Blood Lines

erect. "Richmond?" The young earl spun around, eyes wide with terror and when he saw who stood within his cell he threw himself against the far wall with a rattle of chain and strangled cry. "Am I so near to death," he moaned, "that the dead come calling?"
    Henry smiled. "I'm as flesh and blood as you are. More so, you've lost a lot of weight."
    'Yes, well, the cook does his poor best but it's not what I'm used to." One long-fingered hand brushed the air with a dismissive gesture Henry well remembered and then rose to cover Surrey's eyes. "I'm losing my mind. I make jokes with a ghost."
    'I am no ghost."
    'Prove it."
    'Touch me then." Henry walked forward, hand outstretched.
    'And lose my soul? I will not." Surrey sketched the sign of the cross and squared his shoulders. "Come any closer and I'll call for the guards."
    Henry frowned, this was not going the way he'd planned. "All right, I'll prove it without your touch." He thought a moment. "Do you remember what you said when we watched the execution of my father's second wife, your cousin, Anne Boleyn? You told me that although her condemnation was an inevitable matter of state business, you pitied the poor wretch and you hoped they'd let her laugh in hell for you'd always thought her laugh more beautiful than her face."
    'Richmond's spirit would know that, for I said it while he lived."
    'All right," Henry repeated, thinking, it's a good thing I came early, this could take all night . "You wrote this after I died and, trust me, Surrey, your poems are not yet read in heaven." He cleared his throat and softly recited, "The secret thoughts, imparted with such trust,''The wanton talk, the diverse change of play,''The friendship sworn, each promise kept so just,''Wherewith we passed the winter night away…"
    '
    '… That place of bliss,''the graceful, gay companion, who with me shared,''the jolly woes, the hateless short debate…' "
    Surrey stepped away from the wall, his body trembling with enough force to vibrate the chain he wore. "I wrote that for you."
    'I know." He had copies of nearly everything Surrey had written; the earl's flamboyant lifestyle meant his servants often waited for their pay and were, therefore, open to earning a little extra.
    '
    'Proud Windsor, where I, in just and joy with a King's son my childish years did pass…' Richmond?" Eyes welling, Surrey flung himself forward and Henry caught him up in a close embrace.

    'You see," he murmured into the dusky curls, "I have flesh, I live, and I've come to get you out of here."
    After an incoherent moment of mingled joy and grief, Surrey pushed away and, swiping at his cheeks with his palm, he looked his old friend up and down. "You haven't changed," he said, fear touching his expression again. "You look no different than you did when you… than you did at seventeen."
    'You look very little different yourself." Although eleven years had added flesh and he now wore the mustache and long curling beard fashionable at court, Surrey's face and manner were so little changed that Henry had no difficulty believing he'd gotten himself into the mess he had. His beloved friend had been wild, reckless, and immature at nineteen. Mere months short of thirty he was wild, reckless, and immature still. "As to my lack of change, well, it's a long story."
    Surrey flung himself down on the bed and with difficulty lifted the shackled leg up onto the pallet. "I'm not going anywhere," he pointed out with a sardonic lift of ebony brows.
    And he wasn't, Henry realized, not until his curiosity was satisfied. If he wanted to save him, he'd have to tell him the truth. "You'd gone to Kenninghall, to spend time with Frances, and His Majesty sent me to Sherifbutton," he began.
    'I remember."
    'Well, I met a woman…"
    Surrey laughed, and the laughter held, in spite of his outward calm, a hint of hysteria. "So I'd heard."
    Henry was thankful he could no longer blush. In the past that tone had turned him scarlet. This was the first time he had told the story since his change; he'd not expected it to be as difficult as it was and he walked over to the desk so he could look out into the night as he talked, one hand shuffling the papers Surrey had left. When he finished, he turned and faced the rude bed.
    Surrey was sitting on its edge, head buried in his hands. As though he felt the weight of Henry's gaze, he slowly looked up.
    The force of the rage and grief that twisted his face drove Henry back a step. "Surrey?" he asked, suddenly