Oh. Of course he would have left this here for me to think on.
Carefully, almost reverently, Kit laid the scold’s bridle aside and scrubbed his hands on his breeches as if he had inadvertently grabbed two fistfuls of meat writhing with worms. His breast burned, his belly, his thighs. In five discrete patches, now, one for each brand, an agony as fresh as the day they had been seared into his skin. How did I get here?He didn’t know.
“Hurm. And harm.”
“Master Troll? Is there a way out of this pit? This oubliette?” A forgetter, some helpful portion of his mind supplied. Where you put someone to forget them. But Baines said he’d be back. ‘Listen carefully, Kit. Can you hear Edward screaming?’
There must be a way out of this.
“Ah, Sir Christofer.” A voice like brushed silk. “There is always a way. Come with me, my love. I am the way.”
There was light, suddenly. Light cast from over his shoulder, and as he found himself standing he turned to it, turned into it. The scent of pipe tobacco surrounded him, a comforting memory of Sir Walter Raleigh’s chill parlor and many late nights. He walked through it, heard voices hanging on a glittering arpeggio, felt air stirred by a suggestion of wings.
God.
He walked past, and through. Found himself elsewhere, in a tower room, high in the air: an autumn or early winter evening and the unmistakable reek of the Thames, the cry of ravens in the graying light. Harsh wood scraped Kit’s knuckles; something writhed ineffectually against his grip. He looked down, at the skinny, stripped man of middle years he pinned against the rough table, in an all-too-familiar pose.
God. God, hear me now.
The man was familiar too: his black hair, high forehead, terrified gray-blue eyes. As familiar as the lazy oval scarred by a set of good young teeth at the base of Kit’s left thumb, the saddler’s muscle ridging his forearms under thick golden hair. The pain from his brands was a symphony now, bright as holy words written in his flesh.
Will. What is … Oh, God. That’s Will. I’m Baines.
A flurry of wings, and the cries of falcons, or perhaps of women in unimaginable grief or unspeakable pleasure. The light shattered like a hurled looking glass. Kit awakened in the evening dimness behind Morgan’s bedcurtains, his head pillowed on her nightgown-covered thigh, and groaned with the simple agony of opening his eye.
“Where is he?”
Her voice, lazy and collected and very much awake.
“Where is who, Sir Kit?”
He raised his head, wincing, and looked up her body at the woman lowering her book to regard him.
“Whosoever it was that beat me in my sleep.”
“All your own doing, I fear.” She laid the cloth-bound volume aside and reached down lazily to smooth his rumpled hair. “You re a sorry drunk, Kit. Do try to avoid it in future.”
“I don’t recall,” he answered. Vaguely, a memory of walking ever-so-carefully through her door, the click of the latch, her hands unbuttoning his pearl-embroidered doublet and unbuckling his sword. A brief check informed him that he was half dressed, at least, and Morgan seemed clothed and composed. “What befell?”
“You fell into mine arms,” she said, quite gently, “and wailed like a pup pulled from his mother’s teat. And when I thought you’d cried a whole world’s tears, you cried a few more in your sleep, and tossed and turned. But slept the morning through and then the afternoon, and whimpered whenever I rose or left your side. Still dreaming?” Her fingers were gentle.
He laid his head down on her thigh again, and sighed in the simple comfort of her touch. I could have liked her, if things had been different, for all she is wild and cold.
“Aye,” he said, and then sat upright, the spinning room competing for his attention with remembered horror. “Baines. And Will. Prophetic dreams.”
She let her hand fall from his arm. “What of?”
“How did you know of my dreams?”
“Sweet, Murchaud isn’t so sound a sleeper as that. They are somewhat spectacular.” She smiled.
He blinked, considering. “Morgan, thank you.” It fell from his lips unheralded, and he paused a moment to examine the sentiment behind it. —‘Thank you for saving my life?’ ‘Letting me awaken with some shred of my dignity intact, after last night’s display?’ ‘Just being there?’— He didn’t know.
He stood and collected his clothes from the back of her chair, and struggled into them while she laughed. “People will talk.”
