The Elf‑knight’s shoulders drooped like wings as soon as their privacy was assured. “She’s no better,” he said shortly, and went to pour wine for them both.
Kit followed at his heels, trying not to think that he must have looked like a faithful cur at his master’s boot. “Is she worse?”
“No. I’ve never heard of anything like. ‘Tis possible the Faerie Queen grew so linked with Gloriana in the minds of England’s folk that Gloriana’s passing could take the Mebd with it. And if the Mebd dies without loosing her bonds, all those Fae who are knotted in her hair die with her.”
“Would she do that? Take you all to the grave?” Kit was unprepared for the barb of panic that stabbed his breast; he took the wine–littered with bits of peppery nasturtium flowers like confetti–and covered his face with the rim.
“Come, sit.” Murchaud gestured him to one of two chairs on either side of the low table near the window. There was a chessboard set up, and beside it lay a book marked with a ribbon that Kit had been reading–before Will came to Faerie. And Murchaud has not seen fit to return it to the Library.Kit planted himself in the chair and set his glass down. Murchaud settled opposite. “She might,” the Elf‑knight said, nodding judiciously “Wilt fight for her, Christofer?”
“Poetry?”
“Aye.” Murchaud swirled his wine as much as drank it, seeming to savor the aroma.
“I will, ” Kit answered. A familial silence fell between them, and at last Kit succumbed to the siren song of the book on the table. He picked it up and thumbed through, trying to see if he remembered what led up to the place where the ribbon lay.
Murchaud let the quiet linger long enough that his voice startled Kit when he spoke again. “Dost trust me, my Christofer?”
Kit raised his eyes over the top of his book and met Murchaud’s gaze. “Thy Christofer? Surely not–”
Murchaud braced his boot on the low table between them, turning a black chess knight between his fingers. “Then whose else art thou?”
Which gave Kit pause. “The Devil’s. I suppose.”
“And not thine own?” Murchaud stood, a movement too fluid to seem as abrupt as it was, and began to pace, revealing to Kit that this was not an idle conversation.
“Had I everthat luxury?”
Which made Murchaud turn his head and blink softly. “Does any man?
“Or any elf? No.” Kit sighed. “Aye, my Prince. I trust thee as much as I might trust any Elf‑knight.”
“Which is to say not at all.”
Kit shrugged and set his book aside, then reached for the wineglass on the table. He raised it in salute, watching Murchaud roll the chess knight across the back of his fingers, as Will was wont to do with coins. “Why all this sudden concern with trust?”
“There is a wound festers in thee.”
“Who, me?” Kit sipped his wine and managed an airy dismissal with the back of his left hand. “I assure thee, I am festerment‑free.”
“Not that Idistrust thee…” Murchaud smiled and closed the distance between them. He dropped the chessman into Kit’s wineglass, where it vanished with a plop and a clink, and crouched beside Kit’s chair. When Kit turned to him, startled, Murchaud knotted Kit’s hair tight in both hands and kissed him fiercely, with a seeking tongue.
Kit bore it as long as he could, but couldn’t stop the sudden backward jerk of his head – a painful yank against Murchaud’s grip on his hair–or the sharp, humiliating whimper.
“Aye,” Murchaud said, breath hot on Kit’s ear before he sat back on his heels. “Thou’rt perfectly fine. Stubborn fool.”
“Murchaud–”
“Silence. I can heal thee, Kit.”
“Heal?” His heart accelerated; he drew back the hand he had braced on Murchaud’s chest and brought his wine to his mouth. The chessman bumped his lips as he swallowed.
“Heal thee or break thee.”
“That is curiously like what Lucifer said.” The wine was gone, except for a little pool under the ebony horse’s head at the bottom of the glass and bits of orange petals adhered to the rim. Kit set the goblet on the table. “What dost thou propose?”
“There’s a ritual of sacred marriage,” Murchaud offered slowly, after a long pause.
“A barren. marriage ‘twould be, between thee and me.” Kit shook his head. “My problem is Mehiel. I think I could bear mine own discomfort, to speak quite plainly. His–the distress of angels–is something else.”
“And what would it take to free Mehiel, then?”
Kit leaned forward. He pulled the chess piece from the glass and sucked the wine from its surface, then polished it dry on his handkerchief. He set it down on the tabletop with a pronounced, careful click, amazed at his own calm. “He’ll have to come out sooner or later, I suppose. And it would frustrate all our enemies enormously–Lucifer, the Prometheans, the lot.”
“Kit?”
“My death, Murchaud. It will take my death, I am told.”
Act V, scene ii
Some holy angel
Fly to the court of England and unfold
His message ere he come, that a swift blessing
May soon return to this our suffering country.
–William Shakespeare, Macbeth,Act III, scene vi
Alas, my Romeo–
– the Mebd is no better; I have visited her with poetry to comfort her weary hoard, & she seems somehow… faded. We must contrive to convince the world of the currency of Faerie Queenes. I don’t suppose a revival of thyMidsummer Night’s Dream might be possible?
I hear what thou sayest of James; I suppose thou knowest there are rumors that he finds his favorites among the young men at court. It might be worth thy while to befriend such, as they will have His Majesty’s–attention– & if the Queen is so fond of Ben ‘d work, then it may well be that Ben can find succor for our projects with her.
You might visit Sir Walter in his immurement, if he is permitted guests– I know Southampton was–for if he be nothing else, Raleigh is a poet and a poet sympathetic to our cause. & clever in politics. Gloriana is gone: we are not just for England now, but for Eternity, our little band of less‑mad Prometheans.
I will rejoin your Bible studies, of course. Even working piecemeal and catch as catch can, methinks we’ve accomplished too much to abandon our plans now.
My kindest regards to thee and to thine Annie, to little Mary and her Robin, to Tom and Audrey and George and Sir Walter should you see him. And my love most especially to Ben.
– in affection,
thy Mercutio
Will made his final exit on cue and elbowed John Fletcher in the ribs in passing as he quit the Globe’s high stage. “By Christ,” he said, as Fletcher slapped him across the back, “another plague summer. I can’t bear touring another year, John. On top of learning six new plays in repertory. Ah well. At least they’ve more or less mastered Timon,which has to recommend it that ‘tis not Sejanusagain. Gah–” Will scrubbed sweat from his face on a flannel and tossed it away. “How are we to endure it?”
“Because we have no choice.” Fletcher tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, revealing a half‑moon of moisture under the arm of his shirt. In the unseasonable June of 1604 he’d left his habitual crimson doublet thrown over the back of a nearby chair. “Speaking of Sejanus,at least Ben is behaving himself of late.”
“If thou deemst getting himself fined for recusancy again behaving.”