Act IV, scene xiv
Since thou hast alt the Cards within thy hands
To shuffle or cut, take this as surest thing:
That right or wrong, thou deal thyself a King.
– Christopher Marlowe, The Massacre at Paris,Act I, scene ii
The two Queens removed themselves before Sir Walter or Sir Robert returned, and Lord Hunsdon and Cairbre went with them. Kit breathed a sigh of relief to be alone with Will and Murchaud in the mirrorless, close‑tapestried retiring room. “I don’t suppose there’s a bottle of wine on a sideboard somewhere?”
“I’ll find a servant,” Murchaud answered, stripping his mask off and tossing it on the red velvet cushion of the Mebd’s gilded chair. “Thou wert brave, Kit – ”
Kit shrugged. “One down,” he said, crossing glances with Will.
Will dragged a stool away from the wall and sat himself on it, balancing his cane carefully against his knee.
A liveried servant arrived with the wine; Kit intercepted the tray before Will could try to rise and serve his betters. The tightness in Will’s narrow shoulders pained him; the hesitant, calculated step and the nearness at hand of that cane broke his heart. He poured wine into a softly swirled blue glass and pressed it into Will’s hand, then did the same for Murchaud.
“And thou wert very brave indeed,” Will finished, tasting the wine. “It cannot have been easy, what thou didst – ”
“What, admitting my poor taste in lovers before every person who’s ever treated me with a scrap of dignity?” It had been humorous in his head; on his lips it tasted of bitterness.
“Not everybody,” Will said, while Murchaud bumped Kit companionably with a shoulder. “Tom wasn’t here – ”
“Oh, and I thank thee for that comfort… .” But Kit smiled, despite himself, and felt some of the painful unease in his belly loosen.
The door opened again and he looked up, expecting another servant, perhaps, or a summons. It was Sir Robert Cecil, his canine mask pushed up over his hair and his limp pronounced with tiredness. “Master Shakespeare – ”
“Sir.” Will stood, bracing himself with the cane. Kit stepped forward and relieved Will of his wine cup as the playmaker went to greet the Secretary of State.
Will didn’t lean on the cane heavily so much as balance with it, but his step was halt and his right hand trembled. Christ, how does he write?
Kit felt his face pinch, his eyes begin to burn. He looked away and caught Murchaud’s sideways glance. And knew that, too, for what it was, and shook his head slowly in the realization.
Slowly, aye. But Will was dying.
Sir Robert came forward and fell into step by Will, two men limping in unison. On stage, it might have been funny. “Master Shakespeare, I’ll need you to write out and sign a deposition.”
“Regarding the Earl of Oxford? I’ll do it gladly, Mr. Secretary. Will he… ?”
“–go to the Tower?”
A pleasant euphemism,Kit thought.
Sir Robert shook his head. “No, but I doubt you’ll see him in London again. Master Shakespeare, if you will?”
Will nodded in amusement at the pun, glancing over his shoulder to Kit. Kit waved him away with a pang, conscious of a breathless, drowning sort of agony filling his throat. Eight years and I’ve managed the downfall of Edward de Vere. And now–
Christ. I can’t stand watching this. What will it take? Half a decade? Two? I should have stayed in Faerie. I should have –
– let Baines have his way with Will?
Murchaud’s hand pressed the small of Kit’s back as Sir Robert steered Will out of the retiring room. Kit didn’t move away from the touch, for all it felt like sandpaper through his doublet and his shirt. The door closed behind Will and Sir Robert. Kit turned and looked up at the Prince, who pulled him into a stiffly awkward sort of one‑armed hug. “It gets easier eventually.”
“When they’re all dead?”
It was an idle, bitter comment. Kit was not prepared for the placid irony with which the Prince said, softly, “Yes.”
“Murchaud, why art thou kind? What dost thou wish of me?” It wasn’t quite what Kit had intended to ask, and he stiffened, but he still didn’t step out of the embrace, for all it was like standing among nettles. Murchaud turned his face into Kit’s hair, and Kit was suddenly giddy with sorrow and frustration and something that hurt sharply, a pressure under his breastbone he didn’t have a name for.
