Hell and Earth pa-4

by Elizabeth Bear

  “There is a Prometheus,” she said, and turned to look at him through matte steel‑colored eyes. She smiled liplessly. “Ask me another mystery, man.”

  He swallowed. The sea broke over her bulk and foamed around his bare feet, drawing the sand from under his soles as if sucked by mouths. “Where do I find this Prometheus?”

  The white foam ran down her dappled sides. She bent to trail her fingers through the waves. “In the mirror, Sir Christofer. In the eyes of a lover. Under an angel’s bright wings. All of those places and none. One more question. Come.”

  I’ve fallen into a fairy tale.“How did I earn three questions of a serpent, my lady Amaranth?”

  “Is that the question thou wishst to waste?” But her voice was kind, a little mocking. “I shall not count the answer, though. The answer. Which is, thou hast earned nothing, but this I give thee as a gift. Ask.”

  Another wave, and this one wet him to the knee, spray salting his cheek and lips. The flavor was as musky as the lamia’s scent, salt and depth and thousands of deaths over thousands of years, all washed down into the endless, consuming sea. Kit shivered. And if everything has a spirit, what do you suppose the ocean’s soul is like?His chin lifted, as if of its own accord, and he turned to look out over the sea and its breakers like white tossing manes on dark stallions’ necks.

  Amaranth coiled around him, an Archimedean screw with Kit the column at its center, and rested her seashell fingers on his shoulder, her head topping his by two feet or more. “Ask,” and the hiss of her voice was the hiss of the waves.

  “What magic is a sacred marriage capable of, Amaranth?”

  “Ah.” She settled in a ring about him, a hollow conduit with a poet at its center, sunlight glazing her scales as it did the dimples on the surface of the sea. “A grave risk, such a ritual. To work, it would need to be more than a ritual sacrifice. Thou wouldst die of it, who was Christofer Marley.”

  “A grave risk. And? ”

  “A potential triumph. It could be salvation: it’s so hard to tell. So much depends on–”

  The waves came and went.

  “Circumstance? ”

  “Mehiel, ” she answered. “Mehiel, and how badly tormented the heart or the soul of an angel might be.”

  “Badly,” Kit answered, but he was thinking of Lucifer Morningstar and not the sudden, fearsome heat and pressure in his chest.

  Act V, scene iv

  To this I witness call the fools of time

  Which die for goodness, who have Lived for crime …

  –William Shakespeare, from Sonnet 124

  Will held his wrist out, turned over so the unworked buttons showed. “Ted, couldst see to these? Thank thee–”

  “Court clothes,” Edmund said. “So high and mighty is my brother now–”

  “Hah.” Will picked his wine up with his other hand and drained the goblet down to the bitter, aconite‑flavored dregs. He polished the cup with his handkerchief and set it on the trestle, upside down. “I am summoned to attend, is all. The King’s Men are no different at court from drawing‑room furniture: meant to fill up the corners, but hardly of any real use. Hast thou any news for me?

  “Robin Poley,” Edmund said, fastening the final button on Will’s splendid doublet.

  “Robin Poley? Or Robert Poley?”

  “The elder.”

  “What of him?”

  “Is a Yeoman of the Guard of the Tower of London now.”

  Will paused in the act of tugging his sleeve down over his shirt cuff. “… really.”

  “Aye. Cecil’s doing, again. Although I suppose I must call Cecil the Earl of Salisbury now–”

  “Where ears can hear, you must. Christ on the Cross. Sixteen hundred and five, and I have no better mind what old Lord Burghley’s second son is after than I did twelve years ago, Ted. He plays the white and black pieces both, a double game that defies all understanding. But he has got himself raised an Earl, so I suppose whatever his game might be, he is winning it. Do I look grand enough for church with a King?”

  Edmund stepped back, sucking on his lower lip until he nodded once, judiciously. “Cecil’s at odds with the King, they say–”

  “Aye.” Will checked the mirror over his mantel, and ran both hands along the sides of his neck to pluck what remained of his hair from his collar. “Well, is and is not. The King wants Scots around him, but he needsSalisbury. What he’s got is good Calvinists, and he’s still urging that the Bishops be diligent in their pursuit of Catholics.” For all his own proclivities are not so Calvinist as that. Gloriana’s failings were what they were, but she was never a hypocrite.Will stopped, and fixed Edmund with a look. I wrote to Anne and told her to see she got herself and the girls to church, Edmund. And I want to see thee in attendance too.”

