Ink and Steel (43 page)

A kiss at first as hesitant as a maiden's, but then deepening as Will softened into it; and yet unlike kissing a maid, for all Kit's lush mouth and pouting lip, because that mouth and tongue were knowing. There was the aggression of it, the light control exerted by Kit's hands in his hair, the yielding lips fronting a seeking tongue, the brush of beard against beard, the hardness of a man's muscled body in his arms. Literally in his arms; Will blinked to realize he'd pulled Kit close, dust-colored curls between his fingers, leaning into the forbidden, erotic kiss that drained blood from a suddenly light head to warm and throb in his loins. A swarm of moths beat hungry wings toward the candle flaring in his breast—

—he jerked free.

A string of saliva stretched between their mouths, glistening. “Pity,” Kit said, and broke it with a fingertip, stepping away. “More wine before we sleep?”

“No,” Will said. “I think I've had too much already. Art ready, for sleep?”

“Aye,” Kit answered, unbuttoning his doublet's collar. “To sleep.”

Will lay in darkness, listening to Kit's slow breathing, hugging his nightshirt close to his sides.
How can he sleep Like that, as if nothing transpired—

Sleep is what you should be doing as well
, he reminded himself, and closed his eyes resolutely on the faintly moonlit swells and valleys of the canopy overhead. Will nibbled his thumbnail, stopped quickly at the subtle reminder of the pressure of lips on lips. He turned on his side, careful not to shift the coverlet, and buried his face in a tightly clutched pillow as if the greater darkness could silence the voice in his heart.
What if I had shown him those poems?

Kit never stirred. Will cursed him his complacency, the even rhythm of his breath, the relaxation in his shoulders under the whiteness of his nightshirt when Will turned to look at him in the moonlight. Wondered what would happen if he, Will, put out his right hand and took Kit by the shoulder and turned him to the center of the bed, and stole another kiss.
It would be more than a kiss now, and that, thou knowest.

He sighed, and rolled back to his own side of the bed.
O Let my books be then the eloquence, And dumb presagers of my speaking breast—

An unanswerable question, for all Will would have known the answer short hours before.

The night passed in discomfort, until the last grayness before the first gold of morning, when Kit's muttered whimpers and bedding-snarled struggles drew Will upright. “Kit?”

No answer, but a low, tangled moan. Kit's hand reached out, as if to grasp something, or ward it away, and Will impulsively caught his wrist with both hands.
“Kit.”

Who blinked, and drew the hand back, self-consciously, rubbing at his scar. Who looked strange in the half-light, divested of the eyepatch Will still hadn't quite accepted; Will wanted to reach out and touch that long white scar, the drooping eyelid, the bland, pallid orb underneath. He tucked his hands below the covers. “Dream,” Kit said softly, turning aside as if Will's gaze discomfited him. “Damn me to Hell, Robert said they were supposed to get better after I made the cloak—”

“What sort of a dream?” Will drew back among the pillows, propped against the bedpost. “Nightmares?”

“Robert said they were prophecy, and indeed I had one of you in Baines' clutches. 'Twas what drove me to your rescue. But stitching that cloak was meant to bring their power under control. Prophetic dreams are all very handy, I'm sure, but if I cannot sleep at night, any night, I'll be of no use to anyone—”

“You slept a little,” Will said.

“I had . . .” Kit stopped, his hands fretting the bedclothes. “Just drifted off a moment ago.”

“Oh.” Wariness, and then a cold sort of delight.
Not so cool as he pretends—

Master Shakespeare. It will not behoove you to be cruel.
“The cloak,” Will said; anything to break the fraught, gray silence. “What if you spread it over the bed? There's herbs that keep dreams off if placed under your pillow. Perhaps it holds the same sort of virtue.”

Kit lifted his chin and slid his legs out of the bed. He'd pulled the cloak off its foot the night before and folded it neatly over the back of the chair; now he shook it open and laid it over the coverlet. The fabrics dark and bright, rich and plain, were hypnotic; Will reached out and stroked a rose-colored trapezoid of brocade. “Why a patchwork?”

Kit smiled. “Morgan and Cairbre say it signifies all the hearts a bard has pleased with his music; it represents protection, for the good will of all those listeners and lovers interlinks to a garment that keeps ill magic and ill fate away like ill weather. A very old kind of sympathy.”

“So not a fool's motley, then?”

“They both represent something sacrosanct.” Kit clambered back into bed, making a show of pushing his pillow around, and lay down with his back to Will again. “A tatterdemalion sort of magic, but there you are.”

“Which patch is from your Prince?”

“He hasn't given one.” A hesitation. “The green-figured velvet embroidered with the unicorn, though. That was from Morgan, and oddly formal for a thing that's meant to be made of scraps and ragged leavings.”

As if the Bard, in exchanging pleasure and truth with many, isn't entitled to a single whole Life of his own.
“Rest easy, Kit,” Will said, because he could not think what else to say. “I'll wake you again, if need be.”

Act III, scene iv

—CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE,
Edward II

Kit awakened for the second time almost rested, and he wasn't entirely certain whether it was the mingled silken and harsh fabrics of the cloak bunched in his fists that made the difference, or Will's arm around his shoulders, bridging the careful four inches that separated their bodies. The rhythm of Will's breathing told him the other poet was not sleeping. “Was I dreaming again?”

“Complexly, I gather, from thy conversations.” Will drew back as Kit turned to face him, and Kit frowned.

“Conversations? What did I say?” Kit sat upright, reaching for his eyepatch. “At least I didn't wake up screaming this time; the cloak must have its uses.”