“Idiot. For I love thee,” the Prince said, and kissed the top of Kit’s head before he let him go. “What word hast thee of conspiracy, Kitling?”
For I love thee.Kit stared after the Prince, wondering if those words were true or calculated, or whether they could be both. “That depends of which conspiracy thou speakst, my Prince. This one or that one? I think we pulled a tooth of the dragon in London today – ”
Murchaud shrugged, pouring more wine. “Something was accomplished, in any case. And Oxford’s face when thou didst draw off thy mask was a worthy sight. With Oxford and Essex both out of court, that’s a little breathing room for Gloriana.”
“Will thinks the Puritans have gotten to Archbishop Whitgift.”
“The Puritans, or the Prometheans?”
“Is there a difference?” Kit leaned against a leather‑topped desk and watched Murchaud pace. “Essex’s Prometheans have their fingers deep in every pie. They play politics layered on politics, and their goals are opaque to me.”
“Their goals are very simple,” Murchaud replied, turning as if startled. “Power, earthly and divine. Revolution, and the overthrow of the old ways.”
“And our ways are better than theirs?” Kit breathed a little easier, the knot under his breastbone easing at having successfully diverted Murchaud. Robin, I do not know how long I can protect you. I do not even understand why it is that I choose to do so.Except Kit had seen men drawn and quartered for the sin of appearing on a list of names that he, Kit, drew up and provided. He thought of Will’s new play and grinned. To choose not is a choice.
“Our ways are what we have,” Murchaud said, reminding Kit of his own words to Will, so many years ago. “I wonder, sometimes, if a compromise could be reached–”
“Like the compromise with Hell?” Kit refreshed his own cup and Murchaud’s as well. He leaned back against the desk, turning the glass between his hands. The pale blue spirals running up the sides caught the light; the room seemed very rich and lush in half darkness.
“I should hope not,” Murchaud answered. He paced the edge of the room, letting his fingers wander over surfaces. “If the Archbishop of Canterbury is weakening, can the Church of England be far behind?”
“Murchaud”–a swallow of wine to loosen Kit’s tongue – “why has the Mebd come here? Not for a play. And not merely for my little masque and unmasking.”
“Oh, aye, for a play. And to discuss Elizabeth’s succession with her. And Elizabeth’s legend – ”
“Ah.” Kit set the glass down on the leather‑topped desk and stretched his fingers, working the ache out of them. “Edward has a jaw like an anvil.”
“‘Tis well thou didst not punch him, then. Is’t broken?”
“Only strained. Bruised a little.”
“Would kiss it well – ”
“Would that thou couldst.” Kit sighed. “What next?”
Murchaud shuddered. “We try to keep Gloriana alive as long as possible. We rid ourselves of as many of the false Promethean agents as we can find. Oxford is an excellent start. Skeres, not the victory I would have chosen, but something nonetheless.”
“We discover–” Kit coughed and lowered his voice. “We discover why Sir Robert is protecting Poley and Baines.”
“Is he?”
“There’s no other explanation.” Kit nodded with conviction. It came more plain to him even as he sought to explain it. “He sends Tom and Will to frame Baines, but it’s not Baines who takes the fall. He allows Will and I to remove Oxford, but only once Essex has discarded him. H
e opposes Will’s plan for a new Bible, and I would not be surprised if there’s more we don’t know. Yes, I think Robert Cecil is playing a very deep game indeed. And I think I need to talk to Sir Walter about it –
“Sir Robert,” Murchaud said, still pacing. “Believes in what he can grasp and hold. Sir Robert may already have plans for Elizabeth’s successor. Sir Robert may see a weakening of Faerie as bending to his advantage.”
“I can’t imagine that he doesn’t. I’m not sure that he understands that the Prometheans are something other than another chess piece.”
“He doesn’t see them as players?”
“Does he see anyone else as a player? I think he imagines that some tokens merely move themselves about the board when his hand is not on them.” Kit’s own hand was swelling still. He frowned at it. “I did hit Oxford harder than I intended. At least the fingers work.”