“Let them,” he answered, and licked his palm to push his hair back from his face. Impulsively, he bent and kissed her on the cheek.
She covered the place with her hand, her expression unreadable. “Such haste.”
“I’ve an obligation,” he said, stamping his boots down, still quite dishevelled. Anon?”
“Anon,” she answered, and did not rise to see him to the door. But he could hear her laughter chasing him as he fled back to his own room, and … Someone had been there before him. A single candle burned on the mantel, and propped up beside it was a tall silver blade. Something shimmered before them, half real. A bundle of papers of mismatched size and color, ragged at the edges, so thick it was rolled and tied with a grosgrain ribbon instead of folded and sealed.
Kit hesitated in the doorway, his sleeves unbuttoned, head aching and stomach sour, his rich court doublet hanging open over last night’s crumpled shirt. Do you ever feel at the mercy of conspirators, Sir Christofer? Why, no. Never in my life.Sblood, he cursed, and kicked the door shut with his heel before he crossed the room. He snatched the letter from the mantel, and brought it across the room to the window and the last light of sunset to read. Sorting the pages rapidly, he recognized sheets of plays and poetry, Will’s hand and someone else’s, shoving them all aside until he found the thick ten pages of letter.
“Oh, Will.” Head pounding but no longer spinning, Kit sat on the edge of the bed to read Will’s shaky, hasty secretary’s hand. When he finished, he set the pages aside and stared for a moment out the window, watching the pale phosphorescence of the twilit sea, hoping it would calm the cold terror in his chest. As if entranced, he stood, buttoned his sleeves and laced his points, buttoned the doublet, adjusted the hang of his sword, and settled a dagger on the right side of his belt. As an afterthought, he slipped a dirk into his boot, and then as he reached for the door he glanced down and laughed at himself, going to war in court silks and pearls.
Act II, scene xx
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;
While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth
September, 1598
Thou wouldst have hated Ben Jonson, Kit .& as I write that line, & read it over, it strikes me; I write as if to a dead man truly, & now I wonder if I have in some madness invented thy survival. Ben is brilliant. I mocked him for writing in humors, & he presented a comedy Every Man, tis called that I cannot overly fault. To prove me wrong as much as himself right. Brilliant, & of much use to Tom & I. Tom asks after you. He’s been knighted. Audrey is pregnant again. Mary’s son Robin is apprenticed a chandler. Her Majesty has survived another anniversary of her birth, by the grace of God, & Richard has procured a property in Southwark not far from the beargarden & the Rose, where he will raise our new playhouse, which we have decided will be called the Globe. If we can free our materials from the odious Master Allen, our old landlord, we’ll have it up by Spring. & no near neighbors to answer to, by God, for all we’ll have to build it on timbers over a sewer ditch. Like an ark when God sends His rains to cleanse the unfaithful, we vile players can clamber into our sinful playhouse & raft to safety on the swollen Thames. So we will have only the lord Mayor to contend with. The flag is already painted, & the motto chosen. Totus mundus agithistrionem which thou wilt be able to translate as well as ever I could. Ben, whom I did mention previous, has found himself new trouble. His tempermight o’ershadow even thine: I oft imagine if thou wert still with us, thee & he
would likely have come to blows. You would have loathed him with a passion I’m sorry I shall not witness. Let me set the stage: Master Jonson is near sixteen stone of man, trained as a soldier & he wears a sword daily. His wits are quicker on paper than in a tavern, for all he is an excellent poet, & he’s as quick to take offense as any man. Thus it is not too much questioned that he killed the rattish Gabriel Spencer in a duel. It wasn’t a duel, but out of unpleasant necessity, for Spencer became too well acquainted with our plans, & our Ben only avoided the Tyburn tree through claiming benefit of clergy for he reads latin & forfeiting his chattels. Also he was branded on the hand, & cannot write until it heals. I’ve sent him to Stratford to stay with Annie for a week or two, which is not so unwise as it seems: better than to keep him in the city; lest another quarrel be provoked, or he insist even now in taking part in the