Hell and Earth pa-4

by Elizabeth Bear

  “Parliament meets,” Baines answers. “The old King dies, and his sons and his peerage with him, and we take Princess Elizabeth and make her Queen.”

  “Elizabeth’s a girl in short skirts.”

  “The better to raise her as she should be raised, ” Baines answered. “Mr. Secretary–the Earl of Salisbury–will be Lord Protector. And I can control Salisbury.”

  And I’m sure Salisbury thinks he can control Baines.“Salisbury knows of this? You would murder a Kingand shed that sacred blood on England’s stones?”

  “As Edward the Second was murdered?” Baines smiled. “Sacrifice, puss. A murder serves no purpose. The sacrifice of the head of God’s Church in England, along with his Archbishop, timed to coincide with the subjugation of an angel–”

  «Kit!»

  Not now, Mehiel.

  “I see,” Kit said. “How can you be so sure of Mehiel’s subjugation, Dick?” His arms itched, but he would not scratch the filth on his skin before Baines.

  Baines smiled. “Walk with me. I think I know just the room to keep thee in. It will be barred, I fear.”

  “It would not be like you to be negligent with trust.”

  “No. ‘Twould not. This is where the choices enter into it. Thy choices as well, puss. Oh”–interrupting himself–“I’ll have someone fetch thee a salve for those hands. Poor puss. As I was saying–as Mehiel does, so must do God. Especially once we have weakened the influence of the Church of England so, and here on British soil, where the Catholic dogma has already been broken.”

  “I know,” Kit answered. He let Baines open the thick ironbound door and hold it for him. Together they paced the corridors, Kit so weak with exhaustion that it was all he could do not to stagger. He knew better than to humiliate himself by trying to escape.

  “The angel can be influenced by thee. By what thou dost. Willing or unwilling.”

  “Willing is better.”

  “Of course.”

  “And that’s all you want of us? And then we’re free?”

  “Us, is it now?” Baines sounded pleased, and Kit shuddered.

  “As you wish,” he answered, biting his tongue on everything sharp he wanted to say. Stay alive,he reminded himself. Justice later.He studied his feet, the skin red and irritated under a layer of dirt.

  “Not free, perhaps. Not at first. But eventually, it could be aspired to. Thy very existence, Kit, and that angel in thy bosom, binds God to earthly will as he has not been bound since the Archangel impregnated Mary. We’ve counterfeited a prophet.”

  Lucifer,Kit thought, in pain. Oh, Morningstar. Thou art as clever as thou art beautiful my love.He swallowed. “The Christ preached tolerance.”

  “Aye, and the God we’d give the world is much the same. A God for the common man, rather than a God for Popes and Kings. Is that so wrong?” Baines’ voice almost took on a pleading note. “It’s peace we offer the world: an end to the black sorceries that foul men’s minds, an end to the power of Faeries who steal babes from cradles and poets from graves. A Senate like Rome, perhaps, or a democracy like Athens. Peace. An end to tyranny.”

  A Senate whose power is founded in blood.Kit closed his eyes. As the power of the Tudors and Stewarts is not?Baines fell silent, and they walked together–slowly, in deference to Kit’s weakened state–until they came to a barred oaken door. Can there be an end to Kings?

  “Your quarters, ” Baines said, lifting the bar.

  Kit paused in the opening. Morgan wants peace. The Mebd wants peace. Baines wants–ha!– peace. The King’s peace? Or the peace of Rome?

  Who would have thought three separate peaces so irreconcilable?“I’ve thought on what you said.”

  “Aye?”

  He nodded. The words that he forced out were the most difficult he’d ever spoken.

  “I’ll cooperate.

  It was almost worth it, he thought later, to be clean and cleanly dressed, and to lay himself down in a bed furnished in white sheets and woolen blankets, while a cold November rain pearled on the glass. A crooked‑winged raven huddled in the embrasure beyond, and Kit remembered the story he’d spoken of with Murchaud, by the bier of Arthur, King of the Britons. I wonder if the legend that Britain will fall if the ravens ever abandon the Tower of London is linked to the story that Arthur’s soul became a raven when he died?

