Ink and Steel (36 page)

“Fifteen pound.” Nashe drained his wine.

“Significant. I'll go tomorrow. I want him to owe me a favor—”

“You'll have him teach you satire?” Will Sly was sly enough, on the rare occasions when he troubled himself to add to the conversation.

Will snorted. “Something like that. Richard, especially for you—I come with fair news to tide us through a cold winter.”

Burbage's head came up. “The playhouses.”

“Yes, my merry men—”

“Hah!”
That from Burbage, who slammed his fist on the trestle and kissed Mary hard enough to spill her ale.

Every man in the room looked or jumped, but Will followed the motion of one fellow in the corner, who started to his feet as if expecting a brawl, feeling for his swordhilt; Will's cousin, the Earl of Essex's friend, the golden-haired recusant Robert Catesby. Will blinked: he knew both of the men at Catesby's table. One was Gabriel Spencer, who had also been jailed for
Isle of Dogs
as one of the principal players, and whom Will would have expected to be sitting with the players: he raised his mug to Will as Will turned. The second, in a plain brown jerkin, was the Catholic recusant Francis Tresham.
Interesting. If Sir Francis Walsingham was alive—

There was not a chance that Will would inform Burghley and Robert Cecil of the same. There was comfortably Protestant and conforming in the name of the Queen, and then there were the Cecils and their mad-dog desire to see every Catholic whipped from England, and every priest hung.

Burbage clapped Will on the shoulder, drawing his attention to the table. “Oh, yes, bail Ben for that. I'll stand half the fee. I'll buy that Bankside property—”

“Buy?”

“No more landlords.” Burbage spat into the rushes.

Kemp muttered assent. “What about the timbers?”

Burbage shrugged. “ 'Tis small carpentry, but great labor. We'll pull the Theatre down.”

“And cart it over the Bridge?”

“Float. Or—wait for the ice to set and skid it over.”

“Won't your landlord have something to say on that?” Nashe asked, hunched over peppery warmed wine. He was lucky to be free of the Marshalsea. Kit and Tom Watson had spent time in Newgate themselves, an experience Will envied not.

“We'll do it at Christmas,” Burbage said. “Betimes, I know an innyard or two would be glad of us—”

The Mermaid's blue door rattled a little on its hinges when it opened. Will turned to see who had come in, and understand why Burbage's voice had stopped so abruptly that it still seemed to hang in the air around them.

Sir
Thomas Walsingham stood for a moment framed against the door, resplendent in a ruff starched pale yellow to compliment the canary slashes on his doublet of sanguine figured satin. A touch of gold at the buttons, the hilt of his sword, the clasp that held his cloak askew, and the pin in his hat. He'd come from court, quite obviously, and quite obviously in a hurry; his horse's sweat stained the knees of his breeches and the insides of his hose, and his clothes were quite unsuited to riding.

“Master Shakespeare,” he said from the door. “If you would be so kind—”

Will stood, pushing his still-brimming tankard at Mary, and followed Walsingham out into the hubbub of the autumn afternoon. “You look like you've had a hard ride, Sir Thomas.”

“A fast one, in any case. And have I stopped being Tom in private through some offense, or—”

“A public thoroughfare is hardly private.”

Tom dismissed it with a tip of his well-gloved hand. “Robert Cecil sent me. After a fashion.”

“On what case?”

“Have you any progress on the Inquisitor?”

“God's blood, man—” Will looked up as Tom's eyebrows rose. “I forget myself, Sir Thomas.”

“I like that in a friend. You were about to say you had been on tour.”

“Aye.”

“But the playhouses are opening.”

“Aye. Oh!”

“Yes. And Cecil wants his results half yesterday.” Oh, that Walsingham smile. As if Tom looked right through you, and weighed what he saw, and was amused. A softer voice, almost too quiet to be heard over the street: “Any word of Kit?”

“No. You?”

