Chasing the Bard

by Philippa Ballantine

  And it certainly didn’t help matters that his selling technique had not improved, even after all these years.

  The more exposure Will got to the paying public, the more he despaired for humanity. And working at the school offered not much more hope; he was quite sure he’d never been as coarse and rude as some boys there. Their faces were so quick to fold into ugly expressions, and they heard none of the beauty of words as he did.

  The shop’s patrons were no better—just older examples of the schoolboys. The possession of money in the purse removed all human reason and logic. Sir Lucy and the rest of his ilk treated shopkeepers as completely below their notice, only there to serve.

  This customer showed little chance of being any different. While Will’s head was turned, the fox-faced man decided against a purchase. Up until that very moment, he’d had been almost positive that the man would buy the gauntleted gloves his father had laboured hours on, but like a cunning pike he slipped the hook and escaped through the door. Will was too used to it to even spare a curse of annoyance.

  He shrugged across at father, seeing with opened eyes the silver sheen in his hair, and counting each fear and concern in the web of lines beneath the eyes. Rather than dwell on yet another disappointment in a life of them, he went to the door.

  His wife was wending her way through the press of people making her way to the knot of Shakespeares who had taken an excellent spot on the other side of the Henley Street. He caught a glimpse of a smile which for a moment recalled the young woman she had been. He missed that person.

  But it slipped sideways, and Anne of recent years reappeared. Will couldn’t blame her for her sharpness; they had a full house and shop, times were hard, and money short. Yet Will couldn’t help the uncharitable thought that his mother still remained calm in the face of it all. Anne had perhaps had too much of it in her life; first a barrow load of demanding siblings and step-mothers, and then their current arrangement.

  The guilt was greater because he knew he ought to still love Anne. But somewhere in the middle of all this, they’d lost each other.

  “Was is my fault?” he whispered under his breath. But even if he ran across the street right this minute, she would not be what she had once. Idly tracing the grain of the wood, Will’s his body left him for an instant, “Youth’s a stuff will not endure.” The words were thick and bitter on his tongue, and pulled out of him from some place unknown. It was true though—their love had not endured with the loss of youth.

  Across the road Anne had reached the front of the crowd where Mary Shakespeare was standing with Susanna clutching her skirts. Will’s sister Joan was upstairs watching over the twins, but his bright-eyed brothers, Edmond and Richard, had managed to slip out from father’s thumb. Gil obviously had not been so lucky. Edmond was only seven, and could not remember the last group of players very well, but he was holding his little niece’s hand, and talking to her solemnly about it. Will smiled a little sadly; once that would have been he and Gil.

  Richard waved from the other side of the street, his hands red raw from the witterwaring he’d been doing that morning. He wasn’t allowed to even stay at school as long as Will had—but he bore it a lot better. Richard yelped when Edmond stood on his foot in excitement. All in all, the Shakespeares were rambunctious and difficult to miss, part of the spectacle.

  Anne and his mother smiled properly for the first time in months as the excitement of the crowd reached them. Even though Edmond had done his best, little Susanna still didn’t understand. She was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet and looking up at her grandmother with wordless anticipation. Her quick eyes darted back across the street to where her father was, and she flapped her hand at him. Will grinned back at his daughter, and their smiles were the same. No matter what the rest of the world did to him, Will was always complete in the eyes of his children, even the tiny Hamnet and Judith.

  Anne lifted Susanna up, perching her on one hip, while craning her neck to see the newcomers appearing at the far end of Henley Street. The Shakespeares all crowded forward, knocking up against their neighbours for a good view.

  Sighing, Will leaned against the doorpost. The prospect of the travellers’ arrival did not fill him with the enthusiasm it once had. Instead of being enlivened by it, his mouth filled with bitterness. The freewheeling troupes that roamed across England, performing in all the villages and great houses of the nation before settling in London for winter, were a symbol of all that was wrong in his life. They came regularly to Stratford, on the way to play in Sir Edward Lucy’s manor, and many times stopped to perform for the citizens. Their bright rich costumes and smell of freedom enticed and chilled him.

  The famed Richard Tarlton had come the previous year with the Queen’s Men. He’d held court in the tavern, bantering with the out of depth villagers, amusing them with his bewildering buffoonery. But behind those eyes was at all times burning intelligence.

  William had lingered on the fringes, feeling the fold of paper in his pocket like a hot ember. If only he had the courage to take it out, to revel his ideas. But one look into that face that had seen London and all the wit it contained had stopped him in his tracks. He’d returned to father’s shop, reminded of his place.

  And now here they were again as certain as the turn of seasons. It had to be someone mocking him because they always passed along Henley Street on their way to the town square. They would seek permission from the council to perform, and then would most likely set up in the tavern. He’d watched, like all the others, since he was a boy, but he didn’t know if he could bear it this year. Some excuse would be easy enough to find; no one would care if he remained to guard the deserted shop, in the deserted street.

  Another had joined the little knot of Shakespeare’s on the far side of the street. William could make out Gilbert’s fair head bowed low next to Susanna’s dark curls. If John Shakespeare caught his second son out gawking at players, when he should be supervising the younger apprentices sewing, there would be plenty of drama—none of it from the traveling theatricals.

