“Trusted thee?” Kit asked the Prince, when Morgan did not comment. He wondered at the speaking look Murchaud gave him, and hesitated. Twisted the reins around his fingers until they cut his skin. Nausea twisted likewise in his belly; he caught himself looking after Will, bent in whispered argument with Salisbury, and away from Morgan and Murchaud.
‘Tis time to pick a side.He touched the trusted sorrel’s mane again. “I wish I knew your name.”
“Gin,” Puck said, having come up silently on his pony.
“Gin?” The sorrel’s ears flicked back. “For Ginger?”
“‘Cause he’s a rum one,” Puck answered. His laugh smelled of juniper and loam, and Kit’s confused expression showed; it made the little elf laugh the harder. “What will you do, Sir Poet?”
You, not thou. It stung, and Kit could not deny he deserved it. “What do you think the Prometheans’ ritual, their capture of Mehiel, will mean over time, Master Goodfellow?”
Puck shifted on his shaggy pony’s saddle. The barrel‑bodied animal shook itself, its wiry upright mane rippling with the motion. “If the angels are clever, it means an end to miracles.”
“And an end to martyrs?”
The little Fae’s wide mouth twitched. “There will always be martyrs. You did not answer me.”
“No,” Kit said. “I did not. First we deal with Baines.”
“And then?”
“This will never end,” Kit answered, “as long as I live, and Mehiel lives in me.’
“Aye. Shall I ask you a third time, Sir Poet?”
Kit lifted his reins. Murchaud stepped back from Morgan’s saddle and moved away. He caught Kit’s eye under the arch of her horse’s neck and mouthed something–two words. Trust me.
Ah, my Prince. If only.Kit’s gaze slid off Murchaud’s, and found the back of Will’s head as Will laid his hand quite boldly on Salisbury’s sleeve, demanding the Secretary of State’s attention. Kit sighed. “Will is for England,” he said with a tired shrug. “And I am for Will.”
The devil knew not what he did when he made man politic; he crossed himself by ‘t: and I cannot think but in the end the villainies of man will set him clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear foul! takes virtuous copies to be wicked, like those that under hot ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire.
–William Shakespeare, Timon of Athens,Act III, scene iii
Salisbury looked up, still scowling, as Will closed the distance between them until he was close enough to the Earl that Salisbury visibly resisted stepping back. Will gathered himself, drawing on a player’s dignity as he framed himself against the Tower wall and the Faerie lights behind. He waited a moment, until he was certain of Salisbury’s full attention, and deepened his voice when he spoke. “I think I know what you want, Mr. Secretary. And I think I can give it to you.”
Cecil paused, his head angling sideways on his short, wry neck. “What I want, Master Shakespeare?”
An attempt at coolness, and Will saw through it. For all his political savoir‑faire, Salisbury was no player. “You wish English security,” Will offered, smiling and holding tight to the sleeve of Salisbury’s warm woolen robe when the Secretary might have pulled away. Will’s hand trembled only a little. He leaned forward to make the nodding of his chin seem chosen rather than uncontrolled. His breath steamed in the air between them; he was grateful for the drama of the effect. “You wish the power of the Romish and Puritan factions lessened, the Prometheans brought to heel” – a gentle cough – “and your own, shall we call it, future assured.”
“Very astute, Master Shakespeare,” Salisbury said, lowering his tone. “You do not mention the King.”
“No. My lord, I do not. But England –I mention her. Not the King. Not the Church. But the land, and the men.”
“All this love for a spit of rocky land cast adrift from the Continent?” It was mockery, but not dismissal. Mockery that hid something else, something slick and sapient, and Will went after it carefully as tickling fish.
“All this love for Englishmen,” Will answered.
“You expect me to believe that?” Low intense, the man’s teeth flashing.
Will smiled and stepped back, only half a pace. Eight inches, no more, and he knew Salisbury heard his foot scuff lightly over the cobbles. “And nothing for myself?” Will brushed a hand across the expensive, stained brocade of his doublet, the King’s livery badge on his breast. “Haven’t I more than any common man should dream? Both from James and from Bess?”
“Yes,” Salisbury answered.
Will glanced over his shoulder, and saw Kit’s eyes drop a second too late to hide the intensity of his regard. Relief and pity warred in him, and a cold white flame he knew for bitter, possessive love. Frustrated love.
Is love nonetheless.The raven stirred on his shoulder. Salisbury’s eyes were drawn.
“We can be allies,” he offered, striving to keep his tone generous. “Or we can be enemies. You are who you are, my lord, but Earls before you have found me a very bad enemy to have.”
It was Salisbury’s turn to glance over Will’s shoulder, and Will wondered what he saw. “Are you going to threaten me again, Master Poet?”
“Not unless you force me, Mr. Secretary.” Will looked down at his hands, let them fall, folded them in front of his belt. “Speak with our King. Talk to him about our Bible–”
Salisbury scoffed. “What purpose will that serve?”
Will raised his eyes again, held Salisbury’s with his own practiced, disquieting gaze. “The power of the Romish and Puritan factions lessened, the Prometheans brought to heel”–he recited, the same tones as before–“and your own, shall we call it, future assured.” A tilt of his head. “Believe in me.”
Salisbury blinked. “We’ll discuss it when the conspirators are captured–”
“If we live so long.”
“Little danger of any other outcome,” Salisbury replied. He paused, considering. “The King would wish to involve Bishop Andrewes.”
Who had been Will’s own parish cleric, after a fashion: the Bishop of Southwark, at Saint Saviour’s. Will sighed, but nodded.
He’d worked by committee before.
Salisbury raised his head a moment before the clop of hooves alerted Will that they had company.
The Mebd’s soft voice followed, furred like catkins, complex as honey. “Master Shakespeare,” she murmured as Will turned and dropped her a deep and heartfelt bow and another for the red‑haired Queen beside her. A poet flanked them on either side–one dark, one fair and blood‑smeared–and a Fool rode a pony between. “My Lord of Salisbury. Dawn is coming.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” Salisbury answered. Will stepped to the side. “I am at your command.” With a sideways glance to Will– this is not settled.
“Ride,” she said. “See to your Romish conspirators. You may find them more challenging to catch than anticipated.”
“And your royal selves?”
She smiled, sunlight through the first pale leaves of spring. “We shall see to Richard Baines.”
Act V, scene xx
Stand up, ye base, unworthy soldiers!