The Master of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘Ah, I see …’

  And we meet eyes, understanding.

  ‘And your journey home? Bad news, I take it.’

  ‘Who says I went home?’

  ‘No?’ I shrug. ‘Just that I thought …’

  I fall silent, even as the wench returns with two over-brimming bowls of stew, each with a crude wooden spoon, and sets them down on the table between us.

  ‘Sirs.’ And she bobs and turns and is gone.

  I look up, seeing how thoughtful he is suddenly.

  ‘I did, as it happens. My sister’s boy, it was. She had him late, in her forties. Lovely little thing. Was as well as he could be one day. The next …’

  I hate to think of it. Hate to think how easily we might have saved the boy – jumping back in time and tinkering a little. Keeping him from harm. Only we can’t. Because this is the only sure way of getting in with the man. And I have to get in with him, or we won’t have any chance of getting in with Kolya.

  I lift my spoon and take a mouthful. The stew’s delightful, as tasty as anything I’ve eaten.

  ‘God, but that’s good!’

  He tries his own, then grins. ‘You’re right. That’s really good. Whatever it is.’

  And we both laugh.

  ‘Will,’ he says, when our laughter has subsided, ‘late of Stratford.’

  ‘Otto,’ I answer, and clasp his offered hand. ‘late of Westbury.’

  And so the evening begins, as we slurp our way through the first of two bowls of stew. All of it on me, of course, because Will’s not kidding: he might seem to be a rich man, but in truth he’s as in debt as any man could be and still keep going, though neither of us mentions that.

  Old age … who’d be contemplating old age in Stuart England? And yet that’s his fate. Unless I can do something to help him out.

  But first and foremost, Kolya. That is, if the bastard doesn’t already know precisely where I am and when. And providing Old Schnorr is right about him being here, in London, in 1609.

  478

  The weather changes overnight. The next day’s bright, the sky a cloudless blue. We make good time, following the river path, the Thames below us to our left, the water at low tide. We seem to be alone in that landscape, and the view across the river seems freshly painted by yesterday’s rain, the air so clean and clear it’s almost intoxicating.

  Speaking of which …

  I ought to feel slow and sluggish after all the dark brown ales I sank with my new friend last night, only I don’t. As for Will, his whole mood seems to have changed.

  ‘You should come see us,’ he says. ‘If you’re looking for a job.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answer, picking up a stone to skim across the water. ‘Thanks for your offer, but I can’t say that acting attracts me all that much.’

  ‘You’ve tried it? Being a player?’

  ‘No, but I was never a good liar.’

  He laughs. ‘Is that how you see us?’

  ‘Well, you are, aren’t you? Pretending all the while. I’d find that hard.’

  And that’s another lie, but he is not to know.

  ‘Mind you,’ I say. ‘I’d make a good stagehand, if there were any vacancies in that line. I used to help my father with any carpentry work he’d need doing. When he was older, that was. And I can paint and carry and hand out bills …’

  Will looks to me and smiles. ‘We’ll see, eh?’

  We’re silent for a time, enjoying the day, the open vista of the river, making good progress. And then he looks at me again. ‘You know … I’ve never been any good with money.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. All the rest of it … well, all of that’s been easy. Writing entertainments – I’ve never had to struggle with it. Not until lately.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Just …’

  Only he can’t say. He thinks he’s lost it for good. And without his particular talents, who is he?

  No one is the answer. Without that – without the magical mastery of words he has – he does not really exist.

  But that’s not why I’m here.

  Up ahead the ground falls away, the slope of the embankment descending to meet the river. It’s low tide, so there’s no problem. Except that I’ve been warned that if we’re going to be attacked, it’s here they’ll set their ambush.

  ‘What is it?’ Will asks, sensing my sudden tenseness.

  ‘Up ahead,’ I say, keeping my voice low. ‘The innkeeper … he said this is where they like to set their ambush.’

  ‘If they’re up yet,’ Will says, then grows more serious. ‘Do you think …?’