“No.” Tom swallowed. “He always was marvelously good at making a threat stick. Will, bring Poley's head at least to Cecil if you can, preferably Baines or de Parma. His father's health is failing, I think, and—”

Will sighed, following Tom's smooth stride over the cobbles almost without a limp. “And 'tis down to me and you, and Dick. I'd thought of recruiting Ben Jonson. If anything happens to me, you'll need a poet. Things are not good, Sir Thomas.”

“Nay, not good at all. No one can remember such a drought. Jonson's rumored a recusant, isn't he?”

“And he seems to spend most of his time in jail.” Will shrugged. “But he has talent.”

“Cecil won't hear of it.”

“Then Cecil won't hear of it.”

Tom coughed, and smiled. “He wants you at Westminster tonight. Privily.”

“You're a most discreet messenger. In your court suit.”

“A more usual one follows. I thought you deserved warning.”

“By Sir Thomas Walsingham.”

“William Shakespeare, Gentleman. How does it feel?”

“Like ashes rubbed between my hands,” Will said bitterly. “I've never written better in my life.”

The way forked. The two men glanced at one another, and turned back in the direction they had come, annoying a goodwife with a basket full of greens. “Is there more?” Will asked.

Tom shook his head, and they continued in silence to the Mermaid's door. “I'd offer you my horse, but it would be a little obvious.”

“I don't ride,” Will answered. “I'll just slip inside and await the messenger.”

“And do try to look surprised—” Tom stopped and laughed at the expression on Will's face. “Very well, Master Player, I shan't teach you tricks that were old when you were a new dog too. Have a care tonight. He's a very devil, Robert Cecil.”

“I think,” Will said, “it goes with the name.”

Act II, scene xvii

—CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE,
Hero and Leander

Kit leaned back on Murchaud's shoulder, his right side to the wall and his rapier twisted aside so he could rest his heels on the padded bench while they watched the dancers. The prince's warmth soaked the knot between Kit's shoulders, and the warmed wine at least began to ease the pain in his neck. And contributed to the headache he still carried, since waking from another evil dream in the black hours of the morning.

“A pavane,” he said amusedly. “It will be country dances next—”

“Country dances. You like them for kissing the ladies in passing,” Murchaud said, elbowing Kit in the ribs.

“Better in passing than in matrimony,” Kit answered, turning his head to watch Morgan whirl across the floor, her wild hair spinning around her, her ivory silk skirts swaying heavily as she moved. “We're failing utterly to look disaffected with one another, love.”

“We'll quarrel after the dancing.” Murchaud draped his right arm over Kit's shoulder and around his chest. “I'm expected in my lady's chamber's tonight, and perhaps tomorrow as well. Besides, a stormy love affair is so much more intriguing to a gossip or conspirator than a quiet one, or a simple parting of the ways. You might after all be disaffected enough to turn, and yet still close enough to exert influence.”

Kit shivered, nodded.
I'LL just sit up tonight,
he thought.
I've that masque on Orpheus to turn to a proper play, anyway.
“Renewed interest?” Relief, that the tone in his voice was amused pique and not the terror of waking alone that knotted his gut.
Six days' nightmares,
he thought.
Perhaps on the seventh day my demons will Let me rest.

“Renewed interest in getting an heir,” Murchaud said.

“I'd presumed thee childless by inclination,” Kit admitted, and Murchaud laughed.

“The Fae are not known for our overwhelming fertility, save when we breed with mortals. And even then—” Murchaud shifted against Kit's shoulder. “The Mebd's one daughter, Findabair, is dead these thousand years. I barely knew her: she married a mortal king a short time before I was born, and died barren. There has not been another.”

“And the Mebd is suddenly keen to get an heir?”

“War is brewing,” Murchaud answered. “I'm her heir, as it stands: there is no spare.”

“Ah,” Kit said, as the music shifted. “There's my country dancing. Come pick a fight when you're ready to go to bed.”

“Kiss enough pretty women to make it look convincing.”