  “Will–” Edmund sighed. “‘Tis my faith thou dost so lightly dismiss.”

  “Aye,” Will answered. “And I am eldest now, with Father gone, and thou dost owe me that much duty. Thy life is worth more, and thy family’s safety. Catholicism has been outlawed,Edmund. Recusants are not tolerated now. You will obey me.”

  “What’s a life worth without faith?” Edmund looked Will square in the eye, but Will would not glance down.

  “I won’t forbid thee whatever–diversions–thou dost seek,” Will said. “But thou wilt to Church. I’ll not see thee stocked or hanged.”

  His brother matched gazes with Will for what seemed like an hour, but Will–frankly–had the weight of experience. And the authority of the eldest son behind his edict. Edmund dropped his eyes to the floor.

  “As you bid.” Edmund glanced up again as a church bell tolled the hour. “And now thou must hurry. Or thou wilt be late for thy King.”

  Infirmity, if not age, granted Will the consideration of a stool in the corner near the fire, but he found it rather warm for a midmorning. Especially when Burbage, also resplendent in James’ livery, had cleverly staked out the corner nearest the wine on the sideboard – incidentally doing his usual fine job of framing himself against dark wood that showed off his fair curls to advantage.

  If it weren’t for the King’s scarlet, however, Will would vanish against the paneling like a ghost. Which suited his mood admirably, come to think of it; his mood was fey, and dark lines of poetry taunted him.

  Burbage refilled his goblet a second time before Will could think to forbid it, and Will swore himself solemnly to drink no more after this last cup. “Thou’lt have me drunk before the King, Richard,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

  Matters not,” Burbage answered. “I’m drunk every day, and it’s done me no harm–”

  “Not until thou diest of yellow jaundice,” Will said dryly. “Or thy belly swells up like a berry full of juice.”

  “Well, a man’s got to die of something.” That bit of philosophy accomplished, Burbage turned to check Will’s reaction. “The King,” he hissed, and dropped a flourishing bow even as Will was turning to make his own obeisance.

  “Your Highness,” Will and Burbage said, speaking in unison as if rehearsed. And after fifteen years playing together, ‘tis no surprise if we pick up the cue.

  “Master Players.” James the First of England had ruddy cheeks, contrasting with slack, pale skin and a sad‑eyed, wary expression. Will thought he looked haunted, and he had not lost a trace of his thick Scottish accent in two years in the south. Can we hope you are about plotting some new masterwork to entertain us with?”

  “Always plotting,” Will answered. “What would please the King?”

  James made a bit of a show of thinking. “You know our Annie loves masques and divertissements. We had Ben Jonson’s Masque of Blacknessat court just this winter past. But perhaps something a little more exciting, for the lads. I worry a bit at their mother’s influence: women are such frivolous things, and she has her ideas.”

  “Ideas, Your Highness?” Will was grateful that Burbage spoke to fill the King’s expectant silence.

  “I fear being so beset
by witches as we were at our old lodgings has made her dependent on Papist rituals to keep ill spirits away,” James said frankly, dropping into the informal speech that was his habit. “Silly conceits, and a woman will have them. But I do not want her leading my boys from good Protestant ethics. I’ll see my little Elizabeth crowned queen before Henry or Charles king, if she turns them Catholic.” The King shrugged, carelessly tipping some drops of wine over the edge of his cup. “So perhaps something with Scottish kings and the mischief of witchcraft–”

  “Do you have a plot in mind, Your Highness?”

  “We saw a Latin trifle at Oxford at the beginning of the month. That Ouinn fellow. You know him?”

  “Tres Sybillae. ”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Your Highness wishes a play about King MacBeth.”