  But the story’s not true. I know where Arthur lies.

  «All stories are true.» something whispered against his ear. He meant to answer the angel, too, but the last thought he managed before warm old sleep claimed him was that his pillow smelled strangely of Will Shakespeare’s hair pomade.

  Despite everything, it helped him sleep.

  Act V, scene xvi

  Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil‑porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.

  –William Shakespeare, Macbeth,Act II, scene iii

  “There,” Murchaud said, tapping the cool surface of the Darkling Glass. “There is your cellar, Master Poet, and there is your oubliette.”

  “Not mine, surely.” But Will stepped closer, leaning forward over Murchaud’s shoulder. “Can we see inside?”

  “‘Tis dark,” Murchaud answered. “But fetch a lantern and I’ll send you through to have a look.”

  “Fair enough,” Will answered, and went to find a page. He returned with the requested lantern, as well as a pry bar and a rope. “How do I get him back?” If I can get him out at all.

  “I’ll come with you,” Murchaud said gently.

  Will swallowed, his pulse dizzying. “Just as well,” he said, hefting the silver crowbar in his hand. “There’s no guarantee I can lift that lid alone.” He hesitated, and looked up at Murchaud as Murchaud took his hand to lead him through the mirror. “Does a Prince of Faerie love a mortal man?”

  “It’s not encouraged.” The Elf‑knight stepped forward, and Will went with him.

  Faint light filtered into the rough, cold chamber. Will’s breath smoked in raw air; he was surprised to notice that Murchaud’s did not.

  The Elf‑knight stayed close to the unfinished stone wall, as far from the massive iron cover of the oubliette as practical. He was dry‑washing his hands as if they ached, until he noticed Will looking. Then he folded his arms one over the other and waited in a stance as falsely relaxed as parade rest.

  Will leaned on the pry bar and bent over the oubliette, worry pressing like a thumb into the hollow of his throat. The chisel tip of the bar left a paler gouge in the floor when he lifted it again. “It’s unlocked,” Will said. “That likes me not.”

  “Can you lift it?”

  “No.”

  The Elf‑knight came forward, tugging black hide gloves over each long finger.

  “Take the far end, ” Will offered. Murchaud bent down beside him and grasped the butt of the bar once Will had seated it under the lip. With a well‑oiled creak, the cover lifted a few dark inches. Will gagged at the reek that filtered out. He and Murchaud shared a grim look, and Will said, “‘Tis recently occupied.”

  “We must look,” Murchaud answered. “Hold the bar.” He took his hands away slowly enough that Will, sweating, could take the strain. Will’s forearms trembled with effort, but for once his hands weren’t shaking–with palsy or with fear.

  “Your Highness,” Will said. “‘Tis steel – ”

  Murchaud ignored him, squatting with easy strength and slipping his gloved hands into the crack. He grunted – once– his only outward sign of pain. And stood and raised the lid as if it weighed nothing, laying it open so gently as to make no sound. He leaned it back against the hinges and pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and then he turned away. “Lower the lantern, Master Shakespeare.”

  Will sighed, tied the rope to its handle, and slowly let it drop into the pit, terrified of what he might find. He struggled to let the rope out smoothly so that the candle wouldn’t f
licker. “Leaving me to face this alone?” he asked Murchaud when the lantern was two‑thirds of the way down.

  “Nay,” the Elf‑knight replied, returning. He’d stripped the gloves off, and Will could see the blistered and peeling flesh on his hands. “Perhaps,” he said, in a tone that made Will pause and look up.

  “There are reasons it’s not encouraged,” Will said, understanding.

  “What is not encouraged?” Murchaud was looking down now, leaning ever so slightly forward into the pit and watching the light flicker on its damp mortared walls.

  “For elf‑Princes to love mortal men.” The lantern swung lower, revealing a blessedly empty pit. Will breathed a shuddering sigh and let the rope go slack, his hands falling to rest at his waist.

  A faint smile softened the elf‑Prince’s face, half concealed by his fine black beard. “So our Kit is learning,” Murchaud said, turning to look at Will. “You are breaking his heart, Master Shakespeare.”

