Hell and Earth pa-4

by Elizabeth Bear

  May soon return to this our suffering country.

  –William Shakespeare, Macbeth,Act III, scene vi

  Alas, my Romeo–

  – the Mebd is no better; I have visited her with poetry to comfort her weary hoard, & she seems somehow… faded. We must contrive to convince the world of the currency of Faerie Queenes. I don’t suppose a revival of thyMidsummer Night’s Dream might be possible?

  I hear what thou sayest of James; I suppose thou knowest there are rumors that he finds his favorites among the young men at court. It might be worth thy while to befriend such, as they will have His Majesty’s–attention– & if the Queen is so fond of Ben ‘d work, then it may well be that Ben can find succor for our projects with her.

  You might visit Sir Walter in his immurement, if he is permitted guests– I know Southampton was–for if he be nothing else, Raleigh is a poet and a poet sympathetic to our cause. & clever in politics. Gloriana is gone: we are not just for England now, but for Eternity, our little band of less‑mad Prometheans.

  I will rejoin your Bible studies, of course. Even working piecemeal and catch as catch can, methinks we’ve accomplished too much to abandon our plans now.

  My kindest regards to thee and to thine Annie, to little Mary and her Robin, to Tom and Audrey and George and Sir Walter should you see him. And my love most especially to Ben.

  – in affection,

  thy Mercutio

  Will made his final exit on cue and elbowed John Fletcher in the ribs in passing as he quit the Globe’s high stage. “By Christ,” he said, as Fletcher slapped him across the back, “another plague summer. I can’t bear touring another year, John. On top of learning six new plays in repertory. Ah well. At least they’ve more or less mastered Timon,which has to recommend it that ‘tis not Sejanusagain. Gah–” Will scrubbed sweat from his face on a flannel and tossed it away. “How are we to endure it?”

  “Because we have no choice.” Fletcher tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, revealing a half‑moon of moisture under the arm of his shirt. In the unseasonable June of 1604 he’d left his habitual crimson doublet thrown over the back of a nearby chair. “Speaking of Sejanus,at least Ben is behaving himself of late.”

  “If thou deemst getting himself fined for recusancy again behaving.”

  “At least he’s not getting the playhouses shut down.”

  “No,” Will answered bitterly, thinking of Baines’ faction and the endless stalemate fought back and forth between the groups of Prometheans. “The plague manages that just fine.” He unbuttoned his doublet, opening the placket to entice some breath of cool air in. “Come, Jack. I’ll stand thee a drink.”

  John caught up his doublet and regarded it with distaste. “Tell me it will be cooler in the Mermaid and I’ll follow thee anywhere.” He took Will’s arm, steadying him down the stair.

  “I doubt it’s cooler in the Thames. Or any better smelling. I wonder what Ben thinks he’s about. I should not like to be Catholic in England under James.” Will bit his lip in silent worry – for Edmund more than Ben. Ben wasn’t the only one who could stand to hide his sympathies a little better.

  “‘Tis true. It’s hard to believe it could be worse than under Elizabeth. …” They came out into the sunlight, and John looked doubtfully toward the crowds along the way to London Bridge. “By water?”

  “Indeed.” Even with his cane to steady him, and the new strength in his strides that led him to believe there was something more sinister than merely an unfortunate patrimony behind his palsy, Will didn’t intend to brave the long walk in the afternoon heat. “I suppose bankrupting the Catholics with fines is one way to deal with it. Still, Ben’s tastes in religion don’t seem to affect his popularity at court. Well, now that the problem of Sejanusis settled.” It had, Will must admit, been in questionable taste to deliver a play on the downfall of a sodomite Emperor’s favorite to the stage just as a reputedly sodomitical King was coming to the throne. Still, it wasn’t as if James could claim to be the target of the satire, and Ben had weathered the inquisitions well enough, all wide‑eyed pretense at innocence.

  “There is a divide,” Fletcher noted, “between Queen Anne’s entertainments and King James’ policy.” And that was where the conversation ended along with their privacy to speak freely, for they embarked on the wherry to cross the Thames.

  The Mermaid was cooler than the Globe, in fact, and if possibly not cooler than the Thames, fresh rushes and sawdust on the floor assured it wasbetter‑smelling. And–as if Will’s very conversations were attaining some magic with the raw new power that charged his poetry–the tavern was empty of all save the landlord and Edmund Shakespeare, who sat on a bench against the wall, pushing turnips about in his stew.