  The players were now waving their grubby hands and calling out to the crowd, behaving for all the world like they were royalty. A woebegone horse pulled the laden cart up the middle of the street. The bundles on the back were full of costumes and props. Tarlton was once again amongst them, and the citizens cheered all the louder for that.

  Something else caught Will’s eye though, a flash of white almost below the creaking cart. It was a cat though moving with little of the economic grace that marked one of that breed. This feline was dragging itself in the shadow of the wagon, each step desperate.

  A memory was stirring inside Will’s brain; a hare-brained idea that was ridiculous in the extreme. His consciousness had no time to give shape to it though before the battered cat did something incredibly odd. As the cart drew even with the door to the shop, the animal made a startling run. It dodged, none too nimbly, through the legs of the throng, and before Will knew it, the cat was collapsing at his feet.

  He looked around, certain that others must have seen its bizarre approach, but the rest of the citizens were still cheering on the arrival of the player, oblivious to everything else.

  The feline head dropped onto Will’s boot, and now he could see the true reason for its strangeness. Vivid red slashes had torn through a coat that might once have been bone white, the fur now stained a pink colour, even over the places where meat and sinew hadn't been exposed. How such a small animal could such sustain terrible injuries and still breathe was a complete mystery.

  Then he forgot all that—because he recognized the animal. “White Cat?” he whispered, hard put to believe it. That feline went missing on the evening when he had discovered the truth about Sive. Half in his head, he’d decided that she was somehow responsible for that too. Yet despite the improbability of it all, something about this mauled cat was very familiar. When it opened one blue eye, and stared at him through blood and pain, he knew for certain that it was
indeed his childhood companion.

  Not taking any notice of the dripping blood, Will scooped the cat up as gently as he could, and took it inside.

  So, while the rest of his family joined the curious town in milling around the players, Will took the small feline out into the quiet yard, and bathed and tended to its wounds. How could it have managed to survive such an attack? He would have guessed that only a large dog would be able to inflict such wounds, and yet they were the tears of claws rather than of teeth.

  “How did you find me, old boy?” No reply from the cat.

  Will shook his head and wrapped the comatose animal in one of his brother’s old shirts. As he was in the process of tucking White into a box next to the fire, his mother came bustling in.

  “Haven’t got time to stand around watching that lot,” she muttered under her breath, and practice made it sound almost true. Will watched her from the corner, as she tucked her fine greying hair behind one ear, and set out toward the apprentices’ yard.

  He almost got away with it. Mid-stride though she paused, turned on her heel, and gave him an appraising look. “Another stray?” She’d already tucked the bottom of her faded skirt into its waistband and was rolling up her sleeves.

  “An old friend mother—you remember White Cat?”

  “Nonsense—that creature must have died years ago,” she marched over and peered into the box. “Doesn’t look good, Will.”

  Mary Shakespeare’s word was law; she’d seen many storms since marrying, and she knew a lost cause when it presented itself. She also had the ability to make her son feel ten again.

  Will hovered over White Cat, uncertain what to do now. “He’s so hurt mother, you must know something to that would help.”

  “Dare say I do, but he wouldn’t make anyone a decent mouser now.”

  “He’d be a playmate for Susanna,” Will coaxed, knowing that somewhere within her, lurked the gentle mother of his youth.

  She made a small snort of disapproval, but bustled off to get her herbals from the kitchen. Will smiled, but didn’t say a thing. The cat lay very still while Mary tended him. “It’s a miracle but nothing is broken,” she finally concluded.

  “But whatever dog it was nearly shredded the poor animal—I don’t think he’ll live to see the morning, Will.” At the pure despair forming in her son’s eyes, she patted his hand. “Why don’t you go to the Three Crowns and see the players—half of the town will be there. Most everyone else has gone.”

  He held his tongue, knowing she meant well, but also knowing she could not possibly understand the mix of desire and repulsion he had for the players. “I would rather see this creature well, mother.”

  Mary had seen that look a hundred times, in a hundred different places. Will might look and act like the meekest creature on God’s earth, but when he made up his mind, it wouldn't shift.

  “Well at least bring him inside next to the fire, then both of you can keep warm.”

  She left him to settle White inside next to the hearth. Will sat close to the cat, wanting to pet his childhood friend, but not wanting to do any more harm. Cat and man had claimed the quietest corner of the room, but the house was always full of people, and never completely silent.

  Upstairs Joan was singing to the twins, mother was pottering around in her kitchen, and outside the apprentices argued amongst themselves. It could have almost been the same house that White Cat had disappeared from, years before.

  And yet how could that be? No cat could have lived this long, Will’s rational brain said, as his eyes told him the truth. He wanted to be happy about it, but as always, the memory of that day by the river tainted everything. Could this be her doing?

  Memories of Sive and their magical moments stolen together bubbled to the surface, and White Cat's returned softened the bitterness of her betrayal somehow. For the first time in many years, Will loosened the bonds he had placed around those memories. He couldn’t help a small smile.

