Master of the Revels

by Nicole Galland

  Livia’s dark brows arched with interest. “Do you mean being Homed would be like going into Mordor?”

  Actually, I’d just been slinging some reverse psychology at her to see if it would stick. But before I could respond, Quince interjected, his face slackening in disbelief: “Melisande, why are you talking to the mistress about Mordor?”

  “You also know about Mordor?” Livia asked Quince, pleased.

  He switched to English, muttering, “That’s fucked, Agent Stokes. That could trigger Shear. What’s your game here?”

  “Do not speak a foreign language in front of me,” Livia ordered, instantly stern.

  As Quince opened his mouth to apologize, I reported solemnly, “He was speaking in the orc tongue, mistress.”

  Quince swore under his breath in English. “Mistress,” he said in Latin, “this woman has threatened the very existence of our nation. I am duty bound to bring her home to face justice.”

  “Did you learn orc in school or is it your native language?” Livia asked him. “And are you speaking the Black Speech or just the orkish dialect of Westron?”

  “The fate of my homeland depends upon her return to the custody of our masters,” Quince tried again. “I beseech you, mistress.”

  “Answer my question, Quintus, I am interested in the topic.”

  He was appalled but knew better than to show it. “I do not speak orc, mistress. Nobody does.”

  “Except orcs,” I said. “And Gandalf.”

  “Orcs aren’t real and neither is Gandalf,” he snapped. “I—”

  “Mistress,” I gasped, “he’s abandoned our mother faith!”

  “You’re making it worse for yourself, Mel,” warned Quince.

  “No, I’m safe as long as I’m under the protection of our beloved mistress.”

  “And you’re risking fucking Diachronic Shear, telling her this shit,” he said in English. Livia glared at him. He made a gesture of apology.

  Livia looked back and forth between us with an expression more solemn than I had ever seen on her. Finally she nodded, a determined look in her eye.

  “You are a reluctant traveler,” she said to me.

  “Indeed,” I said. I gave Quince a sour look. “Especially if, as with this man, my people have grown faithless.”

  “In all the great stories of the world,” said Livia, “reluctant travelers are the protagonist.”

  If Livia wanted to upgrade me to an archetype, I could live with that. I made a compliant gesture.

  “Here is my ruling,” she declared, her face glowing with her newfound sense of agency. “Justice matters. The rule of law matters. But nothing matters more than fulfilling one’s epic destiny. Clearly, I must Home you at once, Melia, so that you are compelled to live out your destiny as a reluctant traveler. Then you will return here and tell us your story.”

  “Oh, mistress,” I said, falling to my knees and grabbing for her wrist.

  “But Home her to the precise spot I came from, not where she came from,” insisted Quince.

  Livia frowned uncertainly.

  In English, Quince said rapidly, “You fucking idiot, you’ve just signed your own death warrant. If she thinks I’m speaking orkish, great.” As she opened her mouth to protest the foreign language, he switched to Latin and continued briskly, barely polite enough: “Here’s a logic exercise, mistress. Frodo travels into Mordor, and orcs are from Mordor, so Frodo goes to where the orcs come from. Melia spoke true, I speak orc fluently because, in fact, I am an orc. Send her where I came from.”

  Fuck you, Quince. I’d been so close to a get-out-of-jail-free card.

  So these are my final written lines before Livia Homes me to DODO headquarters, where I don’t expect things to go well for me.

  If I were the praying sort, all I’d pray for now is that whatever happens to me in my own time, I may somehow receive word that Tristan is alive.

  I hope on some other Strand we do end up moving in together . . .

  ROBIN’S AFTER ACTION REPORT, STRAND 2, NEW PLAN (CONT.)

  It wasn’t surprising that Tilney had managed to escape Andrew North’s inebriated watch, but jeez, I wished North had kept him under wraps another quarter hour. We were on a high as we exited the stage, and we didn’t expect him. For a moment we stared at him, and he at us, like startled dogs and cats. Then Ned (book clutched under his arm—had Tilney seen it?) grabbed my hand and we raced away to Tilney’s right while Will skirted to the left. We were all out the back entrance before the Master of the Revels had even turned around.