  “Ted!” Fletcher pushed Will unceremoniously toward his brother and went to ask the landlord for dinner and ale.

  “Jack,” Edmund answered. “Will, come sit.”

  Will remembered something and turned over his shoulder. “John, I said I’d stand the meal–”

  “Stand it tomorrow,” Fletcher answered, juggling two tankards as he returned. “Henslowe paid on time, for once. Ted Shakespeare, that’s an interesting expression thou’rt wearing. What news?”

  Will blinked, and glanced back at his youngest brother. It wasa knowing expression, as catlike smug as anything Kit might have worn. “All right, Edmund.” He tasted his ale, which was dark and sweet. “Fletcher’s right. I can see the mouse’s tail through thy teeth. Out with it.”

  Edmund let his grin broaden until it stretched his cheeks. He took a swallow of his ale and waited for silence, then fixed Will with a steady gaze. “Edward de Vere is dead.”

  Edmund’s timing was precise, and Will sprayed ale across the table. “Oxford?” he spluttered, reaching for his handkerchief.

  “Aye.”

  “How?”

  “Plague.”

  Of course.Will dabbed his chin and the table dry, and picked up his ale again. When one outlived one’s usefulness to the dark Prometheans, they are not shy about making it plain.Will hefted his tankard thoughtfully and clinked it against Edmund’s.

  “To the former Earl of Oxford,” Edmund said. “And not a moment too soon. They say he died very nearly in penury: he’s had to sell all his properties, and left almost nothing to his son.” His eyebrows went up; he looked to Will. And Will sucked his own lower lip, thinking that those who played politics danced with a snake that swallowed itself.

  “I didn’t know you were acquainted with the Earl, ” Fletcher said, as the landlord brought their supper to the board.

  “Aye,” Will said. “Unpleasantly so.” He wished he found the news more comforting: the end of an old enemy. But all it confirmed was what he had suspected. The Prometheans were moving–again–and Will hadn’t the slightest idea what about, or how to stop them.

  This was easier when I had someone to tell me what to do,he thought, and picked up his bread and his spoon. And laid them down once more, hands shaking with the realization that it wasn’t necessarily the Prometheans who were responsible for the death of Edward de Vere, now that the Earl was utterly without the royal protection that had kept him alive so long.

  Kit would have told me if he were contemplating cold‑blooded murder.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Act V, scene iii

  As for myself, I walk abroad o ‘ nights

  And kill sick people groaning under walls:

  Sometimes I go about and poison wells.

  – Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta,Act II, scene iii

  Edward de Vere, Kit thought with a certain cool satisfaction, did not look well at all. But he didn’t think the man was sick with plague, as had been put about. Rather Oxford looked … shrunken, against the rich brocades of his sweet‑smelling bed. He seemed as if he dozed, a book open on his lap, and he did not look up when Kit stepped through the Darkling Glass and into the shadows at the corner of the room.

  Kit cleared his throat, right hand acr
oss his waist and resting on the hilt of his rapier. “How does it feel to be ending your life on charity, my lord?”

  The Earl of Oxford awoke with a start, the book snapping shut as his body twitched. He blinked and struggled to push himself upright against the pillows as Kit came out into the sunlight, but his arms seemed to fail him and his face contorted in pain. “Kit Merlin,” he said in wonder, his voice unsteady. “Of all the faces I did not look for–”

  And even be cannot recall my name.

  “I wasn’t looking for thee either,” Kit admitted, lounging against the bedpost. He let his hand fall away from his hilt. The carved wood wore into his shoulder, a reassuring discomfort. He pressed himself against it, parting the bed curtains, and with his right eye saw the light of strength draining from a man he used to fancy was his lover. “The Darkling Glass sent me here.”

  “Sent thee?”

  Kit took pity on the struggling Earl and moved forward, propping the pillows behind thin shoulders. It was like touching a poppet, a bundle of kindling wrapped in a silk nightgown. “Aye.” Grudging. “I was looking for Richard Baines. It showed me thee.”

