felt his comfort fade, dissolved into fear. 'Safe from you?' he asked.

Milady's smile remained frozen on her lips. 'Why?' she murmured. 'What do you think
I
may do?'

'Why' - Robert swallowed - 'drink my blood.'

She stared at him, a frown of fascination creasing her perfect brow. 'Yes,' she said, nodding to herself, 'you are terrified, you truly are.' She paused, as though savouring the realisation. Then she laughed. 'But you have been lying here for many days. Do you not think, if
I
had wanted to kill you,
I
would have done so by now?'

Robert frowned, then he inclined his head in acknowledgement. 'But why do you keep me here?' he asked.

Milady shrugged. 'Because otherwise you would have surely died.'

Robert flushed with a deep sense of shame. 'Then
I
am sorry,' he said, 'to have misjudged you so grievously.' He closed his eyes. Already, he thought, he had betrayed his mother and her gentle faith in the goodness of man. 'For you have been like that Samaritan,' he told the girl, 'who was neighbour unto him that fell among the thieves.' But then an image unbidden came into his mind, of his mother being borne aloft to the stake. 'Where then was the Samaritan?' he murmured, before his voice caught and he choked on his sobs.

Milady stared at him, her surprise apparently intermingled again with fascination. Gently she brushed his tears from his cheeks; then held her fingertip up to the light. 'You are unhappy,' she said, as she inspected it. Suddenly, a look of understanding crossed her face. 'Yes,' she nodded, 'you are unhappy - of course. You have lost people you
...
loved.' She bent forward and kissed Robert softly. Her lips were very cold; despite himself, Robert flinched at their touch.

She looked hurt, but he had not meant to insult her. She raised a hand, to stroke back an errant curl. 'Do you not find me beautiful?' she asked.

Robert swallowed, then spoke the simple truth. 'You are the most beautiful woman
I
have ever seen.'

She arched an eyebrow. 'Then perhaps we shall make a Cavalier of you indeed, Master Lovelace.'

'Lovelace?' Robert asked.

She smiled faintly.
'Our very sorrows weep, That joys so ripe, so little keep.'
Her last syllable seemed to linger, as she inspected Robert with her unblinking golden stare. 'You have the face of a Cavalier
I
briefly knew, who bore the same name. And besides . . .' - she shrugged, and gestured to the fabric in his hand -
'
I
did not know by what else you might rightfully be called.' 'My name is Foxe.'

The lady pulled a face. 'Far too plain for so lovely a boy.' 'Yet it was my father's name.'

'Your father is dead’
She paused, and then her voice softened. 'Is that not so?'

Robert looked away, and did not reply.

Milady watched him. 'If you would fight what has been done to you,' she said suddenly, 'then you cannot remain the child you have been. As Foxe, what are you? Nothing! But as Lovelace . . .' She shook her head; she bent over him again, and stroked his hair so that he stared up from his pillow. 'As Lovelace,' she whispered, 'what worlds of power and pleasure might not be yours!'

'Power?'

Milady nodded. 'Oh, yes. More than you would ever have imagined possible.' She kissed him on the brow. '
I
can swear to that.'

For a moment she stayed close to him, so that her hair brushed his cheek; then she rose and crossed to the door. '
I
will have the servant send you food,' she said, 'and after that you must sleep.' But she stared at him in silence for a long while - almost, Robert thought, as his mother might have done, if she were still alive and tending him. Was it really true, he wondered, after Milady had gone, that she might give him the power to return to his home? Was it even possible she possessed such a power? The servant arrived: his flesh was pale, his eyes were dead, just like the soldiers that Faustus had led into Woodton. And Faustus had indeed possessed great powers - terrible powers. Robert took his food. The servant, he realised, did not frighten him at all; rather, he seemed a mark of Milady's good word. Robert finished his meal, then lay and imagined his return to Woodton. Emily would be waiting for him there. Emily was still alive. Such thoughts accompanied him even as he began to sleep. He was soon asleep. For the first time since his fever had begun, his dreams were undisturbed.

But in the morning, he woke to fresh imaginings and doubts. Milady's powers, he wondered - where did they come from? Not from God, he was sure, nor from any source that his parents would have blessed. Faustus, after all, on the ride to the stones, had sought to tempt him with a similar promise; and he had been a demon from the very depths of Hell. ' "Get thee hence, Satan," ' he whispered to himself, as he knelt at his prayers, and heard delicate footsteps climb the stairs to his room. But then, once again, he seemed to see his father drained of his blood before him, and his mother blackened and chained to the stake; and he shook his head in agony. 'Guide me, O Lord,' he prayed, 'for like your prophets of old,
I
seem lost in the wilderness, and
I
know not what to do.' But nothing answered him, save the gossamer sound of Milady's footsteps. For a second more, he continued to pray; then he rose and turned to greet her as she stood in the door.

