Ink and Steel (48 page)

“A collaboration? We've done it before, Your Highness. I'm sure Kit would agree.”

“We have faith in your ability to convince him,” she said. Will picked up his goblet as she contemplated her words. “We were favorably impressed with your
Midsummer Night's Dream
. Although it saddened us to see your Queen in the end humiliated and defeated by her unsavory husband. It seems to us that she, Titania, had the right of it, and that is not merely our sympathy for a sister Queen.”

Will frowned, tasting the unfairness of his own life in the irony of his words. “It is the experience of this poet, Your Highness, that just women are often misruled by their husbands.”

“And just peoples misruled by their Princes, by extension?”

Too late, he saw the trap. He nodded. “And yet such is the way of the world: many a man abuses the trust of a woman who deserves better, and yet they and the world are so made that they must accept the dominion of men. Many a Prince abuses the trust of his subjects, and yet how few men are born to rule?”

She rolled her silver-handled knife between fingers white and soft as cambric. “And yet thou dost serve a woman who is also a Prince. Is she deserving of thy sacrifices?”

“Your Highness, aye.”

“Why is that?”

“Because—” He shrugged. “Because she has made her own sacrifices, to keep her people safe.”

“Ah.” The Mebd closed eyes that had shifted from green to lavender and then to gray. When she blinked them open, they were the color of thistles under gold lashes worthy of a Hero. “So the sacrifices a husband makes for his wife earn her loyalty.”

“If he is worthy of her.” He lowered his eyes, unable to support her inquiry, and dissected a morsel upon his plate, sopping the meat in sweet-spiced gravy. The flavor cloyed.

“And are you worthy of your wife, Master Shakespeare?”

“No,” he answered, without looking up. “Madam, I am not.”

“And yet she serves you as you serve your Prince.”

“Aye.”

“This is what we adore our poets for.” He was surprised by the tenderness in her voice into glancing up again. “They lie with such honesty.”

“Lie, Your Highness?”

“Aye.” A smile on her lips like petals. “Sweet William is a flower. Didst know it?”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps we shall have some sown.”

Will nodded, dizzied. Emboldened, a little, by the frankness of her conversation, he asked a question. “Your Highness. Like Gloriana, you have no King—”

“I will be subject to no man,” she answered. “Even a God.”

“And yet from what Morgan tells me, Faerie is subject to Hell and its Lord.”

“Women,” she answered, extending her white-clad wrist to pour him wine with her own pale, delicate hands, “have long learned to simper in the presence of their conquerors. And not only women, Master Poet.”

“No,” he answered, tipping his goblet to her in salute before he drank. “Not women alone.”

“We are glad,” the Mebd said, “you have agreed to dine with us today. We trust you will never find yourself bound in an—
unpleasant
—subjugation.”

“Your Highness.”

“Yes.” She smiled as she touched his sleeve. “I am.”

Act III, scene x

—CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE,
Faustus

Kit unhooked his cloak and threw it over the high back of his chair. He leaned on Murchaud's velveted sleeve and watched the dancers eddy across the rose-and-green marble tiles, wondering if he could afford another glass of wine. The way Will's head bent smiling as he whispered in Morgan's ear was making him
want
one, badly, but he suspected that it would be unwise to indulge.

“It looks as if thou mightst have room in thy bed tonight,” Murchaud said conversationally, drawing his arm from under Kit's head and dropping it around his shoulders.

“If thou wouldst wish companionship—”

“Perhaps,” Kit said, and poured water into his glass. He sat upright to drink it, as Murchaud played idly with the strands of his hair. “Aye. Dice and wine, perhaps a pipe?”

“To begin with. Thou canst defeat me at tables again.”

Kit chuckled. Murchaud's luck with dice was abysmal enough to be notorious. “For a start.”

Murchaud reached past him for a tart and leaned forward to eat it over the table, scattering crumbs. “Hast spoken more with Geoffrey?”

