“Master Shakespeare,” Salisbury said finally, turning to face the hearth and Will. “I’ve considered thy proposal, again. And I am afraid I cannot allow–”
Will drew a breath and raised his hand, not quite believing himself what he was about to say. “I’m afraid, my lord, that my request is no more negotiable than Ben’s freedom.”
“Not–” Disbelief. Salisbury set his cup aside.
“Would you care, my lord, to see my talents turned to the sort of satire our friend Ben is known for? To the odd anonymous broadside? The Devil makes work for idle hands.”
“I have mine own resources,” Salisbury countered, the threat patent in his voice.
Will laughed, crossing his arms in the King’s red livery, trying not to show how much he needed the support of the wall he leaned back against. “What can you threaten me with? I am dying, my lord. Behead me tomorrow; you cost the world at most a few plays, and my wife the pain of nursing me through my decline.”
Salisbury’s mouth worked. He glanced at Ben, who remained perfectly still, a shaggy, menacing figure in incongruous wire‑rimmed spectacles. Will did not need to turn to know that Tom Walsingham smiled. He could see its effect, the sudden nervous flicker of Salisbury’s smirk. Tom’s voice was light, level, and as sweet as a woman’s when she has her husband dead to rights. “I too have resources, ”Tom said. “And while I am not Secretary of State, my lord Earl, I amTom Walsingham.”
Will took his cue from the heavy downflex of Tom’s voice, the emphasis of the accidental rhyme of verb and name. “And I dare say,” he continued pleasantly, “that we three know enough of your dealings, and have enough trust from the King and Queen between us, to see you in the room beside Sir Walter’s. No doubt His Majesty would not be averse to seeing one of his loyal Scotsmen in your place; you know how he prefers them to the English‑bred men of the court.”
The silence stretched taut. Salisbury’s breathing slowed, a muscle in his jaw flexing in time. Will concentrated on that muscle, on Salisbury’s eyes – so arrogant and full of the awareness of power–and almost winced and glanced down. Almost. And then he thought of Burbage, and he thought of Lucifer Morningstar, and Will Shakespeare dropped his hands and pushed himself upright, retrieving his cane before he shuffled forward. Rush mats crackled under the ferrule – iron, of course–but Will kept his eyes on Salisbury’s. His two short steps framed him before the fire, and he lifted his head and crossed his arms once more, keeping a disinterested glare fixed on Salisbury.
Salisbury folded his arms, an unconscious mirror of Will’s position. Will permitted himself a little smile of triumph, quickly quenched, as the Earl bit his lip and then sighed. “What is thy desire?”
“You’ll convince the King that his legacy should be a new English translation of the Bible,” Will said. “And you’ll extend your personal patronage to Ben.”
Salisbury coughed lightly against the side of his knuckle. “You feel entitled to a great deal, Master Shakespeare.” But there was an echo of capitulation in his tone.
Will smiled. “Yes,” he said, stopping his hand a moment before it could rise to tug his earlobe, where Morgan’s earring no longer swung. “I will admit that failing, my lord Earl.”
Salisbury sucked his teeth and turned his head aside quickly, raising one shoulder in a lopsided shrug, more at Ben than at Will. Ben chuckled low in his throat, but Salisbury’s voice rose over it. “Thy judgements proved better than adequate this week past,” he admitted at last, as if it pained him. “I will speak to the King. And thou wilt have a play for us by Twelfth Night.”
“By Lady Day,” Will corrected. “I am going home for Christmas, to see my daughters and my wife.”
The New Place was warm despite the weather that heaped snow to windward until it touched the windowsills, and warmer still with the presence of the friends and family crowded between its thick walls. Will straddled a bench beside the fire, leaning back against the wall, and breathed Annie’s scent as she leaned on his chest, her knees drawn up under her skirts. He closed his eyes and closed also his hand on her upper arm, drowsing to the sound of Susanna’s voice raised in caroling.
“People will whisper of thy licentious London ways,” Annie said sleepily, leaning her head on his shoulder.
Will turned his face into her hair, resting his cheek against the top of her head. He sighed, just slightly, and felt her stiffen.
“Art lonely for London, husband?” She pressed her shoulders to his chest, her tone light. “The applause of the crowds – ”
“The rotten fruit hurled in our faces – ”
She snickered. “Thou knowest, Susanna and Judith will be married before all that much longer.”
“Aye, ” he said, although he wanted to deny it.
“I had thought…” She hesitated, leaned back harder. “When the girls are gone, Will. There will be naught for me in Stratford.”
Will held his breath lightly, trying to anticipate what she might be dancing up on with such intensity. He gave up, and blew some loose strands of her hair aside, trying to brighten her mood. “Out with it, my Annie.”
She drew a breath. “May I to London with thee?”
He didn’t hear her at first. The words were so entirely what he had never expected to hear, and all he could do was blink slowly and shake his head. “To London?”
With thee. Surely thou couldst make enough room for a wife, and I’d not wheedle to be taken to court or interfere in thy trade. …”
“Oh, Annie,” he said. He heard her held breath ease from her, then, and felt her shoulders slump in defeat.
Foolish notion,” she murmured. “Thou’lt to home for Lent, my love?” Just like that, forgiven for what she saw as a dismissal, again.
Will’s eyes stung. “Silly wench,” he murmured. “Thou canst not come to London with me, Annie. Because I’m coming home.”
She sat up and turned, swinging her legs off the bench. Guests and daughters turned to look, then averted their eyes quickly as she leaned in close, her eyes on his. “Don’t tease me, William.”
“I’d never tease,” he said. “I can make a play here as well as there, and playing’s finished for me. I’m coming home. I love thee, Annie. …”
She leaned back, eyes wide, blowing air through wide nostrils. She studied his eyes for a moment, assessing, her spine stiff with wrath. Which softened, inch by inch, until she tilted her head to the side and blew the lock of hair he’d disturbed out of her eyes. “Thou daft poet,” she said. “I know.”
Act V, scene xxiv
Why did it suffer thee to touch her breast,
And shrunk not back, knowing my love was there?
–Christopher Marlowe, Dido, Queen of Carthage,Act IV, scene i
Kit rose with the sunset and went to the window, leaving his bed rumpled and unmade behind him. The casement stood open; it might be winter in England, but at the castle of the Mebd it was high spring, and the wood was in leaf as gold as primrose blossoms. He leaned a hand on either side of the window frame and stared out, watching darkness unfurl along the horizon.
«Sir Poet.»
Mehiel?Feeling eyes on him, almost, Kit turned back to the room. The way his shadow fell behind him was warning enough. A glimpse of arched eyebrow, of swan‑white wing followed.
«Surely thou knowest my name by now, my love,» Lucifer said, and opened his wings in welcome.