“Thou shouldst get Morgan to see to it–”
“Will Morgan see me?”
Murchaud’s lips twitched. “Aye, I imagine she would. There’s more we need to finish before Elizabeth passes.”
“Besides the Prometheans?”
“I set thee to find those who would conspire against my wife. I need names, Kit.”
Kit closed his eyes. “I suppose thou wouldst not believe me an I lied to thee?”
“Your heart is divided,” Murchaud quoted, and came to him. “Thou dost know something, and thou art loath to tell.”
“I know many things I am loath to tell, lover….”
Murchaud smiled at the endearment, but Kit could tell it would not encourage him to relent. He set his wineglass down. “Kit. It is my safety that thou dost put at stake. Mine, and Cairbre’s, as well as the Mebd’s. Thy friends and protectors. Hast thou no loyalty?”
“I have no wish to witness any more hangings in my lifetime, Murchaud.”
“Hah!” Murchaud stepped back, and as he stepped back he reached out with both hands and cupped Kit’s cheeks ever so gently. Kit steeled himself and bore the touch, and managed even not to flinch. “Kitling, we do not hang Faeries.”
“… we don’t?”
“We haven’t enough Faeries to hang, my love. No, the punishment will not be fatal. Or even, perhaps, painful, although the miscreants might find themselves sporting a pig’s head or a cow’s filthy tail. The Mebd has her own ways of enforcing obedience.”
Or ass’s ears,Kit realized, and then put his hand to his mouth as he realized also that he’d said it aloud. His expression must have offered whatever confirmation Murchaud needed, because the Prince nodded once, judiciously, and leaned close to kiss him on the forehead.
“Who else?”
“Geoffrey,” Kit answered, his voice helpless in his own hearing. “Geoffrey and Puck, and the Faerie oaks. That’s all I know.”
“It’s enough,” Murchaud said. “They can be made to tell.”
Act IV, scene xv
0 sir, we quarrel in print, by the book; as you have books for good mannerd: I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth, the Countercheque Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too, with an If.
I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If as, ‘If you said do, then I said so;’ and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only peacemaker; much virtue in If.
–William Shakespeare, As You Like It,Act V, scene iii
Spring came late in 1600; Will spent Lent in Stratford and returned in late March to his haunts in London. One cold rainy afternoon shortly after Easter, he leaned back on his bench at the Mermaid and rattled the dice across the planks to Thomas Nashe, who was leaned forward inspecting the backgammon board set between them. “I should have made you play chess.”
You win at chess,” Will answered complacently, reaching for his wine.
“Then perhaps we should alternate. I shouldn’t play at dice with you, Will. No one should. You’ve the Devil’s own luck–”
“If I have it, then he doesn’t. When you meet him, be sure to challenge him at dice.”
Nashe laughed, delighted. “I can count on you, Will. Have you seen Ben lately? ”
“He’s still not speaking to me over the poet’s argument,” Will answered unhappily. He steepled his fingers in front of his nose. “Burbage has hired Dekker to take a few cuts back at Ben. It’s all childishness; I have plays to write. And you – I hear you’ve given up playmaking and pamphleteering entirely, Tom.”
“Poetry for private patrons pays better,” Nashe said without rancor, rattling the dice on the tabletop. He swore softly and moved his chips with a hasty hand. “And poetry seems less likely to find me in jail again. Or my work burned in the market square.”
“At least you brought Harvey down with you.”
“A minor victory. It’s not hard to be funnier than Gabriel Harvey. Hullo, George.”
“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Chapman patted Will on the shoulder and settled his bulk onto the plank bench beside Nashe. And then looked up, exasperated, and started to heave his stout graybearded self up again. “Damme, I forgot I wanted sack.”
“I’ll get it,” Nashe said, pushing himself to his feet with a hand on either side of the board. “I wanted another ale. Mind you keep Will from ‘repairing’ the board while I’m up – oh, look. The Catholics are here again.”
He jerked his chin, and Will followed the motion. Robert Catesby caught Will’s eye and smiled; Will didn’t know the big, well‑favored redhead beside him, but the ridges of muscle on his arms and the scars on his hands said soldier,and he carried himself in the same manner that Ben did.