  “The usurper, rightfully deposed.” It was a gentle rebuke, as such things went, delivered with a smile. The King turned to acknowledge Robert Cecil as the new Earl of Salisbury came up alongside him. “It will serve a welcome distraction in a time of plague. I’ve prorogued Parliament for fear of it: we’ll meet in colder weather. And a good morning to you, my fine Earl Elf. What think you of the fifth of November?”

  “It’s a fine day for a hanging, I suppose. Or did you have something else in mind, Your Highness?”

  “Parliament. We’ll have some bills come due that must be paid, sooner rather than later–”

  “Ah, yes.” Salisbury nodded an acknowledgement as Will filled a cup for him and dropped a bit of sugarloaf in. “Thank you, Master Shakespeare. I think we must talk a bit about expenditures too, Your Highness.”

  The King snorted. “A parsimonious elf. Canst not transform some oak leaves to gold, Salisbury, and refill our coffers?”

  “Alas–” Salisbury laid a hand on the King’s elbow, and the two men turned aside. But Robert Cecil’s last tenacious glance told Will there would be another conversation, later, out of earshot of the King.

  “Is he still opposed to thy Bible?” Burbage asked quietly, when the King and his minister were very well out of earshot.

  Will blinked. “How didst thou know about the Bible, Richard?”

  Richard Burbage paused, his cup frozen halfway to his mouth as his attention turned inward. He pursed his lips, and answered at last, “Mary Poley mentioned it to me as if it were common knowledge. I thought she must have had the word from thee.”

  “No,” Will said, feeling his blood drain from his limbs. “I told her no such thing.”

  Will wrote by candlelight, late into the warmth of the evening, and was not surprised when a familiar cough interrupted his study. “Good evening, Kit.”

  “Hello, my love. I brought thee supper–”

  Will glanced at the window surprised to see that twilight had faded to full dark. “Thou’rt considerate.”

  “Thou’rt like to starve to death, an I did not. What is it has thy fancy so tightly, Will?” Kit laid his bundle on the edge or the table, well away from Will’s papers, and unwrapped linen to produce a pot of steaming onion soup and a half loaf of brown bread folded around a still‑cold lump of butter that was just melting at the edges.

  “Fey food,” Will said, and pushed his papers aside. “Or the homely sort?”

  “Both,” Kit answered. “Morgan’s cooking. Thou didst not answer my question – ”

  “Oh, a tragedy,” Will answered. “Something to catch James’ fancy. Witches and prophecies. We have problems and problems, Kit. Thou didst not speak to Mary Poley of our testaments, didst thou?”

  “Nay,” Kit answered. He pushed the crock of soup in front of Will, and laid a spoon alongside it. “Talk while thou dost eat.”

  “Someone did.” The soup was good, thick with onions cooked transparent. Will reached for the bread, which he could manage more comfortably through his stiff throat if he soaked it well in the broth. “Or worse, she heard it from Robert Poley and his flock.”

  “How would Poley know?”

  Will shrugged, surprised at his own appetite. “Salisbury? They’ve made Poley a Yeoman of the Tower, Kit.”

  “They?”

  “Salisbury. Who was Sir Robert Cecil.”

  “Thou sayest it as it were a refrain.”

  “More and more it seems to be. And I am at a loss to ferret out why. You probably haven’t heard that Essex was the Master of the Armoury before his ill‑fated ride.”

  “Master of the Armoury, and then beheaded there.” Kit propped a hip on the window ledge, his back to the embrasure, and adjusted a folded‑back cuff as if hiding his pleasure at the irony. “Hast spoken with Sir Walter?”

  “Words in passing, only. I’ll see if I can bring this play to him for comment before I make the fair copy. It might cheer him.” Will pushed the soup away, his appetite fading. “He needs cheering, Kit.”

  “Shall I steal him away to Faerie, then?”

  “Would he go?”

  “Not unless he could conquer it for England.” Kit grinned. “So ask thyself what Cecil wants, Will.”

  “What Salisbury wants.”

  “Whatever.”

  Will sighed. “I’d like to stamp him as his father’s son, and a servant of the Crown even when he does not agree with the Crown’s objectives. But I think he has been unafraid to manipulate even Princes, when it serves his goal. And his goal may be no more than ambition.”

  “He’s Secretary of State. Surely that’s enough to satisfy any ambition.”