  Will began pulling the lantern up. “And I should leave such tasks to you, Your Highness?”

  “It’s a heart, I think, has been broken enough.”

  “Ah.” The lantern retrieved, Will turned away. “Shall we search the cellars for him?”

  ‘He washere. But he is long gone.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The troll told you. And besides” – a delicate wrinkling of that aristocratic nose –“I can smell him.”

  “Can you smell where they tookhim?”

  “Alas.” Murchaud stepped back. “The trail is cold.”

  “I’m a fool,” Will said suddenly, dropping his left hand from his earlobe. He looked up at Tom, who leaned in silent contemplation against the casement, frosting cool glass with his breath. “A fool and twice a fool.”

  Ben closed Kit’s Greek Bible carefully over the ribbon and set it aside. “How a fool, Will?”

  “Because here we sit, wracking our brains on how to save Kit and thwart Salisbury, the Catholics, andthe Prometheans, and the answer is in our very hands.” He reached for his cane and struggled up before Tom could help him. “My cousin William Parker. Baron Monteagle. Who owes me his life, I might add, and is close with Catesby and his lot.”

  Tom blinked. “How does that assist us, Will? Perhaps if we could sort one plot from another we would stand half a chance of averting them, but they’re intertwined as nettles, my friend.”

  “Look at what we know.” Will raised his left hand and ticked off points. “Kit saw signs in the heavens that the fifth of November was the day on which the Prometheans would arrange their sacrifice. He saw the downfall of old ways, the death of Kings.”

  “The King has been useful to Salisbury,” Ben said. “I do not think Robert Cecil stands to overturn the monarchy.”

  “No,” Tom answered. “But the Catholics do.”

  “And the Prometheans,” Will answered. “And knowing how they operate, we must assume that Baines and Poley and their lot are using my Catholic cousins as some sort of a stalking‑horse or distraction – ”

  “Fawkes and Catesby have been fussing about Westminster a great deal lately,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair. He lifted his enormous hobnailed boot and propped it on the low bench before the fire. “And they’ve been less than forthcoming of late. Parliament meets in four days. I imagine what happens will happen then.”

  “What if they assassinate the King?”

  “Hell,” Ben answered. “The King, the Queen, and both their sons will receive the House of Lords that day. If anything happened, it would be all England’s peerage and the royal family down to Princess Elizabeth – ”

  “Who is all of nine years old.” Tom laced his fingers together as if he really wished to strangle something.

  “Aye,” Ben answered. “Well, there’s your Catholic plot. What do the Prometheans want?”

  “The Prometheans have Kit,” Will said, “and the Fae have been intending something for a long while now, and biding their time. Both sides treat Kit as if he’s some sort of accounting piece. And I swear he knows why, although he will not tell me.”

  “What about thy Prince? Or the Fae Queen who came to nurse thee in thine illness?”

  “MyPrince?” Will smiled at Tom. “Kit’s Prince, you mean. You know, I rather suspect he’s watching us now: I would be, were I in his place.” Will glanced up and around, and calmly addressed the air above his head. “Prince Murchaud? Are you listening, Your Highness?”

  A shimmer hung on the air, and Murchaud stepped through it. “You know me too well, Master Poet. And Kit is not a counting piece to me.” The Prince nodded to Ben and Tom once each. Ben swung his boots down to the floor.

  No. But he is important to your plans. And those of your wife.” Will lifted his chin to catch Murchaud’s gaze, thinking when did I grow so comfortable challenging Princes?

  “Valuable,” Murchaud answered. “I can tell you what it is my wife seeks: sovereignty for Faerie, and freedom from old bargains.”

  Lucifer,” Will said. “Everyone wants to remake the world.”

  “Indeed. And the Prometheans’ ritual will give them the power to do it. Or us, if we manage to take that power from them. Since you discovered where they are holding Sir Kit, and we failed to retrieve him, the Mebd has decided that the Faerie Court will ride to the Tower of London on the fifth of November, shortly before dawn.” Murchaud folded his arms, the green silk of his sleeves draping heavily. His brow creased; Will thought the expression was disapproval. “Once the Promethean ritual begins at which Kit’s presence is so necessary.”

