Mutely, Kit held them out. Baines clucked. “They need cleaning, aye. But I think thou wilt not die of poisoned blood, for all it hurts thee. Still, thou art brave, puss. Art not?”
Despair crushed the breath out of Kit. «This is what moves mortals to suicide, Kit. Is it not?»
Kit nodded mutely, an answer to Mehiel more than it was to Baines. “What will you have of us?” And then realized too late what he’d said, when Baines quirked a little smile and examined him from filthy toes to matted hair.
“Nothing until you’re bathed,” he said. “Then you may rest until Tuesday.”
“And what happens on Tuesday? ” 15 Sagittarius.
“Parliament meets,” Baines answers. “The old King dies, and his sons and his peerage with him, and we take Princess Elizabeth and make her Queen.”
“Elizabeth’s a girl in short skirts.”
“The better to raise her as she should be raised, ” Baines answered. “Mr. Secretary–the Earl of Salisbury–will be Lord Protector. And I can control Salisbury.”
And I’m sure Salisbury thinks he can control Baines.“Salisbury knows of this? You would murder a Kingand shed that sacred blood on England’s stones?”
“As Edward the Second was murdered?” Baines smiled. “Sacrifice, puss. A murder serves no purpose. The sacrifice of the head of God’s Church in England, along with his Archbishop, timed to coincide with the subjugation of an angel–”
«Kit!»
Not now, Mehiel.
“I see,” Kit said. “How can you be so sure of Mehiel’s subjugation, Dick?” His arms itched, but he would not scratch the filth on his skin before Baines.
Baines smiled. “Walk with me. I think I know just the room to keep thee in. It will be barred, I fear.”
“It would not be like you to be negligent with trust.”
“No. ‘Twould not. This is where the choices enter into it. Thy choices as well, puss. Oh”–interrupting himself–“I’ll have someone fetch thee a salve for those hands. Poor puss. As I was saying–as Mehiel does, so must do God. Especially once we have weakened the influence of the Church of England so, and here on British soil, where the Catholic dogma has already been broken.”
“I know,” Kit answered. He let Baines open the thick ironbound door and hold it for him. Together they paced the corridors, Kit so weak with exhaustion that it was all he could do not to stagger. He knew better than to humiliate himself by trying to escape.
“The angel can be influenced by thee. By what thou dost. Willing or unwilling.”
“Willing is better.”
“Of course.”
“And that’s all you want of us? And then we’re free?”
“Us, is it now?” Baines sounded pleased, and Kit shuddered.
“As you wish,” he answered, biting his tongue on everything sharp he wanted to say. Stay alive,he reminded himself. Justice later.He studied his feet, the skin red and irritated under a layer of dirt.
“Not free, perhaps. Not at first. But eventually, it could be aspired to. Thy very existence, Kit, and that angel in thy bosom, binds God to earthly will as he has not been bound since the Archangel impregnated Mary. We’ve counterfeited a prophet.”
Lucifer,Kit thought, in pain. Oh, Morningstar. Thou art as clever as thou art beautiful my love.He swallowed. “The Christ preached tolerance.”
“Aye, and the God we’d give the world is much the same. A God for the common man, rather than a God for Popes and Kings. Is that so wrong?” Baines’ voice almost took on a pleading note. “It’s peace we offer the world: an end to the black sorceries that foul men’s minds, an end to the power of Faeries who steal babes from cradles and poets from graves. A Senate like Rome, perhaps, or a democracy like Athens. Peace. An end to tyranny.”
A Senate whose power is founded in blood.Kit closed his eyes. As the power of the Tudors and Stewarts is not?Baines fell silent, and they walked together–slowly, in deference to Kit’s weakened state–until they came to a barred oaken door. Can there be an end to Kings?
“Your quarters, ” Baines said, lifting the bar.
Kit paused in the opening. Morgan wants peace. The Mebd wants peace. Baines wants–ha!– peace. The King’s peace? Or the peace of Rome?
Who would have thought three separate peaces so irreconcilable?“I’ve thought on what you said.”
“Aye?”
He nodded. The words that he forced out were the most difficult he’d ever spoken.
“I’ll cooperate.
It was almost worth it, he thought later, to be clean and cleanly dressed, and to lay himself down in a bed furnished in white sheets and woolen blankets, while a cold November rain pearled on the glass. A crooked‑winged raven huddled in the embrasure beyond, and Kit remembered the story he’d spoken of with Murchaud, by the bier of Arthur, King of the Britons. I wonder if the legend that Britain will fall if the ravens ever abandon the Tower of London is linked to the story that Arthur’s soul became a raven when he died?
But the story’s not true. I know where Arthur lies.
«All stories are true.» something whispered against his ear. He meant to answer the angel, too, but the last thought he managed before warm old sleep claimed him was that his pillow smelled strangely of Will Shakespeare’s hair pomade.
Despite everything, it helped him sleep.
Act V, scene xvi
Knock, knock; never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I’ll devil‑porter it no further: I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire.
–William Shakespeare, Macbeth,Act II, scene iii
“There,” Murchaud said, tapping the cool surface of the Darkling Glass. “There is your cellar, Master Poet, and there is your oubliette.”
“Not mine, surely.” But Will stepped closer, leaning forward over Murchaud’s shoulder. “Can we see inside?”
“‘Tis dark,” Murchaud answered. “But fetch a lantern and I’ll send you through to have a look.”
“Fair enough,” Will answered, and went to find a page. He returned with the requested lantern, as well as a pry bar and a rope. “How do I get him back?” If I can get him out at all.
“I’ll come with you,” Murchaud said gently.
Will swallowed, his pulse dizzying. “Just as well,” he said, hefting the silver crowbar in his hand. “There’s no guarantee I can lift that lid alone.” He hesitated, and looked up at Murchaud as Murchaud took his hand to lead him through the mirror. “Does a Prince of Faerie love a mortal man?”
“It’s not encouraged.” The Elf‑knight stepped forward, and Will went with him.
Faint light filtered into the rough, cold chamber. Will’s breath smoked in raw air; he was surprised to notice that Murchaud’s did not.
The Elf‑knight stayed close to the unfinished stone wall, as far from the massive iron cover of the oubliette as practical. He was dry‑washing his hands as if they ached, until he noticed Will looking. Then he folded his arms one over the other and waited in a stance as falsely relaxed as parade rest.
Will leaned on the pry bar and bent over the oubliette, worry pressing like a thumb into the hollow of his throat. The chisel tip of the bar left a paler gouge in the floor when he lifted it again. “It’s unlocked,” Will said. “That likes me not.”
“Can you lift it?”
“No.”
The Elf‑knight came forward, tugging black hide gloves over each long finger.
“Take the far end, ” Will offered. Murchaud bent down beside him and grasped the butt of the bar once Will had seated it under the lip. With a well‑oiled creak, the cover lifted a few dark inches. Will gagged at the reek that filtered out. He and Murchaud shared a grim look, and Will said, “‘Tis recently occupied.”