  Oxford nodded weakly. “He’s warded against thee–”

  “He’s warded in general.” Something stirred in Kit’s breast. He closed his eyes, leaning heavily on the head of the bed as a wave of dizziness exhausted him. “Edward, how dost thou bear the weight of thine own skin?”

  “My skin, or my sin?” It was a weak chuckle, barely an effort. From his right eye, Kit could see how the darkness within Oxford seemed fit to devour the fragile, flickering candle flame that was his life. “It matters not. Baines is consuming me.”

  “I see that.” Kit tugged Oxford’s covers higher, then wiped his own hands fastidiously on his breeches. “Thou wert never better than an adequate poet, Edward. What made thee think thou couldst turn thy back on Prometheus, and live?”

  “Kit,” Oxford said, and held forth a knotty hand. Kit took it, oily paper over bone. “Why thinkst thou I meant to live?”

  An excellent question. Kit sat himself down on the edge of the bed and laced his fingers around his knee. “I loved thee, thou bastard,” he said in what was not meant to be a whisper.

  “Pity, that.”

  “Thou’lt never know how great a one. I hope thou knowest what thou spurned, my Edward.”

  Oxford’s mouth twisted; Kit thought it was pain. “A bit of a poet and a catamite?” de Vere asked, and Kit flinched.

  “Christofer Marley,” he said. Naming himself as if the name meant something. “A name to conjure with, or so I am assured.”

  “Why didst thou come here? To mock me on my deathbed?”

  Kit bit his lower lip savagely. This is not going well.“To discover why thou didst appear in my glass when I sought Richard Baines.”

  Oxford laughed. It might have been a cough. “Because I can tell thee something about the Prometheans.”

  “Aye?”

  “Aye,” de Vere said. “What is Prometheus but knowledge?” He coughed, and had not the strength to cover his mouth with his hands. “What is God but mercy?”

  “Is God that?” But the light in his breast flared into savagery, and–unwitting–Kit laid a hand on Oxford’s shoulder. It was not his own hand, quite: he could see the glare and the power gleaming behind the fingernails. Mehiel. God’s pity, at least. Does Oxford deserve that?

  “When we need him to be.” Oxford smiled, his teeth white as whittled pegs behind liver‑colored lips. “Those that steal from the gods, those that defy God, they are punished. How couldst thou, with the divine fire of thy words, expect to escape?”

  Kit thought of Lucifer’s exquisite suffering, and nodded. “Aye. Punished.”

  Oxford smiled, and Kit still knew him well enough to read the pleasure in his eyes. The pleasure of a chess player who has successfully anticipated his opponent. Kit blinked. “You summoned me.”

  “Did I?”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye–” Oxford’s cough racked Kit as well, and both of them pressed their fingers to their mouths. “I summoned thee. I cry thee mercy, Kitten.”

  “I owe thee nothing.”

  “Except revenge?”

  “It’s no longer worth it to me.” Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.“Thou’rt dying.”

  “I never said,” Oxford answered, his gaze perfectly level on Kit’s, “that thou shouldst seek vengeance on me. But there are other purposes my death might serve.”

  “Baines is consuming me.”

  Kit nodded, understanding. Then gasped as Mehiel answered Oxford’s words from within, a flare of panicked strength that Kit thought might stream from his fingertips, halo his head like the inverse of Lucifer’s shadowy crown. The angel–was afraid. And moved to pity, both. Don’t you remember bow this man used us, Mehiel? How he plotted to have us slain?“Thy death might serve my purposes quite well, Edward.”

  “Didst ever ask thyself what Prometheus might want?”

  “Other than a new liver?”

  “Thy wit has always been thine undoing,” Oxford said tiredly. “Kit, mock me not when I have the will to aid thee, this one last time. Baines has used me as much as he has thee–”

  “How fast they run to banish him I love, ”Kit said, just to see Oxford wince. “What, Edward? What does Prometheus want?”

  “It’s a riddle. It depends on when thou dost meet him. Is he climbing to the heavens, or is he hurled back down? Is he chained on a rock, moaning for release? Would he seek immortality, or would he entreat thee take it from him, and make him but a mortal man again?”

  Kit shook his head. Oxford was always one to speak in riddles, enjoying teasing others with what he knew and they didn’t, and Kit had no stomach for it now. “What vile task wilt thou bid me to? Why is’t I should not break thy wretched neck?”

  “No reason,” Oxford answered. “Do.”