  Will glanced at Tom for advice. Tom merely inclined his head slightly. Continue.

  “We wait until they begin? Is that not dangerous?”

  “I do not know where Kit is,” Murchaud answered. “I can make a strongly educated supposition as to where the ritual will be held.”

  Will sighed. “Kit. I’d not see him endure torture.”

  “The Mebd is unimpressed by suffering. The Daoine Sidhe ride at dawn; I cannot stay them longer. There will be power raised that dawn, and all are loath to miss it. And–”

  Will waited the Prince’s hesitation through. “Aye, your Highness?”

  “–once the Prometheans’ power is raised, and linked to Kit, he becomes the keystone to their ritual. If the Queens come to his rescue then, once the power is in him–”

  “You mean, once he’s raped and savaged.”

  “Yes.” Silence, as Murchaud turned and met their eyes. “If my mother or my wife can command Kit, then, then they can command all of that strength, and claim a victory over the Prometheans. They hope.”

  “And we leave Kit trapped a few more days, under who knows what sort of duress–”

  “They must bring him from his cell to complete the ritual,” Murchaud said. And then he cleared his throat, after a long pause. “It will likely be in the Roman chapel that’s buried under the Tower precincts. Some of us… some of us might choose to arrive a few hours early.”

  Will chewed his lip. “I shall be there. I’m sure Sir Walter would not begrudge a companion or two to keep him company in his captivity, and a late night of drinking and dicing is not unheard of among men who have no business in the morning, except with their prison walls.”

  The Prince nodded to Will’s cane. “Thou’rt not going. Thou hast not the strength.”

  “You could barely stand the iron realm long enough to see me freed. What if there’s bars? An iron gate? I’d hate to explain to your mother how I permitted you to burst into flames in a mortal prison.”

  Ben snorted laughter, and a smile even lifted the corner of Murchaud’s mouth.

  “Thou’lt walk back into a prison after we risked our lives to get thee out?” Tom asked mildly.

  “There’s a difference between being kidnapped and held in secrecy, ” Will said, “and walking in the front gate in plain view of everyone. Salisbury wouldn’t dare hold me publicly, especially not were I in the company of Sir Thomas Walsingham and the esteemed p
laymaker, Ben Jonson, a favorite of Anne of Denmark’s. I’m a Groom of the Bedchamber, a King’s Man. And His Majesty is veryfond of my plays.”

  “If His Majesty survives Tuesday night,” Ben said.

  Will shrugged. “Two can play at Salisbury’s game. He as much as told me England needed a King who was willing to make decisions, or let them be made for him by competent advisors. I cannot guess what his disposition of events is likely to be, if the King does die at Westminster, or even if he intends the King to die or merely to shock him into action rather than this endless equivocation, at which he does not excel as Elizabeth did. But if several upright citizens can all attest that Salisbury knew treason was planned in advance–”

  “Then he can hardly hope to benefit from it, if it is carried out successfully,” Ben finished in Will’s silence. “And so he must prevent it. Your logic’s sound, I wot.”

  “I’ll attest it,” Tom said. “I’ve not much to risk. My star at court is less than bright these days, in any case–and I do not find James’ entourage as much to my liking as Elizabeth’s.”

  Ben rose, slowly, and turned to Will. “With Chapman having been in Salisbury’s pay, it’s likely the Earl knows us well enough to anticipate every move we make, Will.”

  Will shook his head. His bare left ear felt strange. “In any case, we can only do our best.”

  “It will mean Catholic heads when the plot is discovered.” Ben sounded resigned rather than angry. He pressed the meaty, branded heel of his right hand to his eye socket.

  “It may help a little,” Will answered, without real hope, “that the warning comes from a Catholic mouth.”

  Will himself went to see Monteagle, wearing his scarlet livery, his thinning hair tied back with a ribbon to match. The Baron was at home, and Will was shown in at once and offered mulled wine and ale with spices, which he accepted gratefully. Then he stood beside the fire in the parlor, warming his chilled toes and fingers, and awaited his host’s convenience.

  It was not long in coming.

  “Cousin,” Monteagle said warmly. “Thou comest at an interesting hour.”