Will chewed his lip. “I shall be there. I’m sure Sir Walter would not begrudge a companion or two to keep him company in his captivity, and a late night of drinking and dicing is not unheard of among men who have no business in the morning, except with their prison walls.”
The Prince nodded to Will’s cane. “Thou’rt not going. Thou hast not the strength.”
“You could barely stand the iron realm long enough to see me freed. What if there’s bars? An iron gate? I’d hate to explain to your mother how I permitted you to burst into flames in a mortal prison.”
Ben snorted laughter, and a smile even lifted the corner of Murchaud’s mouth.
“Thou’lt walk back into a prison after we risked our lives to get thee out?” Tom asked mildly.
“There’s a difference between being kidnapped and held in secrecy, ” Will said, “and walking in the front gate in plain view of everyone. Salisbury wouldn’t dare hold me publicly, especially not were I in the company of Sir Thomas Walsingham and the esteemed playmaker, Ben Jonson, a favorite of Anne of Denmark’s. I’m a Groom of the Bedchamber, a King’s Man. And His Majesty is veryfond of my plays.”
“If His Majesty survives Tuesday night,” Ben said.
Will shrugged. “Two can play at Salisbury’s game. He as much as told me England needed a King who was willing to make decisions, or let them be made for him by competent advisors. I cannot guess what his disposition of events is likely to be, if the King does die at Westminster, or even if he intends the King to die or merely to shock him into action rather than this endless equivocation, at which he does not excel as Elizabeth did. But if several upright citizens can all attest that Salisbury knew treason was planned in advance–”
“Then he can hardly hope to benefit from it, if it is carried out successfully,” Ben finished in Will’s silence. “And so he must prevent it. Your logic’s sound, I wot.”
“I’ll attest it,” Tom said. “I’ve not much to risk. My star at court is less than bright these days, in any case–and I do not find James’ entourage as much to my liking as Elizabeth’s.”
Ben rose, slowly, and turned to Will. “With Chapman having been in Salisbury’s pay, it’s likely the Earl knows us well enough to anticipate every move we make, Will.”
Will shook his head. His bare left ear felt strange. “In any case, we can only do our best.”
“It will mean Catholic heads when the plot is discovered.” Ben sounded resigned rather than angry. He pressed the meaty, branded heel of his right hand to his eye socket.
“It may help a little,” Will answered, without real hope, “that the warning comes from a Catholic mouth.”
Will himself went to see Monteagle, wearing his scarlet livery, his thinning hair tied back with a ribbon to match. The Baron was at home, and Will was shown in at once and offered mulled wine and ale with spices, which he accepted gratefully. Then he stood beside the fire in the parlor, warming his chilled toes and fingers, and awaited his host’s convenience.
It was not long in coming.
“Cousin,” Monteagle said warmly. “Thou comest at an interesting hour.”
“So I’ve heard,” Will answered, making as much of a bow as he felt capable of just then. “What do you know about Robert Catesby and Westminster, Cousin?”
Monteagle blanched. “Are you here as a King’s Man?” he asked carefully. “Or on behalf of the Earl of Salisbury ?”
“I’m here as a loyal subject of the crown,” Will answered. “You do know something, then.”
“I’ve told Salisbury everything I know,” Monteagle answered. “I should not tell you this, Will, but I trust your motives–Francis Tresham is Salisbury’s man too. The King’s advisors are well aware of the plot. I take it they have not yet spoken to the King?”
“I do not know the answer to that for certain,” Will said, but he thought perhaps he did. “Will you do me a favor, Cousin?”
“Anything.” Monteagle’s voice was serious, his face calm. A steadier man, Will thought, than the foolish boy who had ridden with Essex only four and a half short years before.
“Let Salisbury know that if he does not approach the King by the end of the day–”
“Someone else will?” The Baron nodded. “Aye.” And sighed. “I like it not, Will. We’re hanging men we grew up beside. It does not seem–meet–to choose sides against them.”
Will shook his head. “It is neither meet nor fair,” he answered. “But it is politics. What’s the nature of the treason? Do you know?”
“Aye,” Monteagle answered. “There’s thirty‑six barrels of gunpowder concealed in the cellar under the House of Lords. Catesby and his friends planned to blow the whole damned Parliament to Glory.”
Act V, scene xvii
What, Mortimer, can ragged stony walls
Immure thy virtue that aspires to Heaven?
–Christopher Marlowe, Edward the Second,Act III, scene iv
On his second night in his room in the Salt Tower, Kit had tried to make his escape through the reflections in the narrow windows; he’d been unable to touch the power or the Darkling Glass at all, and he had wondered at how easily the iron rings on his fingers quelled all the strength he knew he had in him.
He had no clock. Nor was he vouchsafed candle or paper or anything to read. And so he paced, from the bedstead to the window and the window to the bed, pausing occasionally to pick a splinter of the rush matting from the tender sole of his foot or to trace the old markings scraped into the wall–a pierced hand, a pierced heart. Symbols of the passion of the Christ, etched there by Jesuit prisoners who had inhabited his cell before him. At least Kit was fed–what he could force himself to eat of it–and twice a day had a moment’s glimpse of another human face when Baines–or Poley, in his Yeoman’s livery–came to see him cared for.
Two nights later, Kit was simply bored,and sick unto madness with waiting.
“And yet like Faustus in his final hour I count the seconds,” he muttered. He leaned against the embrasure, supported on his forearms, and pressed his forehead against the glass. Baines would come for him before midnight, and then the ritual–he couldn’t bring himself to think of it in more concrete terms–would begin.
«And thou’rt willing to submit to this for a little less pain, a scrap more of dignity?»
When rape is inevitable–Kit answered, and told himself he didn’t remember the exact timbre of Baines’ voice, asking didst thou like it, puss?
I’m willing to submit if it means I’ll get a better chance at Baines,he answered. It’s not as if I could avoid–
«There’s always a way.»
And then Kit realized the angel was looking at the window.
“If we lived, we would be crippled.”
The angel bowed his head. «Kit, we would not live.»
And damn myself for a suicide? Or wouldst thou keep me from dying again, Mehiel? ‘Tis not so far to fall, methinks–«‘Tis some twenty‑five feet from thy window, onto cobblestones. It should suffice. Thou wouldst die with thy brands intact–»
Die, damned a suicide.
«Thou who so boldly defied Lucifer, and told him thou wouldst not repent thy sins, for they were sins of love?»
Kit paused. Slowly, he raised his hand and opened the window latch, then pushed the glass wide and laid his hand on the rough mortared stones of the wall. He leaned out into the icy night air. The windows were small, but a small man might slide through them. Far below he could see lights scattered around the Tower precincts like flower petals on the sheets on a marriage bed. “Die with my brands intact,” he “whispered, as a clock struck half eleven. “Then thou wouldst – ”
«It is suicide for me as well.» Mehiel said calmly. «I will cease to exist. And thou wilt be damned. But Lucifer and the Prometheans both will be thwarted.»