Act V, scene xix
March all one way, and be no more oppos’d
Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies:
The edge of war, like an ill‑sheathed knife,
No more shall cut his master.
–William Shakespeare, Henry IV Part I,Act I, scene i
“Jesus wept,” Kit said, and started forward. Will held on to his sleeve and followed; Ben, Tom, and Murchaud paced them a little behind. Given pride of place by a Prince and a Knight,Will thought, amused despite the worry seething in the pit or his belly. Or perhaps they’re simply willing to let us be the ones to beard the lions. And the lionesses.
Salisbury turned as they came up on him, a double‑dozen guards and yeomen ranged at his back. He considered and dismissed first Kit and then the rest of the party–their bruises and scrapes, their mud‑spattered rags. “Gentlemen,” he said, in a tone that didn’t mean gentle.His black robes rustled as he turned, and Will fought the ridiculous desire to step behind Kit like a child twisting himself in his mother’s skirts.
Kit, whose battered dignity as he limped forward to face Salisbury lifted Will’s heart into his throat and brought tears to his eyes. Will blinked against sharpness, glanced over Salisbury’s shoulder, and caught the considering gaze of the Queen of Faerie on her horse that might have been carved from jet. The Mebd blinked once, long violet eyes closing like a cat’s, and Will dropped his gaze to the silent consideration between Kit and Salisbury.
Kit’s mouth was half opened to speak.
Even now, Will realized, he could sense Kit’s movements with a lover’s awareness. He wasn’t sure if that comforted or troubled him, but he stepped closer because he could, and raised one hand to touch the hackled raven crouched on his shoulder. A cold breeze coiled around his ankles with a physical weight, heavy with moisture from the wet paving stones. “My lord Earl,” he said, in his most carefully measured tone. “Your timing is impeccable.”
“Master Shakespeare?” Salisbury’s eyebrow rose at Will’s impertinence.
Oh, I’m making no friends tonight,Will thought, and didn’t care.
“What is that on your shoulder?”
“The salvation of the realm,” Will answered. He squeezed Kit’s elbow and felt Kit lean against him –not so much relaxing as seeking comfort and perhaps warmth, despite the way he almost flinched away from Will’s steadying touch. The air above ground was colder than in the tunnels, and Kit shivered violently. Will remembered the blood on his foot.
“Please,” Kit said wearily through the chatter of his teeth. Let us pass, my lord.”
Salisbury glanced from Kit to Will and back again, sparing his final glance for Murchaud. Tom and Ben were silent, tall pillars on either side of the poets and the Prince.
“If we’re all nominally on the side that does not look forward to a Promethean conquest of England and the Church,” Will said, lifting his chin, “I must agree with Sir Christopher. You misjudged Baines and Poley, my lord, and it is only through the bravery of these men behind me that the King and the crown were saved tonight.”
“Misjudged?”
Will smiled. He imagined it wasn’t a pleasant one, and thought the glance Kit angled him was proud and amused. “This raven on my shoulder is the last raven at the Tower, my lord. All the rest are dead.”
He wished he’d seen Salisbury take that short, ragged step back under circumstances where he could appreciate the victory. “Where are Baines and Poley?”
Will gathered his thoughts, but Kit beat him to the answer. “Poley is dead,” he said. Will admired the lack of apparent relish in his voice, and then blinked, startled, when he saw the golden earring wink in the shadows under Kit’s tangled hair. I’LL be damned–“Baines has perhaps gone to join Catesby and Fawkes and their friends. I can’t say–”
“Fawkes is in custody,” Salisbury said, smoothing the front of his robes. The silence that followed was all but thick enough for Will to lean into. The harness of the fey horses creaked with their breathing; the eyes of the Faerie riders rested on himself, on Kit, on Murchaud. “Catesby and his bravos will follow before dusk, I warrant. We know his movements well, and their plot is ended, the gunpowder seized, the kingdom quite safe.”
“Quite safe from explosions,” Tom Walsingham supplied, with a sideways glance at Will. Will nodded, sneaking his hand into his pocket to rub the iron nail in its silken pouch. “Safe from sorcery?”
“Sorcery–”
“Scoffs a man with the Queen of Faerie at his back and a magician close enough to spit in his eye?” Kit said softly. He glanced at Will.
Will picked up the cue as smoothly as Burbage might have, and continued. “The astrologer Dee would tell you the same. ‘Tis a night for the fall of kingdoms, Robert.”
Will could see Salisbury’s shock at his use of his Christian name, the ripple that spread through the guardsmen at his back. He bit his lips to keep from laughing at the casual way Kit pushed forward, all but disregarding Salisbury, moving toward the Fae. Will kept to Kit’s elbow, grateful when Murchaud came along on the other side, and Tom and Ben stayed with them as if drilled.
Kit limped heavily now, and Will kept a hand under his elbow to support him, limping himself. Murchaud shot them a sideways glance, and seemed as if he might move closer. And then bit his lip, nodded, and looked away. Will was surprised to find himself grateful for the Elf‑knight’s looming presence.
It was the Puck who came to greet them, his lop ears lolling like his pony’s, with the clop of unshod hooves on stone. Will took a breath in relief when Kit didn’t shrug off his steadying hand, instead seeming to lean harder. “I see you are forgiven, Master Goodfellow,” he said.
Aye,” Puck answered, his ears laid flat down the nape of his neck. “Art thou?”
Will squeezed Kit’s arm, sensing some unspoken context. He glanced up at Kit, who frowned. “Thou art the one who can answer that, Master Goodfellow.”
The Puck glanced from Kit to Will to Salisbury, sideways at Murchaud, and then over his shoulder at the silent, solemn Queens. “Yes,” he said softly. “I suppose I am. Your steed is ready, Sir Poet.”
“As long as it’s not white,” Kit answered, and followed where Puck led, toward the rear of the Fae guard. Salisbury stamped off in the opposite direction and stood, conferring with one of the yeomen.
Will hung back a little, with a glance to Murchaud. “Where are we going?
“Damned if I know,” the Elf‑knight answered. “I suspect it will involve hunting Richard Baines to ground, but nevertheless we should ask the Mebd.” With a single glance to see that Tom and Ben were following, he went to pay court on his Queen, taking Will’s elbow as Will had been holding Kit’s. Salisbury, still off to one side, didn’t manage to intercept them and take precedence; Ben and Tom moved to block his attempt. There’ll be Hell to pay over that.
The raven on Will’s shoulder twisted its head to look back at the soldiers, ruffling its damaged wing as if the cold air pained it. “There’ll be Hell to pay no matter what,” Murchaud commented quietly, and smiled when Will raised an eyebrow at him. “You were thinking out loud, Master Poet.”