  Also, we were out the back entrance before I considered what it meant to leave Tristan and Gráinne alone inside. I want to bullshit a reason for letting that happen, but truth is, I have no excuse. In the moment, what was in front of me reared larger than what I’d been obsessed with for days.

  “The river,” Ned said, and I nodded. It was full night now, the waning half-moon low in the western sky. In a city as large as London at night, there wasn’t light pollution but there was smoke pollution—the very feel of the air changed after nightfall, when the temperature dropped and people began to light their stoves. Through a veil of grungy mist we saw the door to the tower steps.

  “I know how to get to the river another way,” said Ned. He pulled to the right, and we adjusted to stay with him. We rushed through the topiary, all dark and nearly formless, more sensed than seen as we ran by. When we reached the eastern edge of the garden, the royal apartments rose before us.

  “We work our way through to the privy stairs,” said Ned. “There be sundry small passageways in and out and about for the scullions and downstairs servants. I would we had a light, but I can make my way by feel.”

  He led us cautiously through a narrow labyrinth of damp and stinking alleys. As the crow flies, we had only a hundred feet to cross, but we were not crows. Judging by the smell, and the occasional sounds from within, we went past the laundry, a wine cellar, two illicit trysts, the depository of several latrines, a henhouse, a silage shed, and (a welcome break) a workshop where strewing herbs were drying.

  We wove in and out of the palace building itself, sometimes moving through blackened hallways, sometimes through dark alleys. Our final pass was through a small door that opened onto a narrow corridor. This in turn led to a small room filled with a mound of dank and mildewed linen lying in a heap. The smell made my eyes water and my gorge rise.

  “Where go we from here?” I asked, desperate to get away.

  “Up,” said Ned quietly, in the absolute darkness. “This is the bottom of a massive laundry chute. There is a ladder to the right here, it goes up two full stories and comes out at the landing of the privy steps.” This was the broad set of stone stairs going from the royal apartments down to the Thames, for the exclusive use of Their Majesties’ court. “There will be a guard inside the door, but this brings us up on the outside. Their Majesties’ attendants take whatever was soiled on board during a river voyage and toss it down here. Or so I’ve gathered. Somebody should come and take it to the laundry, but that chore has clearly fallen out of rotation. The ladder is for retrieving things that get chucked accidentally. Robin, go up, then Will, and I’ll come behind. You’ll emerge through a trapdoor onto the landing at the top of the river stairs.”

  He took my fingers in the dark and wrapped them around a damp wooden rung of the ladder. “Up you get,” he said. “Brother, step toward my voice and I will put your hands upon it next.”

  Every rung was slimy. I tried not to think about that. Or about the fumes I was breathing from the pile of rotting fabrics. Just get up to the top, just get up to the top . . . It was like an urban Outward Bound course.

  Finally I bumped my head against the trapdoor. I pushed up and found to my relief that it opened easily, and a chain kept it from smashing on the decking around it. I scrambled onto the deck, felt the damp cool of the evening, and breathed in lungfuls of relatively wholesome air that reeked merely of smoke and river fumes. I stepped out of the way so Will cou
ld join me.

  I had been thinking stairs as in, you know, stairs. I figured maybe the staircase would have a canopy over it, since this was the royal family’s river egress even in the rain. But these steps literally got the royal treatment. Broad, wide, shallow stone risers were protected from the open sky by a wooden roof, the underside lacquered in gold leaf. The flight descended leisurely to a floating quay that adjusted with the tide. The Thames has a tidal range of about twenty feet, hence the stairs and floating dock. Because the stairs were in much use tonight by courtiers coming to see the play, there were torches. There were perfume censers.

  There was Tilney. Breathing hard to catch his breath from rushing. Holding a dagger. Gentlemen of this era were generally armed, but for somebody like Tilney, who was unlikely to ever need it, it probably became a sort of white noise in one’s haberdashery. But he had it, and now he’d drawn it. I wondered if he knew how to use it.