  I point towards the trees at the top of the bank. If they’re anywhere, that’s where they’ll be. I draw my knife and beckon Will closer.

  ‘Let’s go straight for it,’ I say, keeping my voice low. ‘I don’t want to be trapped out on the mud.’

  Shakespeare nods, then, unexpectedly, draws a knife from within his sock, a long, narrow stiletto of a blade which looks Italian.

  ‘All right,’ I say, and step forward, letting anyone who might be hiding up there see the knife. ‘Let’s shake the tree and see what falls from the branches!’

  I can see that Will likes that. If he could he’d write it down for future use.

  Only …

  Only suddenly there’s a good dozen of them, coming at us from all sides, and I realise I have made a mistake, that Kolya knew about this and set his trap, because two of them at least are ‘brothers’.

  Twelve on to two, and Will no fighter.

  I jump out and then back in, this time to the jetty, two hours earlier, where I buy a passage upriver, just Will and I and the two boatmen, sailing past the marshlands and the ambush, to set us down at Southwark, not ten minutes’ walk from the theatre where I know Will is based.

  He’s grateful for the trip, and as we part he tells me to meet him that evening at the Rose, just round the corner from the Globe, that they’ll all be there and maybe – just maybe – they can sort out the small matter of a job.

  ‘I’m not his favourite right now,’ Shakespeare says, ‘but he still owes me a few favours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, not certain who he means.

  And then he’s gone, merged into the crowd, never knowing just how close he came to death.

  479

  I push the door open and hesitate, looking about me, and see them at once, twenty or more of them, there at the big table in the corner, beneath the leaded glass windows.

  The Company of the Rose … but as of yet no sign of Will.

  I go across and introduce myself to the players, hoping that he’s told one of them about our meeting, but no one seems to have seen him since he’s come back. No one, that is, except me.

  I’m bought a tankard of ale and, before I can down a half of it, find myself sat between two of the ‘actresses’, both of whom seem to be vying for my favours.

  It’s then that Will arrives to rescue me – ‘if you want to be rescued’, he says quietly to my ear. I nod, then, making my excuses, join him at the bar. But if I thought I was going to get Will to myself, I was mistaken, because he is the hub of all of this. It’s he they look to for their entertainment, both on stage and off.

  ‘How was it?’ one of his fellows – the big one who plays Falstaff – asks, as the rest fall silent.

  ‘It was awful,’ he answers, speaking to them all. ‘You can’t imagine. My sister … she’s absolutely distraught. He was such a darling boy. Kindness itself.’

  And so it goes, for the next few hours. Only then there’s a lull and Will takes me aside.

  ‘I’ve spoken to the man and he says yes, you’re welcome to the job, starting tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.’

  ‘I … well, yes.’

  Only I want to ask who ‘the man’ is, if it isn’t himself. Is it the owner of the Globe? Or some other shadowy figure, maybe even Kolya himself?

  I realise that I need to go back to Mo
scow Central, to see what else, if anything, they know, because all I know is that London in the summer of 1609 is an epicentre for Kolya’s activities. Having disappeared altogether from our screens, he is suddenly here, back again in force, with two, maybe even three dozen of his ‘brothers’ and – if Master Schnorr is right – his own real self.

  ‘So just what are they doing?’

  Old Schnorr shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Teasing us?’

  Teasing? Okay. But why here? What’s the significance of this place, except that Shakespeare is here, too? How could Kolya possibly benefit from being here? I’d have said that this place – this time – had very little to offer him.

  I leave early, returning to my room at the quayside inn. The landlady, a buxom woman with chestnut hair and hazel eyes, hands me a letter I’ve been left, then smiles.

  ‘If there’s anything else you need …’

  I saw her husband earlier: a pinched little man, a good twenty years her senior, so I can imagine what she means.

  ‘Thank you, but no. I’m tired, is all. And thanks … for the letter.’

  Back in my room I open it. I don’t know who I was expecting it from, but it’s from Shakespeare. ‘Meet me tomorrow morn,’ it reads. ‘Six o’clock, at the stage door, Will.’