  “Do what?”

  “Do break my neck. If that is how thou preferest to end this.” Oxford’s hands pleated the blankets across his thighs. “I did serve England–”

  “Thou didst serve thyself and thine own furtherance. The Prometheans were meant to seek God and the betterment of Man, thou bastard. Thou–” Kit swallowed the shrillness that wanted to fill his voice. “Thou wert nothing but a spendthrift, a wastrel, a posturing cockerel.”

  “Think it as thou wilt.” A sigh, exhaustion. The traceries of light that tangled Oxford were nothing like the dull red of the fever that had so nearly killed Will. “I will not serve MasterRichard Baines, once ordained a priest. Kill me, Kitten.”

  A blatant request, and Kit blinked on it. “Killthee.”

  “Aye.” Fumbling, Oxford tried to pluck the pillow from behind his neck. Kit helped him with it, careful not to touch the Earl’s fevered skin as Oxford lay back flat. Kit stepped back, the pillow clutched to his chest. Oxford closed his eyes. “Wilt let Baines have the use of me, Kitten? Kill me tonight.”

  God,Kit thought. I’d imagined this as somehow satisfying.He looked down at the pillow in his hands and closed his eyes.

  Amaranth’s touch did not trouble Kit in the slightest, perhaps because she was more beast than woman. So when he was done with Edward de Vere and had left the Earl of Oxford’s body laid out tidily under the coverlet of his borrowed bed, it was Amaranth that Kit sought.

  She lay on her back on the grass under the honey‑scented tree that had been Robin Goodfellow, the creamy white scales of her belly exposed to the dappled sun and her slender, maidenly arms stretched high over her head. She wore a shirt of thin white lawn spotted with embroidered violets, startlingly feminine on a creature that was anything but. Kit dropped into the grass beside her, far enough away that he wouldn’t startle her hair, and crossed his legs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. She twitched her tail, acknowledging him without opening her eyes, and tapped a coil against his hip.

  “Thou’rt pensive, Sir Poet.”

  “I am more than pensiv
e. I am troubled.”

  Her scales were soft and leathery, warmer than the grass when he ran his hands over it. As comforting as a hot‑sided beast in a byre, and she smelled of autumn leaves or curing tobacco, musky as civet; mingled with the sweetness of the flowers, it put Kit in mind of expensive perfume. He lay down on the grass, his head propped on his knuckles, and sighed. She reached down lazily and stroked his hair. “And what troubles thee, Kit?”

  “Prometheus,” he said, leaning into the luxury of a touch that did not make him cringe. She shifted to pillow his head on her coils, the gesture more motherly than predatory. “Someone has made an interesting suggestion to me, just now.”

  “Interesting?”

  Her voice was drowsy in the warmth; it relaxed him as smoothly as if it were a spell. “What if Prometheus–as in, the Prometheus Club–were a person, an individual. A role. As much as he is a symbol of what they intend to accomplish, that is to say, stealing fire from the gods? Or God? And if so, what are we to do about it?”

  Sss.” A ripple of muscular constriction passed down her length. Her hand stilled in his hair for a moment, and then resumed smoothing the tangles that always formed at the back of his neck, where his hair snagged on his collar. “Comest thou to a snake for sympathy, Sir Poet?”

  “I come to a snake for information. Which may be equally foolish.”

  She laughed and levered herself upright without disturbing the section of coils upon which Kit rested. He rolled on his back, her wide belly scales denting under the weight of his head, and looked up her human torso as she rose. Sunlight shone through the cobweb lawn of her shirt; it bellied out on a breeze, offering him a glimpse of her maidenly belly and the underside of her breasts, the embroidered violets casting shadows like spots upon her skin.

  “Come along,” she said, and gave a little shudder to shake him to his feet. He rose, dusting bits of grass from his doublet, and fell into step beside her.

  She led him down the bluff by the water, holding his hand–her arm extended to keep him well away from any aggressive gestures from her hair–and across the sand. “Wait,” he said, and stripped off his boots and ungartered his stockings so he could feel the sand between his toes. Amaranth didn’t stop, but slithered forward at a stately place, leaving a wavy line through the sand. Kit had only to walk a little faster to catch up. “What is it thou dost not wish the Puck‑tree to overhear, Amaranth?”