  Of course he’d think to come here. Fire and water are the fastest ways to destroy a printed manuscript. But an open flame on the palace grounds would draw attention, so he realized we meant to drown the book.

  Tilney was staring out toward the river, as if the movement of the water had distracted him from watching for us. The harsh lap of the tidal current, the wherrymen crying out “Eastward ho,” “Westward ho,” people shouting at each other in greeting or argument . . . from here, it was all somewhat at a distance, but it created a mottled white noise that let us get to our feet before he noticed us. I figured we should keep silent until Ned had joined us, then cut around Tilney and hustle down the stairs, but Tilney turned and saw us.

  “Master Tilney,” Will said, stepping toward him, as if we’d come here specifically to have a word with him.

  Tilney looked frightening in the sputtering torchlight. “You have killed us both,” he said to Will in a wondering tone. And pointing at me without glancing at me: “And it is her doing. She it is has bewitched you. I have proof.”

  “Let us repair to a tap-house and discuss this over an ale,” said Shakespeare, reaching out a conciliatory arm.

  Tilney slapped his hand away. “I will not burn with you,” he said. “I will not go to the Tower for this.”

  “’Tis true,” said Will. “You won’t. Naught has happened tonight to give offense to the King.”

  “You will give me the book, that I may present to His Majesty proof that I never approved of the witchcraft you uttered tonight.”

  “The book itself contains real witchcraft, sir,” I said. “My entire reason to be in your offices was to remove that witchcraft. The Irish witch you know as Grace was cleverer than I was.”

  “Every word out of your mouth is a lie,” he nearly spat. “You shall not trick me. Where is the book?”

  “I know not,” I said, moving toward the descending stairs to draw Tilney’s attention away from the trapdoor. At that moment Ned very inconveniently finished his ascent and appeared from the trap with a very book-like object tucked under his arm. Tilney saw him—and the book—and his face changed color.

  With a dexterity not even Charles Dance could have managed, he pulled Will up against him with the dudgeon an inch under his chin. “Give me the book and I will release your brother,” said Tilney.

  “This is uncalled for, Edmund,” said Will, shaken. “We are trying to protect you. Grace has made you act against your own interests.”

  “I know what magic feels like, and I—”

  “She used no spells,” I said, guessing. “She simply tricked you. She dissembled.” And then it made sense: “Lady Emilia is working with her, sir.” Tilney did not register this.

  “Ned, do not give him the book,” said Will. “Edmund, release me. What will you do if he will not give you the book? Don’t give him the book, Ned,” he added for clarity, not that Ned seemed about to. “Are you going to stab me, Master Tilney? How does that improve your situation?”

  Tilney pushed the point of the blade to actually touch Will’s chin, and Will flinched.

  He raised his chin enough to speak. “A proposition,” he said. “I will return with you immediately, in person, to the Banqueting House. We shall go to greet His Majesty, you and I, together. If His Majesty and the Lady Emilia express any displeasure or concern at all about tonight’s play, I will explain to them with all frankness and in your hearing the story behind the writing of the spells.”

  As Will was speaking, Ned was walking very slowly in an arc past the three of us.

  Tilney shook his head and poked Will, who flinched again. Will closed his eyes, and I worried he was about to pass out.

  “I shall do no such thing, sir,” said Tilney. “Of course you wish to address His Majesty, but it is because you would speak with him about that other thing you’ve written.”

  Will opened his eyes. “What other thing?” he asked in a whisper, through clenched teeth, without moving his jaw. “King Lear?”

  Tilney glowered and must have added pressure with the point of the dagger, for Will drew in a ragged breath.

  “Do not play me for a fool. The book of yours that Philip Herbert would present. For how many years must I live in the humiliation of your shadow? You shall not best me yet again. I will have audience with the King tonight, myself, without you.”

  “What book?” asked Will. “Lower your blade, man.”

  “Lower your blade,” echoed his brother. He held up the manuscript. “Release him, and I’ll give you the book.”

  This claim distracted Tilney, enough for Will to break loose. With a relieved gasp, he fled down the stone steps, passing Ned, until he stumbled, tripped, and rolled down several steps, grunting a pained complaint as he went.