  I don’t understand quite why he didn’t just ask me at the Rose. There were plenty of opportunities. And why so early?

  I put the letter into my bag, then slip into bed. I try to sleep, but it’s one of the most uncomfortable beds I’ve ever lain in. Only just when I think I’m never going to get any rest, I fall asleep …

  And wake, to find someone there in that narrow bed, squeezed in beside me, their hot, small, distinctly feminine hands, groping among my night clothes.

  I’m only half awake, a fact that my assailant takes good advantage of, as she closes her fingers over my manhood. Surprised, I jerk back, grabbing her hand and throwing it aside, then realise just who it is there, naked, beside me in the dark.

  It’s her. The buxom landlady. It has to be – giving off that cloying scent of stale sweat and cheap perfume.

  ‘Mary, Mother of God!’ I cry out, thrusting her away, before she makes another assault on my cock. ‘What in God’s name are you doing?’

  Only I know only too well what she’s doing.

  I’ve frightened her, it seems. Even so, she’s not giving up that easily. Grasping my left hand, she places it on her breast, forcing my palm against the rock-hard nipple.

  I pull my hand away and thrust her from me.

  ‘Woman! Let me be! What would your husband say?’

  ‘Fuck the old bugger!’

  I almost laugh. Only this is a difficult situation. She’s as determined as any woman I’ve ever met, and she’s acting like she won’t take no for an answer. Noting my arousal, she makes another grab for the source of the problem.

  ‘Woman! For our Lord and Master’s sake leave me be! I really don’t want you!’

  Only my body is betraying me. Whether it happened before or after she slipped into bed beside me, I don’t know, but I have an erection now as fierce as any I’ve ever had for Katerina.

  ‘Jesus!’

  I shove her back again, away from me, but it’s like she’s some kind of sex-crazed assassin. No sooner have I cast her off than she’s back, clinging to me again, her right hand seeking out my manhood. All of this played out in the fetid dark.

  As she lunges at me again, I jump right out of there, then jump back in a moment later, only this time into the corridor outside, the innkeeper – the pinched fellow – between me and the door, his back to me, a burning candle held out before him, forming a bright-lit halo of his thin grey hair.

  ‘What the fuck …?’ The woman sounds confused.

  I was there … and then, suddenly, I wasn’t. And she can’t for the life of her understand how I managed to slip past her.

  ‘Wife?’ the pinched man says querulously, nudging the door open with his foot. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’

  The wavering candlelight falls on the naked woman and the empty bed. She’s yet to see me, there behind her husband, but then she does and cries out.

  The pinched man turns and gasps. ‘What devil’s work is this?’

  What work indeed? I scowl at the man, sudden understanding coming to me. This is a set-up. The little rat was meant to stumble onto us, me and his wife, naked, in flagrante delicto, as the Italians like to term it. And film it, maybe?

  Only how can that be so? It’s completely anachronistic. I mean, what reason could there be for that?

  I push past the innkeeper, meaning to confront the woman, only as I do, so I see, hanging about her neck, a pendant. A lazy eight. It shocks me. Makes me reassess the scenario.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I demand, pointing to it. ‘Who gave it you?’

  She doesn’t answer, merely pulls the ragged sheet up, as if to cover her nakedness. Only this pretence of modesty comes far too late to be convincing.

  ‘You!’ I say, turning to face her husband. ‘Give me that candle!’

  The man takes a step back, meaning to refuse me, but I’m not having it.

  ‘Give me that fucking candle!’

  Like a sullen child, he hands it to me. But even now he has not finished. The nasty little weasel still cannot understand.

  ‘You want her, master? If you do …’

  But I’m not in the least interested in having her. No. I want to know two things. One, where she got hold of the lazy-eight pendant and, two, whether there’s a hidden camera in the room.

  Not that they’ll necessarily know what a camera is.

  Holding the candle high, I look for myself. It’s hard to distinguish things in its wavering light, but suddenly I see it, there in the far corner, like some large beetle, squatting on the wooden frame. Only this is no insect.