“At least we’re unlikely to see Puritans in a poet’s bar,” Chapman answered, stretching his feet toward the fire. “And Catesby’s a good sort.”
Nashe snorted and went to find the landlord. Chapman turned and offered Will a considering look. “Does your offer still stand, Master Shakespeare?”
Will blinked, trying to remember what offer he might have made, and shrugged. He pulled a tiny bottle from his purse and shook Morgan’s poisoned medicine into his wine cup, counting the droplets that fell from the splinter imbedded in the cork. “Which offer is that?”
Chapman glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve thought better of your idea. The Bible.”
Will swirled the wine to mix in the bitter herbs, aware of Chapman’s interest. “It’s a tincture for my palsy, George.”
“Oh.” Silence, as Will drank and felt the tightness in his muscles easing. “The Bible,” he reminded.
“Ben’s not speaking to me,”
“Ben thinks highly of himself,” Chapman commented dryly. We were young once too. It passes.”
Will laughed, tidying counters on the board. “I’m uncertain I was ever so young as that. The Bible’s been slow going. What changed your mind?”
Chapman shrugged as Nashe came back, juggling two wine cups and a mug of ale. He placed the cups before Will and Chapman, and settled in again, leaning forward to look at the board. “I bid you not to let him move my counters, George – ”
“I was only straightening,” Will protested. “Thank you for the wine, Tom.”
“I was up.” Tom brushed it aside as unworthy. “I interrupted.”
“Not at all,” Chapman said. “We were discussing the foibles of Master Jonson.”
Will sighed and nodded, glad that Chapman had failed to answer his question once Nashe returned. Jonson owes too much to Tom Walsingham to give away what he knows of our tasks. But I cannot help but wonder, sulky boy that he is, if I made a mistake recruiting him. Still, it wouldn’t do to have Tom Nashe wondering why I’ve cut him out of Bible study.
Nashe rolled his eyes. “Ben’s all wind and no rain,” he opined, toying with his ale.
“Easy to say, when you’re not somebody he’s brawled with or cudgeled with his own pistol. Ask John Marston what he thinks of Ben’s fists.”
Nashe grinned at Chapman. “He’ll wind up stabbed in unsavory circumstances. Mark my words.”
Will marked them, all right. And, sitting at the table between two other friends and collaborators of Kit Marlowe’s, found them less than comforting. Well, if I can trust anyone with the news of Kit’s survival, it would have been smarter Tom Nashe or George than Ben, now that I think on it. Oh, hell.He caught Chapman’s eye and nodded while Nashe was fussing with the dice, and Chapman returned the smile and sipped his wine complacently.
Act IV, scene xvi
She whom thy eye shall like, thy heart shall have,
Be she as chaste as was Penelope,
As wise as Saba, or as beautiful
As was bright Lucifer before his fall.
–Christopher Marlowe, Faustus,Act II, scene i
Kit walked down the sweeping greens‑ward below the Mebd’s gold‑turreted palace and stopped on the bluff above the sea. A strange white tree grew there, where the lawn gave way to coarse and knotty salt grass. Kit let his viola swing from his hand, kicked the tree’s trunk with the side of his foot, and arched his head back to look up into the branches.
Murchaud told him it was a New World tree, or perhaps one native to Cathay. It flowered heavily, hung with white petals thick as paper and soft as the skin of a peach. A thick honeyed scent the sea breeze couldn’t leaven floated under the branches, cloying Kit’s throat.
It wasn’t what the tree was that interested Kit. It was who the tree had been. “Well, I hope thou’rt enjoying thy penance, Robin,” he said. “Can think of worse prisons…”
The branches whispered one on the other. Kit freed the bow and lifted the viola. “I came to play thee a tune. I thought it might lighten the weary hours….”
There was no answer, of course. But still he settled his instrument and played for an hour or two, there at the border between the sea and the land, with the tree reaching up to scrape the sky. He would have played longer, and perhaps stayed to watch the sunset under the white tree’s branches, but the heavy slip and sway of a caller’s approach across the grass distracted him.
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