Will blushed, and as Kit asked, he remembered—a flurry of wild white wings like Icarus—doves? Swans?
If it's swans, does it mean
Elizabeth? There seems to be a symbolism running through these dreams of mine, rather than a literal thread.
And there had been blood, and pentagrams.

“Thou didst call on Christ to save thee. Begged someone to finish something, or make it done. And then—”

“Consummatum est.”
Kit stood and pulled his nightshirt over his head, stumbling across the carpet to the wash-basin. He all but felt Will avert his eyes. “I remember now.”
If I could only remember what it is that was done. . . .

“Yes. Kit—”

Kit turned back, preserving some semblance of modesty with the nightshirt in his hand, amused at Will's reaction to his nudity.
Unkind, Christofer.

“What is that mark on thy side? Oh, there's another.”

“Five,” Kit answered, remembering how they had burned as if writ anew on his flesh, in the dream. “One on my breast. One to each side, just below the ribs on my belly. One gracing each thigh, like the points of a star.”
The circle of Solomon or the pentangle? I imagine the circle would have required more men. And then, circles are for keeping something out; pentagrams for keeping something in.

“Not an accident, then.”

“Rheims,” Kit said, and waited.
Did you think I was kidding about the irons, Will?
When Will said nothing more, he turned away again and went to wash himself in the icy water before finding a clean shirt and leaving the basin to Will. “ 'Tis nigh on afternoon. Not surprising; we scarcely slept till morning. Have you plans for the evening?”

“Will we be expected at dinner?”

“Dinner is cold shoulder. The court prefers to gather for supper, and for sport and entertainments after. Thou'rt still nine days' wonder enough that thou shouldst appear. I certainly will.” Kit's clothing seemed to have expanded overnight, some brighter colors among the blacks and greens Morgan favored on him: clothes narrower in the shoulder and longer in the arm. “Your wardrobe has arrived.”

“Does it involve a clean shirt?”

“Aye, a selection—” Kit stepped aside so Will could pick through the pile. “Wilt explore Faerie?”

“Is it safe?”

“No—” Kit said. “But I'm only writing a play on Orfeo gone to Faerie now, or perhaps 'tis Orpheus gone to Hell. I could accompany you.”

“If it's not an inconvenience. Is there a difference, between Faerie and Hell?”

“When I've seen Hell, I'll tell thee—” A light knock interrupted. “A moment!” Kit caught his cloak up from the bed and hesitated. “Will, is this thine?”

Something gleamed in the middle of the coverlet, as if it had been slipped beneath Kit's cloak. A quill—he guessed it a swan's quill, by the strength and color—the tip cut to a nib but with the vanes of the feather unstripped.

“I think not,” Will said, hunching to twist his hose smooth at the back of his knee. “A pen?”

“Indeed.” Some unidentifiable thrill ran through Kit as he held it, a sensation like beating wings, and with it came undefinable sorrow and joy. He set it on the table near the bed but was unable to resist one last, soft touch. “I wonder how it found its way onto the coverlet. Who's there?” Tucking his shirt hastily into his untied breeches as a second round of knocking commenced, he hastened to the door and unlatched it.

Morgan stepped inside and regarded Kit with amusement. “So you rise to greet the nightingale, and not the lark?” And then, over his shoulder: “Good day, Master Shakespeare.”

“Your Highness.” Will came forward, fastening his buttons one-handed. “A fine reception last night. I thank you.”

“There's dancing tonight,” she offered, brushing past Kit to lay a hand on Will. “I wished to speak with thee. Kit, Cairbre wishes your attendance when you are decent—”

Kit swung his cloak up. “Will, wouldst care to accompany me?”
I am not Leaving him alone with Morgan Le Fey.

“I—”

“I shall send him along when I've finished with him,” she promised. “Don't worry. It shan't be long.”

Kit looked from one to the other: Will had a certain bemused curiosity on his face, and Morgan's tone was one step shy of command. He sighed and finished dressing. “Very well.” He bowed over Morgan's hand. “Treat kindly with my friend, my Queen.” Knowing she would hear everything he put into the title, both promises and obligations.

“I shall be sure to,” she answered, and there was nothing for it but to excuse himself and go.

Act III, scene v

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, from Sonnet 22

"Now, Master Shakespeare,” Morgan said, after the door drifted "reluctantly closed behind Kit, "this illness thou'rt concealing so effectively. We're going to discuss it.”

Will blinked and sat down on the edge of Kit's bed. “Not such effective concealment if you noticed it in the span of a few hours' acquaintance.”

“I am she who notices such things,” she said, dark eyes sparkling. She settled on the floor, her gown puddling around her, and drew her knees to her breast. “What afflicts thee, other than the tremors and the shortened stride?”

“Lack of balance,” Will answered, amazed at how easily the words came.
Do not trust what the Faeries offer,
he reminded himself. “Easy exhaustion. My throat aches, as do my breast and back, and I have no appetite. Of late I notice the palsy in my left hand too—”

“The next stage of the illness,” Morgan said, resting her chin on her crossed arms and her knees, “is likely a more shuffling step and a—nodding palsy, and a paralysis of the face. If it follows the course I've seen. Thou'rt no more likely to suffer dementia than any man, for what comfort it offers.”

“Likely,” Will answered. “My father is well aged and still in his right mind, though ill for years. I have my hopes.”

“Thou shouldst.” She rose, uncoiling, posed for a moment like a caryatid, and as she came toward him he saw her feet were bare upon the carpets. The loose gown caressed the heavy curve of her hips and breasts such that it left Will's throat aching more than his illness could excuse. “I've aught for thee: a tincture of hellebore and arnica, and powdered root of aconite.”