“We must look,” Murchaud answered. “Hold the bar.” He took his hands away slowly enough that Will, sweating, could take the strain. Will’s forearms trembled with effort, but for once his hands weren’t shaking–with palsy or with fear.
“Your Highness,” Will said. “‘Tis steel – ”
Murchaud ignored him, squatting with easy strength and slipping his gloved hands into the crack. He grunted – once– his only outward sign of pain. And stood and raised the lid as if it weighed nothing, laying it open so gently as to make no sound. He leaned it back against the hinges and pressed his hands together, palm to palm, and then he turned away. “Lower the lantern, Master Shakespeare.”
Will sighed, tied the rope to its handle, and slowly let it drop into the pit, terrified of what he might find. He struggled to let the rope out smoothly so that the candle wouldn’t flicker. “Leaving me to face this alone?” he asked Murchaud when the lantern was two‑thirds of the way down.
“Nay,” the Elf‑knight replied, returning. He’d stripped the gloves off, and Will could see the blistered and peeling flesh on his hands. “Perhaps,” he said, in a tone that made Will pause and look up.
“There are reasons it’s not encouraged,” Will said, understanding.
“What is not encouraged?” Murchaud was looking down now, leaning ever so slightly forward into the pit and watching the light flicker on its damp mortared walls.
“For elf‑Princes to love mortal men.” The lantern swung lower, revealing a blessedly empty pit. Will breathed a shuddering sigh and let the rope go slack, his hands falling to rest at his waist.
A faint smile softened the elf‑Prince’s face, half concealed by his fine black beard. “So our Kit is learning,” Murchaud said, turning to look at Will. “You are breaking his heart, Master Shakespeare.”
Will began pulling the lantern up. “And I should leave such tasks to you, Your Highness?”
“It’s a heart, I think, has been broken enough.”
“Ah.” The lantern retrieved, Will turned away. “Shall we search the cellars for him?”
‘He washere. But he is long gone.”
“How do you know?”
“The troll told you. And besides” – a delicate wrinkling of that aristocratic nose –“I can smell him.”
“Can you smell where they tookhim?”
“Alas.” Murchaud stepped back. “The trail is cold.”
“I’m a fool,” Will said suddenly, dropping his left hand from his earlobe. He looked up at Tom, who leaned in silent contemplation against the casement, frosting cool glass with his breath. “A fool and twice a fool.”
Ben closed Kit’s Greek Bible carefully over the ribbon and set it aside. “How a fool, Will?”
“Because here we sit, wracking our brains on how to save Kit and thwart Salisbury, the Catholics, andthe Prometheans, and the answer is in our very hands.” He reached for his cane and struggled up before Tom could help him. “My cousin William Parker. Baron Monteagle. Who owes me his life, I might add, and is close with Catesby and his lot.”
Tom blinked. “How does that assist us, Will? Perhaps if we could sort one plot from another we would stand half a chance of averting them, but they’re intertwined as nettles, my friend.”
“Look at what we know.” Will raised his left hand and ticked off points. “Kit saw signs in the heavens that the fifth of November was the day on which the Prometheans would arrange their sacrifice. He saw the downfall of old ways, the death of Kings.”
“The King has been useful to Salisbury,” Ben said. “I do not think Robert Cecil stands to overturn the monarchy.”
“No,” Tom answered. “But the Catholics do.”
“And the Prometheans,” Will answered. “And knowing how they operate, we must assume that Baines and Poley and their lot are using my Catholic cousins as some sort of a stalking‑horse or distraction – ”
“Fawkes and Catesby have been fussing about Westminster a great deal lately,” Ben said, leaning back in his chair. He lifted his enormous hobnailed boot and propped it on the low bench before the fire. “And they’ve been less than forthcoming of late. Parliament meets in four days. I imagine what happens will happen then.”
“What if they assassinate the King?”
“Hell,” Ben answered. “The King, the Queen, and both their sons will receive the House of Lords that day. If anything happened, it would be all England’s peerage and the royal family down to Princess Elizabeth – ”
“Who is all of nine years old.” Tom laced his fingers together as if he really wished to strangle something.
“Aye,” Ben answered. “Well, there’s your Catholic plot. What do the Prometheans want?”
“The Prometheans have Kit,” Will said, “and the Fae have been intending something for a long while now, and biding their time. Both sides treat Kit as if he’s some sort of accounting piece. And I swear he knows why, although he will not tell me.”
“What about thy Prince? Or the Fae Queen who came to nurse thee in thine illness?”
“MyPrince?” Will smiled at Tom. “Kit’s Prince, you mean. You know, I rather suspect he’s watching us now: I would be, were I in his place.” Will glanced up and around, and calmly addressed the air above his head. “Prince Murchaud? Are you listening, Your Highness?”
A shimmer hung on the air, and Murchaud stepped through it. “You know me too well, Master Poet. And Kit is not a counting piece to me.” The Prince nodded to Ben and Tom once each. Ben swung his boots down to the floor.
No. But he is important to your plans. And those of your wife.” Will lifted his chin to catch Murchaud’s gaze, thinking when did I grow so comfortable challenging Princes?
“Valuable,” Murchaud answered. “I can tell you what it is my wife seeks: sovereignty for Faerie, and freedom from old bargains.”
Lucifer,” Will said. “Everyone wants to remake the world.”
“Indeed. And the Prometheans’ ritual will give them the power to do it. Or us, if we manage to take that power from them. Since you discovered where they are holding Sir Kit, and we failed to retrieve him, the Mebd has decided that the Faerie Court will ride to the Tower of London on the fifth of November, shortly before dawn.” Murchaud folded his arms, the green silk of his sleeves draping heavily. His brow creased; Will thought the expression was disapproval. “Once the Promethean ritual begins at which Kit’s presence is so necessary.”
Will glanced at Tom for advice. Tom merely inclined his head slightly. Continue.
“We wait until they begin? Is that not dangerous?”
“I do not know where Kit is,” Murchaud answered. “I can make a strongly educated supposition as to where the ritual will be held.”
Will sighed. “Kit. I’d not see him endure torture.”
“The Mebd is unimpressed by suffering. The Daoine Sidhe ride at dawn; I cannot stay them longer. There will be power raised that dawn, and all are loath to miss it. And–”
Will waited the Prince’s hesitation through. “Aye, your Highness?”
“–once the Prometheans’ power is raised, and linked to Kit, he becomes the keystone to their ritual. If the Queens come to his rescue then, once the power is in him–”
“You mean, once he’s raped and savaged.”
“Yes.” Silence, as Murchaud turned and met their eyes. “If my mother or my wife can command Kit, then, then they can command all of that strength, and claim a victory over the Prometheans. They hope.”
“And we leave Kit trapped a few more days, under who knows what sort of duress–”
“They must bring him from his cell to complete the ritual,” Murchaud said. And then he cleared his throat, after a long pause. “It will likely be in the Roman chapel that’s buried under the Tower precincts. Some of us… some of us might choose to arrive a few hours early.”