  Like a dog on a hare, Tilney chased after him. I whistled sharply at Ned, who took my meaning, tossed me the manuscript, and then he too began to race down the steps, trying to get between Tilney and Will. But Tilney wasn’t having it. Now that his blade was out—which had probably rarely happened in six decades of wearing it—he was sawing the air with it.

  “Nobody could blame me for wanting to bury this in your gut,” he hissed down at Will. “After all I have endured since the moment you appeared in London. You would be nothing without me, and I am nothing because of you.”

  Will, finally collecting himself and starting to rise, called back up, “If I have ever been remiss in my expressions of appreciation, forgive me and allow me to try again—”

  “I am done waiting on you!” said Tilney. “It is my book that shall go to His Majesty! Mine. Not yours.”

  Perplexed (having not written a book), Will said, “Of course, as you insist. I agree.”

  Said Tilney, “You dissemble, sir, you will tromp all over me to have your own success!” He was working his way to a lather and came bounding after Will, who hurried down the remaining steps toward the river.

  Will and then the rest of us stumbled onto the floating wooden dock. The tide was low, but the ebb current was very strong, the water slapping loudly on the dock and the steps. Will, at the edge of the dock, pivoted back toward us, grabbing a post to steady himself. Tilney was some ten feet from him, knife still out. Ned had raced down to intercept Tilney, and when he pulled up short, the three men described a shallow triangle. Ned pulled a knife from his belt, but I was desperate to prevent a physical assault.

  “Master Tilney!” I called out, a step higher up from the dock. “Here I am with the book, sir! If you want it, you must step away from Mr. Shakespeare and collect it from me . . . here,” and I began to back slowly up the broad stone stairs.

  “If I turn away from this blackguard he will slit my throat,” said Tilney without looking at me.

  “Put your blade away,” I told Ned.

  “And let him kill my brother?” said Ned. “The man’s lost his reason.”

  “Put your blade away,” I insisted, and held up the manuscript. “Here is the book, Master Tilney!”

  Tilney started at that and risked a glance over his shoulder. His left hand twitched as he
began to raise his arm, and he took a step toward me. Then he froze. Dropped his hand. Looked back at Will.

  “I don’t want that anymore,” he said slowly. “I want blood.”

  What happened next will take longer to describe than it took to happen.

  I sensed—perhaps more than saw—that Tilney was going to lunge at Will. And that Ned intended to intercept that lunge. Either of these could lead to William Shakespeare dying sooner than he is supposed to, and that must not happen. Not that Ned’s or Tilney’s life is worth less than Will’s, obviously, but human history is shaped more by William Shakespeare than the other two combined. In other words: I couldn’t let anyone get hurt, but I really couldn’t let Will get hurt. Will was about to get hurt. I had to stop that.

  So I darted down to the other side of the Will-Tilney axis to get in Tilney’s way as he went for Will. This put me directly in harm’s way, but it seemed like something Tristan would do, endangering himself rather than risk harm to the historical figure. And here’s what happened:

  As I was moving into Tilney’s strike zone, with the water pounding past the dock in the darkness, Ned mirrored me and moved toward me, grabbed the book from me, and pushed me directly down onto the dock with one hand, while holding up the book toward Tilney with the other hand, like a buckler, as if it could function as an actual shield. Meanwhile Tilney was following through on his lunge, which connected with the book, piercing it with such force that his dudgeon impaled the entire manuscript. The dagger’s forward momentum was retarded from making contact with the book, but Tilney had already added extra oomph to his step, and so as Ned released the book, shocked, Tilney was propelled forward toward the edge of the dock.

  He’d have gone over into the Thames—except that Ned, in an instinctive but fatal moment of politeness, pushed Tilney down and back to keep him from falling, and in doing so lost his own balance. Ned grabbed blindly in the air for purchase, his hand finding only the manuscript, which now in his grasp slid off the point of Tilney’s bodkin more easily than it was impaled—and Ned and the book careened off the dock into the water.