The wine was cool, and sharp enough to cut the exhaustion cloying Kit's throat. He'd probably had too much of it, and the hall was nearly empty, false silver creeping across the blackness of the high windows. But he couldn't face the trek from his lonely seat at the end of the high table upstairs to his bed and his nightmares yet.

Kit leaned on the back of his fingers and contemplated lifting the tall glass goblet again. It seemed like a lot of effort for very little reward, and he raised his gaze to the last few dancers on the floor below. He saw Geoffrey and Cairbre, whom Morgan was relieving at the music stand. He knew the names of the others by now, but did not
know
most of them beyond a casual conversation.
I should remedy that tonight.

It took a moment to grope out the edge of the table and grasp it. Oiled silk and linen slipped under his hands; he took a firmer grip and hoisted himself to his feet, the floor lurching. He leaned on the table edge heavily, reached for his cup, and overset it. He righted the glass in the midst of spilled wine and looked up again, glancing around the room for someone to talk to.
Geoffrey
, he thought.
Perhaps the stag will be a little more forthcoming tonight. Given the obvious disrepair of my Love affair with the Prince.
But the stag was nowhere to be seen, and, in fact, Kit found himself quite alone.

He didn't recall hearing the music stop, but the hall echoed in its emptiness, and he realized that everything was tidied except for his own place at the table and that single glass of wine. He imagined the castle's corps of brownies and elves sweeping the place clean in a matter of instants, and rubbed his face with his hand.
Well, passing out drunk at the high table will certainly convince them your heart is in disarray. Hast no dignity at all?

To bed,
he decided, and set about working out how best to clamber down the low steps from the dais without breaking a limb. There was no railing, and misperceived heights were enough of a problem sober and fresh.

“Sir Christofer—”

Kit closed his eye. “Robin.” Drunk enough that gratitude soaked his voice effusively. “Your assistance, good Puck?”

“Ah.” A jingle as the Puck took his arm. “No one bothered to inform you that the wine was fortified, I take it?”

Kit giggled. “Is that what it was? I thought I was merely a shame— a shame
ful
drunk.”

“You have your reasons.” The little creature steadied him; Kit clung to his hand. “I'll see you to bed.”

The spiral stair wasn't as bad as Kit had anticipated, for all his head reeled. Robin's long fingers were cool and soothing, and there was a railing to cleave to. Left on his own, he thought, he probably would have had to crawl.

“Oh,” he said, surprised to recognize his own door. “Here we are.”

“Yes, Kit. Come inside—” Robin turned the knob and chivvied him into the bedroom, kindling a light from the lamp at the top of the stairs. “Can you get your boots off on your own?”

“Not.” Kit swallowed. His throat burned, which was bad: it meant he was sobering. “Not going to bed.”

“Suit yourself,” Robin said. “How's the stomach?”

“I am unlikely to—dis
grace
myself. Further.”

“Good. You knew he was married, Kit.”

“Not that,” Kit said, then cursed himself for honesty. “Nightmares, ” he explained, as Robin led him to a chair. “Do you dream, Robin?”

“These nightmares,” the Puck said, jumping up on the arm and turning to face him. “Are they new?”

Kit shook his head. He reached out and gently caught Puck's wrist, turning it to see the way the spidery fingers joined each other in a palm no bigger than a shilling coin. “Amazing,” he said. “New? No. But worse of late. And dif—dif
fer
ent.”

The Puck's bells rustled. He twined his other long hand around Kit's wrist: a gesture of comfort. “They'll get worse before they get better. Are you stitching your cloak yet?”

Kit shook his head, regretted it when the room kept wobbling after. “Should I be?”

“Tomorrow. The sooner the better. You'll have to claim this, or it will claim you.”

“What is it?”

Great brown goat eyes examined Kit, their horizontal pupils swelling in interest. “A bardic gift,” Robin said plainly. “The gift of prophecy. If a gift you can call it—”

“Cassandra,” Kit said thickly. “Wonderful. Serve forth Apollo: I'll fuck him. Cairbre didn't warn me . . .”