Ink and Steel (60 page)

“Because,” Will said quietly, stretching against the far edge of the bed. “That's how all the best stories end.”

Not
Romeo and Juliet, Kit thought. But he couldn't bring himself to break the warm darkness to say so.

Intra-act: Chorus

—The Book of Common Prayer, 1559

Annie Shakespeare touched the breast of her bodice with two fingers, paper rustling between her chemise and her skin. Her second-floor sitting room was quiet and gleaming with sunset; her needle paused before her frame, glinting in the cold winter light. It had hovered so for minutes as she leaned forward in her chair and looked out the window, and now she sat back with a sigh, and pressed her bosom again.
He won't be here.

A clatter of hoofbeats on the road. Only one horse, and no creak of wheels.
A messenger, then, and not my Will.
She tucked the needle through the cloth and stood, stretching before the window with her hands against the small of her back, to see who came to her house too late to be sent along to the tavern for supper. She couldn't see his face for the broad wings of his cap, but he sat his horse as awkwardly as a sack of barley, and the animal shook his head in complaint.

He reined up before the gates of the New Place and tilted his head back, looking up at the facade and the five gables. Annie pressed her hand against the glass: if Will had described the ramshackle century-old dwelling he'd bought for her—that she'd bought under his signature, to be truthful—the messenger was unlikely to recognize it, whitewashed and gracious now as a bride in her mother's remade wedding dress.

The rider pushed his hat back on his forehead, looking up from the shadow of the roadway into the light that still gleamed on the wall, and Annie's hand on the window rose to her mouth. She turned, tripped on her hem, knocked the embroidery frame sideways with her hip and dove down the stairs pell-mell, calling for Susanna and for Judith and for Cook.

Will went to put the girls to bed with a story—a little child's treat, and perhaps not fitting for young women nearly old enough to go into service or off to wed—and Annie turned the mattress and the featherbed and tucked the covers straight. Will found her, she guessed, as much by the spill of candlelight into the hall as by knowing where the bedroom lay.

“The house has changed, wife,” he said. He shut the door behind and, trembling softly with his palsy, set his own candlestand on the shelf beside it. “ 'Tis much improved—”

“As it was uninhabitable when we bought it, I should hope. 'Tis empty, though—”
without a man.
Annie bit her lip, and tugged the coverlet down. And bit it harder when Will came up behind her and stroked both hands down her hips, laced his fingers across her belly and tugged her into his embrace.

“Will, don't tease—”

His mouth on her neck, tracing the line of her hair, the dints along her spine. “I should not attempt such cruelty.” He strung something about her throat, the soft, lingering touch of his fingers, a stroke as of satin. “I have confessions, Annie. And promises to make.”

“Confessions?”

“Aye—” He was knotting a silken ribbon, a braid of red and black and green. Something that weighed like an acorn hung upon it; she slipped her hand beneath. A silken pouch no bigger than her thumb. “Annie, I have loved thee.”

She held her breath. “And now do not?”

He turned her in his arms and looked into her eyes. Curious, she reached up to touch the golden earring that adorned him. He smiled at the touch. “And love thee more than ever I could have told thee. I, Will, love thee to wordlessness.”

“Never hast thou been wordless,” she answered, and kissed his nose to make him smile like that again.

“Annie, hush,” he said. And she obeyed, and he continued. “I promised I'd love no other but thee—whatever sins my flesh was heir to. And I've broken that promise, my love.”

She'd been lulled by the moment. By the spell of him, the gentleness, the kisses she'd almost forgotten the sweetness of. She closed her eyes and stepped away, acid burning in her throat. “A mistress—”

“No,” Will said, and pulled her close. And kissed her on the mouth. “A man.”

She wanted to jerk away, retreat to the corner between the clothespress and the bed. But his hands were on her wrists, and he held her tight, with a strength she didn't remember in him. “A—man.”

“Aye,” he said. “I won't—won't lie to thee. I loved him, and I love him still. And more—”

She steeled herself to stand motionless in his embrace, wondering if he could feel the thunder of her heart.
So there's a reason for his fevered kisses. Will, I'd not have thought thee so capably cruel....

“—the man I love is no mortal, but an Elf-knight, a warlock. A creature of the Fae. And under a geas, that I may never touch him. No, nor any other, until his curse be lifted—”

Anne blinked, not understanding. “Thou'rt leaving me for a man thou canst not touch?”
Oh, why not? He cannot touch thee either, sister—

“No,” Will said. He stepped back and touched the silk hung at the hollow of her throat. “No, I tell thee so thou wilt understand what he has given me. This man. This knight—”

She reached up and caught his wrist. “What? He's bought thee from me for a bit of silk?”

“No, Annie.” He kissed the fingers that bound his trembling forearm. Kissed her wrist and the tenderness inside her elbow and bowed his head there, inhaling her scent. “Annie, he's given thee back to me. How long has it been?”

“Judith is nearly fourteen,” she said softly. “What canst thy meaning be?”

He pushed her nightgown down over her shoulders as he kissed her again, without restraint this time. Despite her confusion, she gave herself up to the kiss, buried her fingers in his hair, tasted mutton and onions on his tongue. “Witches have spells for causing barrenness, my love.”

Author's Note (brief version)

This is the first of two tightly linked novels, a duology collectively known as
The Stratford Man
. The second book,
Hell and Earth
, will be published in August 2008.

A complete Author's Note and Acknowledgements—enumerating this narrative's extensive historical and linguistic malfeasances and encompassing a semi-exhaustive list of who may be assessed for the same—may be found at the end of the second book.

About the Author

Originally from Vermont and Connecticut,
Elizabeth Bear
spent six years in the Mojave Desert and currently lives in southern New England. She attended the University of Connecticut, where she studied anthropology and literature. She was awarded the 2005 Campbell Award for Best New Writer.