“Always plotting,” Will answered. “What would please the King?”
James made a bit of a show of thinking. “You know our Annie loves masques and divertissements. We had Ben Jonson’s Masque of Blacknessat court just this winter past. But perhaps something a little more exciting, for the lads. I worry a bit at their mother’s influence: women are such frivolous things, and she has her ideas.”
“Ideas, Your Highness?” Will was grateful that Burbage spoke to fill the King’s expectant silence.
“I fear being so beset by witches as we were at our old lodgings has made her dependent on Papist rituals to keep ill spirits away,” James said frankly, dropping into the informal speech that was his habit. “Silly conceits, and a woman will have them. But I do not want her leading my boys from good Protestant ethics. I’ll see my little Elizabeth crowned queen before Henry or Charles king, if she turns them Catholic.” The King shrugged, carelessly tipping some drops of wine over the edge of his cup. “So perhaps something with Scottish kings and the mischief of witchcraft–”
“Do you have a plot in mind, Your Highness?”
“We saw a Latin trifle at Oxford at the beginning of the month. That Ouinn fellow. You know him?”
“Tres Sybillae. ”
“That’s the one.”
“Your Highness wishes a play about King MacBeth.”
“The usurper, rightfully deposed.” It was a gentle rebuke, as such things went, delivered with a smile. The King turned to acknowledge Robert Cecil as the new Earl of Salisbury came up alongside him. “It will serve a welcome distraction in a time of plague. I’ve prorogued Parliament for fear of it: we’ll meet in colder weather. And a good morning to you, my fine Earl Elf. What think you of the fifth of November?”
“It’s a fine day for a hanging, I suppose. Or did you have something else in mind, Your Highness?”
“Parliament. We’ll have some bills come due that must be paid, sooner rather than later–”
“Ah, yes.” Salisbury nodded an acknowledgement as Will filled a cup for him and dropped a bit of sugarloaf in. “Thank you, Master Shakespeare. I think we must talk a bit about expenditures too, Your Highness.”
The King snorted. “A parsimonious elf. Canst not transform some oak leaves to gold, Salisbury, and refill our coffers?”
“Alas–” Salisbury laid a hand on the King’s elbow, and the two men turned aside. But Robert Cecil’s last tenacious glance told Will there would be another conversation, later, out of earshot of the King.
“Is he still opposed to thy Bible?” Burbage asked quietly, when the King and his minister were very well out of earshot.
Will blinked. “How didst thou know about the Bible, Richard?”
Richard Burbage paused, his cup frozen halfway to his mouth as his attention turned inward. He pursed his lips, and answered at last, “Mary Poley mentioned it to me as if it were common knowledge. I thought she must have had the word from thee.”
“No,” Will said, feeling his blood drain from his limbs. “I told her no such thing.”
Will wrote by candlelight, late into the warmth of the evening, and was not surprised when a familiar cough interrupted his study. “Good evening, Kit.”
“Hello, my love. I brought thee supper–”
Will glanced at the window surprised to see that twilight had faded to full dark. “Thou’rt considerate.”
“Thou’rt like to starve to death, an I did not. What is it has thy fancy so tightly, Will?” Kit laid his bundle on the edge or the table, well away from Will’s papers, and unwrapped linen to produce a pot of steaming onion soup and a half loaf of brown bread folded around a still‑cold lump of butter that was just melting at the edges.
“Fey food,” Will said, and pushed his papers aside. “Or the homely sort?”
“Both,” Kit answered. “Morgan’s cooking. Thou didst not answer my question – ”
“Oh, a tragedy,” Will answered. “Something to catch James’ fancy. Witches and prophecies. We have problems and problems, Kit. Thou didst not speak to Mary Poley of our testaments, didst thou?”
“Nay,” Kit answered. He pushed the crock of soup in front of Will, and laid a spoon alongside it. “Talk while thou dost eat.”
“Someone did.” The soup was good, thick with onions cooked transparent. Will reached for the bread, which he could manage more comfortably through his stiff throat if he soaked it well in the broth. “Or worse, she heard it from Robert Poley and his flock.”
“How would Poley know?”
Will shrugged, surprised at his own appetite. “Salisbury? They’ve made Poley a Yeoman of the Tower, Kit.”
“They?”
“Salisbury. Who was Sir Robert Cecil.”
“Thou sayest it as it were a refrain.”
“More and more it seems to be. And I am at a loss to ferret out why. You probably haven’t heard that Essex was the Master of the Armoury before his ill‑fated ride.”
“Master of the Armoury, and then beheaded there.” Kit propped a hip on the window ledge, his back to the embrasure, and adjusted a folded‑back cuff as if hiding his pleasure at the irony. “Hast spoken with Sir Walter?”
“Words in passing, only. I’ll see if I can bring this play to him for comment before I make the fair copy. It might cheer him.” Will pushed the soup away, his appetite fading. “He needs cheering, Kit.”
“Shall I steal him away to Faerie, then?”
“Would he go?”
“Not unless he could conquer it for England.” Kit grinned. “So ask thyself what Cecil wants, Will.”
“What Salisbury wants.”
“Whatever.”
Will sighed. “I’d like to stamp him as his father’s son, and a servant of the Crown even when he does not agree with the Crown’s objectives. But I think he has been unafraid to manipulate even Princes, when it serves his goal. And his goal may be no more than ambition.”
“He’s Secretary of State. Surely that’s enough to satisfy any ambition.”
“I am not sure that’s so. In any case, he’s ordered Ben Jonson and me to infiltrate the Catholic underground in London.” Will looked up in time to see Kit flinch. Kit drew his knee up, bootheel hooked onto the window frame. “That means Catesby and Tresham.”
“Catesby is cheek by jowl with Poley,” Kit commented. “If Poley is truly such a fine friend of Ce – of Salisbury’s, then one would think he could get Poley to risk himself playing intelligencer in this case.”
“Except Salisbury knows Poley’s linked to the Prometheans through Baines – ” Will shrugged. “I’ll be damned if I understand it, Kit. Mayhap Salisbury expects to see the whole mess of them eradicate one another. And–” Realization stopped his voice.
Kit leaned forward. “Will?”
“–Poley must have heard about the Bible from Salisbury. But Salisbury is not supposed to know it’s being writ. Tom Walsingham would never tell him.”
“Tom Walsingham doesn’t tell his teeth what they’re chewing,” Kit said fondly. “So from whom would he have heard it, then?”
“Christ,” Will said. “I hope not Ben. But more on Catesby–now, it seems, is the ideal time to move. There is a rumor he’s looking for men of strong Catholic belief to join some agency of his. He’s been seen about with Poley, aye, and Richard Baines as well. And Salisbury says he has a letter from a Captain Turner that says Catesby and a fellow named Fawkes are planning what he ever so helpfully terms ‘an invasion.’ The good Earl wants Ben and me to play at being disloyal Catholics.”
“Baines is ordained a Roman Catholic priest, Will, for all I think his faith plays the hypocrite more even than mine own. If Catesby wants Catholics–Well. Poley and Baines both know thou art more than a mere Catholic.”
Will nodded. “But Poley also knows” –a pressure in his throat, but he did not let it change his voice–“how Hamnet was buried, and how often my family’s been fined. Monteagle will vouch for me, in any case: he owes me his life after that damned stupid rebellion, and he knows it. A new King, and worse times for the Catholics, and things change. Men change their opinions, and all Catholics are not Prometheans.”