  I go across and, reaching up, pluck it down.

  ‘Master?’ the innkeeper asks, clearly wanting to know what I’ve found. But I’ve no time for his questions.

  ‘Go!’ I yell, turning to face the innkeeper again. ‘You, too,’ I say, looking to the woman. ‘Get the fuck out of here, before I throw you out!’

  Yet even then they persist, as if I’m going to change my mind, but that – that sordid, carnal act – will simply never happen.

  ‘Go! Both of you! For God’s sake, go!’

  And finally they leave, cursing and muttering, the woman making obscene gestures to me and lifting the sheet to reveal her ageing sex.

  When they’re gone, I look about me, gathering up my things, then jump again …

  480

  Back to Moscow Central, and to a new and worrying thought. That Kolya himself might have set up that sordid little interlude. To film it and show it to Katerina. If I’d succumbed, that is. And why should I not? I am a man, aren’t I?

  Only he really doesn’t know me, not if that’s what he thinks.

  And maybe I’m totally wrong. Maybe he had nothing to do with what happened back there. Only there’s the camera bug …

  ‘Get me back!’ I say to Urte.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks. ‘We weren’t expecting you …’

  ‘Just send me back,’ I say, interrupting her. ‘But not there. I can’t stay there.’

  ‘Have you met him yet?’

  ‘Kolya? No. But the other, Shakespeare, I’ve got a meeting with him, only …’

  And I explain what happened.

  ‘We’ll drop you back in there, Otto. Outside the inn. That way you’ll not affect the timeline before then. The one you’ve already been in, that is. All of that good work with Shakespeare, that’ll survive. That’s if you don’t mind wandering the streets of London for an hour or two.’

  By which she means three, or maybe even four.

  ‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘Just drop me back in. I’ll do the rest.’

  And in an instant I am back there, wearing new clothes, freshly washed and ironed, a stun-gun in my pocket, courtesy of
Urte.

  Just in case …

  London, 1609. Seven years before the great man’s death. Not that I’ll ever let that slip. For what’s worse than knowing when you’ll die?

  Only that makes me recall Hecht’s death. He knew. It happened thus for him; there one moment, the next … gone. Thirty days condensed to thirty minutes. Or so it seemed, from our vantage point in Time. For him it must have seemed a small eternity, waiting for death to come.

  But let’s not think of that right now. The night is dark, the moon hidden by cloud, and as I walk away from the riverside inn, I think of Kolya, wondering why in the gods’ names he should be here of all places.

  For once I’ve not a clue. But I have gone less than a hundred yards – less than half the length of that darkly shaded road – when I see two of them.

  ‘Brothers’. I’m certain of it. One turns, his face showing briefly in the light and the fact’s confirmed. That’s near enough Kolya’s face and these are Kolya’s men. Seeing me he cries out and the two begin to run.

  Drawing my knife, I follow, along and to the left, towards the dark mouth of a narrow alleyway, which they turn into.

  And are gone … like wraiths blown away in the wind.

  I stand there, one hand pressed to the wall, getting my breath back, staring into the blackness of that narrow rat-run of a passageway. For some reason I feel a strong, insistent sense of recognition. And even as I do, so a light comes on halfway down, a warm, roseate glow spilling out from a ground-floor window.

  Baturin!

  Yes, the last time I saw this was in Baturin, a century from now, the shadowed, curving lane identical to this.

  ‘Urd save me …’ I whisper and step into the darkness of that narrow lane. And as I do, as I take my first, faltering step, so the door swings open and a woman steps out into the light, her eyes straining, looking for me in that darkness.

  Waiting for me, it seems; one arm outstretched to summon me again.

  I feel a shiver pass through me.

  How does she know …?

  And yet she does.

  Impossible, I think. But then again, why so? Why should this not be here? Maybe so, I tell myself, but then whose game is it that we’re playing now? For I know the room from where that light spills out. Know it for a certainty. Remember how I had my fortune read that time.