  Night was drawing on, and when Mary Shakespeare found her son, grown man though he was, nestled next to the wounded cat, she shook her head and smiled.

  The good wool blanket was tucked around him. The real world had receded, and Art filled his mind. For once he let it.

  * * *

  They knew only two things; hunger, and their Master’s will, and both drove them with an unnerving intensity. These were mindful hunters, tracking their prey through the Between, and they would fall dead of the hunger before giving up.

  They had such little liking of each other that sharp claws and teeth had already ripped ragged holes in their companions’ scaled hides. Pain should be cherished however, not avoided, and others’ agony they found attractive. Several of their number were killed by their whelp mates in the chaos of the Between, quick fodder that did not satisfy their hunger, but was part of their nature.

  It was their only weakness, and one that had allowed their desperate quarry to escape.

  Certainly grief was not numbered among their emotions. Only hunger drove them, a hunger not abated by bones they snapped or muscles they chewed. The three that had survived were certainly the strongest of the pack. Heavy set jaws and rasping tongues had sucked all Art and nutrition from Fey before, and their taste for that meat had heightened thanks to their Master’s demands.

  The monsters now sought to sate their hunger on Puck, the Trickster. He had eluded them in the Between, but it would not be for much longer. He could not deny his own nature, nor throw off his Art.

  Once his flesh was consumed, there would be peace—for a time at least. A space to rest and recall—to remember past times, when they had not been monsters, when they were loved as any other creature was.

  What passed for their leader, the nightmare with the strongest jaws and most unaffected intelligence, and the waves of the Between washing over it, as seductive as the cool ocean. A moment later the ache followed. A terrible whisper of a memory reminded it of its loss, a loss which had flung it apart from what it had once been and into the pit of madness and change.

  But then, as before, the demands of its form washed over it, clouding what might well have resolved into conscious thought. No time for that, no time for pity or pain, only time to feed. With a half snarl, it led its companions after the scent. Like the Fey these creatures could walk the realms, the Veil obeyed them. Through it they slipped into the mortal realm. The earth itself shrunk from their footfalls. They scarcely noticed, excited by the knowledge that their prey was very close. Paws that had once more resembled feet stepped out into the muddy Stratford street without a sound. Around the three were the sounds of sleeping people, blind to the nightmares that had slipped their leash and entered the human world. Dark pointed heads lifted in the cool air, inhaling great lungfuls of scents. All told a story to the creatures, pain, lust or simply the mundane chores of existence—none of that interested the beasts overly. Though they would have spared a few moments to crunch on mortal bones, feasting on the terror alone, more important prey was on order; the Master's commands must be obeyed.

  Hunkering down onto its haunches so that its foremost limbs dragged on the ground, the Leader narrowed its gleaming eyes, honing in on the ether. They had fed in the Fey, hunted the dreaming and foolish Court, and now its rewards were many, both in increased sensitivity and boosted strength. Unlike the Fey, who would weaken if kept too long from their realm, this creature needed only a steady supply of Artful energy to sustain it—and there was much of that here.

  Written in the ether was the Trickster’s sign, like a wounded deer in the snow, his rush to escape marked with trails of Art. A long, purple tongue snaked out from the fearsomely jawed mouth. Its two companions brushed against its hide, sharing its sight, snapping against their Leader’s flank. However, all senses concentrating on the chase, it ignored them. The creature’s lips drew back in a cruel imitation of a smile, and with a low growl it leapt away up Henley Street. Its two compatriots followed a heartbeat behind.

  10

  w
hen I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

  Puck awoke with a snap. The smells of blood assailed his sensitive feline nose, and for a moment panic washed over him. He struggled with the blanket someone had laid over him. He wouldn’t let them wrap him in a shroud—not just yet!

  His bed was a padded warm box next to a cooling hearth, and above him tucked into a chair was Will.

  What had he done! The cat mewed feebly and struggled again. Through the miasma of pain, the Fey recalled how his last conscious thought had been of his erstwhile charge. In Puck’s panic, he’d come to the one place he had known calm. But now, returned to his senses, Puck shuddered to think of the trouble that might have followed.

  He had done worse than failed. Thrust into the raw furnace, he was found wanting. That thought caused him more distress than the wounds. Brigit was silent in his head, and he could not be sure that she would return.

  His last recollection was of blue fire surrounding his body, an Art far beyond his talents, but not Brigit’s. Perhaps summoning enough strength to save her nephew had been the final death for her.

  You wish me gone already? Brigit’s voice in his ear was soft, as if she was much further away than before. It will take much more than Mordant’s minions to be the end of me.

  Puck was so weak he could not even frame a reply.

  No matter boy, but you know you must get out of here. Death is following on our heels.

  Mustering flimsy reserves, Puck cracked a slitted eye open, the other he discovered, sealed shut with dry blood. His feline sight revealed more of the interior of the house than human or Fey would have, and acute hearing told more of the story. Upstairs, not even muffled by the intervening floor, he could make out the sounds of sleeping humans, and the sweeter lighter noise of children chattering covertly to each other in the dark. The house was brimming with human life, Shakespeare life that his presence endangered.