She seemed intrigued to have seen him on his knees, and faintly shocked; but she said nothing. Instead, she laid a great pile of clothes upon his bed and gestured to them: '
I
have brought you these.' Robert stared at them, then brushed them with his fingertips and felt a shiver of pleasure. There were silks, and feathers, and yards of lace; he had never dreamed that clothes might be so beautiful and rich. Milady watched his delight eagerly; as before, she seemed to feed off his responses, as though hungry to experience his emotions for herself. She picked up a cloak of deep black velvet and draped it about his shoulders. 'There,' she exclaimed, and clapped her hands. 'Now you are quite the dashing lord.'

Robert threw it off at once, of course. He could see his own clothes, washed and neatly piled on a chair; covering himself behind a sheet, he pulled them on quickly. He had not been his father's son, he thought, to start dressing now like a Cavalier. He explained this to Milady, who seemed barely to believe he might be serious. She picked up a silk coat, and smoothed it against him, studying his expression. 'But you do want it?' she pressed him. She could sense his hesitation, and the gold of her eyes seemed to burn with delight. 'Feel it,' she urged; then suddenly she tossed it aside again and folded him in her arms. 'You must have loved your parents very much,' she breathed, with the same passion with which she had offered him the clothes. She paused, to inspect his expression once again. 'So strong, so simple, so very strange,' she whispered. She kissed him on the lips. 'A mortal's love.'

Then she took his arm. 'At least,' she inquired, as she swept him from the room, 'you have not forbidden yourself to eat?' Robert shook his head. Milady's lips parted in a smile and she touched her teeth, very daintily, with the tip of her tongue.

She led Robert downstairs into a hall, long and low, with red panelled walls. Although it was morning outside, it might just as well have been night, for the windows had been veiled behind thick velvet curtains so that the air in the room seemed very purple and rich. Candles burned softly, spangling the dark. Some were held by statues of boys, laid upon a table in the centre of the room. Robert gazed with wonder at their beauty. The curls of their hair seemed to glide as though in water; about their naked arms, they wore coronets of pearl; only a tiny sprig of an olive-tree, sportfully held, preserved those parts which women love to see. Indeed, their loveliness seemed almost beyond a sculptor's skill; and then a drop of wax fell upon a statue's hand, and Robert saw it flinch, and he realised it was made of flesh and blood like himself. He caught the boy's stare; it seemed drugged, as though veiled across a lotus dream. At once, Robert's wonder was transformed into disgust and he shrank back, hugging himself, lest his own clothes be torn from him and he be placed as a living trophy with the others - or put to uses more terrible yet.

Someone had been watching him, for he suddenly heard a voice from the far end of the room. 'See how he clutches at his puritan breeches! He is ignorant, and so does not understand that Love is nothing but a naked boy.'

Robert turned to see Lightborn, his shirt opened, lolling at the table with a second man. He swallowed,
I
know,' he said, 'that Ovid claimed Love to be so.'

Lightborn narrowed his eyes. 'Wondrous!' he exclaimed. 'So young to be a scholar, and a rustic too!' He looked across sharply at Milady. 'Yet if he knows this, why does he insist on clinging to his rags?'

'They remind him of his parents,' replied Milady, as though announcing something extraordinary.

'Touching.' Lightborn frowned at her. 'Yet it is scarcely reason enough. Look at him. He is like some religious caterpillar - a blot upon the dark and wondrous beauties of this place. If you truly mean to keep him here, then you must look to him better, Milady.'

'Who is he?' asked Lightborn's companion. 'For all his homespun, he's a pretty-looking whore.'

'He would be,' agreed Lightborn, 'if
I
were allowed to work on him.'

'No,' said Milady. 'You have sworn it - he is mine.'

Lightborn shrugged. 'As you wish.' He turned to his companion again. 'Charming, Godolphin, is it not? My Lady Helen has adopted a pet. How very like her, to take in a Roundhead, when all the rest of the world is throwing them out.'

Godolphin began to laugh. He collapsed forward suddenly, his whole body shaking, giggling and spitting like a lunatic. Lightborn took him in his arms, and gently pulled him back; Godolphin continued to splutter until silenced by a hand upon his mouth, and then a kiss. Robert stared, appalled. He had read of such things in the histories of the Romans, of course; but his tutor had told him such abominations never happened now. In life as in Latin, Robert thought, it seemed he was learning more than Mr Yorke.