merriment Tom and I have planned. The foolishness of this is that it forces advancement of mine own plans. Lord Burghley too has left us; the Queen’s guiding Spirit died, they say, in Her Majesty’s arms last month, after even her cosseting could not save him. The mood is somber. His son, Sir Robert, has become secretary of state. Which leads me to my current problems. I’ve been charged by that selfsame Robert Cecil with the eradication of Master Poley & Master Baines. & the additional complication that Ben writes to say he’s seen thine old acquaintance Nick Skeres in Stratford. I have a sense of things moving under the surface, Kit, & I wish I could gaff them & lift them into the light. Still, Tom & Ben & I have hit upon a plan for dealing with Baines & Poley. ALL it needs is a little expedition to plant some false coin kindly provided by Sir Robert in their chambers, & a search. Thou wilt appreciate the irony of this. Ben was to make the entrance, but his circumstances now forbid it. If I could be assured that this letter would reach thee, I should beg thine assistance, for thy habit of walking through walls would be most salutary in this cause. I’ve thought long on this, & in addition to my ms. of the Dream, I’ve included a fair copy an act or two of Ben’s. & some poems. Which will discuss later, as I do not believe I would have the courage to include them if I thought thou wouldst ever collect this thy letter. Be glad thou canst not see what poor George has wrought on thy leander. To be fair, tisn’t bad. But it is not Kit.
A fool and more than a fool, Will cursed himself under his breath, stepping into the stirrup Tom Walsingham made of his hands. He bent his head close to Tom’s ear.
“Why am I shinnying in the window? Could you pick me up?”
There was that. He put a hand on Tom’s shoulder and gripped his dagger in his teeth, steadying himself against the wall. Tom’s strength surprised him. He’s three years older than I am, damn it.
Tom’s shoulders moved under Will’s soft-soled shoes, his hands bracing Will’s thighs, and Will was glad of the growing darkness in the garden, as his face heated at a sudden image of Tom, and Kit. Will spat the dagger into his hand and slipped its narrow blade between the shutters. On the second try, he caught the bar. On the third try, he lifted it successfully, and held his breath as it clunked rather than clattered to the window ledge between the shutters and the glass. The sash shifted easily, and the space was sufficient for a skinny man to slip through.
What lights still burned in the house were under the gables, and Will and Tom had been lurking in an upstairs room of an inn down the street long enough to see Baines set off, alone, a little before dusk. Curfew was nine o clock, if he bothered to come home before it; they should have an hour at least, and Will expected the sojourn into the house to take less than five minutes. He looked down, and spoke softly. “Tom, as soon as I’m inside, you leave.”
“Will No.”
“If … If. You’ve Ben. You keep working.” He felt Tom’s rebellion, knew he had no right or precedence with which to command the other man. And then felt Tom’s resignation at the logic of it. This is what a Queen’s Man does.
“All right, Will. Hurry I’ll meet you at the Mermaid.”
False coins shifted against his breast in their soft leather bag. Tom got a hand on each ankle and lifted as Will pulled, and a moment later Will was inside the window and standing in absolute blackness. And how did you intend to find a place to hide a sack full of counterfeit coins in pitch blackness, Master Shakespeare? Purity of spirit, sir.
He crouched, realizing he was silhouetted against the window, and then thought to swing the shutters and the glass closed so a draft wouldn’t bring some servant looking for the source. He traced the baseboard with hesitant fingers, following it into the corner of the room. This was supposed to be a bedroom ah. And so it is.
His fingers found the featherbed, straw ticking, the twine binding the edge. He bit through a knot with his teeth and tugged edges open, heartbeat pulsing in his throat as he shoved the bag arm-deep in rustling straw and tugged themattress edges together, knotting the cord as best he could in the dark. And very nearly wet himself when the door swung open, and a darkly clad figure held a single flickering candle high in his left hand. You must be Shakespeare, he said, and set the candle on a table by the door. The brass and wood fittings of a pistol gleamed in his other hand; Will recognized the black-red color of his hair, the thin, aristocratic line of his nose.