“Words in passing.” Kit drew up a knee and laced his fingers before it.

“Wilt give him thine answer?”

It wasn't really a question, Kit knew. “Shall I offer to betray you, then?”

“That would be kind.” Murchaud leaned back beside him, crossing long legs, his right foot flipping in time with Cairbre's fiddling. The song wound down; the dancers paused. “We need to know the nature of the plotting.”

“Ah. Yes.” Kit stood and glanced over his shoulder at Murchaud, sweeping his gaudy cloak around his shoulders as he did. “Thy mother seems to have abandoned my poet,” he said. “I'm off to comfort him. And yes.”

“Yes?”

Kit turned away. “By all means, come and see me tonight.”

The stairs were less trouble sober, although he cursed the lack of a railing under his breath. He skirted the applauding dancers on the side away from the musicians, not wishing to capture Cairbre's eye and be summoned to perform. Will must have seen him across the floor, because he met Kit halfway.

Kit ached to look at him, giddy with dancing, color high and eyes sparkling like the gold ring in his ear in the light of the thousands of candles and torches.
They Love him because they cannot keep him,
he reminded himself, and forced himself to smile. “Will. Come have a drink with me.”

“No dancing for you, Kit?”

“I don't pavane,” Kit said dryly. “Neither do I galliard. Stuffy dances for stuffy dancers. Come, there's spiced ale by the fire.” He led Will to the corner by the tables and filled cups with the steaming drink, redolent of cloves and sandalwood. They leaned between windows, shoulder to shoulder, and Kit buried his nose in his tankard, breathing deep.

“The Queen wants us collaborating,” Will said, swirling his ale to cool it. “A play by Hallowmas, it seems.”

“A play?” Kit turned to regard Will with his good eye. “Did she assign a topic?”

“Not even a suggestion. Please, overwhelm me with your brilliance. ”

“The Passion of Christ,” Kit answered promptly, and was rewarded by a gurgle as Will clapped a hand over his face to keep his mouthful of ale from spraying across the dance floor.

Choking. “Seriously.”

“Damme, Will. I don't know. Thou hast had longer to think it than I have. They won't care for English history.”

“I left my
Holinshed
in London, in any case.”

“Coincidentally, so did I. I wonder who has it now?”

“Tom,” Will answered. “Unless he burned it. He was very angry with you for some time.”

“Only fair. I was very angry with him.”

Silence for a little. They drank, and Will took the cups to refill them. When he returned, he rolled his shoulders and kicked one heel against the stones. “Why the Passion?”

“Suitably medieval,” Kit replied. “Like so much of our religion.”

“Still no faith in God, my Christofer?”

“Faith, William?” Kit tasted the ale; this cup was stronger. “Died blaspheming, indeed. Do you suppose He eavesdrops on those who call His name in passion?
Oh, God! Oh, God!
Mayhap He finds it titillating—”

“Kit!”

Kit snorted into his cup. “Faith. I'faith, the Fae, who ought to know it, say God is in the pay of the Prometheans. I imagine He'd little want me in any case—”
No, and never did. No matter how badly I wanted him.

“I sometimes suspect,” Will said softly, “that God finds all this wrangling over His name and His word and His son somewhat tiresome. But I am constrained to believe in Hell.”

“Hell? Aye, hard not to when we're living in an argument on metaphysics. ” Kit kicked the wall with his heel for emphasis.

“Say that again once the Devil's complimented you to your face. But I am the Queen's man, and the Queen's church suits me as well as any, and I should not like, I think, to live in a world without God.”

“An admirable solution,” Kit said. “I flattered myself for a little that God did care for me, but I felt a small martyrdom in His name was enough, and He has never been one to settle for half a loaf. And I am maudlin, and talking too much.”

“I do not think your martyrdom little.”

