“–go to the Tower?”
A pleasant euphemism,Kit thought.
Sir Robert shook his head. “No, but I doubt you’ll see him in London again. Master Shakespeare, if you will?”
Will nodded in amusement at the pun, glancing over his shoulder to Kit. Kit waved him away with a pang, conscious of a breathless, drowning sort of agony filling his throat. Eight years and I’ve managed the downfall of Edward de Vere. And now–
Christ. I can’t stand watching this. What will it take? Half a decade? Two? I should have stayed in Faerie. I should have –
– let Baines have his way with Will?
Murchaud’s hand pressed the small of Kit’s back as Sir Robert steered Will out of the retiring room. Kit didn’t move away from the touch, for all it felt like sandpaper through his doublet and his shirt. The door closed behind Will and Sir Robert. Kit turned and looked up at the Prince, who pulled him into a stiffly awkward sort of one‑armed hug. “It gets easier eventually.”
“When they’re all dead?”
It was an idle, bitter comment. Kit was not prepared for the placid irony with which the Prince said, softly, “Yes.”
“Murchaud, why art thou kind? What dost thou wish of me?” It wasn’t quite what Kit had intended to ask, and he stiffened, but he still didn’t step out of the embrace, for all it was like standing among nettles. Murchaud turned his face into Kit’s hair, and Kit was suddenly giddy with sorrow and frustration and something that hurt sharply, a pressure under his breastbone he didn’t have a name for.
“Idiot. For I love thee,” the Prince said, and kissed the top of Kit’s head before he let him go. “What word hast thee of conspiracy, Kitling?”
For I love thee.Kit stared after the Prince, wondering if those words were true or calculated, or whether they could be both. “That depends of which conspiracy thou speakst, my Prince. This one or that one? I think we pulled a tooth of the dragon in London today – ”
Murchaud shrugged, pouring more wine. “Something was accomplished, in any case. And Oxford’s face when thou didst draw off thy mask was a worthy sight. With Oxford and Essex both out of court, that’s a little breathing room for Gloriana.”
“Will thinks the Puritans have gotten to Archbishop Whitgift.”
“The Puritans, or the Prometheans?”
“Is there a difference?” Kit leaned against a leather‑topped desk and watched Murchaud pace. “Essex’s Prometheans have their fingers deep in every pie. They play politics layered on politics, and their goals are opaque to me.”
“Their goals are very simple,” Murchaud replied, turning as if startled. “Power, earthly and divine. Revolution, and the overthrow of the old ways.”
“And our ways are better than theirs?” Kit breathed a little easier, the knot under his breastbone easing at having successfully diverted Murchaud. Robin, I do not know how long I can protect you. I do not even understand why it is that I choose to do so.Except Kit had seen men drawn and quartered for the sin of appearing on a list of names that he, Kit, drew up and provided. He thought of Will’s new play and grinned. To choose not is a choice.
“Our ways are what we have,” Murchaud said, reminding Kit of his own words to Will, so many years ago. “I wonder, sometimes, if a compromise could be reached–”
“Like the compromise with Hell?” Kit refreshed his own cup and Murchaud’s as well. He leaned back against the desk, turning the glass between his hands. The pale blue spirals running up the sides caught the light; the room seemed very rich and lush in half darkness.
“I should hope not,” Murchaud answered. He paced the edge of the room, letting his fingers wander over surfaces. “If the Archbishop of Canterbury is weakening, can the Church of England be far behind?”
“Murchaud”–a swallow of wine to loosen Kit’s tongue – “why has the Mebd come here? Not for a play. And not merely for my little masque and unmasking.”
“Oh, aye, for a play. And to discuss Elizabeth’s succession with her. And Elizabeth’s legend – ”
“Ah.” Kit set the glass down on the leather‑topped desk and stretched his fingers, working the ache out of them. “Edward has a jaw like an anvil.”
“‘Tis well thou didst not punch him, then. Is’t broken?”
“Only strained. Bruised a little.”
“Would kiss it well – ”
“Would that thou couldst.” Kit sighed. “What next?”
Murchaud shuddered. “We try to keep Gloriana alive as long as possible. We rid ourselves of as many of the false Promethean agents as we can find. Oxford is an excellent start. Skeres, not the victory I would have chosen, but something nonetheless.”
“We discover–” Kit coughed and lowered his voice. “We discover why Sir Robert is protecting Poley and Baines.”
“Is he?”
“There’s no other explanation.” Kit nodded with conviction. It came more plain to him even as he sought to explain it. “He sends Tom and Will to frame Baines, but it’s not Baines who takes the fall. He allows Will and I to remove Oxford, but only once Essex has discarded him. He opposes Will’s plan for a new Bible, and I would not be surprised if there’s more we don’t know. Yes, I think Robert Cecil is playing a very deep game indeed. And I think I need to talk to Sir Walter about it –
“Sir Robert,” Murchaud said, still pacing. “Believes in what he can grasp and hold. Sir Robert may already have plans for Elizabeth’s successor. Sir Robert may see a weakening of Faerie as bending to his advantage.”
“I can’t imagine that he doesn’t. I’m not sure that he understands that the Prometheans are something other than another chess piece.”
“He doesn’t see them as players?”
“Does he see anyone else as a player? I think he imagines that some tokens merely move themselves about the board when his hand is not on them.” Kit’s own hand was swelling still. He frowned at it. “I did hit Oxford harder than I intended. At least the fingers work.”
“Thou shouldst get Morgan to see to it–”
“Will Morgan see me?”
Murchaud’s lips twitched. “Aye, I imagine she would. There’s more we need to finish before Elizabeth passes.”
“Besides the Prometheans?”
“I set thee to find those who would conspire against my wife. I need names, Kit.”
Kit closed his eyes. “I suppose thou wouldst not believe me an I lied to thee?”
“Your heart is divided,” Murchaud quoted, and came to him. “Thou dost know something, and thou art loath to tell.”
“I know many things I am loath to tell, lover….”
Murchaud smiled at the endearment, but Kit could tell it would not encourage him to relent. He set his wineglass down. “Kit. It is my safety that thou dost put at stake. Mine, and Cairbre’s, as well as the Mebd’s. Thy friends and protectors. Hast thou no loyalty?”
“I have no wish to witness any more hangings in my lifetime, Murchaud.”
“Hah!” Murchaud stepped back, and as he stepped back he reached out with both hands and cupped Kit’s cheeks ever so gently. Kit steeled himself and bore the touch, and managed even not to flinch. “Kitling, we do not hang Faeries.”
“… we don’t?”
“We haven’t enough Faeries to hang, my love. No, the punishment will not be fatal. Or even, perhaps, painful, although the miscreants might find themselves sporting a pig’s head or a cow’s filthy tail. The Mebd has her own ways of enforcing obedience.”
Or ass’s ears,Kit realized, and then put his hand to his mouth as he realized also that he’d said it aloud. His expression must have offered whatever confirmation Murchaud needed, because the Prince nodded once, judiciously, and leaned close to kiss him on the forehead.
“Who else?”
“Geoffrey,” Kit answered, his voice helpless in his own hearing. “Geoffrey and Puck, and the Faerie oaks. That’s all I know.”
“It’s enough,” Murchaud said. “They can be made to tell.”