“And?” Tom and Will, as one voice.
“And,” he said. “The best date for a sacrifice would be November fifth, I think. Fifteen Sagittarius.”
“That’s when Parliament is to meet,” Will said, as the sun began to emerge from its enshadowment. “They were–”
“That late in the year? That’s–”
It was Tom who finished, both hands raised and bound tight in his hair. “They were prorogued,” he said. “The session bound over. On account of plague.”
“Plague,” Kit said, looking at Will for confirmation.
“Aye,” Will said, abruptly sick with exhaustion. “I heard the King discuss it with Robert Cecil, not two months since.”
It was a week later, only, that a sturdy tapping at his door drew Will’s attention and he rose. “Who’s there?”
“Echo the Nymph,” Ben answered deadpan. Will lifted the latch and stood aside to let the big man into the room.
“Thou lookst more like a Narcissus to me,” Will said. “What brings thee to my humble doorway, Ben?”
“Thou’rt invited to a gathering,” Ben answered, shaking rain from his cloak. “A party of sorts.”
“Tonight?” Will gestured to the leaves of paper spread over his table, where they would catch the watery light from the window. “I’ve too much work.”
“Thou’rt only the most‑sought playmaker in London,” Ben answered, careful not to drip on the papers as he bent to inspect them, his massive hands laced behind his back. “Surely thou canst pass a night with friends.”
“I owe Richard a fair copy by Monday.”
“Five days,” Ben said. “Thou dost work too much, Will. And how canst thou refuse an invitation from Robert Catesby, to dine with him and his recusant friends on a cold Wednesday night?”
Will set the latch with a click. “I beg thy pardon?”
Ben turned, his homely face unimproved by his grin. “Call it luck or call it happenstance. I’ve been working on Catesby and Tresham six months now, Will. And been overheard to mention once or twice that thou–and thy brother Edmund – had once or twice missed out loud the more permissive “ways of Warwickshire, with regard to the old religion. If thou takest my meaning. And they did.”
Will pinched his lower lip between his teeth and ran his tongue across it, forcing himself to stop when he remembered it would chap. “Catesby is one of Baines’. He’d never believe I’d welcome any Promethean plot. Not after twelve years fighting them, and all the advances I’ve spurned.”
“Not to hear him talk about it.” Ben shrugged. “Not Promethean, anyway. Catesby’s aims are strictly political, and he’d love the great William Shakespeare to come in under his banner of revolution. I suspect if he knew the sort of black sorcery his friends get up to he “would be even more appalled by them than he is – for all he’s willing to compromise and let politics make what bedfellows they will, he’s a good Catholic, and wouldn’t be damned for sorcery. I think they mean to use him as they used Essex before him, as a sort of stalking horse. Come, get thy cloak.”
“Thinkst thou to educate him, then?”
“I’ll tell thee more on the way to the tavern,” Ben said, and handed Will his shoes. “No, I don’t think so at all. Not that he’s uneducable. If anything, he’s a good man, strong in his faith, willing to die for it. A fighter for freedom, and his two chief lieutenants are also quick and true.”
“And they’re plotting against the Kang.” Will latched the door behind them when they went. “What way are we going, Ben?”
“To the Irish Boy. Age before beauty, gentle Will. Lead on.”
“Then we shall have to wait for a handsome passerby, or we shall never get anywhere,” Will noted, but he did not tarry. The afternoon was cold, the rain something more than a drizzle. “Ben, it pains me to ask this of thee–”
“Aye, Will?” The banter fell from Ben’s tone like the stagecraft it was; Will could feel the weight of his expectancy.
“It wasn’t thee told Salisbury about our Bible‑crafting, was it? When thou wert so unhappy with me?”
“Nay, I’d never do such a thing. Slather thy name in mockery and eat it with relish, aye–”
“It was mustard, not mockery,” Will said. “And the coat of arms was my father’s conceit, in any case.”
Ben laughed. “But something that could bring thee real harm? Never, my friend.”
“That’s bad,” Will answered. “Because if it was not thee, then Chapman has spoken more than he should, and where the wrong ears could hear it.”
Ben grunted, tugging his hood up higher. “I would not be startled to discover it. In any case, I think thou shouldst consider what the Catholics offer,” he said with a wink. “Thy family will thank thee for supporting the old faith. And with such men as Catesby and Tresham, and Guido Fawkes–who thou wilt meet tonight. He was a soldier in the Low Countries when I was, that last.”
“Fighting for the Queen?” Will asked, and Ben shook his head.
“Fighting for the Spaniards. A man of strong convictions. They call him the soldier‑monk, of all things.”
There was a throb of admiration in Ben’s voice; Will sighed to hear it. Nothing worse for an intelligencer than to come to admire the men he will betray.
Aye, and nothing more vital for his credibility with those men.“I’ll make thee proud enough, for a soldier‑bricklayer,” Will said, and Ben laughed at the subtleties behind that statement as they passed under the sign of the Irish Boy.
The tavern’s common was bigger than the Mermaid’s, but not over crowded. Will counted eleven men drinking by the fire, a hum of cheerful conversation flagging only a little when he and Ben entered. Catesby stood, his golden‑blond locks glowing like the sun, and came across the rush‑strewn planks to greet them. Another man rose as well, a walrus‑mustachioed redhead Will had seen somewhere before, not quite so handsome as Catesby but broad‑shouldered and nearly as big as Ben, though not so portly.
Catesby introduced the redhead as Fawkes. Will shook his hand–switching his cane to the left to do so–while Ben dragged a bench over and repositioned a table to make room. Will was seated and introduced about; he was amused to note he’d come far enough as an intelligencer in twelve years that he felt secure in remembering each name and each face without the need to scribble notes.
The evening’s entertainment was much as promised, the playmaker finding himself wined and dined by men who were–for a change – more interested in his personal and political leanings than in his celebrity, and who gave very little away. The role came to Will with enough ease to unsettle him, and it unsettled him more when he remembered that some of the men he sat beside were relatives, acquaintances.
Acquaintances who plot against the throne,he reminded himself. And then he sighed, and thought of Edmund or Annie hanged for no more sin than clinging to the Catholic faith, and wondered if he had chosen the right side after all.
It’s not the side that’s right,he reminded himself. It’s the side you’re on.
And thank you, Kit, for that piece of intelligencer’s wisdom.Will felt queasy with more wine than he was accustomed to drink. He looked up at Ben, who was regarding him with a knowing sort of pity, and Ben nodded and stood.
“Gentlemen, thank you,” Ben said. “I fear Master Shakespeare is a bit poorly, and perhaps I should escort him home.”
“No, Ben,” Will said, although he accepted help to stand. “I’ll manage. You stay for the evening. I’m just tired and in pain.”
“Art certain?” As Ben led him toward the door. “The streets are not as safe as they were.”
Aye, which is saying something, as they were never in particular safe. The King’s Peace doesn’t hold much sway in London any longer.“I’m certain,” Will said.
Fifteen minutes later, when unseen ruffians dropped a bag over his head and hustled him into a carriage, he had wit enough left to find a measure of irony in those words.