“Sadly, it is not our opinion that matters.” Kit had finished the ale, he realized, and felt light-headed. He set his cup on the window ledge and leaned against the wall, letting the cool breeze through the open panes stir his hair. He put a smile into his voice. “Your celebrity here is not little, either.”

Will laughed, and leaned against Kit's shoulder. “I find the affection in which I am held—adequate.”

“For most purposes?”

“The purposes that suit me. Are all poets admired in Faerie?”

“Only the good ones,” Kit answered. “And yet I envy you your freedom to go home.”

“If I knew a way to bargain for yours—”

“Poley would simply have me killed again.”

“He might find it harder this time.”

“Ah, Will. Everyone in London who loved me is gone. What had I to return to, even were it so?” Kit shook himself, annoyed at his own sorrow, and knowing as he said it—“Will, forgive me. Those words were untrue, and unfair.”

“I understand,” Will answered. “As for me, I am half ready to flee London overall. Our epics are not in fashion any longer, Kit. Shallow masques and shallower satires, performances good for nothing but jibing. More backstabbing and slyness than old Robin Greene ever dreamed of. Stuff and nonsense, plague and death. Stabbings in alleyways, and I'm as much to blame as any man, because my plays do not catch at conscience as they once did. My power is failing with the turning of the century.”

“Failing?” Kit laid a hand on Will's shoulder and shook him, not hard but enough to slosh the ale in his cup. “Foolishness. The power is there as always; in every line thou dost write. It's merely”—Kit squeezed, and shrugged, and let his hand fall—“in abeyance. Because it depends, in some measure, on the strength of the crown.”

“Another raven.” Will set his cup aside and pushed away from the wall. “Waiting for Gloriana to die.”

Kit plucked the figured silk taffeta of Will's sleeve between his fingers, drawing his hand back before the urge to stroke Will's arm overwhelmed him. Across the hall, he saw Morgan mounting the steps to take a seat at the virginals. “At least our feathers glisten. Look, Will. Smile, go dance attendance. Your lady takes the stage.”

Will looked him over carefully, boots to eyepatch, a frown crinkling the corners of his eyes. Kit held his breath as the poet leaned so close that Kit almost thought his lips might brush Kit's cheek. But his hand fell heavily on Kit's shoulder, and his frown became a smile. “I'll see you.”

Kit turned and took himself upstairs, to wait for Murchaud and the backgammon board.

Act III, scene xi

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet 20

Atankard of Morgan's brew—bittersweet and redolent of ginger and lemons—cooled by Will's elbow. He dipped his pen in raven-black ink, so different from accustomed irongall, and watched it trickle, glossy, down the crystal belly of the well.

“Stop playing with your pen and write, Master Shakespeare.” Kit curled like a goblin on the window ledge, wrapped in his parti-color cloak against the chill breeze through the sash. “Commit mine immortal words to paper—”

“Thine immortal words?” Will smiled. He touched pen to paper and let the ink describe the arcs and knots symbolizing Kit's
immortal words
. “I was just thinking, we haven't done this since Harry and Edward met their fates.”

“We've improved,” Kit answered. He turned his back to the window and kicked his heels against the wall. “I heard from Tom last night. Another letter.”

“And?”

“All is as well as can be expected. I'll read it to thee later. When didst thou think to return to London?”

A little too casual, that question. Will laid the pen down and turned to regard Kit, silhouetted against an autumn light. “I've been here three, four weeks now? I thought I might stay another month, perhaps, and go home to Annie before Christmas.”

Will thought of Morgan, and the way his hand was steadier on the pen than it had been in years. He'd stay as long as he could. He tried not to think that once he left, the chances of being invited to return were slim.

“I'm glad of the company. And then there's our
Chiron
.”

“I couldn't leave that unfinished. Although it will never be performed in London. Difficult to find a centaur to play the lead.” Kit's gaze unsettled Will. He looked down at the paper again. “I think it might prove a challenge even for Ned, if Henslowe still had him.”