  “I am not sure that’s so. In any case, he’s ordered Ben Jonson and me to infiltrate the Catholic underground in London.” Will looked up in time to see Kit flinch. Kit drew his knee up, bootheel hooked onto the window frame. “That means Catesby and Tresham.”

  “Catesby is cheek by jowl with Poley,” Kit commented. “If Poley is truly such a fine friend of Ce – of Salisbury’s, then one would think he could get Poley to risk himself playing intelligencer in this case.”

  “Except Salisbury knows Poley’s linked to the Prometheans through Baines – ” Will shrugged. “I’ll be damned if I understand it, Kit. Mayhap Salisbury expects to see the whole mess of them eradicate one another. And–” Realization stopped his voice.

  Kit leaned forward. “Will?”

  “–Poley must have heard about the Bible from Salisbury. But Salisbury is not supposed to know it’s being writ. Tom Walsingham would never tell him.”

  “Tom Walsingham doesn’t tell his teeth what they’re chewing,” Kit said fondly. “So from whom would he have heard it, then?”

  “Christ,” Will said. “I hope not Ben. But more on Catesby–now, it seems, is the ideal time to move. There is a rumor he’s looking for men of strong Catholic belief to join some agency of his. He’s been seen about with Poley, aye, and Richard Baines as well. And Salisbury says he has a letter from a Captain Turner that says Catesby and a fellow named Fawkes are planning what he ever so helpfully terms ‘an invasion.’ The good Earl wants Ben and me to play at being disloyal Catholics.”

  “Baines is ordained a Roman Catholic priest, Will, for all I think his faith plays the hypocrite more even than mine own. If Catesby wants Catholics–Well. Poley and Baines both know thou art more than a mere Catholic.”

  Will nodded. “But Poley also knows” –a pressure in his throat, but he did not let it change his voice–“how Hamnet was buried, and how often my family’s been fined. Monteagle will vouch for me, in any case: he owes me his life after that damned stupid rebellion, and he knows it. A new King, and worse times for the Catholics, and things change. Men change their opinions, and all Catholics are not Prometheans.”

  “Any more than all Puritans are.” Kit nodded, as if seeing the logic. “Your opposition is not to Catesby. Only to those who use him, so unwittingly.”

  “As they used Essex, and discarded him when they were done.”

  “Hell,” Kit said. “As they used and discarded one Christofer Marley, playmaker – ” He stopped, fingers tight on the cloth of his sleeves, and closed h
is eyes for a moment. “I beg thy pardon, Will. Pray continue.”

  I made the right choice not to ask him what became of Oxford,Will thought. “Catesby had been imprisoned for recusancy again, but he’s out, and building a … congregation”

  “A congregation and not a private army?”

  “Is there a difference, in this age?” Will sighed. “I haven’t a choice. Remember old Sir Francis and his damned lemons out of season?”

  “It was a good conceit.” Kit stood and crossed the rush‑covered floor in a few short strides. “He swallowed enough bitterness for his queen to know the taste of it. I do not think Robert Cecil is such a civil servant as that. But be cautious, Will: it’s easy enough to hang for treason even when one acts on the orders of the crown. I’ve seen it happen, King’s Man.”

  “Queen’s Man,” Will corrected, with a smile. “I’m only a player for James.”

  “Good,” Kit said, and laid both hands carefully on Will’s shoulders, with a precision that belied the force of choice behind that action. “I’d hate to think I had to defend thy virtue from a king.”

  “He suits my fancy not at all,” Will answered, and let his head fall back against Kit’s belly. “I’d find something better to be forsworn for, if I were of a mind to be forsworn.”

  Kit bore the touch for a moment and stepped back. “I dreamed of thee again. Thee, and a pouch full of silver coins, every one of them tainted in poison. I knocked them from thy fingers – ”

  Will pivoted on his stool, away from the table, so he could watch Kit pace. “And?”

  “And a flock of ravens arose, startled by the sound, and then the ravens dove on the coins and were transformed into magpies. And the magpies touched the silver – it was shillings, all shillings. Forty of them.” Kit’s face went dreamy as he pressed a palm to the window glass.