“Fray Xalbador de Parma. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.” Amazed at how steady his voice stayed, although his eyes betrayed him with a flicker at the window. Will started to stand.
De Parma cleared his throat and gestured slightly with the pistol. Will sat back against the bed. De Parma crossed the room, staying enough away that Will wouldn’t risk a grab for the snaphaunce flintlock in his hand. That’s right, Tom. Just head on home. I’ll be along shortly. Oh. Rather a bad miscalculation, this.
A miscalculation compounded as another figure stepped into the room: slender, blond, with a mischievous twist to his lips. “Fray Xalbador,” Robert Poley said, slouching on his left shoulder against the door frame. I thought I’d heard a mouse scratching up here.
“Poley.”
The blond man clucked and shook his head. “After all that fuss killing Spencer,” he said, “you should have known we’d be expecting your visit.”
“Yes,” Will answered. “I should have known.”
Barabas: Your extreme right does me exceeding wrong.
CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, The Jew of Malta
Kit pressed fingertips to the cold, black glass and hesitated, his right hand going to the hilt of his sword. The other Prometheans were warded from the gaze of the glass. But Will was not, and so Kit saw Poley turn, saw clearly the half-inch bore of the weapon pointed unwaveringly at Will’s midsection. Saw, as if he floated overhead like a one-eyed angel, Tom’s occasional guilty glances over his shoulder as against his better judgment he followed Will’s instructions and paused by the warmth of the well-lit tavern. Until he cursed, stopped, and turned to retrace his steps.
Just what I need. Bad enough to have to rescue one of them.
“Tom, don’t.” Kit didn’t expect Tom to hear him. Most of Kit’s attention remained on Will, anyway, and the two images layered each other like an oil painting held up against the back of a stained-glass saint. Until Tom stopped, and glanced over his shoulder, as if he’d imagined he’d heard someone call his name. Kit cleared his throat, forgetful in his fear. “Tom, love.” Wide eyes, a whisper barely shaped. “Kit?”
“I’ll take care of him,” he said, and then let the scrying end before he said anything else, turning his attention entirely to Will.
Will, who had drawn his knees up and kept his back to the bed as if it could afford him some protection. Poley moved about the bedroom, lighting candles, and Kit nibbled his lip at Robert’s expression. If only I had been a half step quicker. Or a half a year. No time for recriminations, sir.
The pistol was his worst worry. It wouldn’t take more than a glancing shot to shatter bone, tear flesh, crush limbs, assuming the thing didn’t misfire. Oh, I wish I had Morgan’s magic now. But if I step into the room behind de Parma, Poley only has a dagger. I
just have to make enough noise that the Inquisitorwi’ll turn instead of making sure of Will. Good Will. Stay there on the floor, roll under the bed when the fighting starts Thank God Baines is nowhere in sight.
Kit drew his rapier and his main gauche, pulled a single shallow breath through his nose to still the trembling in his hands, and stepped through the Darkling Glass.
O conspiracy,
Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night,
When evils are most free?
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Julius Caesar
Will could never quite describe what he saw: whether the shuttered window seemed to fall open on a starry night, or whether the shadows of the flickering candles twisted together in some glimmering reminder of the span of black wings. But he gasped, and when he did, Poley turned to follow the line of his vision.
De Parma brought the pistol up and danced a half step back, angling his left foot with perfect balance, a sidestep that would have brought him around, his back to the wall beside the shuttered window if several narrow, blooded inches of Kit Marley’s main gauche hadn’t emerged from his chest as he moved, his own momentum carrying the blade through his body and dragging it out of Kit’s hand. De Parma completed his turn before he realized he was dead, the pistol still rising, finger tightening on the trigger as he staggered back against the wall beside the window.
The scrape and then the roar of the flintlock was so enormous that Will imagined for an instant that he hadn’t actually heard anything, just tasted all the brimstone of Hell in a concussion as if God Himself had boxed Will’s ears. De Parma fell against the wall, the narrow blade leaping a few more inches from his chest, and slid down like a pile of discarded clothing.
Kit was already sidestepping to face Poley.
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